The canal had its own way of waking a man. Theo was still learning it. He sat cross-legged on the roof of his narrowboat, feeling the cool damp seep through the denim of his jeans, the violin balanced against his knee. Around him, the world was undecided, half caught in the tatters of mist, half revealed by the sun’s gold intrusion.
The next morning arrived with an optimism that felt almost unfair. Sunlight burned the mist away in uneven patches, leaving the canal striped in gold and shadow. The roof of Ivy’s boat glistened with dew, droplets rolling into thin lines before vanishing at the gutter seams.
In Chapter 2 of Mooring Lines, Ivy comes to terms with mooring ropes & knots, & meets a couple of fellow boaters, including an opinionated dog and a violinist.
The lights were blistering. The kind that burned halos into your vision long after the music stopped. The kind that made it impossible to see the people, only the movement, hands in the air, heads swaying, bodies humming like a single live wire. Theo stood at centre stage, violin tucked under his chin like a weapon drawn in surrender.
