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17
Doctor Racleaux—“call me Harriet”—isexactly as I remembered. She’s short, with orange hair that looks like fire coral, a large mole on her nose, and a green tweed skirt suit. She’s nearing seventy, happily plump and reminds me of a teapot whistling out enthusiasm and good cheer.
“Are you dears settled?” she asks.
“We are. Thank you,” I say. “This is really too much.” I gesture at the lace-covered breakfast table.
It’s the day after our transatlantic flight and Arya and I are having breakfast with Harriet in her solarium.
It’s a huge spread, Harriet said it’s a “full breakfast” as we need it to recover from jet lag.
There’s a silver toast rack full of crusty toasted bread, fried eggs with crisp lacy edges, pork and sage sausages, thick pink back bacon dripping fat, broiled tomatoes, mushrooms, and saucy baked beans.
“Nonsense,” Harriet says. “Your mother would have fits if she thought I wasn’t caring for you properly.”
To show that I’m in fact being cared for properly, I shovel as much breakfast onto my plate as possible. The sagey, peppery, savory smell rises up in the steam.
If I actually did have jet lag Harriet’s cure would do the trick. I’ll not share with her that as soon as I got on the plane I put on headphones, a mask, and knocked myself out into sweet, sweet oblivion. I slept from Mariposa straight through to London. I didn’t wake up until Arya snapped my eye mask off my face and said, “Wake up sleepy head, we’re here.”
She didn’t sleep at all. She was too worried about seeing Percy again, or even worse, not seeing Percy again.
Arya pokes at her fried egg with her fork and the bright sunshine yellow of the yolk pops and spreads over her plate.
The solarium is the brightest part of Harriet’s old country manor. It has windows on three sides, looks out over her lush cottage-style garden, and is bright and airy. I’m sure on sunny days it’s warm and bright. But this morning rain lashes against the glass and the sky is so gray that it’s hard to tell how high the sun has risen.
“We only have two weeks for the interviews,” Harriet says. She taps her spoon against the shell of a soft-boiled egg sitting in a porcelain egg cup. She smiles when the eggshell cracks and shows the milky white egg inside. “I’d prefer to begin immediately after breakfast, if that suits you. We can convene in the library.”
I nod, unable to respond, because my mouth is full of tomato and beans and toast. When I swallow I say, “That’s perfect.”
I’ll bring my recorder and my laptop. And maybe a blanket or three, or four. It’s a lot colder in England than I expected.
Granted, I looked at the weather and knew it would be rainy and chilly. It’s March after all. But I didn’t recall exactly what chilly felt like. It’s a lot like freezing.
Yesterday, on the drive to Harriet’s, Arya and I stopped at a little tourist shop (the only clothing shop we could find) and bought thick wool sweaters, wool pants, wool socks and wool scarfs. We’re now both wrapped in more wool than three dozen sheep combined.
We showed up in long skirts and fuchsia and lime green colored tops with light raincoats. And now, we’re wrapped in oversized dark green and brown sweaters, drab gray pants, thick socks, and scarves. We’re like two parrots that traded in our feathers for the dull brown fluff of the wren.
“What are you going to do today, love?” Harriet asks Arya.
Arya sneaks a look at me. Even though I convinced her to come she’s still not certain that approaching Percy is the best idea.
“I’d like to go birding,” she says.
“What a delightful idea. Absolutely delightful. If you wait until the afternoon, I can take you to the Oliver estate on the coast. They have a spectacular nesting ground for seabirds.”
“The Oliver estate?” I ask.
Harriet scrapes butter across a piece of toast and then piles on gooseberry jam.
“Oh yes. They open the coastal walk to the public one day a week. It’s a pleasant spot for a picnic. No ruins there though.” She says the last with a regretful frown, then she dismisses it and takes a happy bite of her gooseberry-slathered toast.
“We won’t see the Olivers then?” Arya asks.
Harriet dabs her mouth with her napkin, catching a glop of gooseberry at the corner.
“No, no. The family resides in London.”
“Oh. I see.”
I’m not sure whether Arya is glad or disappointed by this news. But I’m not deflated. Fate wouldn’t have put this trip into place if Arya wasn’t meant to see Percy. He’ll be there.
I eat the last of my breakfast, scraping my plate clean. The food is warm and filling. I think if I lived here, I’d eat this breakfast at least once a week. Probably twice.
Arya’s poured herself a cup of coffee. Oh. Oh boy. I give a subtle shake of my head. She frowns. I gesture at my mug and make a no-no face. She shrugs.
Oh well.
It’s not like I can tell her that Harriet’s good English coffee tastes like muddy tap water run through an old man’s boot.
“Do you have any tinned milk?” Arya asks.
“Tinned milk? Whatever for, dear?”
“My coffee?”
“Oh my, we have fresh cream or milk. Wouldn’t you prefer that? Do you only have tinned milk on the island? How sad.”
Arya’s eyes go wide. “Ummm. Hmmm.”
She has no response. Apparently Harriet has never been introduced to the wonder of a spoonful of sweetened condensed milk in coffee.
Arya decides to drink the coffee black. I have the satisfaction of watching her mouth twist and her eyes nearly cross as she struggles with the decision of whether to spit it back into her mug or swallow.
She swallows.
I smile at her and tap the lip of my mug, then mouth, “Told you so.”
Breakfast is finished. It’s decided that Harriet and I will work until early afternoon, then we’ll take a picnic to the Oliver estate.
I can barely believe it. We haven’t been in England for forty-eight hours and everything is working out perfectly.
