"Now there's a voice, Charlie. Keep that one comin'," a plump, jolly-looking woman at the bar declared. There were many seconds to her suggestion.
"Give the lad a bit of brew for that," someone shouted from the corner.
"Yeah, break ya heart, Charlie. Part with some of the precious nectar."
More laughter followed.
"I'll pay for it, Charlie," the slim man with the protruding Adam's apple declared and slapped some money on the bar. "He's got to be eighteen. Look at the size of 'ism."
"Aye," the woman beside him said. "A young man with a voice like that shouldn't go dry, Charlie."
"All right, ya blokes. Shut yer gobs," the bartender said. Moments later he brought a pint of ale to our table. "A gift from yer fans, lad," he said.
Randall's eyes widened with glee when he looked at me. I didn't know what to do or say.
"Thanks," he said and took a sip of the ale.
I tasted it, too, to see what his was like. Randall finished it and mine before we finished our shepherd's pies. When we got up to leave, there was a round of applause and a cheer. We burst out onto the street, laughing. "I'm a professional singer," he announced loudly to the world. "I got paid! Maybe it was just a beer, but I got paid!"
"Right and we could go to jail here for it."
"We better get going then," he said with a laugh, and we hurried away. "That ale was good. I could drink another of those. I guess I could pass for eighteen."
"You don't have long to go, Randall," I reminded him. He laughed.
"That's right."
He looked silly, like his smile was lopsided on his face.
As we walked along, Randall talked more about himself and his family. The ale he had drunk seemed to have opened the dam holding back his personal life even more. From what Randall told me about his parents, despite their emphasis on his talent and their expectations for it, they seemed to dote more on his younger brother, who was an athlete and a more allaround student. I sensed that Randall felt his parents treated him as if he was someone unusual whose eccentricities would be explained by his talent and therefore excused and ignored.
"Dad always says things like 'That's Randall. He's special.' I'm not so special. I don't like being treated as if I was odd, do you?"
I had to laugh at the question.
"Oh," he said, "I'm sorry." He paused. "I really don't think of you as being different, Rain. I know I did a poor job of explaining that before, but I don't. I mean, you're unique, but you're not weird. Oh, just forget about it," he said, frustrated with himself. "I don't know what I'm saying anymore. And," he said looking around, "I don't know why we're walking in this direction."
"We better return to Endfield Place," I said.
"Right."
Randall found a station and we took the tube back to Holland Park. During the ride, he closed his eyes and nearly fell asleep. So much for his ability to hold his ale, I thought with a smile, Once we arrived, however, he snapped lack to life and walked me to my great-aunt and great-uncle's home.
"I hope you had fun," he said.
"Oh, the best:' I said.
"Sure."
"No, really, Randall. Thank you for the day."
He beamed and pulled back his shoulders.
"Yeah, well, I guess a girl could have fun with me.
We've got to do it again. We didn't see very much of the city. What are you doing tomorrow?" he asked quickly.
"I have the day off but I have to be back here to help with dinner," I said.
"Why don't we take a boat ride on the Thames and stop at the Tower of London? It will be better if you can come to the dorm, since the boats leave from right around there. Just take the tube to the school as you always do. You know where the dorm is, right?"
"Yes."
"How about 9:30? Is that okay, because if you want to come later, that's fine, but..."
"Yes, yes," I said smiling at his enthusiasm, "I'll be there right after I help with breakfast. They eat early so there shouldn't be a problem."
"Great, great, great." He turned to walk away and then as if just remembering something, spun around, took a large stride toward me, and kissed me quickly on the lips. "Bye," he said again and hurried off as if he was afraid of what I would do.
I stood there feeling stunned, and for a moment I didn't know whether I should laugh or feel
wonderful.
The sound of the front door opening and closing behind me startled me and I turned around to see Mary Margaret step out. She paused when she saw me and then she started away looking like she wanted desperately to avoid me.
"Mary Margaret, what are you doing here so late?" I called to her. "I thought you had the afternoon off, too."
Reluctantly, she paused, looked back at the house and then at me.
"I had a few more things to tidy up," she said. "I'll be back in the morning to serve breakfast."
"How far away do you live?" I asked, stepping closer to her.
"Only a half hour on the underground. I've got to get home," she added, stepping back as if talking to me was forbidden.
"Is Mrs. Endfield all right?" I asked quickly.
"Yes," she said but narrowed her eyes. "Why do you ask?"
"I tried to talk to her earlier today, but she wouldn't answer when I knocked on her bedroom door. I heard her humming, but she didn't seem to hear me even when I knocked harder and called out to her. I thought she might be sick."
"I don't know," Mary Margaret said, shaking her head. "I don't know about that." She backed away faster, pivoted and walked quickly down the cobblestone drive, not once pausing to glance back at me. I watched her hurry away and then I turned back to the house.
My eyes were drawn instantly to an upstairs window. The curtain was parted.
I thought it was a window in my great-aunt's and. great-uncle's bedroom, but the woman standing there had longer, lighter hair than Great-aunt Leonora. She was back in the shadows and I just caught a glimpse of her before the curtain closed.
Who was she? I wondered. Sir Godfrey Rogers's mistress? I actually frightened myself and gave myself a chill. As soon as I entered the house, I listened for a moment and then headed down the corridor toward my room. I wanted to relax and read and write letters to Grandmother Hudson and to Roy.
The house was strangely quiet and the lights were low or off in every room. Boggs didn't seem to be around and I wasn't going to look for him. Maybe the ogre does take time off, I thought. Good riddance.
When I got to my room, the sounds of my own footsteps lingered in my ears. Once I lived in a world full of danger where drug addicts lingered behind buildings waiting to pounce on people so they could get some money to support their addictions, where innocent pedestrians were killed or wounded in gang war cross fires, where parents trembled when their children were out of the house, where the night was filled with the shrill sound of sirens, sounds that made our hearts pound our blood and filled our minds with pictures of horror. I had every reason to be afraid there.
What reason did I have to be afraid here, living among rich people who had servants and ate off real silver platters? I heard no sirens in the night, and yet the silence was somehow more frightening.
I quickly shut the door behind me.
The door without any lock.
6
Joie de Vivre
.
Moments after my alarm clock shook me out of
sleep, I heard Boggs walk by my bedroom door. The slats in the old wooden hallway floor groaned under the heels of his heavy boots. I imagined the whole house cringed when Boggs woke up. If there was really a ghost here, she probably curled up behind some old wall and waited for him to pass, too. At least by buying the alarm clock, I had denied him the pleasure of pounding on my door.
I needed something to wake me. I had stayed up late writing letters the night before. I hadn't intended to, but when I began to describe things to
Grandmother Hudson, I couldn't help but add all the details
about the school and the sights I had visited. My letter ran on for pages and pages, and I kept it all on a positive, happy note. My letter to Roy was the same. We had a great deal of catching up to do and I was full of questions about his new life, too. Finally bleary-eyed, I stuffed and licked the envelopes and went to sleep.
However, despite my exhaustion, I didn't fall asleep as quickly as I had anticipated. Many different emotions had been blended throughout the day until I had woven a tight cord around my heart, a cord with strands of sadness and anger, strands of joy and love, excitement and depression, hope and despair. Randall's beautiful eyes flashed before mine and the faces of some of the troubled women depicted in the paintings I had seen at the National Gallery appeared as well, some of them making me think of myself.
There were also many things during the day which had reminded me of Mama and Beni: a black woman with her little daughter in the park, some black girls laughing and walking on the street, the sounds of hip-hop coming from a boom box, a black mannequin in a storefront window dressed in a pantsuit similar to the one Mama used to wear, all of it conspiring to make me melancholy.
That wasn't all that threw me back in time. When I held Randall's hand as we walked along the streets of London, I recalled holding Roy's hand, his fingers wrapped fully around mine, clutching me as if he thought I was a balloon that might float away should he lose his grip. Back in those days, Roy's hold on me filled me with a sense of safety. I never felt vulnerable and in danger as long as he was at my side, no matter where we were or who was nearby.
But a girl my age needed more than just a sense of security, I thought. I needed to cling to love as well as strength. There were other emotions to explore, other feelings to have travel over the wires that ran back to my heart. I wanted laughter to sound like music; I wanted every smile to brighten the day even more; and I wanted words to find comfortable places in which to settle and plant the seeds of memories that would grow forever and ever until I was too old to remember or too old to care.
Could Randall Glenn do all that? More important, did I want him to? Did I want anyone to, or was I afraid of the pain of disappointment? The questions rattled around in my head, keeping sleep waiting at the door until finally even my mind surrendered and shut off the light that kept these thoughts as bright as neon signs.
Now I grumbled like a woman four times my age when I got out of bed. I stretched and yawned, resembling a sleepwalker as I moved around my closet of a room, plucking clothes out of the wardrobe. Finding my sneakers, I plodded down the hallway to the bathroom to wash and dress, and of course, pin back my hair to satisfy Mr. Boggs.
Sunday was another big breakfast day, or as Mrs. Chester called it, a full English breakfast. Out came the sausage, bacon, eggs, scones, kidney, jams, biscuits and tea. She and Mary Margaret were scurrying about the kitchen as if we had twenty guests this morning. There were no greetings or good mornings when I joined them, just orders barked at me: "Get that pan, wash this dish, cut those biscuits, take out the tea and be careful with those cups."
Great-uncle Richard was at the table with his morning paper. He was dressed in his suit and tie, his hair brushed impeccably, looking like he had been up for hours. When does he relax? I wondered. It was Sunday. Did he always wear a business suit?
Even my great-aunt was formally dressed with her hair done and her makeup complete as well. At first I thought they were going to church, but picking up their chatter as I moved about the dining room, I learned they were going to the country right after breakfast to visit with some friends at their estate. It was good news for us, for Boggs came into the kitchen to announce they wouldn't be back for dinner and we had the night off as well.
Contrary to the odd way Great-aunt Leonora had been acting the day before when I had gone up to speak with her, she was bubbly and energetic this morning. My great-uncle didn't look like he was really paying attention to her, but she talked at him as if her words could cut right through the newspaper he held up in front of him. She thought it was a very important day because they were going to the country home of someone who had been recently knighted. There was even a chance the prince would appear, but in any case, according to Great-aunt Leonora, "the best of society would be there." She talked about these lords and ladies, royals, in a way that made me think of Greek deities, gods and goddesses who made occasional visits to earth and gave mere earthlings the opportunity to kiss. their hands or stand in their shadows.
"I think it's so unfair that you haven't been knighted yet, Richard," she complained. "No one is more deserving of the honor than you:'
"Patience, my dear," he said folding his paper. He glared at her a moment. "Patience and not letting everyone know how much you want it is the recipe," he warned.
He turned to me because I was just standing there listening to them. I was still fascinated with the way they spoke, not only to me and the other servants in the house, but to each other. It was as if they were on a stage performing before an audience.
However, he made me feel like I had been eavesdropping and I spun around quickly to return to the kitchen. "Just a moment, Miss Arnold," he said.
I turned back slowly, expecting to be
reprimanded. "Yes?'
He reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a small envelope.
"In light of what you are mainly here to do, I thought you would appreciate this," he said.
"What is it?" I asked, surprised. I stepped forward to take the envelope. He waited while I opened it. "Play tickets?"
"Two tickets to tonight's performance of Macbeth at the Royal National Theater, the Old Vic, I thought you might want to take along a friend, perhaps someone else from the drama school."
"Isn't that nice?" Great-aunt Leonora said. "Very thoughtful of you, Richard."
"Yes. Thank you," I said, quite taken aback by the unexpected gift. I didn't think he thought that much about me. Sometimes, when he looked at me, he wore an expression of wonder, as if he hadn't known I was here or had forgotten. Maybe he didn't think I would stay.
"You don't have to dress foi many, but you should dress decently," Great-uncle Richard instructed. "It's located on the South Bank of the Thames. I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding your way there, now that you are a seasoned London traveler," he added.
I smiled and thanked him again.
"It's nothing, I have some influence with theater people these days and those are very good seats," he said. "Let me know what you think of the
performance. Macbeth is one of my favorites," he added. "Perhaps someday, Mrs. Endfield and I will attend a performance with you playing Lady Macbeth," he said with a wide smile. Then, as if he realized he was being warm and friendly, he reached for his paper, snapped it sharply, and started reading again.
I glanced at my Great-aunt Leonora whose face was frozen in a far-off look as she gazed right through me. Sometimes the two of them gave me the feeling they moved in and out of their own worlds, oblivious to each other and anyone else around them.
When I went into the kitchen, I knew from the way Mrs. Chester looked at me that she had overheard the conversation in the dining room.
"I guess yer doin' pretty nicely 'ere for a Yank," she commented and glanced at Mary Margaret before turning back to me. "No lazy streak in ya, that's for sure. Ya do yer chores as yer told and don't whine and moan about it."
"Thanks, I guess," I said. "Although Yanks aren't lazy. You can't be the greatest country in the world and be lazy."
"Oh, listen to that now, Mary Margaret. All that pride and she ain't got a bloody bean."
"You don't have to be rich to have some selfpride," I remarked.
"Ya listening, Mary Margaret?" Mrs. Chester chimed. She turned back to me. "I been tellin"er not ta be mopin' about with a face down ta 'er feet or she'll never catch a bloke worth a bob, but she don't listen ta me. Maybe she'll take a lesson from the likes of you," Mrs. Chester said.
I glanced at Mary Margaret and saw how nervous Mrs. C
hester was making her.
"Mary Margaret is a very pretty young woman," I said. "Intelligent too. I'm sure she doesn't need advice from me"
Mary Margaret looked at me as if I had just escaped from a nuthouse and went out quickly to clear the breakfast table.
"Never mind what ya think 'bout 'er good looks," Mrs. Chester insisted. "Ya oughta let 'er knock about with ya. All she does is go from 'ere ta home ta be with 'er old sick mum. She thinks she's still a girl, but wager when that one gets toffed up, she'd catch an eye or two," Mrs. Chester predicted. "She's got a sweet face. It almost breaks me heart." She paused for a moment before continuing.
"I just feel sorry fer 'er, is all," she finally said, turning back to her work. "If I could, I'd find 'er a good bloke, meseif. A decent tumble would grow 'er up overnight."
That's one strange prescription for wisdom and maturity, I thought.
Mary Margaret returned with dishes in hand, glanced at me fearfully and went to the sink.
She does act like a girl half her age, I realized, but really, what could I do for her? I had trouble enough finding my own way, and it wasn't as though I hadn't tried to be friendly with her. She avoided personal talk and looked at me as if I was some kind of threat, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for her, too.
"Would you like to go to the play with me tonight, Mary Margaret?" I asked.
She kept rinsing the dishes,
"Well, don't just keep the girl waitin', answer 'er," Mrs. Chester said.
Mary Margaret looked at her and then at me. She hadn't heard a word. She was too deep in her own thoughts, crawling into herself like a snail.
"I have two tickets to a play tonight. Would you like to go with me?"
She shook her head vigorously.
"Oh, I can't," she said. "I got to be with me mum."
"That's stupid and ya know it," Mrs. Chester said.
"No, I can't," she insisted and then, maybe because we made her so nervous, she dropped a dish and it shattered in the sink.
Before anyone could say a word, she burst into tears and rushed from the kitchen.
"See?" Mrs. Chester said. "Ya'd never know that girl was in 'er twenties, the way she acts."
Lightning Strikes Page 10
