I Conquer Britain (8 page)

A dude wearing a blue hoodie over a collarless white shirt was tiptoeing down the hallway. Just like a thief. Only I knew right away that he wasn’t a thief because of the set of house keys in his hand (and because he had a tan that hadn’t come from anywhere around Putney – not unless he’d used a lamp). It had to be the Czar. The image of being stuck in a town where the only things that happen are dawn, dusk and the weather vanished from my head. I’d been right. The Czar was exactly what I needed in my new life. A really cute, young guy who wore jeans and a silver Om symbol in one ear. He was my ticket out of the sleepy streets of the suburbs and into the dead cool London Kev told me about.

The Czar didn’t see me. He was eyeing the top of the stairs like he thought the cops might be waiting for him up there. The cops or his mom.

“Hi!” I put on the warm and friendly smile of the charming, really low-maintenance American teenager anyone in his right mind would want to hang out with. “You must be the Czar.”

He was so surprised that he totally forgot that he was on a secret mission. He jumped and hit the table in the hall, and then he turned on me like I’d pushed him or something. “Where the bloody hell did you come from?”

I held up the frying pan. “The kitchen.”

He obviously didn’t inherit the genetic disorder that makes it virtually impossible for Caroline not to smile. “What’s that for? Were you going to hit me with it?”

“Only if I had to.”

This didn’t make him laugh like it was supposed to. His eyes darted back to the top of the stairs and he lowered his voice. “Where’s my mum?”

“She’s gone to your gran’s.” I kept on beaming warmth, companionship and goodwill at him, even though I was pretty sure I was wasting my positive energy.

“That’s all right, then.” He sounded relieved. “And it’s Xar,” he corrected. “As in Alexander. You must be the Yank.” He didn’t make this sound like a particularly good thing.

“That’s right.” If I’d smiled any harder my lips would have split. “My name’s—”

“It’s some sort of fruit, isn’t it?” He turned and started up the stairs. “Strawberry,” he guessed.

“No, it’s—”

“Oh, I remember,” he said without turning around. “It’s Cherry.”

“Actually, it’s Cherokee,” I shouted after him.

“Right,” he said as he reached the landing. “Like the car.”

“No, like the Indian tribe.”

He vanished into his room. That’s the trouble with hope, I thought. It leads you on. I was still standing there, gazing up the stairs, when he came running back down carrying a small satchel, a lot like the one that Bart ate. Why is there never a destructo pig around when you really want one?

“Tell my mother I won’t be in for supper,” he commanded as he strode back down the hall. “Something’s come up.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’d be delighted to.” I caught a glimpse of a small red car parked in front of the house before the front door banged behind him. If you asked me, I was right about calling him the Czar. He definitely acted like he thought he was better than everybody else. I stuck my tongue out at the empty hall. “Nice to meet you, too, your majesty.”

After my encounter of the third kind with the king of rudeness, I went back upstairs with my tea. There was an email from Bachman (the friend I really needed) waiting for me. I would’ve shrieked with joy if I didn’t know Robert would start thumping on the ceiling. Bachman said Bruce Lee wanted me to know he was really sorry for barfing all over me like that, and that he wanted me to know that he was sorry for getting on my case about going.
Rain sounds pretty good
, wrote Bachman.
It’s already so hot I feel like my skin’s starting to melt
. He was working in his dad’s hardware store, which meant he was pretty much sitting at the computer (except when he had to go get somebody some nails or cut a key or something), so I wrote him right back. And that’s how I spent my first afternoon in London – emailing Bachman in Brooklyn. At least I made
him
laugh. He said he was tempted to go into
Smiling Pizza
for lunch and ask for a knife and fork. He figured he’d get his picture in the neighbourhood paper. He wanted to know if I still wanted him to rescue Sophie from the insanity of my family.
If the cops see me walking around with a girl all in pink carrying a bunch of stuffed toys they’re going to arrest me
. He wanted to know what I was doing on the weekend, since I was missing the Mermaid Parade.
Having lunch with the Queen?
I said we were having a barbecue tomorrow.
Oh, right…
Bachman answered.
Now I understand what they mean by the global village
. He cracked me up.

C
aroline and Robert were both in the kitchen when I went down for breakfast the next morning.

Robert was staring out into the garden. He turned to look at me over his shoulder. “They used to say that the sun never set on the British Empire, but it’s possible that was because it never actually shone on it in the first place.” He waved towards the window. “Wouldn’t you know it’s pissing down?” (How poetic – he wasn’t a writer for nothing.)

“Plan a barbecue and you’re guaranteed rain,” said Caroline. “Sod’s Law again.”

Or Murphy’s.

“Well, all’s not lost.” Caroline put a pot of tea on the table and a metal rack filled with toast (there really seemed to be no limit to English ingenuity). “We can have a nice family dinner instead. I’ll bring Mum round so she can meet Cherry.”

Robert rolled his eyes at me. “She means get it over with.”

“That is not what I mean.” Caroline’s smile looked really determined. “Mum’s looking forward to this.”

I said, “Oh, me too.” I figured a normal old lady would be a nice change from my gran

Robert sighed. “I suppose there’s no getting around it.” He gave his eyes another roll. “I can’t wait.”

I was standing on my head (a perspective that made the bedroom look slightly better) when I heard the BMW pull up in front of the house. To tell the truth, I didn’t hear the BMW, what I heard were the dogs. One second the only sounds were the occasional muffled grunt or thud from Robert above me or a car passing by, and the next it sounded like somebody had opened the gates of Hell and let out the hounds.

I came out of the pose and went to the window.

Caroline was standing on the sidewalk by the passenger’s door holding her flowery umbrella, while two brown and white spaniels hurled themselves against her, barking hysterically like she had fresh meat in her pockets.

I’d thought I had a pretty good idea of what Caroline’s mother was like. I figured she was going to be one of those sweet, frail, dithery old English ladies like Miss Marple (but probably not a crack detective). You know, in the grey skirt and pastel blouse and an old straw hat with a flower on it. The kind who’s always forgetting where she put her knitting. I leaned forward as Caroline opened the door to see how good a guess I’d made.

I wasn’t even close. (Lesson for Today: Don’t get fooled by stereotypes!)

“Oh, for God’s sake, Caroline!” She barked louder than the dogs. “How can I possibly get out when you’re blocking my way?”

Caroline took a step backwards, and moved the umbrella forwards. “I’m so sorry, Mum. I was only trying to—”

“And get that bloody umbrella away from me. You’re going to poke my eye out.”

“I’m sorry,” bleated Caroline. “But you’ll get wet.”

“It’s water,” roared her mother. “Not acid. If you want to be useful see that the boys don’t knock me down.”

Pinning the umbrella under her arm, Caroline grabbed hold of the dogs and hauled them back from the car to let her mother out.

Caroline’s mother (otherwise known as Poor Old Mum) probably didn’t even know what sweet and frail meant. She was built like a silo. And forget the grey skirt and pastel blouse and straw hat malarkey. She was wearing an electric-blue pants suit, matching turban and enough gold jewellery to sink a rowboat. She looked more like some eccentric Queen than Miss Marple. (One who’s always giving orders and lopping off people’s heads.)

“Drake! Raleigh!” she bellowed as she heaved herself out of the car on her walking stick. “Settle down!”

The dogs had been yanking Caroline in all directions, but they immediately dropped to the ground. They knew their master’s voice when they heard it.

“You have to let them know you’re boss,” snapped Poor Old Mum. And she marched past Caroline, who was struggling with the dogs and the umbrella again and trying to lock the car at the same time, and up the path pretty spryly for someone whose back was wracked with incredible pain.

I didn’t know if I should just go downstairs and introduce myself or wait to be called. I opened the door to my room while I was thinking about it. I could hear Poor Old Mum in the kitchen. She had a voice that was loud enough to call the pigs in five counties, and that wasn’t even when she was shouting. That was when she was just having a conversation.

“Of course I’m not going to say anything,” she was bellowing. “What do I care if she looks like Morticia Addams?”

In comparison, Caroline’s voice was like the rustle of leaves in the next yard, but I figured that whatever she was saying the words “I’m so sorry” were probably involved.

“Are you implying
I’m
not diplomatic?” boomed Poor Old Mum. “Have you forgotten that my Uncle Farquah was in the Foreign Office? Diplomacy is in my blood.”

Rustle … rustle … rustle … rustle…

“You do exaggerate, don’t you, Caroline? It was all a silly misunderstanding. And he certainly didn’t start a war. It was nothing more than a border skirmish.”

I decided to go down, but I only got as far as the bottom of the stairs when Hell’s spaniels came charging out of the kitchen, barking like police dogs trying to tell you that there’s a little kid down the well.

“Drake! Raleigh!” Robert appeared in the doorway with a glass of wine in his hand. “Get back here!”

It was just as well he’s a writer and not a dog trainer. They kept right on coming. But if you’ve ever been chased by a demented pig or an aggressive rooster a couple of dopey dogs are nothing. I stepped to one side as they got close and they hurtled past me, their ears flapping like they were trying to fly. The first one hit the door and the second hit him.

Robert gave me a wink. “That’s one for our side.” He waved me towards him with his glass. “Why don’t you come on in and meet the owner of the worst-behaved dogs in Putney?”

I said it would be a dream come true.

“There you go!” Robert gave me another wink. “That’s the spirit that tamed the wilderness.”

Caroline’s mother looked even more like a queen when she was sitting down. She was still wearing the turban and she was sort of looming over the table, holding a wine-glass and talking at Caroline (who was at the counter, doing something disgusting to a chicken) at top volume. She broke off when Robert, the dogs and I all arrived in the room. She wasn’t a woman to wait for introductions.

“So, you’re the Yank,” she boomed. “From the Wild West.”

I remembered to smile. “Actually, I’m from the Industrialized East.”

“I think I could use a top up,” said Robert. “Anybody fancy another drink?”

Caroline wiped her hands on her apron and came over and put an arm across my shoulder. “Mum, this is Cherry. Cherry, this is—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Caroline, she knows who I am.” She held out her empty glass to Robert, but her eyes were still on me. “You may call me Mrs Payne.”

Otherwise known as Mrs Pain in the Butt.

I was overcome with gratitude of course. “Thanks.” You can call me Ms Salamanca.

“So…” Mrs Payne leaned forward, looking straight into my eyes like The Grand Inquisitor. “What do you think of this sceptered isle so far? Is it what you expected?”

Caroline was obviously right. Her mother was about as diplomatic as a nuclear bomb. But I’m used to feisty grandmothers, and I wasn’t going to let this one think we read nothing but cowboy novels back in the Wild West. I’d done Shakespeare. “You mean this royal throne of kings, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars?” I had to hand it to her. She didn’t so much as blink. “Well I think England’s—”

“Britain,” snapped Mrs Payne. “We’re one country, you know. Great Britain.”

Robert opened the refrigerator. “I’m afraid that, technically, Cherry’s right, Bea,” he called. “After all, we are in England, aren’t we? She hasn’t quite got round to seeing the entire British Isles yet.”

Mrs Payne made a what-a-revolting-taste kind of face and steamed on as though he hadn’t spoken. “Except for Ireland of course. The Irish always have to go against us.”

I decided not to mention the Irish martyrs.

“Well…” She tapped her cane impatiently. I was willing to bet she used it even when her back was fine to beat the peasants away. “Have you formed no opinion?”

I felt like saying that since I hadn’t even left the house yet my opinion was based on the airport, the ride from the airport and about twelve hours of gardening shows on the telly last night (people in green boots squelching through the mud talking in Latin), but I caught the nervous smile on Caroline’s face. “It’s not exactly like I thought,” I said. “Eng—Britain. It’s more like America than—”

Mrs Pain in the Butt didn’t let me finish. “What total tosh. It’s nothing like America. We have centuries of history and tradition here, I’ll have you know. Centuries. All you lot have is progress. Everything’s about tomorrow. You never give a thought to yesterday, you just plough it under like dead leaves.”

“If you’re talking about the Indians—” I was going to point out that it was the English who started wiping out the Indians but she didn’t give me a chance.

“I’m talking about everything. You people have no sense of the past whatsoever. In this country we respect the past. It means something. It’s part of who we are.”

I made sure I didn’t look over at Caroline. “From what I saw coming from the airport, part of who you are, are baseball caps and
Gap
and
Nike
sportswear.”

Behind me Robert whispered, “That’s two for our side.”