Fern shot upright, heart pounding as the shrill chime of her alarm shattered the blissful silence. Disoriented, she slapped her hand around the bedside table, knocking over a lamp, and what she really hoped wasn’t last night’s half-finished cup of tea, before finally locating her phone. It was sixa.m. On a Saturday. A time she usually only encountered when stumbling out of a Soho club, heels in hand, with regret setting in for the midnight tequila shots.
She flopped back against the pillows with a groan. This was unnatural. Criminal, even. But then, through the sleepy fog, the reason for her ungodly wake-up call broke through. The train. Puffin Island. No. 17 Curiosity Lane. Matilda Hartley’s shop. Correction: Fern’s shop.
With a noise somewhere between a sigh and a battle cry, she forced herself out of bed and shuffled towards the bathroom. A quick shower blasted away the worst of her grogginess, the scent of citrus shampoo snapping her into something resembling alertness. As she massaged foam intoher scalp, the reality of the day settled in. She still wasn’t entirely sure what she was walking into, but one thing was certain– she was about to find out.
Thirty minutes later, dressed in dark jeans and a fitted trench coat, Fern slipped out of her flat into the warm London morning. She quickened her pace towards Fulham Broadway, dodging a man wielding an oversized laptop bag like a medieval weapon and a woman powerwalking with the determination of someone late for a very important meeting or a very good breakfast.
Euston Station, eight a.m. train, coffee. In that order.
Descending the steps, she joined the pack of Londoners who had long since accepted that personal space was a myth. She couldn’t understand why the tube was as busy as a weekday rush hour on a Saturday morning, but the proliferation of Lycra suggested there was some sort of race or marathon happening this morning. She reached the platform just as the train arrived, the doors slid open and Fern braced herself. It was the usual morning sardine-tin scenario, but she was a seasoned commuter. Sucking in a breath (not too deep, as there was always the risk of inhaling someone else’s deodorant or body odour), she wedged herself inside, clutching her suitcase like a life raft.
The train jolted forward, and she swayed in time with the crowd, riding the wave of bodies like an unwilling participant in a very slow-motion mosh pit. A man’s newspaper smacked her shoulder, someone’s coffee threatened to tip onto her trench coat, and an apologetic stranger’s backpack was now essentially her new dance partner.
She made the change from the District to the Victoria line at Victoria and then began the journey north through central London.
With each stop, she inched closer to the door, mentally preparing for her grand exit. As the platform at Euston loomed into view, she angled her suitcase like a battering ram and went for it. The trick was to move with confidence, but not so aggressively that she ended up in an accidental game of human dominoes.
Freedom. Cool air. Space to breathe. She’d made it.
All she needed now was caffeine. Then she could make a mad dash for the next leg of her journey.
She took a deep breath, glancing at the departures board, glad to see that the next train was on time. She assumed– hoped, really– that it couldn’t possibly be as claustrophobic as the tube had been. With that small reassurance, she grabbed a coffee from the station kiosk and collapsed onto a bench.
Once the train pulled in, Fern hopped on quickly, but still found herself weaving through carriage after carriage, dodging suitcases and apologising as she squeezed past standing passengers. Finally, in the very end carriage, she spotted an empty seat next to a man with a guitar propped up against his leg. His blond curls were a little out of control, as if they had a mind of their own, and a faint shadow of stubble sharpened the angles of his jaw. Dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt and denim jacket, he somehow carried off the double-denim look with effortless ease. His well-worn Adidas trainers, scuffed and softened by years of use, hinted at a man who valued comfort over trends. Then there was his smile, as he caught her eye and moved his guitar to make more room for her.
The second she took in his aroma, she hesitated before sitting down. His aftershave was unexpected, something woody, warm, with a hint of spice, like cedar and amber, with the faintest trace of citrus lingering beneath. It wasn’t overpowering, but instead strangely inviting. She slid into the seat beside him, after lifting her suitcase on to the luggage rack. A sideways glance confirmed he was watching her, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin. Caught, she quickly looked away, only to find herself smirking as well.
Twenty minutes into the journey, the stranger spoke. ‘Hey,’ he said, his voice carrying an easy confidence. ‘Long trip ahead?’
Usually, she avoided conversation on public transport at all costs, but something about him made it difficult not to engage.
‘Yes,’ she replied, surprising herself by matching his energy. ‘Involving a tube, a train, then a bus across a causeway.’
‘Puffin Island?’ he guessed.
She raised a brow. ‘Are you psychic?’
‘The causeway gave it away,’ he said with a grin. ‘Beautiful place.’
‘I’ve never been before, and I won’t be staying long. I’m just there for some family business. Not exactly a holiday.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Still, not a bad place for whatever family business you’ve got going on. I’m Daniel.’
‘Fern. It’s a family business I knew nothing about. Apparently, I’ve just inherited a junk shop.’
‘That sounds rubbish.’ He smiled, holding up his hands. ‘Sorry, bad joke.’
She playfully rolled her eyes as her gaze drifted towards his guitar. ‘So, do you play?’ she asked. ‘Are you in a band?’
He chuckled. ‘Not quite. I play for me, but busk sometimes.’
‘That’s cool,’ she said, tilting her head. ‘How long have you been playing?’
‘Not long, actually. A couple of years.’ He ran a hand over the guitar case. ‘My boss taught me. She was into music and made me play so she could sing.’ His voice softened, and for the first time since she’d sat down, his smile faltered. ‘She’s just passed away.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Fern said gently. ‘I didn’t mean to…’
‘It’s okay.’ He gave a small, sad smile. ‘She had a good life.’
