Mary Margaret returned. Mrs. Chester looked at her a moment, getting some message from the expression on her face, and then she nodded toward the dining room.
“Set the breakfast table,” she commanded.
I didn’t think Great-aunt Leonora would get up this early in the morning, but from the way she rattled on cataloguing a stream of responsibilities after she came down for breakfast, I realized she was just as busy with her charities and social organizations as her husband was with his law firm. She was very well put together, too, with her hair brushed, combed and sprayed. She wore a light-blue cotton suit with a silk blouse.
My great-uncle had his nose in the London Times during breakfast, coming up for air only to make a comment about something he had just read. I noticed my Great-aunt Leonora simply smiled after everything he said and either muttered a long “Oooh” or just nodded. Finally, he folded his paper and turned to me as I was helping Mary Margaret clear the table.
“Do you know how to get yourself to the drama school?” he asked.
I glanced nervously at Great-aunt Leonora. Should I tell the truth?
“Of course she doesn’t, dear,” she replied for me.
“I suspected so. I can’t spare Boggs this morning. You’ll have to navigate for yourself,” he declared.
I wasn’t very disappointed about that.
He slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket and produced a small pad. “Pay attention,” he ordered and I stepped closer to the table. Mary Margaret glanced at me and hurried into the kitchen as if what he was about to say was prohibited from entering her ears.
“Though London was for more than a century the most populous city on earth, it was also always a collection of villages,” he began. “Each village used to have a unique quality unto itself and some still do.”
When he spoke, he didn’t look directly at me. He talked down at the table as if he was a professor in a classroom starting a lesson.
“For example,” he continued, “the government is focused around Whitehall, with power derived from parliament in Westminster, incomplete without the Queen of course, whose royal and public life is still centered round St. James’s Park.”
He looked up at me.
“You understand so far?”
“Yes,” I said even though I didn’t know what this had to do with describing how to get to the school. Was it a requirement to know English history before you could travel through the city?
“Good. The best way for you to get around is to take the Underground system. We call it the tube. All the stations are clearly marked with this symbol,” he said, drawing, “the circular London Transport symbol. You’d best buy a monthly travel card.”
“Oh, I have to change my money into pounds,” I said in a small panic.
He looked up at Great-aunt Lenora sharply.
“That hasn’t been done yet, Leonora?”
“Of course not, dear. She just arrived yesterday.”
“Well, why didn’t you take her directly to our bank and have it done?”
“I just thought settling her in, having Boggs explain her duties was more important. There wasn’t time.” She shook her head.
“I have to be in charge of every little thing these days,” he muttered.
He reached into his inside pocket again, produced a wallet, and extracted a bill.
“This is a tenner,” he said holding it up and waving it in front of me, “a ten-pound note. You know the difference between English and American money?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good. This will do you for today, but you’ll have to see to your needs immediately. London is divided into a number of zones. A travel card must be valid for all the zones through which you wish to travel. The cost of the ticket depends on the number of zones you want to travel though, understand?”
He was speaking too fast and it didn’t make sense to me.
“You can’t just buy one ticket?”
“Yes, of course, but it will depend on where you want to go?”
“But I don’t know that yet,” I moaned.
He shook his head.
“This isn’t difficult. Children manage it on their own.”
“Well, it’s not this way in the States,” I protested.
“The states,” he muttered, “don’t have half as good a system of public transport as we do. You’ll see that for yourself in short order. When you get to the station today, the clerk will help you. Here,” he said, jotting on his notepad, “is your itinerary.
“After you get to the station, you’ll go to Notting Hill Gate and change to the Circle Line which will take you to Sloane Square, where your school is located. It’s near the Royal Court Theatre. It shouldn’t be very difficult, even for an American, I imagine.”
He handed me the slip of paper and the ten-pound note.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’ll go out front, make a right turn and go two streets west to the station.”
“Isn’t this exciting for you?” Great-aunt Leonora cried clapping her hands together.
“I’ll let you know when I come back,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my great-uncle’s eyes brighten with a smile.
“It’s nowhere near as hard as it sounds now,” he said, “and unlike people in the states, people here will be friendly and helpful. Still, mind whom you stop to speak with and don’t take any side trips for a while,” he advised. He folded his paper and rose, gazing down the table at Great-aunt Leonora as if she was at the other side of a long tunnel. “See to this money problem as soon as possible, Leonora.”
“I shall, dear,” she said.
“Well, have a good day,” he added and left.
I told my Great-aunt Leonora about the certified bank check I had and she told me she would take care of it all personally.
“Now that Richard has turned it into a royal crisis,” she added.
I helped Mary Margaret finish clearing the table. Then we had our breakfast and I went back to my hole in the wall to fix my hair and put on a little lipstick. Before I left I gave Great-aunt Leonora the check Grandmother Hudson had given me. She gazed at it, her eyes widening and her eyebrows lifting.
“This is a lot of spending money to give someone,” she commented. “I never knew my sister to be so generous. I’m sure Victoria knows nothing about it,” she added thoughtfully. Then she shook her head as if she was shaking off a bad thought and smiled. “Not to say you won’t be needing it. London is an expensive place. I’ll see to it that you start with a few hundred pounds. Have a good day, dear,” she added.
With my heart bonging like that grandfather’s clock in the drawing room, I left the house and began my journey to my new school.
My first mistake happened only a block from Endfield House. I was concentrating on all the things Great-uncle Richard had told me and I stepped off the curb, forgetting that the English drive their cars on the opposite side. When I looked to my left, I thought I was safe. Next thing I heard was a squeal of brakes and the sight of an enraged driver. I jumped back to the sidewalk, my heart pounding.
“Mind the traffic light,” the driver screamed with wild eyes stretched into his temples as he drove past.
I closed my eyes, sucked in my breath and started across the street when it was safe. The sky was still quite gray and I noticed that just about every pedestrian was carrying an umbrella. I didn’t have one and no one at the house had offered one to me before I left. The first drops began just before I reached the station. I couldn’t run across the street because of the traffic, so I had to wait even though I was getting drenched. Finally, I charged into the station and shook myself. My blouse was soaked. What a horrible beginning.
People pushed by me, rushing to and fro. I didn’t think it looked all that much different from the subway stations in the States. There was even someone playing a saxophone in front of a can set out for coins. The station clerk was helpful, however, and moments later, I was waiting alongside
everyone else for my train. I heard an announcement every minute or so telling everyone to “Mind the gap.” I couldn’t imagine what that meant until the train pulled up and I saw there was a gap between it and the platform.
“Mind the gap,” I muttered to myself with a laugh and got aboard my first subway train in London. I studied the map and watched for the stations Great-uncle Richard had written out for me. Not long after, I emerged and found myself searching for the school in a slow, steady drizzle. I panicked, thinking I had gone the wrong way, and stopped to catch my breath in a storefront. My damp clothes were sticking to my body. What an embarrassing way to present myself the first day, I thought, and wondered if I shouldn’t just turn around and go back to Endfield Place.
“You all right, sweetie?” a small, elderly lady asked as she stepped out of the shop.
I guess embracing myself and squeezing myself against the wall made me look peculiar.
“No. I can’t find where I have to go,” I said.
“And where would that be, sweetie?”
She looked up at me and blinked her eyes. Her face was almost painted, she had so much makeup on.
“Here,” I said thrusting the address in front of her. She glanced at it and looked up.
“Oh, you’re not far, sweetie. Just go left here until you come to the Plowman’s Pub and it’s right around the corner. Matter of fact,” she said opening her umbrella, “I’m headin’ to visit a friend who lives nearby. Always have my cup of tea with her about now,” she said. “Later, when the pub opens, we go down and have a shandy. Come on, now,” she beckoned and I knelt to step under her umbrella. We had to make some funny sight walking down that sidewalk, I thought.
“What’s a shandy?” I asked her.
“A shandy? Oh, just half beer and half lemonade. Ain’t you never had a shandy?”
“No,” I said laughing.
“My first husband and me, we would spend every afternoon together at the Plowman for the last five years. He passed on six months ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yeah, it don’t pay to get old, sweetie. You stay young and keep dry now,” she called as she turned into the doorway of a building next to the pub.
I hurried around the corner until I found the address. It looked more like a small office building than a school, but the name was written on the double glass doors. I entered just as two girls in black tights came bouncing down the stairs on my right, giggling loudly. They looked like sisters. They both had very dark brown hair but one girl’s was cut short at the nape of her neck and the other’s was longer and seemed unbrushed, but in a way very attractive. Both had pretty faces. Their complexions were almost as dark as mine.
“Bonjour,” the short-haired one said. “Can we help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Mr. MacWaine.” I wiped my hair with the palms of my hands.
“Ah, yes, Monsieur MacWaine is in his office, no, Leslie?” she asked the other girl.
“Mais oui. You come to be a student?” she asked me.
“Yes.”
“You are the girl from America?”
“Yes,” I said laughing to myself. The girl from America, I thought.
“Très bien. I am Catherine and this is my sister Leslie. Welcome,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Are you living in the dormitory, too?” Catherine asked.
“No. I’m staying with the sister of a friend. Actually, I’m working for room and board, helping with the housework, the meals.”
“An au pair,” they both declared with laughter.
“Yes.”
“Très bien,” Leslie said. “You want to be what, a singer, a dancer, an actress?”
“I’m supposed to study acting, yes. Are you dancers?”
“Today we are,” Catherine said. “Tomorrow we are singers.”
They laughed again, first turning to each other and then giggling. Both had button noses, small mouths and pretty smiles.
“We are from Paris,” Catherine said, extending her hand.
“My name is Rain Arnold. I’m from Virginia.”
“Enchanté,” Leslie said. “You speak any French?” I shook my head.
“Well, you will learn something from every language and perhaps speak French by the time you go back to America, eh?” Catherine said. She looked at Leslie for confirmation, but Leslie just shrugged.
“Maybe, maybe not. Monsieur MacWaine’s office is just through here,” she said pointing at a door. “He’s busy figuring his numbers.”
“Numbers?”
“Monies, dollars, franks, pounds, lire, yen,” Catherine rattled off. “He’s Monsieur Moneybags, eh?”
“Oui. He will make you a star, chérie,” Leslie said. “For a price.”
They laughed again.
“You see all these stars?” her sister declared, gesturing toward the framed photographs on the walls. “How do you say. . .graduate. . .graduates from here? Someday maybe your picture will hang here, too?”
I nodded. The wall of fame looked impressive.
“We are off to electrocution lessons. We see you later, perhaps, yes?” Catherine said.
“Electrocution?”
“Oui. Where you learn how to speak perfect.”
“Oh, you mean elocution lessons.”
“Mais oui. See you later.”
“I guess,” I said as they turned and went through the door on my right.
They had come and gone in a whirlwind of energy and laughter. I found the door to Mr. MacWaine’s small office open. He was on the telephone. The moment he saw me, he ended his conversation and beckoned for me to come in as he rose and came around his desk. There were pictures of former students on the walls in here as well and pictures of what looked to be dramatic productions. On one wall were posters from musicals and plays.
“Rain, how delightful to see you. Was your trip all right? Are you settled in with Mrs. Hudson’s sister?”
“Yes,” I said to both questions.
“Please, have a seat. All of your paperwork was completed long before today,” he explained as he sat back down behind his desk. “I’ll take you for a tour of the school and you can start with your drama-speech class. It’s scheduled to begin in a little less than a half hour. So, tell me, have you had a chance to see anything of London yet?”
“No sir. I only arrived yesterday and went right to work at the Endfields’ and then came directly here this morning.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for sightseeing. Don’t worry about that, and it’s part of our curriculum for you to attend theater on the West End. I promise you. This will be a most rewarding experience in every way. I’m so happy for you. Well, let’s not waste any time,” he said, jumping up again. “Let me show you around.”
I rose and followed him out of the office.
“Presently for the summer session, we have only forty students. They are here at different times doing different things, so at any one time you may be with only a dozen or so students. We pride ourselves on our individualized attention.”
As we walked deeper into the building, I began to hear a beautiful male singing voice. He was singing something in Italian. Mr. MacWaine saw the interest in my face.
“That’s Randall Glenn,” he told me. “A real discovery. He’s from Toronto, Canada.”
We paused at a door that had a large window in it and looked into the room. I saw a nicely built boy about six feet one or two with thick chestnut brown hair framing a handsome face. His eyes were such a vivid cerulean blue that I could see them brighten as he reached high notes, turning his body slowly in our direction.
A short, plump, charcoal gray—haired man accompanied on the piano. His fingers were so thick they looked glued together, webbed like the hand of some amphibious creature. When he turned toward Randall Glenn, I saw his face was round with thick, soft features.
“No, no, no,” he cried, lifting his hands from the piano keys. “Too much in the thro
at. Sing from here, from down here,” he cried patting his own diaphragm. Randall lowered his head and closed his eyes as if he had just been whipped.
“That’s Professor Wilheim from Vienna. He is a tough taskmaster, but he has turned sand into pearls. If he believes in you, you will quickly learn to believe in yourself.”
I watched as Randall Glenn looked up and began again. His voice carried with such resonance, I couldn’t imagine anyone complaining. His eyes which were directed toward the ceiling lowered until they met mine. Seeing me staring at him must have broken his concentration, far Professor Wilheim slammed his hands down on the piano keys. The professor paused to calm himself down, then he looked at Randall and saw where his eyes were, and he spun on his piano stool. Mr. MacWaine lifted his hand and then turned to me.
“Let’s move on. The professor hates the slightest interruptions,” he added.
He showed me a small cafeteria off a tiny kitchen. There was a cork bulletin board with all sorts of notes, advertising the sale of things, including show tickets.
“The students make their own lunches here. We keep a variety of meats and cheese, yogurt and other things in the refrigerators. There’s a microwave and a cooker to prepare soups and tea, if you like. After a while you’ll see that we’re all a little family.”
The next two rooms were classrooms with blackboards. In one a half dozen students were reading and studying The Taming of the Shrew. A tall, thin, light brown—haired woman of about thirty walked about the room with her eyes closed, listening to the recitation. Every once in a while, she would stop the reader and ask him or her to interpret what he had read, how it should be acted and what the reactions of the other performers on the stage at that time should be.
“Every student,” Mr. MacWaine whispered, “becomes something of a director as well as an actor. Here we believe the two are intertwined. That’s Mrs. Winecoup who also teaches the drama-speech class you will be entering in about fifteen minutes.” He made it sound like the countdown to a rocket launching. I felt the butterflies circling my heart.
We followed the hallway to another stairway which brought us to the dance studio on the second landing. Mr. MacWaine explained how they had knocked down walls to create it. A tall, muscular black boy was going through ballet exercises. We watched him for a while.
Lightning Strikes Page 6
