An hour later Kellie and I were seated at an old wooden table in Collin’s Pub, munching on fish and chips.
“This is really awful,” Kellie said.
I was surprised. I thought the fish and chips were great. I even had taken a hint after viewing other diners around us in the noisy quarters and had used the malt vinegar in the shaker bottle on the table to season the fish. “You don’t like yours?”
“Oh the fish is great. I love it.”
“Then why did you say it was really awful?”
“Because after eating this true, unpretentious serving of fish and chips, I’m ruined for life. I’ll never be able to eat at Captain Clancey’s in Orlando again.”
I smiled and took another bite of the crisp, battered fish. Good stuff.
“So, I realize this is probably a pointless question, but what do you want to do tomorrow?” Kellie asked.
“I picked up one of each of the sightseeing brochures from the hotel, but I haven’t looked at them yet.” I wiped off my oily fingers and fanned the stack of brochures like a deck of cards. “We could play Go Fish.”
“I’d rather eat the fish.”
“Then just pick a card, any card.”
“Are you going to do a magic trick for me?”
“The only magic trick would be if we actually ended up doing whatever is on the brochure.”
“Okay.” Kellie reached across the table, closed her eyes, and pulled out one of the brochures.
“Let’s see the winning card.”
She held up a brochure with a picture of a hot-air balloon soaring over the Cotswolds. The grin on her face was enormous.
No,” I said resolutely as Kellie waved the hot-air balloon brochure in front of me. “No, no, no.”
“What do you mean? I picked this one fair and square. Don’t you think this would be fun?”
“No.”
Kellie laughed. “I do. I’ve always wanted to go up in a hot-air balloon. Do you remember the year I got the new dishwasher for Mother’s Day?”
I nodded, not sure what that had to do with anything at the moment. “I was at your house the day the old monster erupted. I helped you sop up the flood, remember?”
“That’s right. You were there that Saturday. That was the first year I told Martin I wanted to go on a hot-air balloon ride for Mother’s Day. I know Martin checked into a couple of companies in Orlando, but finances being what they were for us during those years, and the timing of the dishwasher’s death—”
“You got a new dishwasher instead.” I frowned. “Sorry, I finished your sentence for you. I’m not trying to turn into Opal or Rose.”
Kellie laughed. “Don’t worry. We’re not there quite yet. And if we are on our way to becoming like the two of them, who cares? Finishing each other’s sentences is part of the ebb and flow of being us.”
“Which one do you want to be?”
“Which what do I want to be, Liz?”
“Ebb or Flo? Which one do you want to be?”
Kellie laughed again. “I’ll be Ebb.”
“Then I’ll be Flo,” I said, glad to have distracted her from the hot-air balloon topic.
“And since we’re in England,” Kellie said, “we really should consider elevating our status to Lady Ebb and Lady Flo.”
It was a good thing we were in a noisy pub because we started practicing our British accents and quickly cracked each other up. Although Kellie and I grew louder and sillier by the minute, our antics seemed to go unnoticed by those around us.
“Now, back to the topic on the table,” Kellie said. “What do you think, Lady Flo? A hot-air balloon ride in the morning?”
“Or perhaps,” I said, reviewing the brochure on top of the untried stack, “we might consider a gentle punt down the River Cherwell, dear Lady Ebb. Here.” I fanned out the rest of the brochures on the table like paint chips, hoping to entice her into a different selection.
Kellie flipped through the brochure in her hand. “It says here, my dear Lady Flo, that they pick us up at our hotel, and the whole escapade takes four hours. We need to be ready to go at 6:00 a.m. We could be ready by then, don’t you think?”
I didn’t answer. Kellie looked at my tense expression.
“Why, my dear Lady Flo, whatever is the matter?”
“I have a small preference for gravity over hot air.”
She laughed and switched to her normal voice. “You just defied gravity on the plane ride here, remember? Over the Atlantic Ocean, I might add.”
“I know.”
She looked at me with her chin lowered, and her eyes lit up as if she had superhuman x-ray powers to read my mind. “You’re serious, aren’t you? The thought of floating up into the air while being supported by nothing more than a wicker basket and the reputation of a hot-air balloon pilot unnerves you.”
I gave her a thanks-a-lot look. “Yes, it does. Especially when you put it that way.”
Kellie laid the brochure on the table. “So what is your idea of how to spend a fabulous morning in Oxford? Or are you thinking we should set out as early as we can for London?”
“I’d like to spend a little time here in the morning. I was thinking it would be great to check out a bookstore to see if I could find one of my favorite classics. That would be ideal.” I didn’t conclude my thought aloud, but never on any list would I add “hot-air balloon ride” under the heading of “What to Do in Oxford.”
“Okay, we can do that.”
I caught just the edge of disappointment in my friend’s expression.
“You really want to do this, don’t you?” I picked up the brochure. “Maybe you should do it, then.”
“I think we should both do this. It will be so much more fun if we go together. Besides, isn’t it ‘always friendlier with two’? At least that’s what I read in a piece of British literature.”
“In what book does that line appear?”
“Winnie-the-Pooh.”
“Which A. A. Milne book? The House at Pooh Corner or—”
“Okay, okay, I confess.” Kellie raised a hand to stop me. “I read it once on a Winnie-the-Pooh calendar. But the philosophy is still solid. It is friendlier with two. Especially when we’re trying daring new adventures together.”
“Why don’t we head back to the hotel, then? We’ll have to call to see if they have anything available in the morning.”
“Does this mean you’re thinking about it?”
I nodded. “Yes, I’m thinking about it.” In the same way I told her I would think about going into business with her as K & L Interiors, I also was willing to think about the hot-air balloon ride. And in the same way I was already ninety-nine percent convinced that going into business together was too great a risk to our friendship, this “flight of fancy” was too risky for my comfort level. If Kellie needed to go up in that hot-air balloon tomorrow morning, I wouldn’t stop her. But I didn’t need to go up with her. I could enjoy the experience just as well from the ground, watching and waving. I didn’t mention that to her in the pub, though. I really didn’t want to burst her, uh, balloon.
Walking back to our hotel and still feeling a little punchy, I suggested we further our imitation of the regal versions of Opal and Rose by drawing back our shoulders, lifting our chins, and dauntlessly giving a stately nod to every person we passed as if they were the loyal subjects of our shire.
Opal and Rose had received loyal adoration from the entire township when they strolled their royal mile. Kellie and I received two smirks, one cackle, and three raised eyebrows. One woman we passed had two nicely curved raised eyebrows. The swarthy gent with her had one continuous eyebrow across both eyes. Hence, the three-eyebrow salute.
“I believe we were well received,” Kellie said as we arrived back at the hotel.
“Hot pink trainers would have helped us draw a little more attention, though.”
The attendant at the front desk didn’t look amused with our boisterous entrance, but she did help Kellie make the phone ca
ll to the hot-air balloon company to set up the plans.
“Okay, all set!” Kellie announced a few minutes later. “We’ll need a wake-up call at five o’clock, and a guy named Jeremy will be here at six to ‘collect’ us.”
“Do you prefer tea or coffee?” the front desk attendant asked.
“Tonight?”
“No, in the morning. For your wake-up call we send one of our servers up to your room with a morning beverage and a basket of breads.”
“How nice. I’d like tea. Liz, what would you like?”
“Tea, of course.” I had become a tea convert rather quickly. I appreciated the way the tea taste lingered in my mouth without the acidic aftertaste coffee had.
A half hour later Kellie hopped into bed, and before I had turned off the light, I could tell by her steady breathing that she was off in dreamland, probably floating through the clouds.
I was having a harder time falling asleep. I thought about why we had ended up in Oxford. Was it possible God had directed us to the wrong bus so we could have all these experiences? Was He the one who directed us to the crazy cabby so we could have a knock-our-socks-off tour of sites in Oxford that we never would have seen otherwise?
Possibly.
No. The more I thought about it, the correct answer was “probably.” Probably this was God’s idea all along. He was leading us. All the jumbled, unexpected events that had come to us since we had arrived were gifts from our heavenly Father. Both of us had prayed last week during the planning stages that God would lead us. We just never expected Him to lead in such unusual ways.
Even though none of this trip was going the way I had thought it would, it was way beyond my simple hopes. My expectations had been along the lines of viewing the Crown Jewels, visiting an art museum, and seeing a play. Yet this, too, was England. All of it. We were savoring a rare taste of so much more than the average visitor gets to experience. It struck me that God was “gracing” us with more than we ever imagined. I had a wish to go to England so I could see Big Ben; my expectations were small. God’s gifts to us were immense.
The realization humbled me.
I readjusted my position under the covers and thought of how, just as God had given me my wish to go to England, He now seemed to be offering Kellie her wish of a hot-air balloon ride, and she wanted me to take a risk and go with her.
An image floated into my thoughts of Opal popping out of her chair that morning and setting the pace for her own happy little pancake race. Then I thought of Rose and her weighty stares of disapproval.
I drew in a deep breath and glanced across the shadowed room at peaceful Kellie. She wanted to go up in the hot-air balloon. With me.
Okay. Why not? Up, up, and away. No anchors from this best friend.
After I made that determination, I nodded off and slept wonderfully well.
A tap on the door at five the next morning produced a shy young woman who carried in a tray with a pot of tea and two cups with saucers. The tray also had a small pitcher of milk and a dish with sugar cubes. The basket of assorted breads steamed with the warmth of the fresh bakery items. She placed the tray on the end table between our two beds and slipped out as Kellie and I roused from a deep slumber.
“Such service,” I said.
“I feel like royalty. Breakfast in bed!”
“May I pour you a spot of tea, Lady Ebb?”
“Oh, yes please, would you, Lady Flo? You are so kind.”
“Oh, yes, aren’t I, though?”
We sipped our tea while still in bed and shared some petite muffins tucked in the white cloth napkin that lined the basket.
“Kellie, I decided last night that I want to do this with you. I want to defy gravity and go up in the hot-air balloon.”
Kellie’s expression lines were curling up in the happiest sort of way.
Just then we heard a soft tapping on our door.
“Yes?” I called out.
“A message came for you this morning. Shall I slip it under the door?”
“Yes, thank you.” I shot a wary glance at Kellie. No one knew we were at this hotel. Who would leave a message for us?
Kellie scanned the note. “It’s from the hot-air balloon company. Due to a schedule adjustment, our launch time has been postponed. They will pick us up at nine. Well, we might as well check out the local bookstores if they’re open.”
A short time later, with a map in hand and wearing several layers of clothes, we headed down the street in the same direction we had taken toward the pub the night before. The skies were clear, and the air was crisp. Sunshine came gallantly marching through the narrow spaces between the old buildings and left its footprints on the cobblestones. We could see our breath as we walked briskly, trying to warm up.
“It’s a gorgeous day,” I said. “I love this early morning light.”
The first open shop we saw was a used bookstore. It seemed early in the day for a shop to be open, but as Kellie reminded me, “This is a college town. Students need books at all hours of the day and night.”
Ducking inside, we were met head-on with the scent of old books laced with a hint of pipe tobacco. The shelves reached to the ceiling in the small shop. All the books that hadn’t found a place to perch on one of the shelves were stacked in precarious leaning towers at the end of each aisle. In the far corner of the small shop, an old cane-back chair awaited weary book hunters alongside a crook-necked lamp wearing an amber shade at a fashionable slant. The invitation to sit in the corner and read was a dusty sort of invitation, but welcoming nonetheless.
We shopped in separate sections of the curious little bookstore. I picked up books as if they were shells washed ashore after a storm on a deserted beach. Everything about the atmosphere in that used bookshop made me want to be smart. It felt as if millions of particles of knowledge were swirling around in the air. If I stood there long enough, some of them might land on me, sink inside, and enliven my brain cells.
“I want to learn something,” I whispered, coming up next to Kellie.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something new. Something in the field of botany or Russian history or astrophysics. Well, maybe not astrophysics.”
She smiled.
“Doesn’t this place make you feel like a student? It makes me feel like I should engage my thoughts in something new and profound.”
“I felt that way yesterday when we popped our heads into the Rabbit Room at the Eagle and Child. I hoped maybe I could catch some of Tolkien’s and Lewis’s leftover imagination particles,” Kellie said.
I saw she had a book in her hand. “What are you buying?”
She held up the cover so I could see her find. It was a well-used copy of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. “For Braden,” she said. “He’ll love that the book came from Oxford. What about you?”
“Just a few treasures.” I showed her my four books: Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes novel The Hound of the Baskervilles, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre in a 1947 hardback edition, and Sir Walter Scott’s lengthy poem The Lady of the Lake in a pocket-sized version.
“Nice assortment,” she said. “All your British authors.”
“Yes. Well, Scott was from Scotland, but the rest were from England.”
With our treasures paid for and wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied with a string by the clerk, Kellie and I stepped back outside into the chilly sunshine. Kellie had also purchased a map of Oxford, which she already had opened.
“Where to now?” I asked.
“I was trying to find Exeter College. That’s where Tolkien taught, if I remember what the cab driver said. It looks like it’s this way.” She pointed to the left.
“Are you sure, Lady Ebb?”
She gave me a smirk. “Would you rather take a taxi?”
“I don’t think we can afford to take another taxi the rest of the trip after what yesterday’s gallivanting cost us.”
“Then let’s walk.
It will warm us up on this invigorating day.” Kellie picked up the pace. “Have you ever felt the air this crisp on your face at home?”
“No, never. I love it. I just wish I had bought a warmer coat.” I noticed we were no longer strolling. We were women on a mission. Kellie took us around a bend, down an alleyway, and out onto a wide street with lots of cars and buses and an intersection with traffic stopped in both directions. It was by far the widest street we had seen in Oxford. The traffic light didn’t appear to be working. All the vehicles were taking their turns at hedging their way across the no man’s land in the middle.
“We have to be getting close.” Kellie huffed and puffed as our power walk continued past more bookshops, woolen clothing stores, and a coffee shop alive with morning coffee drinkers and a table set up outside on the narrow sidewalk. Most of the shop’s patrons looked like they were college age.
More students brushed past us. I smiled, imagining that some of the learning they had been stuffing into their brains might be leaking out and was therefore ready to light on the nearest head—mine!
We turned a corner, and a large number of students were funneling into a small opening in a tall stone wall.
“I think this is it,” Kellie said.
“Should we follow them?”
“What? Pretend we’re students?”
“Why not? We can go back to pretending we’re Lady Ebb and Lady Flo, if you want.”
With chins forward, we entered the stream of students passing through the creamy-colored, block-wall entry and into the courtyard. No one stopped us as we walked through the entrance. The sensation of sneaking in was delicious.
Inside, behind the high wall surrounding Exeter College, lay a manicured lawn in a large rectangle surrounded by a walkway. The antiquated buildings that encased the courtyard were three stories high and crafted from pitted sandstone that gave the buildings a soft, buttery color in the morning light.
The students all seemed to be headed for the classrooms inside the rectangular buildings. None of them was going to the more ornate building on our left. It looked like a chapel, with tall, arched windows and a pitched roof. We took several steps up and were greeted by organ music. We inched forward, wanting to make sure a service wasn’t in progress.
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