“They are awful, aren’t they? I got mine for Christmas from my daughter-in-law, so she can keep me on a lead, like a dog. She thinks I’m going a bit senile, I suppose. Still, it’s a lovely thing to have if you’re feeling lonely. You can call up a friend for a little talk whenever you like.”
“That was her calling you just now, then?” I said.
“Yes, love. She likes to ring every few hours, especially when I go up to London, and she does fuss, you know, if I don’t answer it.”
“That must be very annoying.”
“Well it is, rather, but I don’t say so. It was a present, so it’s rude not to like it.” I remembered my father and mother, watching me open birthday presents at the breakfast table one morning when I was quite small. A box of Marks and Spencer underwear had been one of the gifts, and it had confused me, because it wasn’t something calculated to please me, as real birthday presents should be. “Oh, good, you needed some of those, and you can’t get them in Kuskawa,” my mother had said.
“Best undies ever made, Marks and Sparks,” my father had added. It had been a present from somebody my parents knew in Toronto, whom I’d met once at a church thing. I learned then that even when you get what you don’t want as a present, it’s rude not to be grateful.
“I know what you mean,” I said to the lady next to me in the train. She was in her late sixties or early seventies, I think, apple-cheeked and ample, with a complicated accent and an extremely thick pair of glasses, through which she peered at me, squinting as she did so.
“You’re from America then, are you?”
“Canada,” I said quickly.
“Oh, I know someone in Canada,” she said, delighted. “Donna-Lou Dermott. She has an egg-farm in the country. Do you know her?” I almost swallowed my tongue.
I knew that everybody in the world says this at some point to a hapless traveller: “Do you know my cousin Fred who lives in [insert home country here]?” But the chance of actually knowing the person referred to? What sort of odds exist for that? I wondered if it might be a good idea to buy a British lottery ticket on the strength of it, or maybe to suggest that my seatmate should. I lied, of course, not wanting to get into a conversation about the egg-queen of Cedar Falls. I was supposed to be getting away from it all. “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.
“Oh, well, I suppose it’s an awfully big country,” she said. “Silly question, really.” We sat in silence for a bit, and I hauled my backpack out from under my seat to scrabble in a front pocket for some gum.
Although my bodily system had rejected the notion of nicotine seven months previously, I still battled the behavioural legacy of the stuff, and still sniffed eagerly if I caught a whiff of burning tobacco leaves nearby. Smoking on the train was forbidden, but the scent had wafted in behind those who had sucked on cigarettes somewhere else until the last possible moment. I wanted a cigarette very badly just then, but spearmint gum would have to do. I offered the pack to my companion.
“Oh, thanks, love,” she said. “You know, I haven’t had a piece of chewing gum for years.” She took a stick and unwrapped it carefully, as if it were a chocolate bar. “Lovely,” she said. “I’m Maude, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’m Polly.”
“You wouldn’t be going to that rally in Canterbury, would you?” she said.
Rally? Is that what they call a conference over here? Like mobiles, baguettes, bins and takeaway, another term to file away. I nodded vaguely, and found myself beginning to drift off. It was by then about noon, or seven a.m. by Canadian time, and I had not slept much on the plane. I mumbled an apology to Maude, who seemed geared up to chat on and on for the entire journey. She smiled gently at me in a grandmotherly kind of way.
“Oh, that’s all right, love. I’ve got my knitting.” She produced some wool and needles from a bag at her side and placed them ready in her lap. I closed my eyes and went into a half-doze, then heard her rustle in the bag again. A pause. A beeple or two.
“Elsie?” she said, quite softly, which was kind of her. “Yes, dear, it’s me. I’m on the trine.”
Maude poked me awake at the stop before Canterbury, which was Sittingbourne. Outside, it was pelting with rain, the countryside grey and brown, like an old photograph. It was probably stunningly beautiful in the summertime, but right then, it was depressing. What was I doing in England in February? I had to be insane.
“I don’t like to wake you, love, but it’s our stop next. I live in Canterbury myself, you know. The conductor wouldn’t have let you sleep through, but they do rather wait until the last minute, and it’s nice to have time to gather your belongings. I have your box-thing down here. A man took it off the luggage rack for you already.”
I was instantly wide awake. “My box thing? A man?”
“Yes, that case of yours with ‘Fragile’ on it. He was sitting a little further down the carriage. He walked up the aisle just before the stop and was taking it down, quite as if it were his. I was just finishing a row, and I looked up and said how kind of him, saving you the trouble of stretching up to get it yourself. I saw you put it up there, you see. He gave me ever such a funny look, I can tell you. Mind you, my knitting needle was pointing right at his tummy, so perhaps it was that. He got off the train very quickly, anyway.”
“Did he open it or anything?”
“Heavens sakes, no. He just got it down, that’s all, and I tucked it under my seat, out of the way.”
“What did this man look like?”
“Well, that’s a bit difficult, dear, because I don’t see very well. Sort of big, with a cap on, and he smelled like a fishmonger, poor man. You can never get it off your hands, can you?”
“What would he have done with it if you hadn’t said anything?”
“Well, I was rather wondering that myself, you see, which is why I spoke. It was marked ‘fragile’, wasn’t it? You can’t be too careful with other people’s things, to my mind. He did put it down quite quickly. I hope he didn’t break anything.”
“Well, thanks for that,” I said. “My poor luggage seems to be attracting a lot of attention. I’ll be glad to get where I’m going and be rid of it.” I felt a return of the prickle at the back of my neck. Attempted theft, four times. First Pearson, then Gatwick, then the train station, now on the train. Okay, I was willing to believe in coincidence up to a point—after all, Maude knew Donna-Lou Dermott, but there must be a point at which recurring incidents begin to display a pattern. I decided then that in spite of my reluctance to use Susan’s email address thing, I’d have to knuckle under after all. I’d write to Earlie about it, and he would tell me not to be so paranoid, and that would be that. I’d feel better.
We were coming into the station, and the usual flurry of preparation began, people standing and putting on coats and gathering parcels and papers.
“It was lovely meeting you, Polly,” Maude said. “Elsie will be there to fetch me, I expect, so I’ll toddle. Have a lovely time at the rally, and perhaps I’ll see you. Canterbury’s a small city, you know.”
“Nice to meet you, too, and thanks again for guarding my stuff,” I said. She performed a beautiful hockey deke between two guys in suits and was off, trundling along the platform like a motivated porcupine.
It was absolutely pelting with rain. I had imagined coming in to Canterbury and being bewitched by the sight of the spires of the Cathedral, towering over the ancient city. I wanted to see the little bulgy houses overhanging the streets and sense the history, but I could hardly see a thing. There was a taxi stand outside, but only one taxi in sight. I confess I played up my pregnancy and heavy baggage a bit as I came out onto the street side of the station. I heaved a big sigh, and my performance was rewarded instantly by the woman who had just flagged it. She gallantly offered the cab to me instead.
“That’s awfully kind of you,” I said. “We might be going in the same direction—would you like to share?” The driver was out in a flash and stowing my lugg
age in the trunk. (Which, Brent had informed me a tad patronizingly during a lexicography lesson at the farewell party, is called a boot in England. I knew that.)
“Where are you going?” she said.
“The Pilgrim’s Rest,” I said. “It’s a B&B, I think.”
“Oh, yes—that’s right in the old city—just off St. Peter’s Street near the West Gate. I live not far from there, so yes, thanks. We’ll go down together.”
“Are you here to see the Cathedral?” she said as the taxi pulled away from the curb.
“Not really,” I said, “although I’ll have to go check it out. I’m here for a conference. Or a rally, I guess you’d call it.”
“There seem to be a lot of special things going on here at the moment,” the woman said. She was very elegantly dressed in the kind of tweedy outfit you’d see worn by Lady-so-and-so on Masterpiece Theatre. Her hair was expensively cut, and her coat had probably cost more than my plane ticket. “One can hardly keep track of it,” she went on. “I know there’s something rather controversial going on at one of the local churches, and of course there’s the Lenten Choir Festival at the Cathedral, as well as term time at Kent University. Which one are you at?”
“Actually, it’s a puppetry conference,” I said.
“Oh, yes, I remember seeing a notice about that in the newspaper,” she said. “Well, I hope they’ll give you a chance to see the sights. It’s an ancient city, with a very interesting history. And be sure to visit the Roman museum and so forth.”
“I’ll try,” I said. Whether or not the conference schedule allowed tourist time, I had every intention of sneaking out to go soak up some history. I love old stuff, and you don’t get much of it in Kuskawa, Ontario.
I felt a pleasant twiggle of excitement as the cab made its way slowly along a practically deserted, narrow street. Through the rain and mist, I could see the fronts of buildings all post-and-beamed, with mullioned windows. It was mysterious and secret—and I could well imagine the streets crowded with pilgrims and medieval personages, huddled in doorways out of the wet. This was a city of ghosts, I decided, and I was looking forward to meeting some.
The cab pulled up outside a mind-blowingly picturesque building on a small side street.
“Pilgrim’s Rest,” the cabbie said and hopped out into the rain to release by baggage from the back. I dug into my pockets for some pound coins, but my new friend insisted that it was her treat.
“It’s a tax write-off anyway,” she said.
“Well, thank you very kindly,” I said—an expression I’d never used before in my life, but which popped out by itself. Quaint, it was. She gave a little quirky smile and said not to mention it.
In the space of time it took me to get from the back of the cab to the door of the B&B, I was soaked as thoroughly as if I had been dumped in the Stour River. I rang the doorbell, and there was rather a long wait, at least it seemed long. I was glad of the way the building was constructed—the upper storey loomed out over the street so that I was sheltered from the worst of the rain, but there was still cold water dripping down the back of my neck, and my hair was drenched. The door was massive, dark black wood, thick planks of it, with hinges the size of dinner plates and a great latch like the handle on a vault. There was a brass door knocker, too, which reminded me of the Boz illustration of the Marley knocker in Dickens’ Christmas Carol. It was a friar’s face, I thought, cowled and imposing, large and heavy, with a beaky nose and angry eyes. I contemplated rapping with the knocker as well, but didn’t, as it was obviously centuries old, and if I broke it, I’d be in deep doo. Finally, the door opened with an atmospheric creak, and I was greeted by an impossibly tall and cadaverous figure whose face, with the light behind him, was in shadow.
“Ah, a pilgrim, and a wet one,” the man said. “We’ve been expecting you. Come in and get warm, my dear.” Gratefully, I did as I was told.
Twelve
You can still enjoy your favourite caffeinated drinks as long as you don’t overdo it. Abundant research suggests that moderate amounts of caffeine won’t harm mother or baby during pregnancy. Researchers define moderate as 300 to 400 milligrams (mgs) of caffeine, about what you’d get in three to four cups of coffee.
-From Big Bertha’s Total Baby Guide
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: hi
Date: Wednesday, February 13
Hi, Becker. Just to let you know I’m here and OK. Hope all’s well with you.
Love,
P.
The note to Becker had taken me longer to compose than you’d expect. Oh, I tried to give him more details, but every time I wrote something down about the past twenty-four hours, it sounded as if I were either crowing about the fact that I’d made the trip safely in spite of his misgivings, or conversely (in the case of the attempted thefts) that he had every reason to have been worried about me going. I’d write a sentence, then read it over, then delete it, then repeat the process. I eventually gave up and just gave him the bare minimum. It would have been easier a generation ago, when all you could send was an overseas telegram, which was paid for by the word and you could be forgiven for your brevity. I hoped the “Love, P.” at the end would sweeten it up a bit. On the other hand, writing to Earlie was strangely easy, probably because I knew he would be passing the info on to George, Susan and the others.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: All’s well
Date: Wednesday, February 13
Dear Earlie,
Sorry I didn’t call you as soon as I landed. Transit and all that. I took a train directly from the airport to my B&B in Canterbury, and there wasn’t time to find a phone booth. You know what? There are hardly any of those red phone booths you see on BBC dramas—I don’t know where they’ve put them all, perhaps they’re stored in a warehouse somewhere in London and only brought out when they’re filming “All Creatures Great and Small.”
The flight was uneventful, and getting here was no problem, although there were a lot of thieves around, who all seemed to find my puppet case an item of interest. Thwarted one at Pearson, then one at Gatwick, then the same Gatwick guy at the train station, then somebody else on the train. Is this country full of crooks, or what? Next time you come over with your dad, never carry anything that looks like it might contain something valuable. I have stored it and my passport and return ticket in Mr. Frayne’s big old safe (he’s the proprietor of this place), and if the thugs try to steal it, Mr. Frayne says he will smack them over the head with his 11th century mattock, whatever that is. Anyway, never mind that. I’m safe and secure in Canterbury, in the weirdest little inn-place you’ve ever seen—straight out of a history book.
My room is on the very top floor, under the eaves of the house, which Mr. Frayne says was built in 1430. I can’t tell you how wild it is to sit in a room that has had other people sitting in it for 700 years. It’s tiny and low-ceilinged, with dark wooden panelling and little diamond-paned windows. The ceiling is slanted, the floor is slanted, and it creaks at night. It’s like living in an old trunk, and I love it.
I went to the registration thing last night, in an office at the University of Kent, where most of the conference will be held. Seems I lucked out with accommodation, as most of the people attending the conference seem to be billeted at the university, which is modern and not nearly as interesting as The Pilgrim’s Rest, where I am. Apparently, the Mary Chambers Memorial bursary-thing which I won (goodness knows how) provides accommodation here, because Mary Chambers is Mr. Frayne’s dearly departed sister, and before she died, they used to run the place together. Anyway, this B&B is way better than some anonymous room at the university, so I’m happy.
I have a bunch of seminars to attend today, so I better make this quick. I’m at an Internet café near the cathedral, tucked away behind a pub where you’d never find it unless you knew about it.
Hugs to everybod
y, and I hope you’re not buried under a ton of snow. It’s been raining here, but today it’s quite mild, with lots of picturesque fog. Give Luggy and Rosie a pat for me, if you get a chance.
Cheers,
Polly
I’d found a Starbucks in Canterbury, which was a surprise. Mr. Frayne, who appeared to be a bachelor, had made me an enormous breakfast at 7:30 a.m.—a fry-up, as he called it—with fried bacon, sausage, blood pudding, fried tomatoes and fried bread. Actually, it was wonderful, except for the fact that he didn’t have coffee, except for instant, so I’d had a cup of tea instead, which isn’t nearly the same thing to a person who requires a thick, dark infusion of caffeine first thing. The Sprog didn’t mind my coffee addiction, I swear. In fact, I like to think she shared it, as I’d discovered some weeks ago that if I didn’t have a cup of coffee by ten a.m., she’d kick at her walls like nobody’s business. Seeing as she was being deprived of the pleasures of nicotine and beer, I figured she deserved one decent vice, at least, before she entered this crabby old world. The Starbucks large with double cream was for her benefit, not mine. The beverage was getting cold, though, as I let my fingers run away with me, writing to Earlie Morrison.
After I’d sent the email to Earlie, I felt better. Making light of the luggage incidents helped to dispel the bothersome feeling of impending trouble, the internal alarm that had been making my neck prickle. I rummaged in my bag to find the conference itinerary to double-check the time of my first meeting, and my fingers touched a crumpled bit of paper. I pulled it out. It was the “Proper Procedures” form that I’d snatched from Old Reg at the train station, after the Gatwick thug had tried to get him to hand over my luggage. I had been too caught up in the Pez-phone, Maude and jet lag to have a look at it on the train the day before, and then I’d forgotten all about it. I could see the thug in my mind’s eye—bald head, thick neck, squashed nose and little beady eyes. Surely he couldn’t have been the same guy who’d tried to steal my bags at Pearson, could he? Nah. The Pearson guy hadn’t had the strange tattoo on his head, for one thing. More likely, there was an international set of membership guidelines for common thugs—heck, they were probably unionized—and they would have to conform to the stereotype before they were allowed to operate. Yet another legacy of globalization.
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 85
