Читать книгу Epic - Kelly Wilson - Страница 4

My flight to London was uneventful compared to the excitement that had preceded my actual flight. First, there had been the strange encounter between my mother and her friend George, and the subsequent halo of light that seemed to surround them when they stood close to each other. Next, the dreadful look strewn across Mom’s face was hard to obliterate from my mind. She had appeared so worried. What could possibly happen to me on my year away? And of course, the inability of the X-ray machine to scan my image was definitely curious. But perhaps the most peculiar event of the day had been the way the image of my father in the picture had appeared to turn and face me. How was that possible? I still had not summoned up enough courage to take the picture out again and have another look. I was not sure what I was afraid of, but knew that whatever had happened, I was not ready for a repeat performance. Perhaps once I got settled in London, I would attend to it.

First class was definitely the way to travel. I ended up with a seat assignment all to myself. The seats were larger and roomier compared to their economy-class counterparts, and the seatbacks had their own personalized television screens. Even after the stopover in Toronto, I still was not seated next to anyone. George’s friend Amanda was to thank for the experience. She may not have been very receptive to me, but she had done me a huge favour.

I settled back into my seat, took the warm, fuzzy blanket that the flight attendant was offering, and made myself cozy. I removed my running shoes in an attempt to make myself more comfortable and pulled my iPod out from my messenger bag carefully enough to avoid the picture of my father and mother that was crammed recklessly into the side of the bag. I scanned through the plethora of music on my iPod and settled on an album by Oasis. After all, I was flying to Britain. I had never been on a transatlantic flight before but knew this was going to be a long haul, so I might as well attempt to enjoy the flight.

At times I found my mind wandering into daydreaming of the exact moment when I came face to face with my father. I imagined his affectionate reception, the big grin that would span the entire width of his face, and the warm, inviting hug that would follow. We would sit in his living room, sipping wine and catching up with stories from the past nineteen years. I hoped that our reunion would go this way, but knew that rarely did incidents of this nature go smoothly. I hoped he wouldn’t slam the door in my face.

I suppose I should have slept on a nine-hour flight to England, but I was getting increasingly eager and sleep was not my friend. I took solace in the fact that very soon, the one thing that seemed lacking in my life would be unearthed and, regardless of the outcome, I would know who my father was.

As the plane began its descent, I noted a few things. The sky was of course grey and it was raining. Not heavy sheets, but that misty rain that makes you feel cold to your core. Secondly, from the sky above, London had a mysterious air about it, as if untold secrets were waiting to be unleashed.

Once the plane landed and I was inside Heathrow International Airport, I felt overwhelmed. I knew Heathrow would be big, but that was an understatement when it came to describing London’s busiest and perhaps the world’s most confusing of airports. The international terminal was a maze of hallways, walkways, and lounges. If London was as confusing as this, and I was sure it would be, looking for my father was going to be akin to seeking the needle in the proverbial haystack. I had no idea where I would begin or how I would locate a man using an old photo. Undoubtedly, my father’s features had changed and aged. But there was no sense in backpedalling now. I was here, and here I would stay until I got sick of London or London got sick and tired of me. Who knew which would come first.

I navigated my way through the labyrinth, taking what seemed like hours to reach the customs and immigration area. I got my passport ready and lined up in the queue for foreign travellers—-which was much longer than the one for British nationals. When it was at last my turn, I was greeted by an unfriendly looking officer with one of the worst comb-overs I had ever seen, ginger hair specked with dandruff, and blotchy cheeks. He looked as though he was nursing a hangover.

“Passport, please,” he said gruffly.

I handed my passport to him and tried to avert my eyes from his glare.

“What is the reason for your visit?”

“Pleasure. I plan on exploring England and hope to work while I do so.”

“I see that you have a valid work permit for one year; do you plan on staying the full year?” he asked.

“I hope so.”

“Do you have employment and a place to live?”

“Not yet, but I hope to soon.”

It seemed like an eternity while he studied my passport and work permit. He kept flipping back and forth between the two documents, and each time he would glance up at me, and then down again at my passport picture. I could feel my cheeks turning about a million shades of red.

“Right. Okay, your papers look to be in order, so good luck, Miss Sinclair, and enjoy your stay in jolly old London.” With that he smiled and passed my passport back to me.

“Thank you, I think I might.” I smiled back, gathered my passport, and proceeded to walk out of the security area toward the baggage claim.

After locating the carousel where my dufflebag was to appear, I decided that my next task was to find a decent place to stay. Hotels were definitely out of the question. My part-time summer job back in Vancouver had not left me with a lot of extra funds, and the money I did have could only be stretched so far before I would need to find myself a job. I looked over and saw an information desk by the baggage claim area, no doubt strategically placed for bewildered newcomers such as myself. I collected my dufflebag, then strolled over to the information area.

“Alright, love. How can I help you?” the portly man behind the counter inquired.

“Ummm, I need a place to stay—-a hostel, really. I can’t afford a hotel, and I really only want to stay in a hostel for a few days before I take on the task of finding a job and an apartment,” I blurted out.

“First time in England then?” he responded without looking up from his laptop.

What was your first clue? I was tired and feeling sarcastic.

“Yes,” I answered dryly.

“Well then, here is information for the hostels in London and the surrounding area. As for finding a flat and a job, good luck with that one.” He handed me a vast array of pamphlets and went back to tapping at his computer.

Great, I thought, what now? For the first time since I had decided to embark on this expedition, I felt utterly alone. I was in a foreign country and didn’t know anyone. I could feel the hot sting of tears welling up in my eyes, so I turned on my heels quickly and ran for the nearest bathroom before the tears exploded. I bolted myself inside the first stall and started to sob uncontrollably.

“Are you alright, love?” a warm, pleasant female voice on the other side of the stall inquired.

Was there someone else in here? I hadn’t noticed anyone when I ran in, but then I wasn’t really concerned to look at the time. Of course, there must have been someone else in the bathroom; this was an airport, for goodness sakes.

“Yes,” I said through sobs.

“Are you hurt?” the concerned voice answered back.

“No, not at all.”

“Are you lost?” she continued to probe.

I unbolted the lock and opened the stall door slowly, not quite sure of what or whom to expect on the other side. Standing in the glare of the bathroom light was a matronly woman who reminded me of a cross between Mary Poppins and Mrs. Doubtfire. She had silver hair that was tied up in the tightest bun and held in place by what looked like chopsticks. She wore a beige tweed coat with large wooden buttons. In her right hand was an umbrella and in her left an immense black satchel. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. How long had I been crying? My eyes were red and puffy and my face was blotchy.

“You look like you could use a friendly face,” the stranger remarked.

“I suppose I do,” I answered.

“You also look as if you have been through quite an ordeal.”

I don’t know whether it was her genuine concern for me or the fact that she was the epitomy of what a grandmother should look like, but before I knew it, I was unloading my grief onto her.

“My name is Scotia Sinclair. I left home about ten hours ago from Canada to search for a father whom I’ve never known, and who doesn’t even know I exist. I have no place to stay and only around five thousand pounds to my name. On top of it all, I know no one here and I feel so alone…” I trailed off.

“Well then, it appears that I was right in assuming that you had been through an ordeal, although I suspect the brunt of your ordeal started long before you even left home,” she stated as she handed me a delicately embroidered handkerchief with the letters “BF” stitched into the bottom left-hand corner.

“Sorry to have burdened you,” I answered as I took the handkerchief and began to mop up the tears that had begun to flow again.

“Not at all, my dear. Besides, you are now free to come with me.”

Perfect, I thought. Now, on top of everything else, I was going to be abducted and probably killed by Mary Poppins Doubtfire.

She must have seen the fear on my face, for she immediately interjected, “Don’t look so alarmed, my dear girl. My name is Elizabeth Farquharson. My friends call me Betty. I am the owner of perhaps the best bakery in Camden Market, and landlady to the apartment located above it. I am currently looking for a shop girl to help me out in the bakery and the flat above is vacant. If you are so inclined, they are both yours for the taking.”

I was dumbfounded. Could I be so lucky? What was the catch?

“Well, are you interested, or shall I leave you here to your misery?”

“Yes, yes I am interested,” I replied emphatically.

“Jolly good,” Betty said with a brisk smile.

“Now, let’s get going. I don’t make a habit of frequenting public toilets at the airport.” Betty turned on her heels and walked out the door. I quickly grabbed my dufflebag and followed her.

Betty navigated through Heathrow with ease, and before I knew it, we were on our way to the London Underground. I could not believe that within a matter of hours I had gone from no job prospects and no place to live to having both and possibly a friend in Betty Farquharson.

The Underground, or Tube as Betty called it, was perhaps the best way to navigate through the streets of London. Although it was incredibly busy, it was far easier to negotiate than trying to drive the traffic-laden streets. Or so Betty instructed. Since I hadn’t the money to buy or rent a vehicle, I took her word for it. Besides, driving on the opposite side of the road did not appeal to me. While we rode, Betty filled me in on Camden Market and her bakery. From what she described, Camden seemed like a perfect place to stay while I looked for my father. It was central enough to London and filled with a vast array of pubs, shops, and outdoor vendors—-a perfect place to keep me from getting bored, although looking for my father was going to occupy a significant portion of my time. Betty advised that I might want to begin my search at the British Library, because as she stated, if a person was lost, you could probably find them in the myriad of microfiche, old newspaper articles, and registry books that the British Library was sure to have.

After Betty and I exhausted topics ranging from how to find my father to the weather, we passed the rest of the train ride in silence. Betty opened up a newspaper and began to read it, while I decided to take this opportunity to once again retrieve the picture of my father out of my bag. I did not know what to expect so I braced myself for the unknown. As before, my father was gazing in my direction and not at my mother, as he had been when I first discovered it. How was this possible? I distinctly remembered the way he had been looking into my mother’s eyes.

“Scotia,” my father’s image mouthed. “Please do not try to find me. You will be in mortal danger.”

Not only had the image of my father moved, it was now speaking to me! I felt faint as the blood drained from my face. I wanted to scream but I was mute. I began to clutch the picture so tightly that I felt my fingernails digging into the skin on my palms.

“Scotia, are you all right? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”

I looked up at Betty, totally unaware of my present surroundings.

“Scotia?” Betty probed.

Unable to speak, I handed Betty the picture.

“What a lovely couple. Your parents sure seem happy.”

“How did you know those were my parents?” I stammered.

“The resemblance between you and them is uncanny.” She smiled. “Your father looks as though he was totally enamoured with your mother. I mean, just look at the way he’s looking at her.”

“What? You mean he’s not looking at you?”

“No, my dear girl, he is not.”

I grabbed the picture from Betty and looked at it. What was going on? A minute ago he had been looking straight out at me and speaking, and now his image was right back to the way I remembered it. I couldn’t get my head around what was happening. Perhaps I was getting cold feet, and this was my subconscious mind playing tricks on me.

“Our stop, love,” Betty said and rose to her feet.

I followed dutifully. Although my mind was still trying to figure out what was happening with my parents’ picture, the sights and sounds of Camden were a welcome diversion.

The moment we ascended from the Underground station, I could see why Betty had been raving about Camden Market. The streets were narrow but filled with a multitude of stalls selling everything from fruits and vegetables to clothing. Tiny shops were filled to capacity. Pubs bustled with patrons who either had the day off work or had decided to play hooky that Friday. I could not wait to get acquainted with the area, and hoped to be drinking beer with the locals very soon. From what I had heard, London’s pub culture needed to be experienced rather than explained. The thrill of the market was enough to make me momentarily forget about the picture of my father.

One pub in particular appeared to stand out from the backdrop of the market. Directly across from the Underground station stood a building that seemed too ostentatious amongst the shops. Its name almost made me laugh. There in gold lettering stood the “End of the World Pub”. Its name had a pleasantly eerie quality to it. The patrons standing outside were all dressed in black, making this particular pub appear rather mysterious. The men were all gorgeous and the women were strikingly attractive. Everyone looked like they had just stepped off the pages of a Victorian-themed fashion magazine. Perhaps it was theme night at this particular pub. Did they even have those in London?

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I missed the curb and proceeded to fall like a ton of bricks. Betty tried unsuccessfully to grab me before I landed on the pavement. One of the men turned my way and started to laugh. Was he laughing at me, or had his girlfriend just told him an incredibly funny joke at the exact moment of my unfortunate luck?

“You could at least help us instead of standing there laughing at her,” Betty scolded.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love, you might blow a vein,” he responded.

“Delectable,” taunted his girlfriend.

“Talia,” reprimanded another man, “restrain yourself.” His tone made her lower her head and cower back into the pub, mate in tow.

“Sorry, madam, Talia and Darius really should mind their manners,” he said to Betty while looking intently at me. He began to walk in our direction and I became acutely aware of how completely breathtaking he was. I must have stopped breathing without realizing it, because as he got close to me he knelt down and whispered, “Breathe,” into my right ear. I gasped at the melodic tone of his English accent, and my gasp was enough to unconsciously start me breathing again.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.

“Do you think you can stand?”

“I-I’ll try.”

As soon as I tried to stand and put any weight onto my right ankle, a searing pain shot through my body. It was as if I was being poked in my ankle with hot daggers. My incredibly handsome hero seemed to wince in unison with me. Had I squeezed his arm too tightly when the pain hit?

“Well, it looks as though you may have sprained your ankle. May I check it?” As I nodded, he grasped my ankle and pressed gently. His hands were unnaturally cold, ice cold in fact, and moved delicately over my ankle as he investigated.

“Yes, it’s definitely a sprain rather than a break; I don’t feel any bones out of place that would indicate otherwise.”

Good-looking and possibly a doctor, I thought—-although he was much too young to be a doctor.

I looked down at my ankle and saw the swelling start. I groaned in disgust at my unpleasant looking injury.

“How much further do you have to go?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I responded, turning to look at Betty.

“A few more blocks,” Betty replied. She looked at me with concern. “We’ll have to hail a hackney cab.”

Before I could respond, the man whose name I still did not know interjected.

“Please, madam, allow me to carry your granddaughter to your destination. It’s the least I can do to apologize for the rudeness of the company I keep.”

“My dear boy, I could not allow you to do that,” Betty said, ignoring the granddaughter remark.

“No trouble at all, it would be my pleasure,” and before I could object, Mr. Gorgeous tied his cravat tightly around my ankle to prevent it from swelling any further and proceeded to scoop me up into his arms effortlessly. I may not have weighed two hundred pounds, but I certainly was not light, yet here he was lifting me as though I were a mere bag of groceries.

“Shall we get going?” he inquired.

Betty beamed at the sight of me in the stranger’s arms.

“Yes, love, let’s,” and with that, Betty led the way.

We walked down a few side streets and away from the central throng of the market. I was actually secretly thrilled to be in the arms of this stranger, and the funny thing about it was that I felt attracted to him in a way that I had never been attracted to another man. As we, or rather he, walked, I was able to get a better look at him. With the aid of the bright moonlight, I noticed that his eyes were an incredible shade of blue, deep and inviting, and they shimmered like two sapphires in the glow of the moon. His hair was dark brown, and his skin seemed pale against the definition of his hair and eyes. His features were superbly chiselled and masculine. Beneath my grasp, his arms felt muscular and firm. I closed my eyes and drank in his scent. Vanilla and cinnamon. That could be why I was attracted to him; he reminded me of my favourite tea, chai spice…exotic, yet somehow familiar. As I opened my eyes, I noticed that he was peering intently at me, almost as if reading my soul. At that moment the attraction that I had felt earlier started to become unbearable. I felt an incredible urge to be alone with him, just the two of us, with no inhibitions. He possibly sensed what I was feeling for he strained away from me.

“We’re here,” Betty exclaimed.

I had to force myself to look away from him. In front of me was a brightly lit shop displaying a whimsical sign.

“Angelcakes,” I whispered.

“Yes, my dear girl, Angelcakes.”

It seemed an odd name for a bakery, and I made a mental note to ask Betty why she had named her establishment such a peculiar name, instead of something more fitting like Betty’s Baked Goods or perhaps Camden Bakery.

“You can put me down now, thank you. I should be able to manage.”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll see you to your flat.”

Betty smiled again at us, and proceeded to open the door at the side of the bake shop. There in front of us was the longest staircase I had ever seen, and I wondered whether Mr. Whoever was going to carry me up all those stairs.

“Honestly, I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I’m sure I can manage to hobble up these stairs,” I implored again. For an apparently rather sensitive man he didn’t seem to see how embarrassed I was becoming. My cheeks flushed, and he leaned in once more and whispered, “Relax and just breathe.”

He flashed the most mind-blowing smile and I would have fainted had I not been in his arms. I don’t know how long we had been standing at the bottom of the staircase, gazing at each other, but it must have been a long time because Betty had already ascended to the top. It seemed as though he was hesitating, waiting to be invited in.

“Will the two of you hurry up, please? I still need to get home myself. Come in, my dear boy,” Betty said edgily.

My saviour then eased his way over the threshold and proceeded to ascend the stairs. He did not take his eyes off me the whole way up. When we were at the top, Betty opened yet another door, revealing a beautifully decorated apartment. We followed Betty down a long entryway with big-beamed hardwood floors. The walls of the entryway were painted a delicate shade of blue-grey and decorated with embroidered pictures of flowers. A black and white photo of the London skyline hung above an antique rolltop stationery desk. A stainless steel umbrella rack sat beside the desk, and a framed “Home is where the heart is” sat front and centre on the desk. As we entered the main living space, I thought that I could not have picked a more fitting London apartment for myself. A huge bay window with a cushioned seat dominated the room. To our left was a very comfortable looking loveseat. There was no television, but a modest CD player stood on an antique crate beside the sofa. An odd nook was located to our right, with a double bed complemented by a nightstand and a lamp.

“Sit, Scotia, on the settee; you must be tired,” Betty remarked.

My hero walked me over to the small sofa. As he put me down, a feeling of disappointment welled up inside me.

“My dear boy, we don’t even know your name. I think it’s only fitting that we at least know who we should thank.” Betty’s voice abruptly halted my feeling, which was a good thing because I think I would have started to cry at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Kellan.”

“Such an old name for a young chap like yourself.”

“Kellan,” I whispered. I liked the sound of his name. He must have liked the way I said it, because he smiled immediately as it rolled off my tongue.

“We should get some ice on that nasty looking ankle of yours,” Kellan announced and he walked into the kitchen. Opening the freezer, he took out a tray of ice cubes, then grabbed a little yellow tea towel that was hanging neatly from a stainless steel, daisy shaped towel hook above the sink and filled it with some ice cubes. He walked back over toward me and ever so gently placed the makeshift ice bag on my ankle. When he took off my shoe, his touch sent an electric current through my body. I gasped. Kellan must have thought that he had hurt me because his brows knit together with regret and he responded with a sincere apology.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, not at all, though when you touched me, it was as though two ice cubes were being placed over top of my ankle.”

Kellan quickly removed his hand. “Perhaps you should hold this then,” and he handed me the tea towel.

I took it and was about to tell Kellan that there was no harm done when he suddenly jumped up and said, “Well, ladies, I ought to be going. Madam, do you need me to walk you to your next destination?”

“Oh my dear boy, that would be wonderful. The streets at this time of night are not as safe as when I was Scotia’s age.” Betty winked at me.

“My pleasure, madam.”

“How did you know that Betty and I don’t live together?” I asked, curious.

Kellan smiled and pointed in the direction of the nook. “One bed and no other bedrooms.”

I was sad that Kellan was leaving. Would I ever see him again? I secretly hoped so, although I wasn’t going to hold my breath on that one.

“Will we be seeing you again?” Betty asked. I was grateful for her forwardness.

“You never know when or where chance will throw people together,” Kellen replied cagily.

“Well then, Scotia, you take care and I’ll be here in the morning to help you settle in. Keep icing your ankle and if it doesn’t look any better in the morning, we’ll go to the A&E.”

“A&E?” I asked.

“Oh right—-the accident and emergency, or as you probably call it, the emergency department,” Betty explained. “Also, Scotia, I did a big trip to the market just yesterday, so you will be delighted to know that the fridge and pantry are both fully stocked. If you get hungry, there’s lots for you to choose from. And in case you need to get a hold of me, I’ll write my number down and leave it on the desk by the front door. The phone, however, you will soon notice, is in the most unconventional spot: inside the bathroom, on the wall beside the toilet. A quirky location, thanks to my late husband.”

Betty smiled, leaned in and gave me a hug, then walked toward the long hallway, leaving Kellan staring at me.

“Take your time, Kellan. I need to go down to the bakery for a minute. I’ll call up to you when I’m ready.”

Betty hurried out of the apartment and I heard her shoes clomping down each step until she reached the bottom.

“Well, Scotia, I should go.”

“Wait, ummm, Betty said that she would call up to you when she was ready. Please stay a little longer.”

I moved my swollen leg off the sofa and motioned for Kellan to sit beside me once again. He hesitated but then perched on its edge.

“Do you live close by?”

“Pretty close.”

“Will I get the opportunity to see you again?”

“Perhaps. Listen, Scotia, you are an incredibly beautiful young woman, and I would like nothing more than to get to know you better, but my life is, well…complicated.”

“You’re involved.”

“Not in the way you think.”

I was growing tired of Kellan’s cryptic responses. At that moment, Betty called for him.

“Good-bye, Scotia.”

I thought when he leaned in that he was going to kiss me, but instead he did something strange. He actually sniffed my forehead and my hair, then he let his lips linger on my neck. He let out a groan and stood abruptly, walking down the hallway and out the door without another word. I was left staring after him like a lost puppy. I heard him meet up with Betty at the bottom of the stairs. Leaping off the sofa, I hobbled over to the window seat to stare after him. He must have sensed me at the window because he looked up.

Our eyes met and then I blacked out.