Tea & Antipathy (21 page)

“Percy Snell is an idiot,” I said. “I talked to him on the phone and I could tell.”

“The fact that Percy Snell is an idiot,” Jordan said, in measured tones, “is beside the point. The law is on her side. She's coming on the twelfth.”

“That's the day we're leaving.”

“Percy Snell will take her around the house. We won't have to see her.”

Mrs. Grail, too, had heard from our landlady. “Ah, the cheek of the creature,” she said. “I've had another note from her and I've burned it. Ah, they think they own the world. And today someone called and asked to speak to me, and I said, ‘Who is it calling please?' and she said, very nasty, ‘What difference does it make to you? I want to speak to Mrs. Grail.' And I said, ‘This is Mrs. Grail speaking,' and she said, ‘Oh, Mrs. Grail, I'm sorry, but I didn't know it was you.'”

“She thought it was me. I,” I said, stung but still grammatical.

“Ah, the cheek of them. So she said, ‘Mrs. Stackpole would like you to call her or can she come to see you,' and I said, ‘I work nights and I have no time.' And I hung up on her, the cheeky thing. Of course it's a lie about working nights, but I won't see her, and I'll never see her, the snip. And I'll tell you another thing,” she said, dropping her voice. “She's never gone to Scotland at all, and she's been here in Knightsbridge the whole time, watching us. I saw her the other day.”

When Sunday rolled around again, we congratulated ourselves. “We don't have to go visiting anymore,” we said to each other. “The whole day is at our disposal.” The sun was shining fitfully; it was cool but not cold.

“Today could we take a sightseeing bus?” Eric asked. He had noticed sightseeing buses driving about London and I had promised him that one day we would go on a sightseeing bus tour.

“Yes,” Jordan said. “We have the whole day to ourselves and today we will take a sightseeing bus.”

We took a cab to the bus depot and found a line of people waiting to mount a line of buses.

“Where does this bus go?” Jordan asked the elderly uniformed attendant. The elderly attendant ignored Jordan.

“Where does this bus go?” Jordan asked again, still pleasantly.

“Why doesn't he
answer
you?” I asked, enraged.

“Never mind,” Jordan said. “Let's get into line.”

As we stood in line, I reminded Jordan of the elderly movie theater attendant who had snubbed him, the elderly attendant in the supermarket who had jerked her chin wordlessly at the
next aisle when I asked her where the bread was, the uniformed attendant at the Tower of London who had barked at a compatriot of ours for taking pictures of the front gate at a distance of some twenty feet.

“Calm down,” Jordan said.

I mentioned the uniformed individual who, just after Jordan and Mark and two adults had disembarked, had slammed the door of the Underground train, narrowly missing Eric and Bruce and me. We were trapped on the train, huddled against the doors along with two little frightened girls, whose frustrated parents stood outside beating against the glass, while Jordan tried with superhuman effort to pry the doors open again. He kept shouting at the attendant to open the doors, and the attendant kept shouting at him to get away from the doors. Jordan stepped back from the doors, and the train sped away. At the next stop, I shepherded the little girls and my sons onto a train going back. The little girls had tried to get on another train going forward, an action which would have separated them from their parents indefinitely, or possibly forever.

“Calm down,” Jordan repeated.

“I'll never calm down,” I said. “I'll never be the same again.”

The attendant came by and thrust a pamphlet into Jordan's hand.

“This bus passes Harrods and Buckingham Palace and St Paul's and the Houses of Parliament,” Jordan said.

We've seen them all already,” I said.

“We've seen them a thousand times,” Bruce said.

“I want to take a sightseeing bus,” Eric said. “You said we could take a sightseeing bus.”

“I said we could take a sightseeing bus,” Jordan told him, “but this sightseeing bus takes us to see sights we've already seen.”

“You've seen Buckingham Palace,” Bruce said.

“I want to see the sights,” Eric said. “You said we could.”

Several people turned and looked at us.

“You've already seen them,” I said, in a low voice. “Why should we spend money to see things we've seen?”

“Don't argue with him,” Mark said loudly. Everybody turned and looked at us.

“Be quiet,” Jordan said.

“Oh, this is very embarrassing,” I said.

“I want to see the sights,” Eric said. He began to cry, very loudly.

There was another bus depot across the street.

“We'll take another sightseeing bus,” Jordan said.

Eric was crying too loudly to hear him.

“Stop crying,” Mark said.

Eric continued to cry.

“We'll take,” I said, “Eric …”

We had attracted considerable attention. Jordan seized Eric's hand and dragged him off; a long wail trailed after them. Bruce and I followed, and Mark sauntered behind us, trying to pretend that he didn't know us. In the bus depot across the street, Jordan attempted to communicate with Eric.

“Stop … crying,” he said slowly.

“Want … see …”

“We'll take a Green Line bus,” Jordan said. “These are sightseeing buses.”

Eric caught his breath. “Okay,” he said finally.

“See, it says ‘Tours',” Bruce said.

“I don't know why he always has to have his own way,” Mark said.

Jordan went up to a young man at a counter, and asked him what tour he would suggest. The young man hesitated. “There's a nice one to Hindhead,” he said. Jordan turned to us. I was giving Eric a tissue so he could blow his nose.

“He says there's a nice one to Hindhead,” Jordan said.

“Is that better than the one marked ‘Thames Valley'?” I asked.

“She wants to know if that's better than the one called ‘Lower Thames Valley.'” Jordan said.

“Oh, they're all nice,” the young man said.

“What's in Hindhead?” Jordan asked him.

“Oh, it's on the road to Portsmouth,” the man answered. “It's on the Portsmouth road.”

“How long does it take?”

“Five hours.”

We all turned to Eric. “Now it's a five hour tour,” Jordan said severely. “Two and a half hours going and two and a half hours coming back, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Eric said.

“Now are you willing to sit still all that time? And will you be quiet?”

“Yes,” Eric said, sniffing.

“If you start to complain, I'll bust you one,” Mark said.

“That isn't necessary,” I said to Mark.

“We'll take five tickets,” Jordan said to the man. “What did you say was in Hindhead?” The man had his head down, counting the tickets.

“What did he say?” I asked Jordan.

“I think he said something about a cathedral.” We walked slowly to the big green bus. “Five hours is a long time, Eric,” Bruce said. “I hope you understand.”

“My goodness, that was cheap,” Jordan said cheerfully. “Very reasonable.”

We climbed aboard. “Something tells me not to do this,” I said.

The other people already seated were on the whole rather old, and some had missing teeth. “We can still back out,” Jordan said. “What do you think, Eric?”

“I want to sit next to the window,” Eric said. There were plenty of seats. Jordan told him to sit by himself next to the window.

“Remember this was your idea,” Mark said to Eric.

“I hope you understand the situation,” Bruce said to Eric.

We waited about fifteen minutes, and then the bus pulled out.

We drove and drove. It began to rain.

“Everybody on this bus is English,” I said.

The old people waved and called to cars as they went by.

“What did he say was in Hindhead?” I asked.

“I thought he said there was a cathedral,” Jordan said. “I'm not sure.”

“There must be something interesting there,” I said.

We passed a great many villages, closed tightly in the Sunday rain. The streets were empty. There were automobile shops and furniture stores, and some deserted-looking nondescript houses. We passed open meadows and groves of trees. Once in a while we went over a bridge.

“The driver isn't pointing out any points of interest,” I said.

Mark got out of his seat and came over to us. “What are we going to Hindhead for?'' he asked. “What kind of tour is this?”

“I'm not sure,” Jordan said.

“Your father thought the man mentioned a cathedral,” I said. We all looked at Eric, sitting alone in his seat. He was sucking his thumb and looking out the window. His eyes slithered over to us and then quickly away. He didn't say anything.

We drove and drove, very fast through the rain. The bus was cold and damp.

Bruce got up and came over to us. “I think I'm getting a headache,” he said. “Anyway, I'm cold.”

“Just be patient,” Jordan said. “We'll be there in about an hour and a half.”

“An hour and a
half!”
Bruce said.

“See how nice and quiet Eric is,” Jordan said.
“He's
not complaining.”

We all stared at Eric, who was sucking his thumb and looking out the window.

“He'd better not,” Mark said, from across the aisle. Several old people turned to stare at him.

Bruce went back to his seat.

“I just thought of something,” I said. “If it takes this long to get there and it's a five-hour trip, that doesn't leave very long to sightsee. I mean it doesn't leave much time for the cathedral.”

“You're right,” Jordan said.

We drove and drove and drove. Finally it was two and a half hours and we pulled into Hindhead. It was now raining heavily. We drove into the large muddy parking lot of a hotel.

“Hindhead,” the driver said. “Leaving again in thirty minutes from here.”

A long street stretched in front of us; there were shops on it. Jordan went up to the driver. “Thirty minutes,” the driver said, “for tea.”

“Tea,” Jordan said.

“Yes,” the driver said. “But if I was you I wouldn't eat here. There's quite a nice shop down the street. It says ‘Scones' in front of it.”

We climbed down from the bus and picked our way across the mud to the sidewalk, or pavement. All the old people were trailing toward the Scones shop. We found it without difficulty; it was the only place that was open. It was small and steamy; square wooden tables stood about, covered with oilcloth. We had tea and scones with butter and jelly. Eric ate in silence. Once in a while he smiled at us apologetically.

After we had eaten, we had time for a little stroll. The rain had slowed down to a drizzle. I spied a sundries store with an open door. “Oh, look,” I said, excitedly. “We need toilet paper.”

We went in, and a man came up to the counter, smiling. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” Jordan said. “We'd like some toilet paper.” He pointed to some in a case behind the counter.

The man's smile faded. “Not allowed,” he said. “On Sunday.”

“You mean …” I said.

“Only medicaments,” the man said, “on Sunday.” He turned his back to us and we left the shop. We walked across the street and through the muddy parking lot and climbed into the bus. A few old people came running after us, and the bus started back.

Everybody was very jolly on the way back. They called out more often to passing cars and even chatted with each other
across the aisle. We drove by more empty villages and deserted houses and groves of trees on the way back; it was impossible to tell whether it was the same route. We went very fast.

“I think we're going faster than we did coming,” I observed to Jordan.

“Um,” he said. He fell asleep.

Bruce got up and came over to me. “I wish I could sleep like Daddy,” he said. “It makes the time go faster.”

Eric didn't say anything.

As we approached London, the bus began to stop and deposit passengers on the pavement.

“Bye bye,” one called, waving, as she got off. “See you next week. Bye, all.”

“Bye bye,” the driver said.

We climbed down in Kensington, stiff, cold, tired and full of tea and jam. Jordan made inquiries the next day and found out that all the Green Line Tours were like that. You got on a bus and went some distance and had tea and came back.

T
HE TIME WAS APPROACHING
for us to leave for Devon. We made elaborate plans with Mrs. Grail: she was to lock the door of the master bedroom and hide the key in a cookie jar. She was to bolt the front door and leave by the back, hiding the back door key in an accessible spot. We had two back door keys, and we would take one with us. The point of all this plotting was to frustrate Mrs. Stackpole, who we believed had kept a key to the front door in her possession and who kept asking Percy Snell how long we would be gone. We intended to bolt the front door against Mrs. Stackpole, and to lock the bedroom door against her in case, despite our wiles, she was able to penetrate the house.

“Ah, God,” Mrs. Grail said. “I know she has a key, and many a time, just think, I'm down in the kitchen and her creeping about upstairs.”

Somehow this did not upset me as much as the possibility that what we all heard creeping about upstairs when we were in the kitchen was not only not Mrs. Stackpole, and very probably not even a burglar, but some kind of visitation from another world. We all felt this emanation: to Eric it was simply Hamlet's uncle, but to the rest of us it was nameless. Nobody, including Mrs. Grail, wanted to stay alone in 16 Baldridge Place, even in the daylight hours. Once we left Mark, who wasn't hungry, at
home, while we repaired to our Roman spa for dinner. On the way back we encountered him, strolling along the Kensington Road, whistling and trying to look unconcerned. He wasn't wearing his jacket; he had apparently left the house in a hurry.