Sisterchicks Go Brit! (24 page)

W
ith a smile
still on my lips, I exited Westminster Abbey with Kellie close behind and stepped into the dusk of the calm London evening. The air had cooled, and waves of a faint scent of diesel rose from the damp asphalt. We were back in the real world.

“I have an idea,” Kellie said. “This is along the lines of what I was trying to set up yesterday, but this time I won’t keep it a surprise. I was thinking, what if we took the tube under the river, did a loop through Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, walked under the London Eye, and then came across the Westminster Bridge and got a view of Parliament and Big Ben from the riverside? Or we could take a bus over to St. Paul’s, see if there’s enough time to tour it, and then take a boat ride down the Thames and come toward Ben with a true river view. It could be dramatic.”

I laughed. At the moment I thought Kellie was the one being dramatic, but I didn’t mention that to her.

“What? I’m serious. I want this next encounter of yours with Big Ben to be memorable.”

“It sounds like you’ve been spending way too much time with your map of London.”

“That’s what I was doing yesterday while I was in the hotel room praying you would find your way back. I was trying to figure out where you would get off, what you would do, and where I should look for you. That’s when I realized how much more we need to see.”

“I know, but, Kellie, really, it’s enough. Everything we’ve seen and done so far. It’s enough. It’s bountiful. All I want to do now is take a closer look at Ben and take a bunch of pictures. I’ll go home tomorrow a content woman. Besides, what was it you said earlier about needing to leave a few things for when we come next time?”

“You’re right. One day I would love to come back.”

“Me too.”

Kellie’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m glad you said that, Liz. My senses are beginning to hit overload.”

The closer we walked to the River Thames, the more we commented on how the Houses of Parliament stretch much farther along the waterfront than we had imagined from the photos. They reminded me of an enormous sandcastle, complete with turrets, towers, and that great golden shade of summer wheat. And there, at the forefront of this masterpiece, stood Ben with his ornate spire piercing the evening sky.

We made our way to the other side of the very busy intersection by taking an underground walkway that brought us up at the beginning of the Westminster Bridge, directly across the street from the monolith.

I stepped closer to the bridge’s edge, away from the dense stream of pedestrians. Planting my feet, I pulled out my camera, ready for my first shot.

But then, realizing we hadn’t been properly introduced yet, I gazed up one more time at Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, and with the timidity of a fifteen-year-old, I said, “Hello.”

At that moment something magical happened.

Ben’s face lit up.

“Did you see that?” Kellie had just snapped a picture of me in front of Ben.

I laughed. “It’s just like my poem!”

“What poem?”

“I didn’t tell you? Mrs. Roberts had me write a poem about Big Ben. I’m not sure I remember all of it.”

“Well, try,” Kellie said, caught up in the charm of the moment.

“It was something like,

Kellie laughed uproariously.

“I was fifteen,” I protested, feeling my cheeks burn.

“No, I’m not laughing at you. I love it! His face did light up just for you.”

I looked up at him again. “Yeah, it did, didn’t it?”

We were like two schoolgirls on the playground. I had a crush on Ben, and he had acknowledged my adoration by lighting up and smiling back at me. It was all very silly, I know, but that face-to-face encounter was above and beyond anything I had ever hoped.

Kellie and I snapped pictures like crazy, caught up in the delight of the moment. We bent backward for long shots, we knelt down for upward shots. We did zooms and tried out the special sepia-tone feature on Kellie’s camera.

The sky seemed to be in on the stage direction because it provided the perfect evening backdrop. The violet shades had deepened and were now streaked with fluttering ribbons of elongated pink and orange clouds. As the daylight dimmed, a few stars appeared. We didn’t know if they would show up in the pictures, but we tried to capture them in the shots.

“Isn’t there a line in
Peter Pan
about ‘take the first star and turn right’?” Kellie asked.

“The line is, ‘second star to the right and straight on ’til morning.’ That’s what Peter Pan says when he flies past Big Ben with Wendy and the boys on their way to Neverland. And look at you, quoting British literature. Kellie, I’m impressed!”

“Attempting
to quote British literature. It’s your influence on me this week.”

We silently gazed at the scene before us that was much grander than anything I had pictured in my imagination when Peter Pan sprinkled pixie dust on the Darling children and they flew with him all the way to Neverland. This night, in the real world, with the breathtaking sky spread so generously over London’s rooftops, I thought how the stars looked like glittering jewels in an unseen crown that drifted in the heavens just over the top of Big Ben.

“Do you want to hear what I’ve been thinking?” Kellie asked.

“Always.”

“I was thinking of the guy who sat by you at
Les Misérables
and how we were trying to remember that verse about every knee bowing to Jesus Christ and declaring Him as Lord.”

“I’ve thought about that since the play as well.”

“Well, I’m just thinking how incredible that day is going to be when we do finally see Christ face to face. I mean, here we are, all choked up over the face of a clock and what this moment represents to you. But think of what it’s going to be like when we stand before Almighty God, the Ruler of all powers and principalities, and look into His face at last.”

Neither of us spoke for a long moment.

“Hmmm,” Kellie murmured.

I noticed she had a funny little grin on her face.

“What?”

“I don’t mean to sound silly at a moment like this, but Peter Pan only got to fly away to Neverland. When we go to be with the Lord, we get to fly away to Everland!”

I smiled back at my witty friend. It had been years since I had felt this sense of delight when it came to talking about God. Everything about my faith felt new again and fresher than ever.

The rosy glow lingered the rest of our final night in London. We strolled for hours over the Westminster Bridge and then back up the road to Trafalgar Square, where we took flash-assisted photos under the great lion statues and dipped our fingers in the fountain under the gaze of the immensely tall statue of Lord Nelson.

We returned to the hotel and reluctantly packed our suitcases before we went to bed so we could start our trek back to Olney early in the morning.

Our familiarity with the various modes of transportation helped as we took the underground, then a train, then a coach, and then a cab that pulled up at Rose’s front door.

I smiled when my feet touched the “Go Away” mat. Such wit. Did I understand it entirely after such a short visit? No. But I felt at home in the humor and in the breakfast room of Rose’s cottage.

Rose greeted us affectionately, which was a bit of a surprise.
She had prepared a pot of tea, of course, and had everything ready for us when we arrived. Opal remained in the bedroom, scurrying to “collect her things.” Kellie and I sipped a cheering cuppa with Rose while we waited.

“Virgil is determined to drive you to the airport,” Rose said calmly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine.” Leaning closer I asked, “How did everything go this week between Virgil and Opal?”

Her eyes lit up. They looked just like Opal’s shiny blue marble eyes looked when Virgil had entered the house before the pancake race with his floppy chef’s hat on. “Why do you ask?”

“I had the impression Opal was sweet on Virgil and vice versa.”

She blinked and appeared to blush. I couldn’t believe how similar the twins’ mannerisms were. They were probably even more in tandem after spending this time together.

Before Rose could give me the inside scoop, Opal shuffled into the breakfast room, and the first thing our eyes went to were her hot pink running shoes.

“Do you plan to run another race this morning?” Kellie asked.

I wanted to giggle, but I didn’t.

“Only the race of life,” Opal said philosophically. “My sister said they would be a good choice for the airport.”

“I think Rose is right,” I said.

“I hope she is this time.” Opal gave a long, pensive sigh.

“I am.” Rose smiled with confidence. She got up from her chair easily while her sister scowled.

What had the two sisters disagreed over now? Kellie and I had speculated earlier that it might be difficult for the two of them to part ways, but it seemed they were ready to return to their lives on either side of the Atlantic.

“Virgil should be here any moment.” Rose began to clear the table.

Kellie and I offered to help Opal with her luggage. By the time we had wrestled her bag to the car, Virgil was standing by the boot, finding creative ways to make all of it fit. He greeted us cheerfully as usual. “Your carriage awaits, your majesty.”

Opal looked at Virgil with a shadow of disapproval. In that one look was the answer to my question: love had not blossomed between these two. Hope, it seemed, did not spring eternal.

I returned to the front door, where Rose looked on, her expression reflecting a soft glow. She seemed much more agreeable than she had when we first arrived. I gave her a hug and thanked her again for her gracious hospitality.

Reaching for my hand, she said, “Elizabeth, my dear, do you know what the dearest kindness is that a woman can offer herself in the autumn of her years?”

I shook my head. It seemed odd that she was calling me Elizabeth, the way Virgil did.

“It is the gift of giving herself permission to take risks.”

And then she winked at me.

Kellie was behind me. She gave Rose her thanks, accompanied by a warm hug. “We’ll take care of your sister.”

Rose grinned. “She’s quite capable of taking care of herself. I’m sure she’ll make that clear soon enough.”

We squished into the backseat with our smaller pieces of luggage, and with a final wave, we were off to the airport, this time without Boswald.

As we drove past the impressive parish church that had been the location of the pancake breakfast after the race, Kellie said, “I’m surprised that your church is so large. We visited several churches in Oxford, and all of them were more the size of chapels.”

“We had a famous minister,” Opal said. “Have you heard of John Newton?”

I thought I had, but I didn’t know why his name sounded familiar. Kellie answered no for both of us.

“Perhaps you know some of his hymns.”

Without further prompting, Virgil broke into a deep-voiced rendition of “Amazing Grace” while Opal shot him disagreeable glances.

“I’ve always loved that hymn,” Kellie said.

“He wrote that about the time you Yanks were busy trying to make a break from King George and form your own independent nation,” Opal added as commentary. “Newton was a slave trader, you know. Not quite the reputable hymn writer one might expect.”

“Yes,” Virgil added. “Yet from such a background comes appreciation for grace, don’t you think?” He caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

I nodded, and as if that was the only invitation he needed, Virgil said, “The twins knew me in my former days. Hooligan that I was, you might say I’ve come to acquire an appreciation for grace, just as Newton did.”

Opal was staring out the window, purposefully not engaged in Virgil’s tiny confession, even though it was the sanest collection of sentences we had heard him offer during our short acquaintance.

With a glance at Opal, he added wistfully, “A great strength lies in letting go of what was past and entering what is now. We all are given only so many days on this earth.”

Opal seemed unaffected by his words. If that was his last-ditch effort to garner her affection, the attempt had failed. Poor Virgil. There was so much to love about this strong, individualistic man.

Neither Kellie nor I tried to enter the conversation that seemed to be taking place between the lines and in the front seat only. But we exchanged looks, as if both of us were keenly aware of the way Rose’s slightly sour attitude had rubbed off on her twin during their time together.

Virgil didn’t say another word until he offered his farewell to us at the airport. The good-bye to Opal was stiff and involved no eye contact. The eternal romantic in me felt a soft sadness. I had hoped the two of them would share a sweet sort of renewed love during their time together. Apparently Cupid’s arrows had missed their mark.