I'm almost me again (She's almost you)

Chapter 4

After an hour of futilely trying to manoeuvre the narrowboat out of the tight arch of the footbridge, Lisa slammed her hand angrily on the wet wooden slats of the boat. Shivering in the cold air and damp all the way down to her toes, Lisa exhaled forcefully as frustration got the better of her patience.

Looking around, Lisa took in the grey sky and the greenery, the slow-moving river trickling along and the ferns and reeds growing in the muddy shallows of the green water and the black soil along the banks. Dandelions and buttercups pushed through the wet grass, and Lisa spotted the telltale white flowers of yarrow, and drooping bluebells and purple bell-shaped foxgloves hidden alongside warm honeysuckles bursting to life amongst the brambles in the pre-spring flush of new life.

Finding herself stuck on the narrow river, bordered in by thickets of trees and plants, the trills of birds flitting between trees seeming too lively for her sour mood, Lisa was stumped for a moment. Swimming the few feet to the riverbank sprawling out from the ivy-covered cottage blending in with its surroundings was out of the question, and Lisa looked towards the bridge with grim resolution.

With no other choice, she killed the engine and walked towards the black metal ladder climbing up to the roof of the narrowboat. The metal was cold and rusted, staining her hands orange as she took hold of the wet metal. Hauling herself up, hand over hand, Lisa carefully clambered onto the roof, hands slick against the rain running off the curved, lacquered wood, the knees of her jeans wet through as she crawled along the length of it, too worried that she'd slip and fall into the river.

Managing to reach the storage compartment tucked away on top, and halfway wedged into the arch, Lisa climbed to her feet on top of it and reached for the cold stone of the small bridge. The rain obscured her vision and made her shiver as it snuck down the neck of her coat and ran down her face. Wiping the sleeve of her coat over her face, she swung a leg over the wall of the bridge, moss and weeds pushing up through cracks in the cement.

Feet firmly planted on the cobblestones of the footbridge, she breathed in a lungful of damp air and glanced at the yellow lights flooding out of the grey cottage. There was nowhere else around, and she had no idea where she was, except for a dot on a map, so she splashed through muddy puddles, rounded brambles and ferns and strode across the lawn of the building. The blonde American had been willing to help before; perhaps she would now. All it would take was Lisa swallowing her pride.

As she neared the faded black paint of the wooden door overlooking the water, she noticed a name glinting in gold metal letters above the door frame. The Swallow's Nest. Slowing mid-step, Lisa faltered for a moment as she was bombarded with an onslaught of memories. Of a small bird on a tanned wrist. A small golden bird hanging on a delicate chain. Dozens of poems and symbolism swapped in conversation, all about that tiny blue bird.

Shaking her head to clear it of the ghostly echoes of a voice, Lisa gazed at the gold door knocker and the doorknob, before her eyes darted to one of the glazed windows, ivy partly obscuring it, and realised it was a café. Taking a deep breath, Lisa raised her chin and opened the door, stepping into the comfortably warm cottage.

A bell chimed above the door and she glanced around as she wiped her feet on the bristly mat inside the door. The floor was made up of old flagstones, swept clean and taking the edge off what would've otherwise been a stifling heat radiating from the roaring fire in a massive old fireplace off to the right. Round dark wooden tables were strewn throughout the place, with an assortment of stuffed armchairs and rickety mismatched chairs pulled up to them, and two upholstered armchairs arranged in front of the fire with a low coffee table set between them. Dark beams that looked as old as the building ran across the ceiling and the white plastered walls were hung with pencil sketching's of local flowers, woodland creatures and the countryside.