Lightning Strikes

by Virginia Andrews

  I stared into those blue eyes, eyes as pure and as innocent as a summer’s sky.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to jump on what you said back there. I had a very strange and difficult morning and I guess I’m feeling a little homesick, too.”

  “Funny, isn’t it?” he said, nodding, “that no matter how hard or unpleasant we think our home lives are when we’re there, we miss it when we’re far away.”

  “That’s because we’re among strangers in a strange place,” I said.

  He nodded and then brightened.

  “Well, let’s keep going and make it less strange. That’s what we set out to do today, wasn’t it?”

  He dug into his pocket again and produced the tourist brochure.

  “Buckingham Palace.” He read to himself a moment and then looked at his watch and jumped up, grabbing my hand. “Come on,” he cried, pulling me off the bench so hard I nearly fell forward on my face.

  “Why? Where?”

  I had to run along with him over the grass toward Knightsbridge Road.

  “We need to catch a cab.”

  “Why?” I cried.

  “If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the changing of the guard!”

  We shot onto the road and as luck would have it, there was a cab just coming.

  “Buckingham Palace as quickly as you can,” he told the driver as we got into the cab.

  “All right, guv,” the driver said, smiling.

  Randall read as I caught my breath.

  “Buckingham Palace is the sovereign’s London home, named for the Duke of Buckingham and Chandos, who erected it in the eighteenth century, selling it to George III in 1761.

  “Just think,” Randall said lowering the brochure, “it was built and sold before the United States even existed.”

  I don’t know whether it was simply being with Randall and feeling his excitement or whether it was because I was in a new place, a whole new world, but suddenly all the darkness was washed away and the light of new discoveries filled me with a renewed desire to rise above my past and revive my ambition to find myself and my true identity. Even here, even so far away from everything and everyone I’d ever known.

  Watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and then touring the Royal Mews and the Queen’s Gallery was interesting, but took a great deal longer than Randall had anticipated. Even so, we took another taxi to Trafalgar Square. It was jammed with people. I didn’t know where to turn first. After we had walked by the fountains and then had taken in the scenic view along Whitehall to Big Ben and Parliament, Randall wanted us to retrace our steps and go into the National Gallery.

  “I’ve been here twice with my mother,” he said, “but you can never see it all. Come on.”

  I felt like I was in a race with time, trying to get everything in before some clock boomed and turned me back into poor Cinderella on her return to the hovel she lived in someplace in America. Randall was behaving as if he thought I would suddenly stop and say, “I don’t want to see or do another thing with you.” His object was to keep me moving, keep my eyes and ears full of sights and sounds and full of the history he was reading and showing me.

  “The National Gallery hosts one of the world’s best collections of Old Masters, but it is very strong on the French Impressionists as well,” he explained. “Do you know a lot about painting?”

  “No,” I confessed.

  “Then you should spend a lot of time here. You can educate yourself quickly. The range is from the thirteenth century through the nineteenth.” He rattled off the names of the famous painters and scooted me about to show me as many examples of their works as possible. Finally, I had to stop and sit on a bench, pleading not only exhaustion in my body, but exhaustion in my mind.

  “It’s no good this way, Randall. Many small bites aren’t as good as slow, big bites. I’m not absorbing it. We’ll come back. I promise.”

  He laughed.

  “Okay. Okay. Let’s just go for a walk back again toward Big Ben and enjoy the beautiful fall day,” he suggested. “I promise, I won’t rush you. We’ll take little steps.”

  We left the museum.

  “When I’m walking around in my own country or in places I’m used to,” I said as we crossed the square, “my eyes can fall asleep, even while they’re open, but here or someplace as new as this, I can’t see enough. It tires me out, Randall.”

  “Oh, I know. I just get a little too enthusiastic sometimes. Sorry,” he said.

  “I don’t blame you. I suppose if our roles were switched and I had been here before and wanted to show it to someone who hadn’t, I’d act the same way.”

  When we crossed a street, he took my hand and we didn’t let go of each other for a long time as we walked up to Big Ben. Afterward, we crossed another street and just wandered down a smaller, narrower road until we saw a pub called the Hearty Sailor.

  Randall checked his watch.

  “Well, what do you know. It’s time for tea,” he said. “Would m’lady like a bit of shepherd’s pie and a pint of stout?”

  “Stout? You mean beer?”

  “Well, you have to be eighteen to be served here,” he said, “and I won’t be for three months.”

  “I’m already eighteen,” I said.

  “Really? Great. Come on.”

  Above the door of the pub was a colorful metal sign with a robust-looking sailor holding a mug of beer. Randall caught the direction of my gaze.

  “All British pubs have a painted sign on the outside because most people couldn’t read until the beginning of this century, so when their mates said, ’Meet me at the Hearty Sailor,’ they’d just look for the picture.”

  “How do you know so much about this city?” I asked him.

  “I just spent my time reading about it when I knew I would be living here and going to school here,” he replied.

  “For me it all happened so fast, I barely had time to learn the difference between a pound and a dollar,” I said.

  “No harm done,” he said opening the door. “You have me, the perfect guide and translator, and I come cheap.”

  I laughed at his happy smile and we entered the pub. It was somewhat darker inside than I anticipated, but somehow I felt a warm and cozy feeling the moment we entered. The people who were inside gazed at us with interest, but no resentment like people often did when I walked into a new place back home. They made me feel I had intruded on private property and that where I was did not welcome strangers.

  “Here’s a couple a real customers, Charlie,” someone cried and everyone laughed, even the man behind the bar. A short, dark-haired woman with deep brown round eyes and a face like a marble cherub appeared with a plate of food in her hands. She placed it on the bar in front of an elderly man dressed in a suit and tie.

  “Can I help you?” the bartender asked Randall. He looked up at the menu written in Gothic style on a board above the bar.

  “Want to try the shepherd’s pie?” he asked me.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “We’ll have two shepherd’s pies and two shandies,” he said and produced two ten-pound notes.

  We heard people chuckling.

  “Ya old enough for an ale, are ya?”

  I handed him my student identification card. He glanced at it and nodded and looked at Randall.

  “Forgot mine,” Randall said.

  “He looks old enough to me, Charlie,” cried a tall, thin man with an Adam’s apple so prominent, I thought it would bust out and roll over the counter.

  “Never you mind, Mush,” the bartender said and everyone laughed again.

  “I can only give ’er one,” he said.

  Randall nodded.

  “Just a lemonade then,” he said.

  He gave Randall his change and he and I sat at an empty table. I gazed around at all the signs on the walls, the old posters, farm implements, swords and helmets, everything looking like it belonged in some museum. The bartender put Randall’s lemonade and
my shandy on the counter and Randall fetched them.

  Everyone returned to their conversations as if we weren’t there.

  “This is fun, huh?” Randall asked.

  “Yes. Everyone seems. . . friendly.”

  “Most of the pubs are owned by one or the other of the major breweries. Ones that are privately owned are called freehouses. This one’s a freehouse and they usually have a bigger selection of ale. Too bad I can’t get served, too,” he said in a lower voice. “Go on. Drink yours. The beer here is different from America. They serve it room temperature instead of cold.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It’s supposed to taste better,” he explained.

  I sat back and studied him a moment.

  “Why are you smiling at me like that?” he asked.

  “For someone who supposedly didn’t get around much, who was locked away in music suites, you sure seem. . . sophisticated.”

  “I told you. It’s all from reading. I’ve always been a big reader. I’d have a book with me whenever I went to my lessons because sometimes I had to wait for the teacher to finish with someone else, and, when you don’t socialize a lot, you get used to spending your free time with a book,” he said, shrugging as if it was the most obvious thing.

  He was quiet for a moment and then leaned forward.

  “What about you? Do you spend your free time with books? Or do you have a boyfriend waiting for you back home?”

  “No, no boyfriend.”

  “Did you have lots of boyfriends? You asked me so I can ask you,” he followed quickly. It made me laugh.

  “Not really, no,” I said. “I was too busy helping Mama at home. She was so tired all the time.”

  “So we both have a lot of catching up to do,” he said.

  “Oh, we do? I don’t know, Randall Glenn. Sometimes, you sound more experienced than you claim you are.”

  “What?” He looked sincerely confused and turned so crimson, I thought he might burst. Maybe he wasn’t coming on to me as strongly as I thought he was. It was difficult to believe a boy who looked like he did was so innocent after all.

  I sipped my ale and shrugged.

  When our shepherd’s pies were ready, the dark-haired lady brought them to our table and asked us if we wanted anything else. They were so hot we had to wait for them to cool, but they were delicious.

  Suddenly, at the other end of the pub, two men who looked about forty started to sing.

  “Fill up the cider cup,

  Have another round.

  Of all the drinks in England,

  No better can be found.”

  “I know that one, too,” Randall declared, and as if his voice was something that had a life of its own and would emerge whenever it liked, he began to sing along. Being trained, he just normally projected and in moments, everyone in the pub was looking at us. I felt like crawling under the table.

  But, to my surprise, no one resented his intrusion. More of the customers began to sing along and in moments, the whole place resounded with the tune. When it ended, they all applauded.

  “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 ’im.”

  “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 all-around 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 back 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 th
e 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.