Revived Spirits

by Julia Watts

  Morehouse grew more uneasy by the minute. What was Cumpston up to? Surely he didn’t think these kids were a threat. He sighed. Cumpston’s moods were unpredictable, his remarks often cryptic.

  If he had a good side, Morehouse needed to get on it in a hurry. He tapped him on the shoulder. “Let me buy you a coffee. What do you like?” Morehouse indicated a nearby coffee shop and hoped he sounded friendly, but not too friendly. At ease, not trying too hard.

  “What? Oh, all right then.” Cumpston pointed with his briefcase toward the Terminus Place. “Meet me there, at the taxi stand.” Morehouse stepped away and disturbed a gathering of pigeons, who flew over his head, politely restraining themselves until they passed Cumpston. Then they released two white bombs, spattering the carefully pressed T-shirt and causing its wearer to press his lips together and turn an unhealthy shade of red-purple.

  Morehouse stole a look back and groaned silently. His companion’s expression was murderous. He hoped the hatred was directed at the birds.

  Chapter Nine

  Six travelers and as many suitcases made their way to the front of the queue at the taxi stand. Mr. Wescott could be an indulgent parent at times, but he was a tyrant when it came to luggage. One piece of checked baggage per person, and if you couldn’t tote it up a flight of stairs, you didn’t need it. Even Anna carried her bunny rabbit in a teeny-tiny backpack.

  Liv looked up and down the row of empty cabs and admired the orderliness of the system. Waiting passengers moved forward every ninety seconds or so, and cab drivers pulled their vehicles forward. The cab at the front swallowed up the passenger at the head of the queue and sped away. Very efficient and civilized.

  She studied the parties waiting ahead of them: a couple holding hands and a slender man in a dark suit with matching dark turban. A pair of elderly ladies in plain skirts, cardigans and sensible shoes stood behind the Wescotts. The couple and the turbaned man barely gave their cabs time to put on the brakes before opening the doors and climbing in. Suddenly, it was the Wescotts’ turn.

  As they picked up their belongings and prepared to move to their cab, Liv became aware of a young man in a leather jacket swaggering toward the cab that should have been theirs. The tattooed, shaved head, the piercings and skin-tight black jeans complemented his sneer.

  Mr. Wescott raised his hand as if to protest, then looked back at his family and shook his head. Liv was sure her dad would have challenged the punk if he’d been traveling alone. The cab driver shrugged.

  The queue-breaker opened the door and leaned down to enter his ill-gotten ride. A blue-veined hand clenched his arm and, catching him off-guard, spun him around, where he faced two very angry old ladies.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself! Taking advantage of a nice family that way. And with a baby! What’s the world coming to?” They pressed in fearlessly, like mongooses standing down a cobra. They had to be in their eighties, and the taller one’s curly white head was barely higher than Liv’s shoulder.

  The cab poacher began to stutter an excuse, but was immediately shouted down by the shorter woman, who brandished her cane perilously close to his nose ring. “Didn’t your mum teach you any manners? I wager it’d break her heart right in two if she could see you now.”

  The young man had clearly lost both battle and dignity, and he turned to leave the way he’d come. But the octogenarian avengers weren’t through. “Oh, no, you don’t! We won’t have any of that, sneaking back to break the queue again after we’re gone. All the way around to the end for you. That’s right, step lively, that’s better.”

  Their victory complete, they stepped back to wait their turn.

  The queue burst into applause. The cab driver removed his cap and bowed to the women. The Wescott party stood frozen, watching, a little afraid to move.

  The old lady with the cane pounded it impatiently on the sidewalk, and her friend shouted at Mr. Wescott, “Well, go on— don’t just stand about. Get in! You’re holding up the queue!”

  “Nothing like a bit of drama to start your morning— welcome to London!” The driver secured the luggage, nodded at the address given to him, and merged the cab into the stream of traffic. “Beautiful day to be in London, right? But then that’s always true for me. No sir, nowhere else I’d rather be—right here in the middle of things, driving my cab.” Liv found his accent delightful. It sounded down-to-earth, friendly. He continued, “And what brings you folks to London—business or pleasure?”

  Mr. Wescott inclined his head toward his family and Cal. “Pleasure for them—I’m afraid I’ll be working most of the time.” Liv noted that her father didn’t reveal what kind of business. He was proud of his work, but he didn’t like lawyer jokes, which strangers often felt astonishingly free to share when they learned he was an attorney.

  The cabbie braked for a red light. “Well now, if you love your job half as much as I love mine, it won’t be a burden to do it.” The light changed to green, and he tapped his horn to encourage a car dawdling at the intersection.

  “And if you hate it, at least you’ll be doing it in the greatest city in the world.” He left it at that, just short of asking what Mr. Wescott did for a living. The silence grew. Anthony filled in the gap. “Dad’s a lawyer. He’ll be working with a barrister here this summer.” Mr. Wescott’s smile never faltered, but Liv saw the muscles in the back of his neck tighten.

  The cabbie glanced over his shoulder at Mr.Wescott. “Guess you’ve heard the old proverb about two farmers who each claimed to own the same cow, right? One pulled at the head, the other pulled at the tail, and the cow got milked by a solicitor.” He threw back his head and laughed with his whole upper body, a guffaw that shook the front seat.

  Noticing that no one was laughing, he peered in the rearview mirror and caught Mrs.Wescott’s wide-eyed stare, then pulled his cap lower on his face. “That’s the trouble with solicitor jokes,” he grumbled. “Solicitors don’t think they’re funny, and nobody else thinks they’re jokes.”

  This time, it was Mr. Wescott’s turn to belly-laugh. The ice broken, he and the cabbie began to chat about the weather, the traffic and who was likely to win the World Cup. Mrs. Wescott’s smile returned, and she pointed out sights to Anna and her bunny as they passed them. The driver gave them a history of London cabs, informing them that they’d been licensed since the year sixteen sixty-two and were still officially called hackney carriages.

  The grownups continued to listen while Cal turned to Anthony. “Your dad’s a lawyer, so what was that about solicitors? I thought those were people who sell stuff door-to-door...”

  Anthony explained, “Solicitor is Britspeak for lawyer. American attorneys do any part of lawyering they want to. But if he practiced here, he’d have to choose between being a barrister or a solicitor.”

  “Solicitors go to trial,” said Liv. “Barristers are considered a little higher up.”

  “But trial lawyers can make a lot of money!” said Cal.

  Liv shrugged. “Go figure.”

  They turned their attention to the sights. Trafalgar Square was coming up, with its huge statues, lofty monument and hundreds of pigeons. Liv pointed them out to Anna and said, “The pigeons of Trafalgar Square—just like in the guidebook! Aren’t they graceful?”

  “Winged rats, is what I call ’em,” opined the cabbie. “Now there’s a bird that’s useful.” He pointed to a young man with a leather glove and sleeve, looking intently at the branches of a tall tree on the edge of the square. The handler gave a signal with his free hand, and a beautiful falcon glided from the highest branch, landing elegantly on his master’s sleeved arm. Bystanders oohed their appreciation, as did Anthony and Cal, but Liv observed the cabbie frowning into his rearview mirror. He had done that twice in the last few minutes.

  Mr. Wescott ignored the spectacle as well and checked his watch. He leaned toward the cabbie.

  “We appreciate the tour, but wouldn’t it be faster to go directly to our flat?” Liv recognized her dad’s “I’m
-being-polite- but-I’m-irritated” tone of voice. It was clear he thought the cabbie was trying to turn a short trip into a long one to charge a higher fare.

  “Sorry, sir,” replied the cabbie, his eyes darting from the traffic ahead to his rearview mirror and back. “It seemed a cab about three lengths back was following us, so I deviated a bit to see what would happen.” The traffic light ahead turned red, and the cab glided to a stop. The cabbie held the steering wheel with one hand and rubbed his face with the other.

  No one spoke. The light changed to green, and the cabbie drove forward. He turned left, waiting until the last second to use his turn signal so as not to give away his intentions. Seconds later, his lips came together in a thin line and the furrow of his brow deepened.

  “Sir, d’ya know a fair-haired chap with an Aussie hat and a dark tan?” He spoke calmly, but the lighthearted tone was gone. Liv felt her heart pound in her chest. She glanced at the boys. They were perfectly still, listening.

  Mr. Wescott replied, “I don’t know anyone like that—it can’t be related to us.”

  “I spotted him holding his cabbie’s shoulder and pointing at us a couple of times.” Concern creased his friendly face. “I hope you’re not one of those solicitors who get in with a dangerous crowd.”

  Mr. Wescott’s expression of concern matched the cabbie’s. “I assure you, my business is boringly safe.” He glanced around the cab’s interior. “I’d never bring my family along if it weren’t.”

  “All the same, I’m going to drive right on past your building without stopping. If I’m satisfied this bloke is nowhere to be seen, I’ll circle the block and bring you round again.” The cabbie drove the remaining half block to the intersection with his right turn signal on, then changed to left at the last second and turned that way.

  The evasive maneuver was unneeded, though. The cab had dropped back.

  Lance Cumpston was satisfied. He glanced in the cab’s side view mirror and chuckled. There was the sheep family’s cab, finally parked in front of the Asquith Gardens Apartments, children spilling out onto the sidewalk. He could find them if he chose to. He sat back in his seat and saw Morehouse studying him.

  “You wouldn’t be afraid to do what’s necessary, would you, Robert?” Cumpston normally avoided real names in public places. Even in private, he addressed his associates by last name, but this was a crucial display of power. The new one needed to be put in his place.

  But it seemed Morehouse could play that game, too. “Of course not, Lance.”

  Cumpston recoiled at the sound of his own name. Such disrespect. Who did he think he was? Who was he, really?

  Morehouse leaned closer to Cumpston and spoke quietly. “You’ll never have a problem with me over doing what’s necessary. It’s your preoccupation with the unnecessary that’s attracting my attention.”

  He inclined his head toward the building where the Wescotts were now filing in, one at a time, and looked back at Cumpston. “Those are kids, Lance—no need to get paranoid over a bunch of children. So what if the girl figured out you changed your look on the plane—if she did.”

  He gripped Cumpston’s forearm—another inappropriate informality, Cumpston noted. “What do you think she’s going to do, Lance—hire a private investigator to run background checks on us?”

  Cumpston’s bronzed-from-the-bottle complexion changed as all traces of natural pink drained from his face. “No, no—of course not. Let’s drop it, shall we?” He withdrew himself from Morehouse’s grasp and sat back in the seat. Maybe worrying about the girl was a waste of time.

  Morehouse, on the other hand. . . Morehouse was disrespectful— it just wouldn’t do.

  Chapter Ten

  The exterior of the converted mansion that now housed Asquith Serviced Apartments oozed Englishness and past grandeur. The enormous hand-carved door looked as if it belonged in a cathedral. It opened without a creak into a marble-tiled foyer that still managed to look impressive, despite being broken up into an entryway, seating area, check-in desk and baggage hold.

  The Wescott party checked in without incident. The slight, dark-eyed man staffing the desk seemed delighted to see them— his cinnamon-colored face was split by a wide smile that revealed dazzling white teeth. He completed the paperwork quickly and produced keycards for the adults.

  The smile sagged as he looked up and down the hall, sighed, and pounded a bell on the desk with his fist. “My lazy brotherin-law is often nowhere to be found when baggage needs to go up, but I can assure you he will materialize at the end of your stay to take your bags down, hoping for a generous tip. Please give him none.”

  He snorted,raised the counter on its hinges,and came forward to reach for their luggage. “Allow me to assist you. Right this way.” He ignored the ringing telephone.

  Mr. Wescott gave a sympathetic shake of his head. “No need to leave your post when I have three able bodies right here. It seems you’re already doing double duty as attendant and manager.”

  He grinned in appreciation and held up a travel brochure and tool belt. “Don’t forget concierge and repairman.” He pointed with the brochure to a corner in the hallway as he picked up the phone. “The lift’s over there.”

  Mr. Wescott handed a keycard to Liv, and asked, “Can I put you three in charge of the rest of the luggage? We’re on the third floor—number three-oh-five.”

  “Sure, Dad,” Anthony said, gripping a suitcase in each hand and nodding at Cal to do the same. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

  They made their way down a narrow passage to an elevator the size of a phone booth, with beautiful brass appointments, oriental carpet and gleaming wood trim. A glance told them the luggage and the three of them couldn’t fit into the tiny space at the same time.

  “Here,” said Anthony, pushing ahead of Cal and motioning for him to hand over the additional suitcases. “I’ll go on—you two take the stairs. Just close that collapsible brass gate, will you?”

  “Where’s the door?” asked Cal. “You don’t want to see this thing going between floors.” He shuddered.

  “Don’t worry—I can close my eyes if I need to.” Anthony held his finger at the button. “I’ll give you a head start. See you on the third floor. Last one up has to unload all the luggage.”

  Cal turned and sprinted to the spiral staircase. “Don’t push the button till I hit the first step!”

  Liv watched him take the stairs two at a time and climb round and round. She followed, enjoying the pull of the steps on her leg muscles and feeling strong. “Up to two, up to two,” chanted Cal ahead of her, passing a closed door that appeared to lead off to a hallway. “Up to three, up to three,” he panted, stopping at the next landing and heading down the hall to look at apartment doors.

  Liv knew the brass numbers would read two-oh-three, twooh-four and two-oh-five, so why was Cal stopping here? She looked toward the elevator shaft. Here came Anthony, staring at Cal while the little cage passed the floor and continued its ascent. Brother and sister shrugged at each other as Cal raced back up the hall and tore into the stairs again, barely catching up with Liv at the end. The elevator was emptied of luggage, and Anthony said, “Sit down and catch your breath. We’ll carry everything to the apartment.”

  Liv jumped in to be sure Cal understood his mistake. “Guess you didn’t realize the lobby is the ground floor. After that, you start counting first and so on. The third floor is actually the fourth story.”

  “And I was supposed to know that how?” Cal grumbled. “I don’t like being outsmarted by a building.”

  Liv picked up two suitcases and congratulated herself for choosing not to invite a friend on this trip. Friends could be high-maintenance.

  It didn’t take long for the efficient Mrs.Wescott to get everyone on task, settling into the apartment and unpacking while she worked on a grocery list. Sleeping assignments were made: grownups and Anna in the large bedroom, Liv in the second one, about the size of a walk-in closet, with the boys sleeping on the pullout sof
a in the sitting room. Anthony and Cal slid their suitcases under the end tables flanking the sofa. The three agreed that Liv should keep the box in her room for now.

  “If we each take ten minutes to freshen up in the bathroom,” Mrs. Wescott instructed them, “we can hit the pavement, ready to sightsee, in under an hour. We’ll pick up groceries on the way back.”

  “Ten minutes?” asked Anthony, sniffing his armpits. “What do I need to do that will take a whole ten minutes?”

  Mrs. Wescott handed him a bar of soap and pointed to the bathroom. “Come out clean.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Liv finished brushing her teeth and looked up, where her reflection in the mirror met her gaze with customary directness. Her curly, dark hair, pulled back into its usual ponytail, was just beginning to frizz in the humidity of an unair-conditioned London summer. Her blue eyes might have been more striking with makeup, though Liv couldn’t imagine bothering. Her build was slim but solid from years of soccer and running and her nails would always be trimmed short, because the piano was a love she intended never to be without.

  Hmm. . . A piano. Soccer. Running. She’d gone without any of them for more than a day, and she was feeling withdrawal. Not much she could do about the first two, but maybe she could convince her parents to let her take a run somewhere. There was a park visible from the huge windows of their sitting room. It would be fun to explore.

  The street and neighborhood looked like a scene from Mary Poppins, and the flat itself was like a movie set with its high ceilings, elaborate plaster moldings and chandeliers. A ringing phone interrupted her reverie.

  Brring-brring. Pause. Brring-brring. Pause. Even the sound of the phone was charming.