Fern Britton Short Story Collection: The Stolen Weekend, A Cornish Carol, The Beach Cabin

Too squiffy to care what anyone thought, Penny crawled into her lower bunk, pulling the warm duvet up to her neck.

‘Aren’t you going to give me a leg up?’

Penny opened one bleary eye and looked up at Helen. ‘Eh?’

Helen stuck her bottom lip out. ‘I can’t get up there. It’s like climbing Kilimanjaro.’

Penny thought about it for a moment.

‘Pwetty please?’ said Helen hopefully, but her face fell as Penny turned over and was soon snoring like a train.

The first thought that occurred to Helen as she emerged from unconsciousness the following morning was that someone had stuck her eyelids together with glue. The second was that the incessant bang, bang, banging wasn’t the thudding of her heart or the hammering of her headache, but was in fact, somebody banging loudly on the door of the compartment.

She tried to prop herself up on her elbows but as her eyes gradually opened and took in the scene around her, she saw that next to her head were two feet recognisable as Penny’s by the bunny rabbit toes of her onesie.

She gave one of the big toes a hard squeeze.

‘Wake up,’ she croaked. ‘Someone’s at the door.’

The only response was a muffled groan from the other end of the cramped bottom berth. Helen slowly got out of the bed, wincing as a shooting pain pierced her temple. Gingerly she picked her way over the untidy piles of clothes and bags and opened the door. Outside was a fresh-faced young steward.

‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, madam, but we’ve reached Paddington. I’ve been banging on the door for ages. I was just about to get the master key to gain access. We thought something might have happened.’

Helen, patted her hair in a futile attempt to restore order to what she knew must be her rather dishevelled appearance.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry. We seem to have overslept.’

‘Heavy night, was it?’

Helen feigned indignation. ‘Not in the slightest. The motion of the train must have given us a deeper sleep than usual. That’s all.’

The young man looked at her doubtfully. ‘People often get carried away on the sleeper, but then they forget what an early arrival we have.’

‘Well, we’ll just get washed and dressed—’

The young man shook his head. ‘There’s no time for that, I’m afraid. We’ve been here ages and you’ve got to leave by seven a.m. It’s already well past that and we can’t wait any longer. I’m sorry, but we have to turn the train around or else we’ll be in hot water.’

‘You mean we have to go now?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ll wait here and help you with your things. There’s showers and … um … facilities on the concourse. You can use them.’

‘Er …’

But there was no time for arguing. The corridor outside their compartment was bustling with people doing useful things and outside their door a smiling cleaner was waiting expectantly with a J-cloth and a mop in her hands. Once Penny was apprised of the situation, she shuffled out of bed and the two women gathered themselves together as best as they could. There was no time to change out of their nightwear or to arrange themselves and within moments, they were hustled off the train with friendly thank-yous and helpful directions towards the Ladies.

Juggling their coats and bags, Penny and Helen blinked and looked around them. After the cocoon of the train, Paddington station was a hive of activity. All around them, commuters swarmed from trains like ants. The platforms were filled with passengers all coming and going. It was dizzying, and in their present condition they were finding it quite a challenge to orient themselves.

‘Where did he say the loos were?’ Helen peered uncertainly across the concourse, her hungover brain still confused by all of the activity.

Penny was just about to say that she had spotted the sign for the Ladies when they were approached by a young man with a kindly face. He thrust something into Penny’s hand.

‘It’s not much, but it’ll cover the price of a cuppa.’ He patted her hand sympathetically before hurrying off down towards the sign for the London Underground.

Penny looked at her palm and saw two shiny pound coins. They looked at each other in astonishment.

‘You don’t think he thought we were …?’

‘Bag ladies!!’

‘Come on, let’s get dressed before we attract any more attention,’ Helen said, grabbing Penny’s arm and steering her towards the loos.

Ignoring more curious stares, they washed and dressed hurriedly and were soon heading towards central London in a black cab.

‘Can we please pretend that incident never happened?’ said Penny, looking much more respectable in a smart red Burberry mac, though she hid her eyes behind a pair of Dior sunglasses.

Helen feigned nonchalance. ‘Pretend what never happened?’

They sped along the Marylebone Road. The route along the Westway was lined with new developments of luxury flats and offices.

‘London always seems to be one giant building site.’ observed Penny. ‘It’s forever changing.’

‘Unlike Pendruggan, which is always the same,’ replied Helen. ‘Queenie’s had the same display of faded postcards and out-of-date Cornish fudge in her window since the seventies.’

Before long they were driving up Monmouth Street, where the cabbie dropped them outside their boutique hotel, The Hanborough.

‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Penny. ‘Civilisation.’

The hotel was the epitome of luxurious London cool. The foyer was a white oasis of calm; low-slung chaises longues were dotted across the marbled Italianate floor and giant bowls of burnished bronze showcased opulent arrangements of orchids, hyacinths and lavender.

After checking in, they made their way up to their rooms, which were next door to each other on the fifth floor. Agreeing to rendezvous at 1 p.m. for lunch, they went their separate ways.

Helen dumped her bags on her king-size bed decked out in Egyptian cotton. Her room mirrored the rest of the hotel with its white walls, curtains, bedding and minimalist white furniture. She headed over to the window and took in the view of the vibrant London scene spread out before her. The morning rush had died down and on the street below she could see hip, young media types sauntering leisurely between their hip offices and equally hip coffee shops.

She closed the curtains against the bright spring sunshine, kicked off her Kurt Geiger heels and flaked out on the bed.

‘God, I love this place!’ eulogised Penny when they met in the foyer at lunchtime.

‘Me too,’ said Helen, ‘Did you check out the Cowshed toiletries in the bathroom? The soap is to die for!’

‘I know, I’ve already made inroads into them. Sat in the roll-top bath for an hour with a scented candle. Heavenly.’

‘What now? I’m famished.’

‘Me too.’