Publisher : Flatiron Books (January 26, 2021)
Language : English
Hardcover : 336 pages
ISBN-10 : 1250764610
From the author of Meet Me at the Museum, a charming novel of second chances, about three women, one dog, and the narrowboat that brings them together
Eve expected Sally to come festooned with suitcases and overnight bags packed with everything she owned, but she was wrong. She arrived on foot, with a rucksack and a carrier bag. “I just walked away,” she said, climbing on to the boat. Eve knew what she meant.
Meet Eve, who has left her thirty-year career to become a Free Spirit; Sally, who has waved goodbye to her indifferent husband and two grown-up children; and Anastasia, a defiantly independent narrowboat-dweller, who is suddenly landlocked and vulnerable.
Before they quite know what they’ve done, Sally and Eve agree to drive Anastasia’s narrowboat on a journey through the canals of England, as she awaits a life-saving operation. As they glide gently – and not so gently – through the countryside, the eccentricities and challenges of narrowboat life draw them inexorably together, and a tender and unforgettable story unfolds. At summer’s end, all three women must decide whether to return to the lives they left behind, or forge a new path forward.
Candid, hilarious, and uplifting, Anne Youngson's The Narrowboat Summer is a celebration of the power of friendship and new experiences to change one’s life, at any age.
Enjoy this excerpt:
THE NARROWBOAT SUMMER
By Anne Youngson
Chapter 1: The Number
One
ON THE TOWPATH OF a canal in a town not far from London, not
far from the coast, is moored a narrowboat painted dark blue with the
name Number One picked out in red lettering on the prow. It is
tethered tightly to the bank with ropes made wet by the rain and slimy with
age, wrapped around pegs bent out of shape by the misaimed blows of a lump
hammer. It is still in the water. At either end the doors are fast shut and the
windows along the side are latched. On the roof is a skylight, cantilevered up
to let the fresh air into the cabin below. Puddles of water on the deck and
roof show that it has been raining, but at this moment it is not.
There are two people on the towpath, walking toward each other. One is a tall,
relatively plump woman: that is to say, around half the number of women in her
age group—she has gone some distance past fifty—would be slimmer and shorter
than she is, but she is not so tall or so plump as to be remarkable. In one
hand she has an orange carrier bag and on her feet a pair of bright silver
running shoes; these might not be out of place on a towpath but are out of
place with her black wool skirt and tailored blouse. Her hair is wrapped up in
a largely colorless scarf, apparently once purple.
The woman approaching her is shorter and more slender. She is carrying an
umbrella in a color often called fuchsia, though fuchsias come in a range of
colors. She is holding it at her side—not needing its protection at the moment—but
open, as if anxious about the time it would take to bring it into use if she
should suddenly need it. Her hair is carefully styled and her clothes might
have been carefully chosen to be unremarkable. If so, the choice was
successful.
As they approach the moored boat, the sun inserts a finger of light between the
clouds and it is all at once a lovely day, at that moment, on that towpath. At
almost the same instant, when the two women are close enough to each other for
a nod and a smile of greeting, if either or both of them thought that was
appropriate—they are complete strangers, so it seems unlikely—at that precise
moment, the narrowboat begins to howl. It howls as if it were a mezzo-soprano
in mid-aria spotting her husband committing adultery in the stalls while being
impaled from behind by a careless spear carrier. Both women stop walking.
* * *
EVE’S HANDS WERE FULL OF the debris of a career of more than thirty years. She
kicked aside the Strategic Five Year Plan, folded and wedging the door open, to
let it shut behind her. What she was carrying now were items so small and
insignificant she had overlooked them when she had made a pile of things
definitively hers: the books, pen set, files of personal information that could
not be claimed as property of the Rambusch Corporation. These had been placed
into a cardboard box supplied by the management. The packing had been not so
much overseen as attended by Clive, a representative (ironically, because
neither word could accurately be applied to him) of the Human Resources
department. He stood beside her, rumbling idly like a vacuum cleaner (which he
closely resembled) switched on and ready to suck if anything misplaced came
within reach of his hose. That had been the day before, the penultimate day.
Now, on the last day, she stood in the corridor holding things so odd and
familiar they had been invisible. The plastic frog stuck to the side of her
computer monitor; the postcard of a building in New York pinned to the cork
board; a calendar from an overseas charity with six more pictures of starving
children still to come; a mug with a picture of a hedgehog on top of a
scrubbing brush and a brown deposit welded to the bottom; a letter opener with
what looked like teeth marks in its bamboo handle; a purple scarf that had been
tied to the handle of a filing cabinet for so long it had faded along its
exposed length and only revealed its original, shocking depth of color on the
inside of the knot; a photograph of a team-building exercise, the participants
all in hard yellow hats standing under a cliff holding up ropes in triumph,
though whether after or in anticipation of an ascent or descent she could not
remember. She nearly dropped this in the bin, already full of discarded
good-luck cards, but closer scrutiny revealed that no one in the picture was
recognizable as an individual—though she could pick herself out as the only
woman in the group—so she used it as a tray on which to pile the rest of the
rubbish.
The door shut with a hiss from its automatic closure system. The nameplate—Eve
Warburton: Planning—swung toward her, stopping inches from her nose. Had
she had a hand free, she might have defaced it in some way, but in the
circumstances she just leaned forward and gave it a kiss.
“Goodbye, Eve Warburton, Planning,” she whispered. “Nice to have known you.”
First the scarf then the frog then the letter opener fell from her stack on the
way to the lift. She recovered them all and stopped in the lobby to ask the
receptionist for a carrier bag. The receptionist went to look in a cubicle in
the wall behind her desk. Eve put her pile down on the counter and watched the
oil circulating in the installation designed to impress the visitor with the
technical brilliance of the Rambusch Corporation’s engineering and
manufacturing capability, its mastery of pumps, pistons and valves. Her eye
caught the plastic sign on it which read:
Constructed from Production Parts
Eve took up the letter opener and levered this off. One final souvenir. She
pushed it down the front of her skirt.
The girl returned with a disposable carrier bag from the local sandwich outlet.
“It’s all I can find.”
“It will do,” said Eve. It was hard to stop the pilfered notice sliding out as
she loaded a carrier bag with small, odd-shaped items, until the receptionist,
interpreting her clumsiness as evidence of emotional turmoil, did the job for
her.
“I’m, you know, sorry you’re leaving,” she said.
“It was time to move on.”
“I thought of you, having to work with all those men on the top floor. I mean,
no one to have a gossip with and that.”
“They didn’t have much of a feminine side, by and large,” said Eve.
“Oh, I know!” The receptionist came out from behind her barrier with the filled
bag. Eve was afraid she might be about to offer a hug, in compensation for
Eve’s fall from the masculine heights of the fourth floor to mere womanhood.
“Luckily for me, I’m on the masculine side of the feminine spectrum,” she said.
She turned left out of the building, toward where her car would normally be
parked—indeed, where it was parked—but even as her hand reached into her pocket
for the keys, she remembered it was no longer hers. Company property. She could
call a taxi or catch a bus or walk. She had no intention of going back inside
the building for the rest of her life, and this ruled out a taxi because the
number of the local firm was in her surrendered company mobile. It was raining,
but she did not want to hesitate in full view of the receptionist, so she began
to walk. It was a long way, in kitten heels, from the Rambusch premises to the
edge of the industrial estate. It was a fairly hefty hike up a hill to the
first bus stop on the main road. The notice filched from the lobby display
impeded her stride, so she took it out and thought about lobbing it over a
hedge but on second thought put it in the carrier bag. The rain falling on her
head slid in large drops down her perfectly conditioned hair into the top of
her blouse, into her ears and her mouth. She took out the faded scarf and tied
it over her head. She felt like a bag lady; she rather hoped she looked like a
bag lady. It could be a new career.
When she reached the first bus stop she leaned against it, resting her feet
until a bus arrived and she bought a ticket into town. Once there, she went into
a bookshop and found an Ordnance Survey map of the area showing all the paths
and alleyways so that she could plot a route back to her flat on foot, avoiding
the main roads she normally drove down. She went next door to a shoe shop and
bought a pair of running shoes. These were handed over in a brilliantly orange
and substantial carrier bag, big enough to take all her belongings from the
office, the kitten heels and the notice. From the map, she found that the
quickest way home was to start down the towpath. Just as the rain was stopping,
she set off.
Walking toward her was a woman her own age. Between them was a dark-blue
narrowboat, apparently deserted. The name painted in red lettering on the prow
was Number One.
* * *
ON THE WALK TO THE hairdresser it began to rain, which was something Sally had
not foreseen. Raindrops, she reflected, were falling on her head, although the
song was entirely inappropriate in her current circumstances.
“My word,” said the hairdresser as Sally dripped on the mat. “You didn’t come
prepared.”
Sally had known Lynne for over twenty years. Twenty years of a relationship
conducted in reflection, meeting each other’s eyes in the mirror. They had
talked about everything in that time. They had exchanged information about
children, holidays, kitchen appliances and plumbers. They had shared opinions
about soap operas, brands of ice cream, chewing gum and British Summer Time.
They had discussed renewable energy, interest rates, the Middle East and mobile
phones. It was always a shock to her to stand up—after she had been shown a
glimpse of the back of her head and had the cut hair brushed from her
shoulders, the nylon coverall whisked away—to find that she was taller than
Lynne. How could someone who had filled the mirror so emphatically for half an
hour or more be so dumpy an individual in the real world? She only came to this
part of the town to visit the Kut Above, and had never seen Lynne in the
street. She sometimes wondered if she would recognize her if she came across
her queuing for a prescription in Boots. And yet, she thought of Lynne as her
friend, and had done so ever since the day she had said she would rather be
called Sally than Mrs. Allsop, and Lynne had agreed.
Sally had something to say on this visit; with Lynne’s face in the mirror to
frame the story, she could say it and, in saying it, fix it.
Lynne combed Sally’s wet hair, persuading it into a smooth and elegant shape
unlike its usual wispy incoherence.
“Just tidied up a bit?” she said, as she always did.
“I wondered about highlights,” said Sally. “Not today, of course. Next time,
maybe.”
Lynne said it would be a fiddly process. “And I’m not sure what color you’d
use. Your hair’s so fair, and so fine, it would be hard to find a color that
was a strong enough contrast, without going completely over the top.”
“Pink,” said Sally. “Or turquoise.”
“Of course, but you wouldn’t want that. We could get away with a nutty brown,
if you’re set on the idea.”
“But I do want pink or turquoise, I haven’t made up my mind which.”
“Well,” said Lynne. “What’s brought this on?”
“New beginning,” said Sally. “Fresh start. My new career as a single person.”
The scissors and comb became quite still. Lynne was staring at her in the
mirror. “I told my husband last night that our marriage is over. There is no
reason why anything, from this moment forward, should be as it has been up to
now.”
“I’m so sorry,” whispered Lynne. “Do you want to talk about it, or is it too
painful?”
“I’m not at all sorry and I don’t mind talking about it, but it’s the future
I’m more excited about.”
“It must be difficult after twenty-five years? I mean, you didn’t seem unhappy.
Maybe I’ve had it wrong all this time, but I really thought the two of you were
close. Did he…? I mean, you know … After all, men—”
“Duncan is entirely blameless,” said Sally.
Lynne remained still; almost rigid.
“But you must have, well, emotional issues?”
“The only emotion I feel is relief,” Sally said. “And that isn’t an issue.”
“But why?” said Lynne. “There must be a reason?”
“I was bored.”
Lynne’s face, as she brought the scissors and comb back into play with
something close to aggression, was becoming quite red, and it was possible she
looked cross though Sally had no way of knowing what she looked like when
cross, because they had always tended to agree with each other. Sally saw that
Lynne, far from admiring her resilience and self-determination, wanted her to
be in need of sympathy—as a victim or as the guilty party racked with guilt.
She had not foreseen this, and she considered the narrative Lynne was hearing.
She was leaving her husband; she had not been abused; she had not been
rejected; she did not feel guilty. Yes.
“You obviously don’t approve,” she said.
Lynne clamped her lips together and kept her eyes on Sally’s head, cutting
Sally’s hair as if there was a looming deadline after which it would set solid.
“No, I don’t, but of course I don’t know anything about it. I just know that
being married isn’t easy and it’s up to us all to work at it and not just throw
up our hands and walk away as if it never mattered in the first place.”
“On the other hand,” said Sally, “it’s sometimes harder to endure the everyday
than it is to cope with a big trauma.”
“If you say so.”
“I think I’ll have my gap year now,” said Sally. “Twelve months of doing
something I wouldn’t normally and probably won’t ever do again.”
“Like what?”
“I haven’t decided. I expect something will turn up.”
It was still raining when she left the Kut Above. She stepped into a corner
shop and bought a folding umbrella in a shade of pink she thought might be an
exact match for the highlights she was imagining. She would be going somewhere
else to have them done. After all, was it not important to change every aspect
of her routines? How else would she be able to identify those hooks and burrs
and combinations that held her, like the flag on a flagpole, free to flap about
but not free to drift or soar.
The umbrella was less easy to manipulate than the label had promised it would
be, but it kept the rain off her hair, which had the bounce and body only Lynne
had ever been able to give it. The rain stopped as she crossed the canal bridge
and, on an impulse, she took the steps down to the towpath. It was possible to
walk most of the way home by this route, but she rarely did. It was muddy;
there were no shops; the people who lived in the boats moored alongside had
more than the average householder in the way of untrustworthy dogs, dubious
houseplants, bare feet and rusty bicycles. It being an unusual route for her
was one good reason to set off down it today. Another was that it was longer.
It would delay her return to the house. She had told him she was going because
she wanted peace; she wanted silence and the chance to think. But the silence
consequent on announcing that decision was surprisingly hard to bear. And she
could not decide where, exactly, she wanted to go.
So she took the long way back, along the towpath, walking slowly and, because
she no longer needed it, swinging the pink umbrella by its strap. Walking
toward her was a woman her own age. Between them was a dark-blue narrowboat,
apparently deserted. The name painted in red lettering on the prow was Number
One.
EXCERPTED FROM THE
NARROWBOAT SUMMER. COPYRIGHT © 2021 BY ANNE YOUNGSON. EXCERPTED BY PERMISSION
OF FLATIRON BOOKS, A DIVISION OF MACMILLAN PUBLISHERS. NO PART OF THIS EXCERPT
MAY BE REPRODUCED OR REPRINTED WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE
PUBLISHER.
AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT:
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