Dreaming in Technicolor (27 page)

When we returned to the flat later that night, I sent Lindsey an apologetic e-mail and then checked my messages. There was a darling e-card from Lexie with a puppy on the front that wagged its tail while my niece's message appeared: “I love you and miss you, Aunt Phoebe.

Please come home
soon
.”

Her mom had sent an accompanying e-mail:

To: Movielovr
From: Kgrants7

Hi, Pheebs. How's it going? Did you like Lexie's card? She picked it out, but I did the typing for her. Hey, guess what Ash and I did today in homage to you? Went to afternoon tea. One of my girlfriends told me about this elegant tearoom up in Sacramento, so I took Ashley there, and we had a fun girls-only day. It was great. Lots of china and lace and girly stuff to ooh and aah over. And the food! Little sandwiches and scones and sweets . . . I didn't think those things could fill me up, but we were stuffed afterward. It was nice to have the time together, especially since we haven't been seeing eye-to-eye much lately. Ashley has a huge crush on this boy in her class—not a Christian—and is starting to behave like a typical teenager. Ah, the joys of motherhood. Hope you're still having a great time. Sure do miss you. See you soon.

Love, Karen

I hit reply.

To: Kgrants7
From: Movielovr

Hi, Karen. Loved Lexie's card! Please tell her I said so. Sure do miss that little munchkin. The rest of you too. Isn't teatime a kick? Don't worry about Ashley too much; I went through the same thing when I was her age and look at me—I turned out okay. Gotta dash. Love to all. —P.

But did I turn out okay? Or is Mary Jo right and I'm too much of a
dreamer for my own good? No time to think about that right now; need
to write my column. So much more fun than writing about emus and
Christy Sharp's salt-and-pepper–shaker collection.

N
OTES FROM
A
BROAD

For years, the Brits have gotten a bad rap for their food. And I have to admit that so far, it's been a bit hit-and-miss: The sausage is far too soft and squishy for my Jimmy Dean taste buds. The scrambled eggs are either too runny or powdery (one morning I'm sure we were served instant eggs from a box!). And don't even get me started on the curries (can you say incendiary?).

Ah, but those English cheeses—especially the Double Gloucester cheddar. Sheer bliss.

And the one aspect of England's culinary offerings that has never been a miss for me is the tea. I have been enjoying several “cuppas” a day, with milk and sugar, of course, and am enamored not only with the beverage, but with all the customs that attend its service.

I've also discovered, however—in a very inconvenient time and place—that tea is a diuretic.

I'm sure the other passengers in the Underground car with me that day wondered what strange American dance ritual I was practicing. They didn't have to wonder long. At the very next stop, I pushed my way out, my traveling pal Mary Jo hard on my heels—only to discover there were no loos to be found anywhere in the entire station!

Just what is it with this country and public restrooms—or the lack of them? I can understand Westminster Abbey's not having one, since it's so old and a national monument. But a subway station that thousands of people pass through daily? Seems like that would be a no-brainer.

In the end, I had to race up three flights of stairs and down an entire city block before finding a zero-star restaurant with loo accommodations that harkened back to the reign of Henry VIII. And don't even get me started on the toilet paper. I have only two words to say on that subject:
waxed paper
.

English bathtubs are another interesting phenomenon. Can you say narrow? I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that one should be very careful to stand up before letting out all the water—to avoid winding up like that kid at the flagpole in
A Christmas Story
.

Don't get me wrong. I'm head over heels, totally in love with this land of kings and castles, churches and cathedrals, Shakespeare and sonnets. The great lexicographer Samuel Johnson once said, “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,” and I couldn't agree more. I'm just going to go a little easy on the tea from here on out.

Either that, or skip the subway.

Cheerio!

Your Overseas Correspondent

[chapter fifteen]

Clueless in the Cotswolds

b
right and early the next morning, Ian appeared to take us out to breakfast, but Delia and I might just as well have remained behind in the flat. The tall, young Englishman had eyes only for Mary Jo and hung on her every word.

The funny thing was: she couldn't see it.

“That Ian's sure a nice kid,” she said as we headed west toward the Cotswolds in Delia's BMW.

“A nice kid with a crush,” I said with a grin.

“On who?” she asked, turning to face Delia. “You?”

“Not hardly.” Delia met my laughing eyes in the rearview mirror.

MJ swiveled around to look at me. “You, Pheebs? That's great! He's very smart. Knows loads about horses. Sweet, too.”

“Yeah. Sweet on you, Ms. Hasn't Got a Clue.”

“What?” She gave me an incredulous look. “You're crazy.”

“And you're clueless, Alicia Silverstone. The guy is smitten.”

She turned to Delia. “Will you please tell Phoebe that she's lost her mind?”

“Can't do that, MJ,” Delia said. “I'm afraid you're the one whose mind isn't working properly. Once he met you, he hardly said a word to anyone else.”

“You've both lost it.” Mary Jo shook her head. “I think you inhaled too much of that Marmite goop and it's done something to your brains.”

“Not true,” Delia said. “I've known Ian a long time, and you had him mesmerized.”

“Right.” Mary Jo snorted. “With my stimulating conversation
about oat mash, snaffle bits, and manure.”

“Ian would eat all that up.” Delia tore open a bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps. “He majored in business with me and did quite well, but he's decided what he really wants is to be a vet. He's researching veterinary schools at present.”

“Well, that explains it. He's just interested in my horse tales.”

“He was interested in a lot more than your horse tales,” I said. “Trust me on that.”

MJ pushed her maple-colored hair behind her ears. “But he's just a kid—must be at least ten years younger than me.”

“How old are you?” Delia asked.

“Same as Phoebe—thirty-two.”

“Hey,” I protested from the backseat, “I still have a couple more months until I'm that old. I'm only thirty-one.”

“And Ian's twenty-five.” Delia slid a sideways smirk at Mary Jo. “Which makes him only
seven
years younger than you.”

“Like I said. A kid.” Mary Jo dismissed the subject and glanced out the window. “Ooh, look! Reminds me of a Thomas Kinkade painting.”

“Only so much better because it's real.” I drank in the pastoral tableau of honey-colored stone cottages nestled amid lush green hills.? “Now I see why everyone insists this area of England is a must. It's like something out of a fairy tale.”

The fairy tale continued as we visited the first stop on Delia's tour: Bourton-on-the-Water, pronounced “Burton” and nicknamed “the Venice of the Cotswolds” because the River Windrush flowed through the center of town.

“You call that a river?” Mary Jo looked down at the gentle meandering water and grinned. “Definitely no whitewater rafting here.”

“Who cares?” I looked around in wonderment. “This reminds me of
Brigadoon
.”

Delia and Mary Jo both gave me blank looks.

“The mystical Scottish village in the musical of the same name. The movie starred Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse?”

More blank looks.

“With the gorgeous song, ‘The Heather on the Hill'?”

Shrugged shoulders accompanied the blank looks now.

I sighed. Alex would have gotten the old-movie reference.

The only downside to the whole day was the weather—misty and in the high thirties, which MJ's thin California blood couldn't tolerate. Mine, although thickened by years in the Midwest, was also having a difficult time of it. We shivered through our first few stops, then at the Cotswold shopping paradise of Broadway, made a beeline to the Edinburgh Woolen Mill—with Delia laughing at us the whole way.

MJ had barely made it through the doors before she clapped a red knit hat over her icy ears. And try as I might, I couldn't talk MJ out of a sky-blue fleece jacket dotted with cutesy sheep on a green hill. (I picked up a Scottish plaid scarf that went well with my gray tweed blazer.)

Once outside again, I pulled my blazer tighter as the wind sliced through me. “Hang on a second.” Two minutes later I returned with my own fleece jacket.

Minus the sheep.

Yes, the extra bulk made me look fat, but at this point, warmth was more important than my vanity. Besides, it was just us girls, so who cared?

Later that afternoon, we ended our Cotswolds minitour with a cuppa in the tranquil village of Lower Slaughter. MJ leaned back in her chair, looked out the tearoom window at the live sheep grazing on the hillside, and took a big gulp of fresh country air enhanced with the scents of tea, butter, and chocolate. “It doesn't get much better than this,” she sighed. “Sure, London's exciting, and Oxford's fascinating, but at the end of the day, this is really what I like.” She stretched. “The only thing that would make it complete is a good, long ride.”

“You can have that tomorrow.” Delia said, turning to me with an anxious look. “I talked to Mum, and she'd really like you to come for lunch and a ride. Is that all right?”

I looked at Delia, then Mary Jo, who was doing her best not to look too eager. “Sure. I'd love to see your mother again. But tomorrow's Monday. Don't you have to get back to the office?”

“Actually, I managed a bit of holiday.” She crinkled her nose into a smile. “Sometimes being related to the boss can be an advantage. Especially when the boss's
wife
puts in a special word.”

“Well, then, we accept with pleasure,” I said, but added, “as long as I don't have to do the riding bit. Not really my thing.”

Delia looked puzzled, then her face cleared. “Ah, I see. That was for George's benefit, right?”

“You got it.”

“No worries.” She slid a sly glance at me. “George won't be there tomorrow.”

Thank you, Lord. Now I can wear my Manolos in peace.

“Look, MJ,” I squealed, “It's Tiddles!”

“Who?”

“Tiddles the church cat,” I explained. “Norm Anderson mentioned it when he was trying to get approval from the Barley Cemetery Board to let him erect a monument to his pet pig. Said when he was stationed in England, he saw a memorial to Tiddles the cat in a country churchyard. But I thought he just made it up to strengthen his case.” I walked around the diminutive concrete cat-shaped memorial. “Guess he didn't. I mean, how many Tiddles the church cats can there be?” I dug around in my purse. “I've got to get a picture for him.”

Mary Jo snapped a picture of me in front of the cement cat, whose tiny grave marker said he'd lived from 1963 to 1980. Then we wandered inside the church attached to the churchyard. The sign outside told us it was called St. Mary's. And according to our guidebook, St. Mary's in the village of Fairford contained England's only complete set of “medieval narrative glass.”

The church was dim as we stepped inside. No surprise—it was cloudy outside. But when the sun peeked through a few minutes later, the windows—all twenty-eight of them—sprang to unbelievable, vivid life.

Every stained-glass scene depicted a chapter of the salvation story, beginning with Eve taking the apple in the Garden of Eden and going through Jesus' birth, crucifixion, and resurrection. And although every window was exquisite, the one that brought me to my knees and kept me there for some time was the one of Jesus sitting enthroned on a blue and gold rainbow with the earth as his footstool. And encircling Jesus were all the martyrs and heavenly host in a background of brilliant blood red.