In a hired house with blue shutters on a clifftop on the Brittany coast, three couples – friends and family of an Englishman living a short walk from that house – were soon to descend, independently, for the weekend….. (The previous visitors had left some time before.)

“Psst,” whispered a little voice, “ils sont allés (they’ve gone)”.

“Je connais (I know)”, came a hushed reply.

Now in English (for the sake of the authoress!):

– “‘Ow long do you sink we should ‘ide ‘ere be’ind sis bedroom door?”

-“For as long as it takes. Someone will come eventually – surely? – and zen we can make our getaway.”

-“What if nobody comes and we’re left ‘ere to rot?”

-“Come on, mon ami, I never took you for a pessimist. Where is that famous spirit of adventure of yours?”

-“Ooh la la, yes, it is exciting – isn’t it? Maybe the next visitors to sis ‘ouse will be from America… I’ave always wanted to go to America.”

-“Me too. I ‘ope zay will not be from China – I don’t know a word of Chinese…”

-“Who is zee pessimist now? Spain would be alright – nice and warm.”

-“Not much use to us zen.”

-“Oh, yes, of course not. Let’s pray they are from America… or England. Do you know they are called ‘Roast Beefs’?”

 

The runaways stayed for a very long time hanging around behind the bedroom door, so long that they had almost given up hope of escape or even being found. In fact, they were wondering, and worrying, about their reckless act of rebellion when they heard a noise. The front door opened and some new people, most probably visitors from abroad, came down the passage and opened all the doors.

“Roast Beefs, I sink,” came a softly hissing whisper.

“Sh…!”

The door opened and the runaways stayed stock still and quieter than a mouse. The door shut and they heard the muffled voices of English visitors settling in.

“We’ll never get away now,” the pessimist sighed.

 

Another period of light followed by darkness passed. Suddenly, the door opened again and an English lady and gentleman entered the bedroom. Immediately, they set about settling in; the man drew blue and white striped flannelette pyjamas from his small case (he travelled with Ryan Air) and put them under his pillow; his wife (presumably) took a pink flannelette nightgown from her minuscule case and placed it under the pillow on the other side of the bed. They left the rest of their chattels in their suitcases, apart from two toothbrushes, soap and a razor, which went into the shared bathroom. And they left.

“So zat is what zee English people wear to bed?” whispered the pessimist inquiringly.

“I never knew,” came the response.

“No chance for us zen,” whimpered the pessimist.

 

The English couple paid little heed to the runaways. And when the door was shut tight for the night they seemed not to notice the strangers in the room, nor even in the light of morning when the ‘Roast Beefs’ repacked their tiny cases and departed.

 

“Strange,” said one small voice.

“Very,” agreed the optimist.

 

At last the other visitors were ready to go and a woman opened the door and put her head around as if to check that all was well.

“What’s this? Hey,” she said excitedly, “I guess that you two belong to our friends. Fancy them forgetting you! Don’t worry, we’ll take you home with us and we can send you on to them.”

 

And that is exactly what happened. We brought the stylish French pair of runaways home with us only to find that they didn’t belong to our friends in London after all. I have taken them out of the padded jiffy bag (with the address of the couple printed on the outside) and now they are draped around my camera’s tripod in my studio. Well, it seemed a trifle unfair to keep the chic chicks holed up in the dark; I say let the well travelled scarf and jacket see a bit of England and have a breath of fresh Devon air before they are extradited back to Brittany.