Full English

by Rachel Spangler

  “Eggplant,” Emma said in American. “You win the fun points on this one.”

  “And this is a swede, unless you drive north about thirty miles. Then it’s a neep.”

  “We call them turnips, so I think Scotland gets the points there.”

  “Agreed, but Ireland wins on potatoes,” Brogan said, tossing a bag of them into her cart.

  “We say potatoes, too.”

  “Yes, but you don’t do them like the Irish. We have over a hundred varieties, and something like ninety different words to describe them.”

  “We?” Emma asked, as she perused the last of the vegetables and moved on to the fruits.

  “My father’s from Cork. He was adamant we grew up thinking of ourselves as binational, hence all the girls being given names like Siobhán, Ciara, Brogan, and Nora.”

  “The girls?” Emma asked, putting some plump grapes in her basket.

  “My mum wasn’t going to roll over and raise a brood of Gaelic-infused redheads, so she got the boys, Archie, Nevil, Edmond, and Charles.”

  “A matching set of his and hers kids.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know what they’d have done if either of them had been particularly religious. We’d probably have been carted to two churches every Sunday. As it was, we spent regular Sundays in the Church of England, and Christmas and Easter holidays at the Catholic church since we were usually visiting family in Ireland.”

  “Did it get confusing?”

  “Not at all. It’s just the way things were, or are, actually.” Brogan picked out a beef roast and a few steaks. “We didn’t know any different until we got to school and found out not everybody cussed in Gaelic, or wore jumpers knit by their Irish aunts.”

  “Did the other kids at school find those things odd?”

  “Of course. They treated us like walking stereotypes,” Brogan said, then pointed to some refrigerated pastries. “Have you had any meat pies yet?”

  Emma blinked at the non sequitur. “No.”

  Brogan grabbed two packages. “Then you need these. They won’t be as good as homemade, but you’ll get the idea. The steak and ale is more traditional, but the chicken curry is brilliant.”

  “Brilliant,” Emma repeated, accepting both packages.

  “What about a Cornish pastie?”

  She shook her head, and Brogan snatched another plastic-wrapped hunk of what appeared to be a half moon of puff pastry, then paused.

  “Do you like mushrooms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Chicken, bacon, and mushrooms make a good mix.”

  “Indeed.” Her stomach gave a low growl as if expressing agreement, and she realized she actually did want to eat the things Brogan had dropped into her basket. She smiled broadly and pushed aside the questions about whether the foods or the person suggesting them had sparked the change.

  “Hey, have you had Yorkshire pudding?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s not a full English roast without one, but you’re not to get them from Aldi. Some Sunday you have to come by the Raven when I’m working, and I’ll fix you up. Same with spotted dick; you’re not to eat it out of a freezer case.”

  “I’m not sure I want to eat spotted dick under any circumstances.”

  “Right, probably not the way you Americans would use the term, but over here the spots are currants.”

  “It wasn’t the spotted part that killed the dish for me so much as the other word.”

  Brogan laughed so loudly a couple of people turned to look at them. “I’m glad to hear you say so, and under any other circumstances I’d agree one hundred percent, but I’m talking about puddings here, or rather, what do you call them? Desserts?”

  “Yes.”

  “In this case, I’m talking about desserts, and that’s the one place I’ll make an exception.”

  “Okay,” Emma said, a smile stretching her cheeks. “Your scones are pretty different from ours, even though we use basically the same word, and your words can be very different from ours even when we use the same foods. If you say your spotted dick is different from any I’ve encountered before, which admittedly is zero, I guess I’d be willing to trust you.”

  £ £ £

  They each left the store with several large bags of groceries, and Brogan’s face was a little sore from all the smiling, but also trying not to smile so much she looked loopy. Which was actually how she felt with Emma hanging on her every word. She’d never had to work particularly hard to entertain people, but listing the names of fresh veg and various biscuits was a low bar, even for her. And when she’d explained that British supermarkets were required to charge for bags, which meant most people bought and reused their own, Emma was so thrilled by the idea Brogan felt like she should have got both a commission on the five freezer-grade bags Emma purchased as well as some sort of environmentalist prize for relaying the idea to her.

  And yet when they reached her car, Emma happily walked right up to the driver’s side, peeked in the window, and frowned before her face turned a flustered shade of pink.

  “I did it again,” she said sheepishly.

  “No worries. You’ve got into cars the other way ’round for decades. You can’t undo conditioning like that in two rides. You have to give yourself time.”

  “Time,” Emma echoed sadly, “that’s what everyone tells me.”

  The words, combined with the desolation flooding her voice, made it obvious they weren’t talking about cars anymore.

  “I keep trying to make these baby steps forward, and I even start to feel proud of myself when I do. Really enjoying the scones was a big deal for me, but then I realized I’ve basically eaten nothing but scones for two weeks, and the thing I was so proud of actually feels totally pathetic.” The words seemed to burst out of Emma before she’d given them permission, and as soon as they did, she clasped her hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” Brogan asked, more confused by the abrupt turn-around than the information that sparked it.

  “For saying those things aloud.”

  “As opposed to in your head?”

  Emma frowned. “Actually, yes.”

  “Do you normally run those monologues internally?”

  She nodded, and Brogan’s heart broke. “I’m no expert on . . . anything, but I’d suspect those kinds of thoughts are better let out than held in.”

  “You’re too kind.” Emma paused and stared across the hood with big, wounded eyes. “Honestly, I’m not sure why you’ve been so kind to me. I haven’t given you any reason to be.”

  “I’m sorry you believe you have to give someone a reason to be kind. I think kindness should be a sort of default position, and someone should have to give you a pretty compelling reason not to be.”

  Emma’s eyes shimmered, but she took a deep breath and pushed it out in a hurry. “I hope you’re right, and I wish more people agreed, but I shouldn’t repay your kindness by dumping all my depressing insecurities on you. You signed up for a taxi ride and shopping trip, not a therapy session.”

  Brogan smiled. “I’m a taxi driver and a bartender. I’m used to therapy sessions.”

  Emma’s mouth twitched upward. “Really? Then what, in your double professional opinion, do you recommend for someone who eats only scones and can’t get into a car without falling to pieces?”

  Brogan thought for a moment, the best she could with her heart pounding out a desire to see that little curl at the edge of Emma’s pink lips grow into a full-fledged smile. Then she nodded toward the passenger door and said, “Hop in.”

  Emma was either too down or embarrassed to argue, but she clearly didn’t understand the answer. Brogan didn’t really, either, if she were being truly honest. It had been only a half-formed idea, but the way Emma gasped as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto a busier road sort of cemented her direction. They’d come too far to go back now, and if Brogan let Emma withdraw after they’d had such a wonderfully open hour together, she knew that’
s what would happen. Emma would go back into her shell, into her fear and self-doubt and whatever else kept her locked in that little cottage alone, and Brogan would go back to doubting she’d ever had the right to try to draw her out in the first place.

  Of course, if this little trip went awry in any of the multiple ways it could, they’d end up considerably worse off than where they’d started the evening, but as Emma winced again at the last intersection before the edge of town, she decided the gamble had more upside than down, except for maybe death. That would be a worse downside, but she really didn’t think of it as a serious possibility as much as an outlier.

  With that happy thought, she pulled the car over to the side of a country road and killed the ignition.

  “What happened?” Emma asked, her voice barely containing a hint of panic.

  “Nothing. It’s just you asked me what we should do about someone who’s afraid of the car, and”— she held out the keys— “the answer is driving lessons.”

  Emma’s already pale face went ghostly white. “No.”

  “The quickest way out is straight through.”

  “Brogan, I can’t.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. I know me. I will kill us both.”

  “Can you drive a stick shift?” Brogan asked calmly.

  “In America.”

  “Same concept.” She tapped the pedals lightly with her foot. “Clutch, brake, accelerator.”

  “They’re in the same places,” Emma said softly as she watched Brogan’s feet. “Not opposite.”

  “See, nothing to worry about.”

  “Except the dying.”

  “We’ll go slow, and this is an old sheep-herder’s road. We aren’t likely to meet any other cars, but if we do, you can pull over and let them pass.”

  “What if I kill the engine?”

  “You probably will,” Brogan said honestly. “It happens. Sometimes it even happens to me if I’m not paying attention and have to slam on the brakes, but it’s not the end of the world.”

  “Not the end of the world,” Emma repeated, as if the phrase resonated with her.

  “You can do this,” Brogan said softly. “I’ll help.”

  Emma’s mouth pressed into a flat line, and for a second Brogan feared she’d set her resolve to fight her, but then with one curt nod, she unfastened her seatbelt and got out of the car.

  Brogan gave a little fist pump and then scrambled to get out of her way. She didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize their momentum, so she silently passed Emma the keys and jogged around to the passenger side.

  Emma had a steely glint in her blue eyes as she adjusted the driver’s seat and gave her seatbelt an extra tug, as if she needed to make sure she’d gotten it as secure as possible. “Okay, clutch, brake, accelerator.”

  “Put the clutch in and turn the key,” Brogan said. “No need to worry about anything else yet.”

  “One step at a time,” Emma murmured, then, putting her left foot on the clutch, she switched on the ignition and the car rumbled to life.

  “Good,” Brogan said. “Take your time, get your bearings, but remember, you know how to drive.”

  “On the right side,” Emma shot back, but her voice trembled in a way that suggested she was more scared than mad.

  “Then drive on the right side,” Brogan offered as calmly as she could. She wasn’t nearly as worried about wrecking as she was about Emma freaking out.

  “What?”

  “It’s basically a one-lane road. All the locals take their half out of the middle anyway, and it’s not like there’s anyone around,” she reasoned. “Go ahead and start on the right side of the road until you’re comfortable with the car, and then we’ll move over.”

  Emma opened her mouth as if she intended to argue, then glanced in her mirrors and sighed. “Okay. You’re right. I have time. I have space. I can do this.”

  Brogan smiled. “I know you can.”

  Emma’s breath shuddered as she exhaled slowly, and her knuckles went white on the steering wheel, but then she released her right hand, reached down and grabbed the door handle as if she intended to shift with it. She clutched it tightly, her eyes wide, and then her body went slack as the car sputtered to silence.

  “Oh my God,” Emma said, closing her eyes. “I tried to shift with my door.”

  “It’s okay,” Brogan whispered.

  “I tried to shift with my door,” Emma repeated, louder, “with my right hand, because my door is on my right-hand side, and the stick shift is on the left-hand side. I’ve never shifted with my left hand in my life.”

  Emma’s panic started to pick at Brogan’s, and she fought to keep her voice steady. She did not want Emma to melt down. Even more, she didn’t want to be the cause of her meltdown. She didn’t think she could live with herself if she ended up making Emma feel worse than she already did. Fighting to keep her own voice level, she said, “It’s the same concept, only the hand has changed. The gears are in the same spot. The mechanics work the same way, just with your left hand.”

  “But I’m right-handed.”

  “So am I,” Brogan assured her. “Come on.”

  “I killed the car.”

  “Come on.” Brogan pleaded with her now. “You knew you’d make mistakes. Everyone does. It doesn’t define you. It doesn’t mean you won’t get better.”

  Emma’s eyes shimmered again. “You really believe I can do this, don’t you?”

  “It’s never occurred to me that you can’t,” Brogan said, honestly. “The only question is whether or not you will.”

  Emma nodded. “I will.”

  Air and lightness exploded in Brogan’s chest, and she smiled broadly. “Of course you will. Go ahead and put the clutch in again.”

  Emma did as instructed and turned the key, bringing the motor to life once more.

  “When you’re ready, use your left hand to find the gear shift, and put it in first gear, keeping your foot on the brake.”

  Emma nodded as she dropped her left hand onto the stick. “Left hand, everything else is the same.”

  “Ease up on the clutch and give it some revs.”

  And she did. Within seconds they were rolling slowly along the right side of the road.

  Brogan fought the urge to cheer, but she couldn’t resist a little fist pump at her side, and she said, “Good. Well done. You’re doing it.”

  “Not really,” Emma said. “I’m still on the right side in first gear.”

  “No worries. One step at a time. Which of those things do you want to address first?”

  “Um”— the car gave a little stutter— “first gear.”

  “Good choice,” Brogan said, even though neither one of them would’ve been a bad choice. “Ease in the clutch, and use your left hand to pull down into second.”

  Emma executed both those moves but didn’t accelerate enough, and the car immediately began to sputter.

  “More revs,” Brogan said calmly, then quickly repeated, “more revs, now.”

  At the last second Emma pushed down the accelerator, and they lurched forward into the middle of the road.

  “Great,” Brogan said with forced cheerfulness as she dug her nails into the side of the seat Emma couldn’t see. “You did it. And you moved over. Two birds, one stone.”

  Emma shook her head. “I almost killed it again.”

  “But you didn’t. You’re driving!”

  Emma let the words sink in as her eyes darted quickly around before returning to dead forward. “I’m driving.”

  “In England, in a stick shift, and on the left side, sort of.”

  Emma’s mouth curled up slightly, and with the smallest motion she eased them barely onto the left half of the road.

  “How does that feel?” Brogan asked.

  “Weird.”

  “But not terrible?”

  Emma thought for a moment, as if double-checking to make sure she wasn’t about to pass out or cry. “Not terrible.”
/>
  “Want to take it up to third?”

  “Isn’t that pushing it?” Emma asked, then shook her head. “Actually, I don’t know why I said that. I do want to take it up to third.”

  “Left hand,” Brogan reminded gently. “You got this.”

  And she did. This time the car didn’t so much as whine when she made the transition. Brogan silently thanked whatever saint guarded manual transmissions. “Perfect, you’re doing everything right now.”

  “What about when we have to turn?”

  “We’ve got a good three miles before we have to worry,” Brogan said, certain her own relief was evident. “Let’s bask in this accomplishment for a moment.”

  And they did. Neither of them spoke as the Northland countryside rolled by in gentle swells and verdant valleys dotted with white sheep. As long as they were going straight and slow, Brogan could almost convince herself they were out for a scenic drive. Still, as the next turn crept ever closer, she knew that wasn’t the case. Emma had another challenge ahead, and Brogan wasn’t naive enough to think she’d fly through it. Her own palms pricked with sweat at the prospect, so she could only imagine how Emma felt. She wished she could take the trouble for her, and she certainly could take the keys back to save her the frustration, but that would defeat the purpose, so she bit her lip as a stop sign came into view.

  “Oh no,” Emma muttered. “Left side, left side, left side.”

  To her credit, she heeded her own warning as she decelerated to a stop; only in her worries about lanes and the brake, she’d completely forgotten the clutch, and the engine shook, then clunked to a dead stop several meters shy of the actual crossing.

  Emma groaned. “I killed it again.”

  “Yup,” Brogan said cheerfully. “I’m not bothered. No one else saw. Fire her up again, and we’re all good.”

  “Then I have to turn.”

  Brogan exaggerated her movements as she looked right, left, and right again. “I don’t see anyone coming.”

  Emma took the hint and revved the car again. Staying in first gear, she eased slowly into the intersection.

  Brogan opened her mouth to remind her to stay left, but the words never had to leave her lips. Emma executed the turn perfectly and then without encouragement quickly shifted into second gear.