She smiled, her shyness returning. “You first. I will take your picture.”
“Okay.” I took her challenge as if I were her twenty-two-year-old traveling companion and not someone who was almost old enough to be her grandmother.
Marching right up to the soldier, I stood as close as I dared and smiled nice and bright. The guard didn’t flinch.
“Thank you,” I said to him.
He didn’t answer.
I walked back to where Kellie and Annette stood. “Your turn,” I told Annette.
She grinned and tried to express her teasing suggestion. “I will make with the computer, the photo with my face on you.”
“Oh no you won’t! I stood by the guard. Now it’s your turn.”
“Go ahead.” Kellie held out her hand and offered to take Annette’s camera from her. “I’ll take the picture.”
“No, no, no.” Annette shook her head.
“Oui, oui, oui,” I said.
She laughed, pressed her shoulders back, and handed her camera to Kellie. “I have to be nice.”
We weren’t sure if that meant she was showing respect to the elderly, meaning Kellie and me, or if she was telling herself to be nice to the guard.
“Closer.” Kellie looked through the viewfinder of Annette’s camera. Annette was standing at least six feet away from the guard. I had stood only inches from him.
“Closer,” I echoed.
Annette complied and made an adorably cute grimace. Kellie snapped the shot. The guard never flinched or gave any indication he was aware of our presence.
Annette joined us and in a coy voice said, “I think he wants to marry me.”
We giggled together, and I thought of what a common denominator humor can be. Women around the world love to tease each other. Regardless of cultural differences or language barriers, women always can share a giggle over boys. Such is the evidence of an uncomplicated friendship.
In that spirit of uncomplicated camaraderie, we continued our chummy procession down the hill, settled gladly on the first tea shop we came to, and took a table by the front window. The shop was old, as evidenced by the uneven window frame that looked like a victim of centuries of settling.
“Did you see this quote on the menu about tea?” Kellie pointed to a line at the bottom. “It says, ‘The cup that cheers but does not inebriate. William Cowper.’ ”
“Clever.”
“Do you know what is this?” Annette pointed to an entry on the menu that was labeled “Teatime.” At this simple yet very old tea shop, the “teatime” fare was nothing like the abundance served at the Ritz. Here it was two scones with clotted cream and jam along with a pot of tea.
I explained the “teatime” selection to Annette, and she closed her menu saying, “Yes. I have not eaten this.”
“You haven’t had scones and tea yet?” Kellie asked.
“No.”
Kellie and I exchanged smiles. It felt fun being the ones to introduce sweet Annette to what might gladly become our new afternoon habit. Our smug thoughts were laughable because the two of us were far from experienced in matters of tea or scones or clotted cream.
Regardless, we both were looking pretty confident when the waitress came to our table and we placed the order for Annette. That’s when I realized that Kellie and I suddenly had taken on the roles of Opal and Rose. We were the older women inviting the younger woman to be our travel companion. At least we hadn’t asked Annette to carry anything for us yet, like folding spectator chairs.
But then, the day wasn’t over.
Where did the sunshine go” Kellie asked, as we exited the tea shop at the foot of Windsor Castle.
The three of us looked up and gave a scowl to the gathering clouds. Over the last few days we had become so used to glorious sunshine and pristine blue skies that we almost had forgotten this was the onset of spring, and we were visiting a place that is notoriously green for a reason.
Our quick-footed trot the rest of the way down the hill to the train station was a feeble attempt to beat the coming raindrops. The raindrops won. We were damp when we boarded the train that would take us back to London, but the heater was going, and we dried out quickly.
On the ride back we exchanged our contact information with Annette and invited her to stay with us if she ever visited the Orlando area. She responded with the same kindness, saying, “You would be good for my mother. She does not go out of our small town. I wish her … she … I wish she be with me today.”
We told her that until this trip, neither of us had gone anywhere adventurous without our husbands or families.
“When I told my daughter that Kellie and I were coming to England, she said we were going on a ‘Sisterchicks’ trip.”
“ ‘Sisterchicks’?”
“Like a girlfriends’ getaway or a best friends’ adventure. Maybe you and your mother can take a Sisterchicks trip and the two of you can visit us in Orlando.”
“Maybe.” Annette smiled. “It would be more possible that you would come to see us in France.”
Our train rolled into Paddington Station, and the time came to say good-bye to Annette. I felt a sweet sadness. Annette seemed to feel it as well. She hugged me good-bye, pressing her cheek to mine and releasing a soft kiss into the air. She hugged Kellie the same way.
In a final tease I said, “In the movies they show the French people giving kisses on both cheeks.”
Annette grinned and wagged a finger at me. “That is for only the French. You—you have only one kiss this time.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” I said, still teasing. “When Kellie and I come to France someday, maybe you can make us honorary Frenchwomen. Then, when we leave, you can give us two kisses.”
“Or maybe three.” She grinned as if she knew a few secrets about French protocol that I wouldn’t be able to decode on a single visit.
Annette left with a final wave, and Kellie and I looked at each other as if we had just lost our favorite kitten.
“She was a doll,” I said.
“I hope she comes to Florida one day. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
I nodded. “So? What do you think? Are we still planning to go from here to Buckingham Palace?”
“If you would like, sure. We’re too late for the changing of the guard, but then we did see the drill with the castle guards.”
“And it is raining,” I added.
“What if we took a bus ride around town? We could go past Buckingham and get off if we want or keep riding if we want.”
“Great idea, Kellie.”
We found a bus stop right away and ducked under the covering with a dozen other people. Kellie read over the route information posted, and together we compared the posted route map with our foldout map. I’m sure our discussion made it obvious we were confused tourists, unsure which bus to take.
A young man dressed in a business suit and wearing a turban stood beside us and was privy to our conversations about Buckingham Palace and the other sights we were trying to see in one big loop.
“Madams, may I kindly give a recommendation?” His rich Indian accent reminded me of Sara Crewe’s benevolent Ram Dass from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s novel A Little Princess. As alluded to in the novel, Britain’s influence in India at the turn of the nineteenth century caused a rapid increase in the Indian population in London. In crowded public places around London, such as the train stations, we had seen a much greater mix of cultures than we ever saw at home in Winter Park.
“If you take this one”—he pointed to one of the routes on the list—“bus 73 on the Green Line will take you past Hyde Park and Buckingham Palace. You can change at Victoria to whatever direction you need to go from there.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You are most kindly welcome.”
The next bus was packed with people who smashed their way into the limited standing space. Kellie and I pressed our way to the narrow metal stairs that led to the top level. Up top on the full double-decker bus, we found an open seat
for the two of us along the right side toward the front. We bobbed along with fogged-up windows, trying to make out the sights below us.
One tourist tip I remembered reading at home the week before was to be sure to sit above the street level on a double-decker bus and not to always take the underground or a cab to travel about town. The reasoning was that, from this second-story perch, one would have an eye-level view of the intricate decorations on many of the Victorian buildings. This was the case as the bus plodded through the traffic before turning onto a main thoroughfare marked “Bayswater.”
“We never finished our conversation,” Kellie said.
“Which conversation was that?”
“This morning at the train station on our way to Windsor I was saying that I’ve decided I want to start the interior-design business. And I would love for you to be part of that with me. What do you think?”
“I …”
“I know it’s not been the best time to think about it with everything else we’ve been doing.”
“My mind has been a little occupied for the past week—”
“Yet I was hoping you might have an initial gut reaction to the idea.”
The truth was, I did have a gut reaction, but I didn’t want to tell Kellie yet. Not here. Not now.
While I had been facing Kellie, I had been stealing glances out the window and was aware that we had been following the rim of Hyde Park for many blocks. She was missing the great view of the immense greenery through the misting rain. I knew this was the park J. M. Barrie frequented as he was creating his stories of Peter Pan, but that didn’t seem like a relevant point to add to our present conversation.
“You know what, Kellie?” I said as diplomatically as I could. “I think it would be easier for me if we picked up this conversation at another time.”
“Okay. Sure. That makes sense. This is a potentially life-changing subject.”
I nodded. My gut still was telling me it was a topic that would be life changing for her but not for me. I didn’t need to enter the interior-design business for Kellie to see her dream fulfilled.
Then I remembered how I had used the same sort of reasoning when Kellie wanted to go in the hot-air balloon. I was immensely glad I had taken that risk. Would I feel the same way if I said yes to becoming her business partner? I definitely needed more time to think and pray about this.
The bus stopped near the impressive Marble Arch, and Kellie grabbed my arm. “Let’s get off here.”
“Here?”
She was already in the aisle. I stumbled down the steps in her wake and barely made it off the bus in the crush of people trying to get on.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as soon as we were clear of the crowd.
“Shops!” she said brightly. “When I saw Marble Arch, I realized this is the start of Oxford Street. I read about it in your research material. This is the place for us to shop.”
I did love the idea of coming home with something new to wear, especially a new pair of all-purpose jeans. Whenever I wore them, I would remember they came from London, and I would smile.
“Is this okay with you?”
“It’s great, Lady Ebb. Lead the way.”
We entered the first large department store we came to and found it had the same layout and feel of any major department store at home. Making our way to women’s clothing, I slipped into my treasure hunt mode and headed for the clearance rack. My first find of the afternoon was a selection of raincoats half off the original price.
“Kellie, look.” I held up the coat I liked so she could see the label. “It’s a London Fog coat!”
“Perfect! You have to buy it.”
I bought the coat along with a light cream-colored, button-up sweater. The sweater was more than half off and was made from a scrumptious blend of cashmere and merino wool. As soon as I tried it on, I felt warm. Warmer than I had felt since we had arrived. I determined to wear that sweater at all times during the rest of the trip unless the sun made another dazzling appearance. With this sweater and raincoat, I finally was ready for London.
Now the challenge was to find something I could wear fairly often once I got home. I told Kellie I wanted to have the chance to one day say, “Oh, this old outfit? Yes, this is the one I bought in London.”
Such snootiness, she assured me, would only be acceptable with my closest family members and, of course, with her.
Kellie found a turtleneck and a scarf she liked. I copied her scarf inspiration and added a pair of socks that came with a label identifying their “perfect blend” of angora and cotton. Then I grabbed a plain white cotton T-shirt and headed to the cash register.
“What about jeans?” Kellie asked.
“I’m not in the mood. I think I can get by the next two days with these pants. I have a skirt with me too.”
She gave me a skeptical look, and I knew what she was thinking. The way things had been going, it could be a challenge for me to keep my singular pair of pants out of harm’s way.
“I know,” I told her. “I should have packed another pair.”
“That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say you really should take ten minutes, try on some jeans, and if you find any you like, great. If not, at least you tried.”
That day, having a friend who was more persistent than I was proved useful. The second pair of jeans I tried on fit great, and I bought them. There, mission accomplished. I tucked my lightweight travel jacket into one of the shopping bags and tried out my London Fog raincoat. Just right.
Back out into the street we went. Both of us now had on raincoats with hoods, so we were ready to ward off the drops. The wet stuff was coming down in silver beads that looked as if they had been flung our way from around the neck of Madam Icicle of the Outer Hebrides.
We didn’t get “pretty” raindrops like this in Florida. Where we lived, the sky wrung itself out in downpours during the wet season and duplicated a moist terrarium during several months on either side of the torrents.
Here, the rain seemed to have a different personality. It was purposeful but came with a playful twinkle. A Tinker Bell sort of rain.
Kellie’s idea about hopping on and off the bus was a good one. When a bus for our desired route showed up again, we bustled our way on more aggressively than we had the first time. We tried again for seats up top and found we had to settle for holding on. At the next stop, though, two teens with spiked hair and earphones got off, and Kellie and I took their seats.
The bus rolled down Park Lane, a wide thoroughfare that leads directly to Buckingham Palace. We had a great view as we approached the imposing home of Britain’s sovereigns for almost two hundred years. The Victoria Memorial, crafted of white marble at the base and topped with a golden-winged statue, was much larger and more imposing than the pictures I had seen. The memorial created a traffic roundabout and provided great pictures, as Kellie and I snapped away through the rain-dotted windows. I felt like a true tourist. And I didn’t mind a bit.
At the front of the palace grounds, red-uniformed guards were posted at the closed black gate. Behind them loomed the decidedly rectangular, immensely large Buckingham Palace. Annette’s term for Windsor Castle applied here as well. Buckingham Palace had a “strong beauty” to it. I was sure that the interior was even more impressive than the exterior, just as Windsor had been.
The bus kept going, and we made our way toward the river.
“Are we going to be able to see Big Ben from here?” Kellie pulled out the map. She quickly answered her own question. “No. We’re heading south of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. Wait. I have an idea. Let’s get off at the next stop.”
I followed my inspired friend, not sure what she was up to. The rain had stopped, and the clouds seemed to be clearing, but the light of day was waning.
“Should I ask what you’re thinking?”
Kellie’s eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “No, I want to see if I can surprise you. Just follow me, and don’t ask any q
uestions.”
“All right, bossy babe.”
“You won’t be badgering me a short time from now. That is, if my little scheme succeeds. If it doesn’t work, then you can scoff at me all you want.”
“That sounds like a fair deal,” I said with a grin.
Kellie led us to the Victoria underground station. She bought the tickets for us, checked the map, and led the way down to where the next underground train to Westminster Station was boarding.
“Perfect timing,” Kellie said. “Come on.”
We slipped inside just as the doors closed, and we held on to a pole in the crowded compartment for the jostling ride. I switched my shopping bag to the other hand. I had combined all my purchases and was carrying them and my purse in one large, handled bag. The consolidation made it easier to be sure I had everything, but the weight seemed to have done a number on my wrist.
“You okay?” Kellie asked.
“I’m carrying too much in one bag,” I said in a low voice. “I’ll divide it up when we get out.”
“Here, let me carry it. Just for a little while. That way I’ll be balanced on both sides. You can give your hands a rest, and then in half an hour or so, we’ll switch, and you can carry both bags for a while.”
I liked her idea. “Ebb and Flo,” I said and handed her my weighty bag. It felt odd suddenly to have my hands free.
We rode only as far as the next stop. Kellie motioned to me that we were getting off here. She secured a firm grasp on both our bags and made her way toward the open door. I was right behind her until a large woman with a fussing toddler in her arms pressed in front of me and then seemed to stop. I couldn’t see around her to know if other passengers were bottlenecked in front of her or what was going on.
“Excuse me.” I tried to maneuver around her so I could jockey my way to the door.
She didn’t seem to hear me, nor did she move. I literally pressed my body sideways between the woman and a man who was wearing a heavy coat that smelled like wet wool and soaked mothballs. The damp odor rubbed off on my new raincoat. I felt desperate to reach the door. A swarm of business-clad passengers was pushing into the cabin. I could see Kellie already out on the platform looking around for me with a panicked expression.