Page 4 of Barging In

“A lot of people come from town via the footpath over there.” Max pointed to a gap in the hedge further down the towpath. “Most head straight over the bridge and into the wharf without even noticing us traders. If you slow them down and have them queuing, that works for me.”

“What other traders are here?”

“We’ve got a bookseller, vintage clothes, a woodworker, and one lady makes pottery.”

“That’s quite a mix.”

Max nodded. “Some live aboard their boats; others come from the local area.”

“Do you live aboard?”

“Yes,” Max confirmed.

“Me too.”

“I’m surprised you can fit everything in,” he observed, trying to peer in Florence’s windows. “You must need a lot of equipment.”

“It’s not too much of a squeeze. There’s only me. Do you want to have a look inside?” Clem offered, already leading the way to the stern, knowing Max wouldn’t be able to resist.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued,” he said, following her onto the stern. “She’s old.”

“Yep. 1974,” Clem said, patting the orange paintwork as she descended the steps.

Max took in the kitchen, his eyes darting around as he entered the boat. Stainless steel worktops stretched along both walls, stopping short on the port side to allow access to the serving hatch. Various mixing machines lined the surfaces.

“Wow, this is something,” he said. “The kitchen must take up half the boat.”

“It sure does. It’s all second-hand, but it does the job. Come through; I’ll show you the rest of her. ”

As they reached the middle of Florence, Max stuck his head out of the service hatch. “I should get one of these. It’d save me standing outside in the cold.”

“You stay outside unless it’s raining. It’s good for business. You can engage with potential customers better.”

Max grinned. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Clem gave a firm nod.

He turned to examine the partition wall, where her espresso machine stood, a statement piece in the compact space.

“Impressive kit. How do you run all this?”

“The hob and espresso machine run on LPG. The rest runs off batteries I charge overnight and keep topped up with solar panels,” Clem said, pointing to the roof.

He nodded. “Will you be open through the winter?”

“Probably not. I moor up locally on a private jetty at the bottom of my parents’ garden, so I was just going to batten down there.”

The thought of her mum fussing over her every day was enough to have her cruising off into the sunset, though.

“A fridge and freezer?” Max asked, pointing to them under the stainless steel worktop on the starboard side.

“Yep. I hope it’s enough. I’ve got a feeling Florence will turn into an oven in the summer.”

“Guaranteed,” Max said. He surveyed the space once more before pronouncing, “It looks like you have everything, including the kitchen sink and a spare.”

“The small one in the corner is for handwashing only. There are a lot of food hygiene regulations to follow,” Clem explained as she led him through a door into the other half of the boat.

“Here are my living quarters.” She opened a door to the right, revealing a newly decorated bathroom with a tiny shower cubicle, sink, pump-out toilet, and a washing machine all crammed into the space.

“Nice,” he commented.

“And down here is a booth-style seating area that can double as another bed.”

She was unlikely to have guests, but it had seemed sensible to make the table and bench seating multipurpose when the plans for her refit were drawn up.

The C-shaped space was compact but cosy, complete with scatter cushions.

An adjustable table served as a dining area and a coffee table when she wanted to work or relax there.

“And at the end is my bedroom,” she said, gesturing for him to lead the way.

With a small double bed against the port side; slim-fitting wooden cabinetry on the bow wall; matching, soft furnishing; and vinyl flooring with a fluffy rug, the room felt homely if somewhat snug. A small TV was inset into one of the cabinets to the right side of the bow door.

“She’s gorgeous! Sleek and modern yet still a classic. I love this tongue-and-groove,” Max said, running his hand along the grey panelling that covered the lower half of Florence. “And the flooring’s very stylish. This must’ve set you back.”

Clem looked down. “I inherited some money from my great-aunt.”

“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss,” Max said softly.

Clem kicked at the floor with the toe of her Converse. “Thanks.” Her eyes stung as the weight of the loss settled back in.

“But what a way to spend it, eh?”

“Yep, she’s worth every penny,” Clem said, her voice warm with affection for her great-aunt.

“What are you using for heating and hot water?”

“A Webasto diesel heater. ”

Max nodded. “Same as me.”

“But I have the original stove,” Clem said, pointing to an old, cast-iron Mors? squirrel stove tucked neatly in the corner behind him. “It should keep the living quarters warm enough through the winter, and I can always stick a kettle on top for a cuppa.”

She unlatched the bow doors and stepped up onto the small deck. A small wooden table and two chairs were set up, though they barely fit into the space.

Clem breathed in the fresh air. “This is my favourite part of the boat. I love sitting out here with my coffee in the morning, watching the world drift by.”

“My boat’s nowhere near as glamorous, but you’re always welcome to have a nosy,” Max said, stepping onto the gunwale and hopping down onto the grass. “Thanks for the tour.”

“You’re welcome. I’m about to put a batch of blueberry muffins on. I’ll bring one over for you when they’re ready.”

“Yum! I’m going to enjoy having you as a neighbour. Although I might have to increase my exercise.” He patted his stomach and flashed her a smile.

Clem watched Max wander back to his boat, feeling quietly pleased to have made a friend already. She realised the time, though, so she strapped on her apron and got to work. It was going to be trial and error to see what sold well and what didn’t.

As it turned out, everything was popular.

She was completely out of cakes by early afternoon and kept herself busy serving hot drinks to a steady stream of customers until closing.

Nobody even batted an eyelid at her wonky lemon drizzle — an unexpected quirk of baking in a floating kitchen.

She needed to increase volumes for the next day and keep a close eye on supplies to ensure she had enough paper cups, plates, and forks for her customers.

As she folded her A-board and lifted it onto the stern, Max’s voice called out across the towpath.

“Congratulations! First day done.”

He handed her a glass, which he filled from a bottle containing a cloudy, orangey-yellow liquid.

“Don’t worry, it’s not what it looks like.” He chuckled, filling his glass. “Try it.”

Clem sniffed it cautiously. An intense aroma of apples filled her nostrils. She took a tentative sip and immediately coughed as the drink burned the back of her throat. “That’s got some kick to it,” she said, blinking through the cough as she dropped onto one of her benches.

“You’ll get used to it.” Max grinned, sitting beside her.

Clem took another smaller sip. “It’s nice, though. What is it?”

“Scrumpy.”

She nodded, knowing scrumpy was a name for a strong, home-brewed cider, one she’d never tried.

“Dare I ask the alcohol volume?”

“Ten percent,” he replied with a smirk.

Clem’s eyebrows shot up. He offered her a top-up, but she declined. High in alcohol and possibly high in sugar, she knew it would have a fast effect, especially on an empty stomach. She’d been kept so busy she’d only managed to eat a blueberry muffin.

“So,” Max said, taking a sip from his glass and pulling a wry face, “how did your first day go?”

“I sold out far too early.”

“Don’t complain. ”

Clem laughed. “Oh, I’m not.”

“But don’t expect tomorrow to be as busy,” Max cautioned. “It might be; it might not. It fluctuates a lot.”

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Vinyl doesn’t sell as fast as your cakes.” Max quipped, drawing a smile from Clem. “It was okay,” he added more seriously. “Could have been better.”

“What sort of marketing do you do?” Clem asked, unable to help herself.

Max scrunched his lips together.

“Tell me you do something ,” she urged.

He grimaced. “I have my sign. Does that count?”

“No, not really. It’s purely informative. Marketing’s about influencing action. You have to understand what drives your customers and create a message that connects with them, ideally for the long term.”

“I don’t know much about it. I just rock up here and rely on passing trade. I take it you know about this stuff then?”

Clem chuckled softly. “You could say that. I assume you’ve heard of Facebook, Instagram, TikTok?”

“Of course!”

“Do you use them?”

Max shrugged. “I doomscroll.”

Clem raised an eyebrow. “Cat videos, perchance?”

“You got me.”

Clem laughed again. “I can see I need to bring you up to speed.”

“That would be great,” he said — and actually sounded relieved. “A marketing whizz and an amazing baker. What luck! That muffin you brought over earlier was sublime.”

“Thanks,” Clem said, wondering if her face was warming from the compliment or the cider. “How long have you been making scrumpy?”

“About a year,” Max said. “I’d love to make it properly and sell it, but I’m struggling to find somewhere to brew it in bulk. If I could sell my vinyl from there, too, then all the better. It’s a pain in the arse lifting these boxes in and out of the boat twice a day.”

“Oh, I bet,” Clem said, remembering the weight of Gruncle’s vinyl collection that Gram had once asked her to move. “I’d best get going,” she added, glancing at the time and taking her last sip of cider. “I need to find somewhere to turn around.”

There hadn’t been a chance to look at her canal app for the nearest amenities, but her dad had assured her everything she needed was within easy reach.

“There’s a winding hole about half a mile up where you can turn,” Max said, standing. “And a pump-out station, too, plus water. You can use the bins for your trade waste. The marina where I stay is just beyond it.”

She handed his glass back. “Great. See you tomorrow then, and thanks for the cider.”

“You’re welcome,” Max said, ambling off.

Clem jumped back on board to finish cleaning, knowing it would need doing after dinner and again after her evening bake.

By the time she’d completed her final wipe-down, getting ready for the morning’s bake, it would be late, and so would begin her new routine.

Her former nine-to-five, well-paid job was beginning to feel like a breeze.