The Apothecary (5 page)
“They’re television writers.”
He looked puzzled. “Why’d they come to England to do that? There’s much more television in America.”
“Because,” I said, “well—because they believe in the First Amendment.”
Benjamin screwed up his face. “Which one is that again?”
“Freedom of speech.” I was glad to know the answer. “And the press. And, um—religion, I think.”
“But they aren’t journalists,” he said. “So what’s the thing they want to be free to say?”
I realised I didn’t know.
He narrowed his eyes merrily at me. “They aren’t Communists, are they?” he said, teasing.
“No!”
“Then what?”
“I don’t
know
,” I said, trying to say it like Katharine Hepburn would, as if she didn’t give a fig about anything so ridiculous and petty.
“I don’t care if they are,” he said. “For mind control, Communism has nothing on television. People can listen to
The
Archers
on the wireless and still have a conversation with their families, but once they’ve got a television set, it’s all over.”
I didn’t know what
The Archers
was, and Benjamin’s confidence made me feel inarticulate and naïve. So I struck out in the only way I could, and said, “Why don’t you want to be an apothecary?”
His manner changed abruptly: He became guarded and annoyed. “How do you know that?”
“Maybe I’m a better spy than you are.”
A train pulled up to the platform, and people spilled out.
I checked the destination. “This is my train,” I said, and I stepped through the open doors.
To my surprise, Benjamin boarded after me. We found two seats facing forward. My heart started pounding.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to Riverton, too,” I said coolly, to hide my confusion.
“You shouldn’t ride the train alone.”
“Why? Because strange boys might follow me?”
“How d’you know I’m supposed to be an apothecary?”
“I was in your father’s shop when you were talking to him,” I said. “But I don’t understand why you have to be one, just because your father is. That seems very—I don’t know. Nineteenth-century.”
Benjamin slumped back in his seat. “It’s not nineteenth-century, it’s just
English
,” he said. “There’s an
expectation
.”
“That you become what your father is?”
“In some cases. In my case. The Society of Apothecaries pays my school fees, and I wouldn’t be at St Beden’s without them. I’d be at some grim secondary modern, getting mullered every day.”
“Mullered?”
“Pounded on. But the Society assumes that if they pay for my school, I’ll become one of them.”
“So why don’t you want to?”
“Because it’s bloody boring! My father’s just a pill-counter!”
“He gave me a powder for homesickness.”
Benjamin looked interested. “Did it work?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. The hot water bottles did.”
Benjamin’s interest vanished, replaced by contempt. “You see? He sells hot water bottles. And ointments for babies’ nappy rash. It’s so pedestrian. There’s nothing less interesting.”
“So what do you want to be?”
He paused. “I want to live a life of travel and adventure and service to my country.”
“You want to be a soldier?”
He seemed embarrassed to have said so much. “No.”
Then I realised. He had tailed me unseen, and thought my parents were spies. “You want to be a spy!”
He frowned. “If that was true, I couldn’t tell you.”
“I think you just did tell me.”
“Well—I’d like to work for the Secret Intelligence Service,” he admitted. “In some way. But don’t tell anyone.”
I nodded. I guessed the Secret Intelligence Service must be England’s spies. I glanced across the aisle and whispered, “I think that man in the bowler hat heard you.”
He looked quickly to see, but the man was so buried in his book that he wouldn’t have noticed if the train ran off the tracks. Benjamin smiled, relieved. He looked down at his shoes. “It’s just that I’ve never told anyone,” he said.
A garbled voice came over the loudspeakers, announcing Hammersmith Station, and the train started to slow.
“This is my stop,” I said, getting up. I hated to do it. It was the first time in England that I’d felt so happy and comfortable, and I didn’t want to get off the train. Benjamin followed, and we stood facing each other on the platform as people streamed around us. Benjamin’s dark eyes were actually a warm brown, with bright flecks of copper in them, like the scattering of freckles across his nose.
I glanced away, unsettled, and tried to think what to say. It didn’t seem right to invite him to the studio, and my parents would tease me if I showed up with a boy. Across the platform, the train going the other direction pulled in.
“I should go,” Benjamin said. “I still have deliveries to make.”
“Thanks for keeping me company.”
“Listen,” he said. “What are you doing Saturday?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Meet me on the steps of the school at two and I’ll show you Hyde Park.”
“I’ll have to ask.”
“Look, if your parents let you take the Underground alone, they’ll let you go to Hyde Park.” His return train was about to leave.
“Okay,” I said.
“Terrific!” He started across the platform.
I walked away, thinking dizzily that I had a
date
, when I heard Benjamin’s voice say, “Janie, wait!”
I turned, wondering what I would do if he tried to kiss me.
“I forgot to ask,” he said. “Do you play chess?”
A
t Riverton Studios, in a grey mist, I pushed open the two heavy doors of the soundstage and walked into a green canopy of trees, warm with light. There was a rope swing hanging from one of the trees, and a log bridge. The trees were all made of fabric and papier-mâché and plywood, but the effect was beautiful. There was a hut that was clearly the heroes’ hiding place. I would have loved to play inside it when I was just a tiny bit younger—and in all honesty, I still wanted to. I didn’t see any actors, and thought they must not be filming yet. No one noticed me, and I stood for a moment taking it in.
My parents were across the soundstage, talking to a tall woman with piled-up red hair, and I could tell that my father was acting out a scene. He did that all the time—he couldn’t just suggest a story idea, he had to act it out. My mother stood with her arms crossed and watched him with her full attention, and with an expression that could be adoring one second and sceptical the next, depending on what she thought of his idea. It always made me feel that she knew him perfectly, and loved him, but couldn’t be fooled.
Then my father saw me and threw up his hands. “Ah, but here is Maid Marian!” he cried in a full Robin Hood voice. “To tell us if we should attack the knight!”
I knew, from years of scenes being acted out in our kitchen, that the thing to do was to join in, and try to move the scene forward. “Does he come to fight?” I asked.
My father looked to the others. “Why, no,” he said. “He has no horse, no men-at-arms.”
“Then you may approach,” I said. “But you mustn’t attack.”
“What wisdom,” he said, “in one so young.” Then he broke the Robin Hood character and hugged me. “You found us! Come meet Olivia!”
The redheaded woman, their new boss, didn’t shake my hand but pulled me in and hugged me warmly, too. “Thank you for lending me your parents, Janie,” she said. “They’re saving my life!”
“How was school?” my father asked. “How were the teachers?”
“They’re making me take Latin,” I complained. “But I don’t know any Latin!”
“Wait—you might actually
learn
something?” my mother said, pretending to be aghast.
I rolled my eyes.
“Mom.”
Olivia Wolff led us into her office, pushed coats off a chair for me, and perched on the edge of her cluttered desk. “Sit down,” she said. “How was it, really?”
I made a face. I couldn’t help it. “Not
everything
is bad.”
“Did you make friends?”
“Maybe one.”
“What’s her name?”
I felt myself blushing. “His name.”
Olivia clapped her hands. “
His
name! That’s a good start.”
“He invited me to play chess in Hyde Park.”
“Chess means he’s smart!” my father said. “He’s smart, right?”
“Is he nice?” my mother asked.
“Is he cute?” Olivia asked.
“Is this an interrogation?” I asked. “I thought we moved here to get away from those.”
“Touché,” my father said.
Olivia laughed. “No question—she’s your daughter.”
“So what’s your boyfriend’s name?” my mother asked.
“He’s not a boyfriend,” I said.
“That’s what my daughter always says,” Olivia said. “Any time I think she has a boyfriend, she says it’s a figment of my imagination.”
“Ah, he’s a Figment!” my father said, putting on an exaggerated English accent. “Young Master Figment, of the London Figments.”
“Fourteenth cousins to the queen!” Olivia trilled.
“I can never remember,” my mother said, “if the elder Figment son is
An
drew or
Al
istair.”
Normally I loved my parents’ quickness with jokes, and would wish for them a boss like Olivia who was just as quick, but occasionally it could be really annoying. “His name is Benjamin,” I said. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Benjamin Figment!” my father said. “I like him already. Let’s brush up your chess tonight. I don’t want my daughter shown up by a chap called Ben Figment.”
“I have homework.”
“Just let me give you a good opening.”
“Dad,”
I said. “Seriously.”
“So what’s so bad about the school?” Olivia asked. “It sounds glorious to me—Latin and chess dates and all.”
“It’s just scary,” I said. “I don’t know anyone. At lunch I sat near a Russian kid, and a girl called me a Bolshevik.”
“Ah,” Olivia said, growing serious. “Well, imagine being the Russian kid.”
“And the food is terrible.”
“Welcome to England.”
Just then, a girl in her twenties with big eyes and a wide, lipsticked smile put her head into Olivia’s office. I knew she was going to be their Maid Marian because I’d seen a photograph, but it was still startling to see her up close. I’d lived in Los Angeles long enough, at fourteen, to know that actress beauty isn’t like ordinary beauty and always seems kind of otherworldly. Her hair was set in soft curls and she had eyelashes that you could sweep the floor with. She wore a black dress with an impossibly tiny waist and a full skirt.
“They took my measurements and I’m off,” she said. “I have a date!”
“To play chess?” Olivia asked.
The girl looked confused. “No . . . we’re going dancing.”
“Of course you are,” Olivia said. “This is Janie, who just moved here from Hollywood.”
“Oh, that’s so tragically sad,” Maid Marian said. “Do you miss it terribly?”
“Yes,” I said. “But it’s just a neighbourhood.”
“Just a neighbourhood! Will you beg your parents to write some good scenes for me so
I
can go there, and be famous?”
I looked at my parents. “Uh—sure.”
“Thank you!” Maid Marian said. “Now I have to run.”
“Knock him dead,” Olivia said.
Maid Marian beamed, and the skirt disappeared out the door with a flounce. My parents and Olivia looked at one another.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“Yes, well, she’s giving me a pain,” Olivia said. “She seems to think the program is about Maid Marian and her Merry Men.”
My father said, “What if we do a story where she has to flirt with the Sheriff of Nottingham, to—I don’t know, steal the keys to the jail or something, to spring Robin. And the sheriff thinks she’s really in love with him.”
Olivia shrugged. “Maybe—then what?”
The three of them started spinning the idea out. They were happy and comfortable with one another, and good at what they did, and they didn’t treat me like a child. They treated me like one of them. I thought about the apothecary’s powder and realised I wasn’t homesick anymore.
I kept thinking, as the adults talked, about Benjamin taking a train to Hammersmith that he didn’t need to take, just because I
interested
him, and I couldn’t keep a dopey smile off my face. I had a date, I was pretty sure. It wasn’t dancing, and I didn’t have perfect curled hair and a bell-like skirt, but I had a date to play chess.
