“Hmm. Very formative years,” said Reggie.
“Why do you say that?”
“Fourteen and fifteen? Because they are.”
Reggie, curious now, looked up at Laura as he pushed the bags into the boot of the car.
“Why didn’t you tell me about that before?” he asked.
“Before what?”
“Well … before we jumped in the plane, I suppose.”
“Well, I … it just never came up, did it?” said Laura. “Anyway, I think my plan worked rather well, don’t you? Not a paparazzi … I mean paparazzo … or is it paparazza … anyway, none of them in sight!”
Reggie climbed into the backseat of the sedan with the one bag that wouldn’t fit in the boot. Laura squeezed in next to Mrs. Hatfield in the front.
“I can’t wait to catch up,” said Laura as she got in. Then, leaning over to whisper, she said, “You have to tell me everything you hinted about in your letter!”
“I wrote you?” said Mrs. Hatfield. “Oh, I’m getting so forgetful. It used to be I’d forget that I hadn’t written; now I’m forgetting when I do.”
Mrs. Hatfield started the engine and the car spun just a little mud getting out of the field. Within a few moments, they were bumping nicely along an unpaved country road in the dark.
“It feels as though we’re driving on the moon,” said Laura.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Hatfield. “No one will think to look for you here. And I’ll have you both snug as two bugs in a rug in no time.”
They drove on, through the nearly pitch-black darkness of an overcast night in the countryside, until finally a portion of the real moon shone through, just for a moment, as they were crossing a stonework bridge. Light glimmered off smooth-flowing water a few meters below.
“That’s our little river,” said Mrs. Hatfield cheerily, directing her voice to Reggie in the backseat. “It flows into a lake just a bit farther east, but you can’t see it from here at night.”
“I used to skip pebbles in it,” said Laura.
“So I heard,” said Mrs. Hatfield.
Laura and Mrs. Hatfield were reestablishing old bonds. Reggie left them to it. He sat back and settled on a mental image of the teenage Laura skimming stones, the sun glinting off her red hair and the blue water.
“We’re almost there,” said Mrs. Hatfield a few minutes later. Reggie looked. Indeed, some distance ahead was the blurry twinkling of one yellow streetlamp, or perhaps two.
“I hope you aren’t both completely addicted to your mobile phones,” said Mrs. Hatfield as the car drew closer to the town. “I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a dead zone here, except when the planets or satellites or something align just right. We’ve got these two lovely hills to the north, and then another one, even higher, to the south. So between them, it’s not great for staying in touch with the whole world minute by minute, you know, but wonderful if you want to avoid prying eyes.”
Soon they were driving on the main street—the one street, as near as Reggie could tell—of Bodfyn.
All the shops—a half dozen of them—were closed and dark at this hour. Even the pub—the one pub, thought Reggie sadly—was closed now. No one was in the street.
In less than a mile, they had gone the whole length of the town. They passed the second of the two streetlamps, and then they turned left, continuing about a hundred yards down an unlit lane before coming to a stop.
“You can’t tell much in the dark,” she said, “and I didn’t want to attract attention by leaving lights on. But when you get up in the morning—at whatever time you please, of course—you’ll see that it is quite lovely, in its own way.
“The bedroom is just upstairs. It’s got a lovely balcony, and on a clear day you can see all the way to—oh, I forget exactly, but it’s some rock or something on top of one of our two twin hills. No jokes, please. Everything is modernized inside, and en suite, you’ll be happy to know. The shower and bath were redone with pink-and-white tile less than a century ago. It’s rather close quarters in there, but perhaps you won’t mind too much.”
She unlocked the door for them, then reached down to help carry the bags in. Laura stopped her.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Hatfield,” said Laura. “Reggie can manage that. Can’t you, Reggie? While Mrs. Hatfield and I just finish up here?”
Reggie stretched his legs out from riding in the cramped backseat, then carried the bags up. He put them down in the bedroom, turned on the light, and opened the balcony door. Outside, he saw a dark, overcast sky, and darker outlines of a line of trees in the distance.
At the front door, Mrs. Hatfield had finished giving houseguest instructions to Laura, and now she was about to go back to her car, but she paused.
“You know, Laura, there is one other thing—”
“Yes,” said Laura. “I was wondering why you hadn’t mentioned it yet.”
“You were?”
“Why yes, of course. Why else do you think I’m here?”
“You’re here to get away from those horrid paparazzi. Aren’t you? That’s what you said on the phone.”
“Well, yes, that, too, but—really, we could have escaped to almost anywhere. I chose here, of course, because of your letter.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Hatfield. She thought for a moment, studying the expression on Laura’s face, which was one of genuine concern, and Mrs. Hatfield’s own expression just grew more and more puzzled.
“You know, dear, if you still say I sent you a letter, I certainly take your word for it. But honestly, I don’t remember doing so. What was it that I said in it?”
“Well, I … I suppose the details don’t really matter, if you didn’t actually send it. But you—I mean, the typed letter with your name on it—said you needed help. Quite urgently.”
“Oh, surely I would remember saying that. Oh dear. I must be going just completely out of—”
“Oh, no,” said Laura quickly. “It’s not you; it’s me, I’m sure. I mean, not that I’m going out of my mind, but—well, it’s very complicated. I suppose I shouldn’t have just assumed so much, given that it didn’t actually have your signature … and also that it wasn’t actually addressed to me.”
“Laura, dear, are you feeling all right? You know, a wedding can be a very stressful thing, and perhaps—”
Laura laughed, partly out of embarrassment, but mostly out of relief.
“I am fine, Mrs. Hatfield. Truly. I am just so glad that you are, too, and that you don’t actually need my help, I mean—not that I wouldn’t do just anything for you—”
“Well, of course you would. I know that, Laura, dear. Now, I want you to go inside and get yourself a nice glass of wine, and then go right upstairs, and you and Reggie just—well, whatever.”
“Thank you. Good night, Mrs. Hatfield.”
“Good night, dear.”
Mrs. Hatfield began to walk away to her car again, but once more she stopped and turned around.
“Was there something else?” asked Laura.
Mrs. Hatfield laughed, just a bit self-consciously.
“You know, I wasn’t going to mention it at all, but—”
“Yes?”
“Since you are here, I thought you might like to know that we are about to open a new theater in Bodfyn.”
“Oh, how wonderful!”
“Yes, isn’t it? I think every community needs its own stage. And also, with your old boarding school closed, there is no place at all for young people to learn their craft here anymore.”
“Yes, I did hear about that. It’s a shame.”
“But now we’ve created the Bodfyn Players, and opening night for our very first production is this coming weekend!”
“Brilliant!”
“Yes, and not only that, but the proceeds will go to a fund dedicated to getting the school reopened.”
“Well, that’s a good cause, I suppose,” said Laura. “I mean, most certainly, if you really can manage it.”
“Yes, but you know, we have
encountered just the tiniest little glitch—one of our actresses has … well, I don’t want to talk about sad things on your first night here, but, well, there was a bit of a … hiking accident, and so we lost her.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes. Now, it’s not a very complicated role—well, I mean for the right person—and I could find someone to fill in, I’m sure, but it would be such a challenge for her to learn all the lines in time that—that what’s really needed is someone with real experience and stage presence, someone so professional that she could just step in for the weekend and—well, you know—it would only be for the Saturday premiere and then the Sunday matinee. We’ll have someone else in place for the next weekend after.”
Laura, standing in the doorway and looking at Mrs. Hatfield’s imploring expression, suddenly realized what was being asked.
“Oh,” she said.
“We wouldn’t tell anyone that it is you, of course. We would preserve your secret identity, and not announce you as a special guest star or anything like that. You would only be a more or less anonymous stand-in who is astonishingly good at it!”
Mrs. Hatfield stopped now, realizing that her enthusiasm had gotten the better of her, and that Laura had not yet said a word in response.
“But I’m so very sorry,” said the woman. “I shouldn’t have mentioned anything about it at all, and I wasn’t going to, but—”
“Mrs. Hatfield,” said Laura emphatically, “I would be absolutely delighted to help out in any way I can.”
* * *
On the balcony, Reggie looked down at this scene and wondered why Laura and Mrs. Hatfield were taking so long. He could see that they were still chatting, but how could they have so much to talk about? And even if they did, what part of “We’re on our honeymoon” did Mrs. Hatfield not understand?
Then there was the fact that—though he supposed it was probably just his own imagination, given what they’d been through that day, the unusual surroundings, the late hour, and everything else, including the fact that he hadn’t been able to get a pint—somehow the body postures of Laura and her onetime theater mentor seemed, well, surprisingly tense and businesslike.
Finally, Laura nodded, agreeably, so far as Reggie could tell. She gave Mrs. Hatfield a quick hug, and as Mrs. Hatfield finally got in her car, Laura picked up the remaining small bag and came inside. Moments later, she was upstairs.
“What was all that about?” asked Reggie.
“All what?”
“Down below,” said Reggie, indicating the front porch.
Laura smiled.
“Seriously?” she said. “It’s the first night of our honeymoon—and that’s the down below you’re thinking about?”
7
“I have a surprise for you,” said Laura the next morning. She was stepping out of the shower, and it was indeed close quarters. Reggie had a big white towel ready for her, so fluffy that there was barely room to turn around.
“I have a surprise for you, too,” he said.
“Oh. So you do! But let’s go into the village and I’ll show you mine first. Be a dear and save yours for later. Though I am duly impressed.”
Some thirty minutes later, Laura having changed her mind about priorities in dealing with surprises, they walked down the little lane and onto the main street of the village.
The sky had cleared, and as Mrs. Hatfield had promised, the town in daylight was pleasant. The street was paved with gray bricks. They were flanked on both sides by cottages—some of them residences, others converted to small-business use—of white plaster, with brown shingled roofs and brightly flowering front gardens. They passed the town’s one auto garage, a hairdresser’s, a tearoom.
Laura was in disguise again—now more toward local punk rocker than Goth—but as they started out, Reggie wondered if it would be enough.
“You know,” he said, “it won’t do us much good to have come here if someone recognizes you and turns us in to the paparazzi. There’s a reward out. And if they trap us in this isolated place, we’ll have the devil of a time getting away. Are you sure you won’t be recognized?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Not with my blue hair and lip ring. Do you like it? Don’t answer yet. Wait till later.”
“It might be enough to fool the casual observer. But what if we run into some of your old school chums?”
“Oh no, I’m sure not. They will all have long since moved on. That was the whole point of the little boarding school. Get in, get out, move on. I believe it’s inscribed in Latin above the main door. Some of the crasser boys used to joke that’s how they wanted their dating lives to be. Anyway, this is one of those little places that people come from—but tend not to go to if they can help it.”
“Yet here we are,” said Reggie.
“Yes, but at least it’s much cheerier in daylight, don’t you think?”
Laura pointed out the flowers everywhere, and not just the geraniums in the windows and roses in the gardens but also the white-and-yellow daisies and purple lythrums that seemed to be growing nearly everywhere.
“Yes,” said Reggie, with a wave out beyond the town. “And the clumps of sheep and bunches of cows and murders of crows are all quite pastoral as well, in both scent and sound.”
“Now, don’t be a city grump,” said Laura. “I know you don’t like crows, ever since that incident in the Cotswolds, but this is nothing like that. And it’s wool that comes in clumps, by the way, not the sheep themselves. Oh, look, we’re here!”
They were standing in front of an eighteenth-century church. Or, at least, that’s what it certainly had been. The blocks were gray-white granite, with color variations that had developed over centuries. Deep green leaves of ivy made inroads, contrasting brightly with the rock.
Visible behind the roof of the church were the tops of a stand of Scots pines, and to one side was a row of Douglas firs, imported and planted in the past century or so. A path of smooth garden pavers led to the front steps, and above the entrance was a banner that proclaimed the structure’s current purpose: BODFYN THEATRE COMPANY—PREMIERE!
Just as Reggie was digesting that, the heavy front doors opened—and out came Mrs. Hatfield:
“Ah! There you are!”
She hurried across the pavers to meet Laura halfway.
“I’m so sorry to be late, Mrs. Hatfield. Reggie and I just—”
“Oh, no need to explain, my dear,” said Mrs. Hatfield coyly. She added in mock secrecy to Laura, “But you can tell me all about it later, if you like!”
Mrs. Hatfield walked them both to the entrance. She put a hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “Are you coming in with us? Or would you just prefer directions to our pub, the Wayward Pony, as all the other husbands seem to prefer during our rehearsals? When the weather’s right, it has the most delightful view of the moor. The only spot in town that does, really. It’s quite the little gathering place. There’s only the one, everyone goes there, and it is—that way.”
She pointed down the street toward the opposite end of the village.
Laura, with just the tiniest bit of apprehension, said, “Oh, I’m sure Reggie would like to see the theater first! Wouldn’t you?”
“Ah … give us just a moment?” said Reggie.
“Of course, my dears,” said Mrs. Hatfield.
She went inside, shut the entrance doors halfway, and left them just partly alone for a moment.
“Now, don’t be upset,” said Laura quickly. “I only found out myself last night, when we arrived, and—and, well, you certainly wouldn’t have wanted me to say anything about it at that time, would you? Please say you wouldn’t.”
“This … this is the surprise?”
“Well … yes. Mrs. Hatfield just needs a little help with their new theater company.”
“How about a modest financial donation? I’ll be happy to write a check.”
“Well, no, that’s not the sort of help she requested.”
“Painting sets for an after
noon?”
“No, I’m afraid that would not do it.”
“Advising their board of directors about play selections for the coming season?”
“No, I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”
There was a long pause.
“Now, Reggie, don’t give me that look, and don’t be obtuse. You know perfectly well what an established actress means when she says her hometown theater company has asked for her help.”
“How long?”
“Just a few days of rehearsal and then one weekend of performances. They’re already in full dress; they open on Saturday. I know the play well, so all I really need to do is learn their blocking. Now, don’t sulk. I wouldn’t be doing it if it weren’t such an emergency for them.”
“I … well, just what sort of bloody emergency is it, exactly?”
“Now, darling, you won’t go into barrister mode on me, will you? I’m substituting for the local actress, who apparently had some sort of small accident. They wouldn’t be asking me otherwise.”
“What happened? Did someone wish her to ‘break a leg’ and she did?”
“Mrs. Hatfield didn’t say, but I doubt it was anything too terrible. People have their day jobs and their day lives in these amateur productions, you know, and sometimes life just intrudes.”
They both looked up now as a group of large blackbirds flew disturbingly close overhead and took roost in the nearby pines.
Then the theater doors opened and Mrs. Hatfield appeared.
“Ready, dears? Oh, did I tell you the theme of our premiere? It’s ‘Shakespeare as He Should Have Been.’”
“What was that?” asked Laura. “I couldn’t hear, those crows made such a racket.”
Mrs. Hatfield explained patiently.
“We recognize that the Bard was a person of his time, and therefore cannot be held to the more developed sensibilities of today. Still, if our young people are going to continue to study Shakespeare, we need to point out the microaggressions in his plays when they are read, with warning notes in the margins and such, and when they are performed, we must perform them with those flaws removed, through clever casting choices and edits in dialogue and plot where necessary.”
A Baker Street Wedding Page 4
