Traveller

by Abigail Drake

  She gave me a little push in the direction of the bathroom. I closed the door, peeled off my wet clothing, and hopped straight into the shower. My hair hung in heavy, frigid clumps around my face, making me shiver even more. I still hadn’t gotten used to the cold in England. It went directly to a point somewhere deep inside my bones and made them ache.

  My hands were white, and my fingertips almost blue. It took a long time standing under the steaming rain of the shower for the color to come back and for me to feel normal again. By the time I’d dried my hair and dressed in a warm sweater, yoga pants, and thick socks, Lucinda had made a pot of tea and sat on the couch waiting for me. She patted the spot next to her, wrapped me in a warm blanket, and shoved a steaming cup of tea into my hands.

  “Something tells me this has to do with the mysterious Michael Nightingale.”

  Lucinda and I had met after I’d been assigned a place in the dorms with an American girl named Brooke, who’d despised me on sight. I tried awfully hard to be nice to her, but concluded Brooke either hated all people from Kentucky, or she was Satan’s mistress. Either way, staying with her was not an option.

  I’d showed up at Lucinda’s apartment with a note from the student center tucked into the pocket of my cardigan and suitcases in each of my hands. Lucinda had met me at the door in a red satin robe and feathered mules. She’d given me an assessing look, from the top of my curly blonde head to the bottom of my loafer-clad feet.

  “I plan to shag someone from each of the seven continents this year as part of my thesis.”

  Lucinda, pursuing her Master’s degree in sexual psychology, took a very hands-on approach to research. She’d watched me closely after giving her little speech, waiting for my reaction.

  “Antarctica is going to be mighty tricky.”

  She smiled, and I knew we’d be friends. “You’re right. Nothing but a bunch of bloody penguins.”

  We’d lived together more than a month, and Lucinda’s shagging project hadn’t inconvenienced me much at all. There had been the occasional stray, half naked male in the kitchen some mornings, but I’d solved that problem by going to the teashop for breakfast. Now I went there like clockwork just to catch a glimpse of Michael.

  Lucinda patted my hand. “Poor little Em. This obsession of yours is worrisome. It could almost be a case study. Wholesome, virginal foreign exchange student from the deep-south becomes fixated on a tattooed, pierced English bad boy.” Lucinda got a sudden, hopeful gleam in her eye. I quashed it.

  “No, you cannot use me as a case study.” She stuck out her bottom lip in an adorable pout, a look that had worked on many a man. It had probably worked on quite a few women, too.

  Lucinda was what Grandma Sugar called sex on two legs. She had flowing black hair, flashing dark eyes, and a voluptuous body usually encased in something tight and red. Today, it was a pair of pants that looked like they’d been painted on.

  “Lucinda, those pants are so tight I can see Christmas,” I said, trying to change the subject.

  Lucinda’s bright red lips curved into a smile. “Ho, ho, ho. Now back to Michael Nightingale…”

  The doorbell rang, granting me a momentary reprieve. I hoped for one of Lucinda’s boyfriends who might distract her from her line of questioning, but no luck. It was Poppy, my best friend. I’d met her my first day at the University of York, and we’d been inseparable ever since.

  “What happened?” Poppy kicked off her shoes, making her about six inches shorter without the giant black wedge heels.

  “Michael Nightingale happened.”

  Lucinda sat back down on the couch, her legs curled up beneath her. Poppy took the chair opposite us. She wore an electric blue t-shirt with a Japanese manga character on it, and a mini-skirt. Her hair had been pulled into two very short pigtails on top of her head, which made her look a bit like a punk rock Shih Tzu puppy.

  “Cute skirt,” I said.

  “Thanks. I made it last week.” Poppy was a fashion design major and although her tastes ran eclectic from her dark spikey hair to her striped socks, she was adorable.

  Lucinda handed her a cup of tea. “Our girl finally did it.”

  Poppy turned to me, her blue eyes huge. “You spoke with Michael?”

  “I sort of ambushed him. He ran away. He was terrified.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Poppy, from a little town on the North Sea coast called Red Car, grew up in a small bed and breakfast that catered mostly to truckers and mill workers. Their vocabulary had rubbed off on her.

  “He ran away from you?” Lucinda raised a dark eyebrow at me. “Because you are so intimidating?”

  Poppy laughed until she snorted. I guess it did sound kind of funny. I was about as scary as a kitten, and Michael looked like a wanted felon.

  “Did you catch him?” asked Poppy as soon as she managed to stop giggling.

  He disappeared right in front of my eyes. In a second, Michael was gone.

  I couldn’t tell them the truth. They would think I was crazy, or at least crazier than usual.

  “I chased him through The Shambles, in the rain, for miles.”

  Lucinda patted my hand. “Poor little Em.”

  I sighed. “It was pathetic.”

  “And a little creepy,” chimed in Poppy.

  “That, too.”

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out my journal. The leather was soft and smooth, a richly distressed brown. My father had given it to me as a going away present, hoping I’d record all my thoughts and memories about England. Instead, I wrote about Michael Nightingale. I was a little creepy.

  “What did you say to him?” asked Poppy.

  I cringed. “Something about organic chemistry being hard.”

  “Definite penile reference.” Lucinda chuckled, and I glared at her.

  “I’ve never seen a boy act like that before. We talked. He asked if I liked to flirt with danger. Then he had a dying duck fit and ran away.”

  “A dying duck fit?” Poppy asked.

  “One step above a hissy fit is a duck fit. One step above that is a dying duck fit.”

  “So, in other words, he was upset?” Lucinda asked, taking a sip of her tea.

  “And meaner than a wet pole cat.”

  “I’m sure he’s just a little overwhelmed because you are so adorable,” said Poppy. She sat next to me on the arm of the sofa, and gave me a squeeze.

  “He ran away because I’m adorable?” I covered my face with my hands. “I can’t believe I chased him.”

  “Can we do anything to help?” asked Poppy.

  I shook my head, my words muffled by the pillow. “I just need to wallow a bit in my sorrow.”

  “Well, I guess you won’t want to study with me at the library then,” said Poppy.

  I glanced out at the pouring rain, and shivered. I had no desire to go outside again right now.

  Poppy kissed the top of my head, stepped back into her shoes, and grabbed her umbrella. “Stay home, stay warm, and stay away from Michael Nightingale. He isn’t worth your time.”

  “Will do,” I said with a sad little smile. “I couldn’t catch him anyway.”

  Lucinda pulled on her coat. “I have to leave, too. Will you be okay?”

  I nodded. “I’ll be busy wallowing.”

  As soon as they left, I curled up in a chair by the window. The rain still fell heavily, and the sky remained gray and dark. I wrapped the blanket closer around my shoulders and watched the people hurrying up and down the street with their umbrellas.

  Sun Tzu said “He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious.” Sun Tzu would have slapped me upside the head right now. I wasn’t being prudent. I was being the opposite of prudent.

  I opened my journal and paused when I saw the faded photo of my mother I kept tucked between the pages. Her red hair curled softly over her shoulders, and her smile was hesitant, as if the photographer had caught her by surprise. I had her curls, but there the similarities en
ded.

  She’d died when I was a toddler, and had done it in such a spectacular way that I’d grown up as the daughter of “that lady who done killed herself.” We’d never known for sure exactly what happened, but it hung over me my whole life like a dark cloud.

  Her death had nearly destroyed my father, and given him demons of his own to battle. In the dark days, right after she died, he could barely speak and spent hours alone in his study. I couldn’t remember much of it, but when he emerged, he was a different man. I knew the truth. I saw it in his eyes. He couldn’t forgive her for what she’d done. She was a deserter, plain and simple, and the worst kind of coward.

  I didn’t say a word about her to my father. I never mentioned her name or let him know I carried her picture around wherever I went. Sometimes, I’m sorry to say, I really missed her. I’d catch a whiff of perfume, or hear a song on the radio, and the faintest hint of a memory would form in my mind. It was usually gone before I could understand it completely, but those moments felt like a gift, a ghostly kiss from my dead mother. I longed to know more about her, something I doubted my proud, stern father ever realized.

  This study abroad trip had been a rare chance to walk in my late mother’s footsteps, although I pretended I was simply here because of the outstanding educational opportunities. My mother had been born here. She’d met my father here. When my father finally agreed to let me come on this trip, he had no idea I planned to travel around the countryside trying to find her family. He would have been furious. And if he’d known about my fascination with the tall, leather-clad, completely unsuitable Mr. Nightingale, he would have been on the next plane here from Bowling Green.

  I yawned, curling up into a ball on the chair, my cheek resting on my hand. The rain had stopped, and the sun tried bravely to peek out from behind the clouds. I played the events of the morning over and over again in my head, talking with Michael, chasing him through the streets, the look on his face right before he disappeared. If obsessing about someone was the first sign of crazy, I should have been on high alert at this point.

  And you don’t even know what he is.

  I’d almost forgotten Mrs. Burke’s words in my excitement at actually conversing with him. I jumped out of my chair, pulled on my tennis shoes, and grabbed a jacket and an umbrella. There was no time to change into a skirt. I had to move quickly. Mrs. Burke knew something about Michael that I didn’t, and I needed to find out what it was.

  She was locking up her shop just as I barreled around the corner. “Back again, Emerson?” She looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, pet, we close at four.”

  “I wanted to ask you something. Do you have a minute?”

  She smiled, tucking a bank bag under her arm. “I was about to go deposit this. Would you like to walk with me?”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course not, love. Now, what did you want to ask me?”

  We linked arms and began strolling down the street. The rain had stopped, and everything felt clean and fresh. As much as I hated the English weather, there was beauty in it, too, and the soft sunshine after the rain felt like a kiss on my skin. I still missed the warmth of Kentucky, but not as much as before.

  “It’s about Michael Nightingale.”

  Mrs. Burke frowned. “I saw you run after him today. I told you he was trouble.”

  I cringed. I’d hoped no one else had witnessed that. “That was what I wanted to talk with you about. Why did you say that?”

  Her face grew still. “You can tell just by looking at him, can’t you?”

  “There was something else. You told me I didn’t know what he was.”

  Mrs. Burke sighed and straightened her glasses. She took a quick look around to make sure no one else was listening.

  “He’s a Traveller.”

  “A what?”

  She leaned closer to me. “A Traveller. A gypsy. Good for nothing thieves and criminals.”

  “A gypsy?” I immediately began to imagine myself in a sexy off the shoulder blouse and a red skirt, dancing with Michael by a campfire.

  Mrs. Burke shook her head, reading my expression at once. “Oh, no you don’t. These gypsies aren’t like the romantic notions you hear about in stories. They’re hard, mean, and dangerous. The only reason I let that boy in my shop is because he hasn’t been any trouble. Yet. But if I see him bothering you, lass…”

  I shook my head, frowning. “I’m bothering him, Mrs. Burke.”

  Suddenly, a man pushed against her so hard she nearly fell. I steadied her, putting my hands on her shoulders. She looked down at her hands and gasped.

  “He stole my bag, Emerson. He took my money.”

  The man ran up the street, but I knew I could catch him. I took off, dodging pedestrians.

  “Wait, Emerson,” Mrs. Burke called out. “He might be dangerous.”

  “Stop! Thief!” I shouted, pointing at the man. Several people stopped and looked, but no one did anything. I groaned in frustration. This was up to me.

  Sun Tzu said “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” I chose a slightly different path. The thief was not in the best of shape, and I wore tennis shoes and pants instead of my usual skirt and flats. Middle aged and pudgy, with greasy blond hair and bad skin, he proved much easier to catch than Michael Nightingale. I grabbed him by the collar of his stained Manchester United jersey and used his own momentum to yank him to the ground. He tried to get up, and I kicked him in the chest.

  “That is for stealing money from nice old ladies.”

  A crowd began to form around us. Mrs. Burke scurried up as fast as her little legs could carry her. I stepped on the thief’s hand and took her bag away from him. He called me a name that was not very nice, so I dug in my heel, making him squirm.

  “That is for calling me names.”

  He lifted his head and tried to spit on me, so I did what any respectable girl would have done. I kicked him in the face, right under the chin, knocking him unconscious.

  A policeman showed up, and Mrs. Burke and the others told him what happened, somewhat embellishing certain details. The policeman had a wide, kind face.

  “It’s brave that you stepped up to help, Miss Shaw, but not very wise. This man could have been armed. Nothing is worth your life, or your safety.”

  After I apologized and said, “Yes, sir,” a few times, he left to call for a squad car, and the thief began regaining consciousness. He let out a little whimper and made a move to get up. His chin had already turned purple, and he looked disoriented. I’d kicked him pretty hard.

  I leaned over and spoke to him in a soft voice. “You make a move, mister, and I’m going to jerk your head bald. You hear me?”

  The thief made the right decision and put his head back down on the pavement. I looked up to see a guy in the crowd staring at me. Beautiful, with dark hair that hung to his shoulders he possessed eyes so light brown they nearly looked golden. As soon as I glanced his way, a huge smile spread across his face, like we knew each other well and shared some kind of secret. It made me feel a little strange, but I smiled back in spite of myself. He joined me as I waited for the policeman to finish his report.

  “Well done,” he said, and his husky voice sent shivers up my spine.

  I stared at him in surprise, realizing I felt attracted to him. Really attracted to him. Almost as much as I was to Michael Nightingale. I either had some kind of strange hormonal fluctuation going on, or I was especially drawn to English guys. This was not my normal behavior. Not by a long shot.

  “I saw you run. You’re really quite fast.”

  “Thanks.” I caught a whiff of something odd, and figured it must be Mr. Manchester United and his filthy shirt. I gave him my best squinty-eye glare and poked him with my umbrella. He looked terrified, something the boy standing next to me noticed with a chuckle.

  “I’m Leo, by the way.”

  He extended his hand and I took it, an electric tingle shooting up my spine again.
“Emerson.”

  “It’s a pleasure.”

  I stared down at our joined hands, still feeling a residual jolt. Something very strange was going on here.

  “I’ve got to go. I need to check on my friend.”

  He let go of my hand, and stepped away, but his gaze remained locked on mine. “Until we meet again.”

  He turned and walked away, and I couldn’t help but watch. He really was eye candy. I had more important things to worry about at the moment, though. I had a feeling this whole episode had shaken up poor Mrs. Burke more than it had me.

  She’d just finished speaking with the policeman, and gave me a hug so tight I almost couldn’t breathe. Tears swam in her eyes when I handed her the bag of money.

  “You’re a heroine, Emerson Shaw.”

  I cringed, embarrassed. “It was nothing.”

  “You were so quick. How were you able to pull him to the ground like that? He must outweigh you by six stone.”

  I leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “When I did beauty pageants back home, my talent was mixed martial arts. He never saw it coming.”

  “Martial arts? At a beauty contest?”

  “I can’t sing worth a darn, trip over my own feet when I try to dance, and never had the patience to learn the piano. I had limited options, and really liked hitting people.”

  I looked up and thought I caught a glimpse of familiar broad shoulders encased in a leather jacket off in the distance. I craned my head, trying to see. I couldn’t be certain, but somehow I knew it was Michael. As soon as he got near, I sensed it, like the very air changed with his presence. I felt it somewhere deep in my bones, the way I felt the English cold, and it hurt just as much.

  Chapter Three

  That girl couldn’t find her bottom with both hands in her hip pockets.

  ~Grandma Sugar

  I spent the next few weeks trying to find Michael Nightingale. He no longer came to Mrs. Burke’s teashop, the big chicken, although I ran into Leo there quite a few times. I enjoyed our friendly banter, and the company of someone handsome, nice and obviously interested, but something held me back.