For such an unassuming collection of dainty, one-bite foods, both Kellie and I couldn’t believe how full we felt.
“I think something happens in one’s stomach when the tea mixes with the pastry flour,” Kellie said. “I think it all expands.”
I smiled.
“Don’t you feel like we ate twice as much as we really did?”
“At least twice,” I agreed. “Maybe three times as much.”
Neither of us wanted any dinner before the play. We freshened up and took a taxi to the theater district, thinking we had allowed plenty of time. However, the cab bogged down in an area where the streets were narrow. So many people were walking on either side of the sidewalk that it appeared to be a march, with everyone moving as one.
“We must be near the theater district.” Kellie pulled out our tickets and checked the name of the theater. She leaned forward to get the driver’s attention. “Is the Queen’s Theatre within walking distance?”
He rattled off the directions, and we made the decision to pay him and hoof it the rest of the way. Our cab seemed to be at the epicenter of the vehicle bottleneck.
I paid the fare this time. It was all part of our Lady-Ebb-and-Lady-Flo system. Kellie had paid for the fare last time.
We were pressed on both sides as we walked through the crowd. Nearly all the major theaters are located in the same area, near Leicester Square. Anyone who wants to see a major production comes to this area, which makes walking a better alternative than paying to sit in a taxi.
Three blocks down we saw the Queen’s Theatre. Large, permanent signs on the side of the building declared that this production had been running continuously for more than a decade. Kellie and I jostled our way through the throngs of people, found the correct line, and took our place in the orderly queue in front of the theater.
“That was easy,” she said.
I laughed. We apparently had differing ideas on the meaning of easy.
We entered the theater with a crush of people and decided to leave our jackets at the coat check. A uniformed usher pointed out our seats, and we made our way down the slanted aisle toward the front of the theater. Both of us grinned as soon as we sat down. These were good seats. We were midway back on the lower level and at the perfect spot in the slope of the theater to see over the heads in front of us.
The seat next to me was empty, and I hoped no one claimed it. I liked crossing my legs in the narrow space and stretching out my elbow on the armrest.
A sense of anticipation flitted through the theater. I hadn’t been to a play in a long time. The expectation here was so different from the laid-back feeling in a movie theater. I couldn’t picture anyone here putting his feet on the back of the seat in front of him. No one would slurp a giant-sized soft drink or drop popcorn from a jumbo tub onto this floor.
We were definitely at the theater London-style. A couple dressed in formal attire took their seats several rows in front of us. The house lights flicked off and on. Conversations rose to a louder buzz and then softened as the lights dimmed.
The performance was about to begin.
As soon as I crossed my legs and made use of the extra space in front of the vacant seat beside me, a gentleman in a sweater and tie shuffled his way through the dark and settled in the seat next to me.
“Almost didn’t make it,” he murmured, as if trying to make friendly conversation.
I didn’t respond kindly to the late arriver. I just uncrossed my legs and shifted in my seat, miffed that my extra space was being claimed by its rightful owner.
The curtain rose. Having never seen Les Misérables before, I wasn’t prepared for what happened in the first scene when Jean Valjean was caught with the stolen candlesticks. Nor was I prepared for the act of mercy demonstrated by the priest. His response to injustice wasn’t normal or natural.
Watching mercy demonstrated on the stage touched something deep inside me, and I teared up to see extravagant love shown to someone who didn’t deserve it. I dabbed at my tears and gave myself back over to the production. I don’t think I moved once in my seat during the first and second acts. I was riveted.
Intermission came too soon. I didn’t want to move. I wanted the actors to come back on stage and finish the story. “This is so powerful.”
“It’s fantastic. Do you know how it ends?” Kellie stood up to stretch.
“No. I’ve not seen it before.”
“Ladies?” The gentleman beside me leaned into our conversation. “May I bring back something for either of you from the concessions?”
“No, thanks,” Kellie answered for both of us.
“Great performance, isn’t it?” His accent wasn’t the same as the London accents we were becoming accustomed to. My guess was he was Irish, but I can’t say why it seemed that way.
“Yes,” Kellie answered. “The leads are doing an exceptional job.”
“My daughter is an understudy for Fantine,” he said proudly.
“She is? Is she performing tonight?” Kellie asked.
“No, she’s been with the cast for three months and hasn’t been on stage yet. She wouldn’t give up her place, though. She loves the theater.”
I spoke up. “I have a daughter who loves acting as well.”
“Is she here in London?”
“No, she’s in Florida.”
“We’re just here for a few days,” Kellie said.
“I’m on a brief holiday as well. I’ve been promising my daughter for three months that I would come to see this production, and I’m finally making good on my word. I almost didn’t make it, with the traffic and all.”
In that short intermission chat, the gentleman beside me went from being a nuisance to a real person with common ground and reasons for me to feel connected to him. I hoped I could always remember how quickly my perspective of him changed once I had heard a little of his story.
Intermission ended. The curtain went back up, and we were all drawn into the performance again. During the final act of the play, the actor playing Jean Valjean knelt on the stage and offered up a piercing, feel-it-in-your-heart song entitled “Bring Him Home.”
I blinked as the tears came again. This time I knew I wasn’t alone. Kellie quietly sniffed. The man beside me gripped the armrest. All three of us seemed to hold our breath as the last note was released and left to hang in the air just above our heads.
The audience exploded with stunned applause. The man beside me sprang to his feet and bellowed, “Jesus Christ!” Across the auditorium other people rose in a standing ovation for the performer.
I was shocked at my neighbor’s reaction. The man wasn’t calling on the Lord’s name in response to the actor’s sung prayer. Yet he wasn’t calling out the actor’s name to praise him or yelling “bravo” either. Apparently he needed something powerful to shout in response to the beauty he had just experienced, so he shouted the name of Christ. I had never seen anyone do that before, and I was stunned by it.
The final act of the play continued, but I kept thinking of the prayer sung by Jean Valjean. All that his father-heart longed for was that Marius would return home safe and well after the battle.
The performance’s impact came at me on a number of levels. As I stood with the rest of the audience at the curtain, applauding until my hands were sore, I hoped I would be able to hold on to all the impressions flooding me at that moment.
Kellie and I didn’t talk much in the cab on the way back to our hotel. We entered our comfortable room, stretched out on our waiting beds, and stared at the ceiling as if watching a curtain call in our imaginations.
“That was amazing! Absolutely amazing. What a performance,” Kellie said. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I didn’t know the play had such a message of grace, did you?”
“No.” I turned to her. “Did you see the man next to me after the ‘Bring Him Home’ song?”
“Yes. And do you know what it made me think? His reaction made me think of that verse that says every knee wi
ll bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. Where is that verse? Philippians?”
“I think so. You know, after our tour of the Tower of London this morning, I have a stronger image of the power and glory associated with royalty. It’s easier to imagine what it would be like to bow in front of the Sovereign Ruler.”
“England, at least at one time, certainly had a grasp on what it was like to honor the Lord as the glorious King and majestic Ruler of all,” Kellie said. “At least that’s the impression I’ve been getting from some of the churches we’ve visited.”
“And yet He’s also our Father. His heart seems to always be turned toward His children, forever longing that each of them will ‘come home’ at the end of the long battle.”
“Like Jean Valjean’s solo,” Kellie said.
“Exactly.”
I fell asleep that night feeling close to my heavenly Father. In this great leap we had taken by flying to England, I had found that we weren’t capriciously floating through the clouds when nothing was going according to schedule. We were truly held close in everlasting arms. So close, I felt as if I were beginning to hear God’s heartbeat. Each measured beat was one of grace followed by an echo of love.
That night my dreams were sweetly serene. I woke feeling secure.
In the morning Kellie and I put our heads together and came up with a rip-roaring plan. At eight o’clock, dressed and with a satisfying breakfast of fruit, yogurt, and croissants in our bellies, we repeated our steps from the previous morning and went to the tube station. The underground took us back to Paddington Station, where we bought tickets for the half-hour ride to Windsor Castle.
We had decided on Windsor because the weather report that had been slipped under our door the night before promised sunshine. In some ways it seemed crazy to leave London when we still had so much to see in town. But after our taste of all things royal the day before, we both wanted to view Windsor Castle. It was the only must-see that appeared on both our lists. This was the day to go.
Standing on the platform at Paddington, waiting for train number five to pull in, Kellie and I sipped some hot tea in what the vendor at the kiosk called “takeaway” cups. I smiled, remembering the “Go Away” doormat at Rose’s cottage.
“We forgot to call Rose and Opal last night before we went to the play,” I said.
“You’re right. We’ll see them in just a few days. Maybe it’s best not to call. If we do, they will probably try to convince us to return to Olney sooner than we planned.”
“Good point.” I drained my tea and looked across the train platform to a bench on track four where two children were sitting close, waiting for the train and swinging their legs. “You know what those two remind me of?”
“Paddington Bear?”
“No. The Pevensie children.”
“Who are they?”
“Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. From Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia. Do you remember how they were waiting at a train station and suddenly were transported to Narnia?”
Kellie nodded her recognition of what I was talking about.
I wondered for a whimsical moment if perhaps Lewis had once stood here on this very railway platform and imagined the opening scene of Prince Caspian. I looked around the train station, imagining what a creative mind like Lewis’s would see in a place like this, just as I had pondered the Anglo-Saxon-looking Christ in the stained-glass window of Lewis’s church and how that figure reminded me of Prince Caspian.
“Liz, how do you remember all those details from stories?”
“I don’t know. They’re just with me. I think I took them in during a time when my heart and mind were vulnerable and impressionable. They stayed with me.”
“It’s like you have a buried treasure,” Kellie said. “I love the way you pull out these gems. Keep ’em coming!”
“I think that is my long-term passion: British literature. Particularly children’s literature.”
“You know, last night after the play I was thinking about passion. So many of the characters took risks and did what they were passionate about.” Kellie tossed her paper cup into a rubbish bin a few feet away. “I want to do that.”
“Do what?”
“I want to move forward with the decorating business. And I really would love for you to jump into this venture with me, Liz. I love the idea of the business being K & L Interiors. You and I make a good team.”
I had to nod because I agreed with the part about making a good team. But while Kellie had become more convinced about moving forward with her interior-design business, I had become more convinced I didn’t want to enter into business with her. At least not as a partner.
Before I could respond, a young woman wearing an attractive, swishy skirt approached Kellie and me with a shy expression. “The train?” She pointed to the vacant space in front of us.
“We’re waiting for the train to Windsor Castle,” I said.
“It should be here in about three minutes,” Kellie added.
“Good.” She smiled.
“Are you going to Windsor Castle too?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you by yourself?”
She tilted her head like a curious bird and looked as if she hadn’t understood my question. I guessed she was a tourist. She seemed to be in her early twenties and reminded me of my younger daughter.
“Is someone traveling with you?” I asked.
“No. Moi. Me only.”
“Are you on vacation?” Kellie asked.
“Yes, I’m on my holiday.” She grinned. “Sorry, my English is not so—”
“You’re doing great,” I told her.
The train pulled in right on time. The three of us stood back as the passengers disembarked.
“You’re welcome to sit with us,” Kellie said. “If you want to, that is.”
The timid young woman gave us a grateful smile. “Yes. Thank you.”
We found seats that faced each other, and for the next half hour, Kellie and I enjoyed getting to know Annette, who recently had graduated with an art degree from a university in southern France. With our very limited French and Annette’s expansive English, we kept the conversation going.
When we arrived at the train station, we invited Annette to stay with us if she wanted to. And she did.
We walked up a well-worn cobbled road as Annette tried to formulate her questions, politely inquiring about our holiday and what we had enjoyed so far. She was most intrigued by our stories about the hot-air balloon ride.
We were puffing our way alongside lithe Annette as the road to the castle continued at a steady incline. The sky was a brilliant shade of fresh spring blue, and before us Windsor Castle rose with jaw-dropping majesty. The majesty wasn’t due just to the sheer size and solid presence of the castle and surrounding grounds. Being on a hill, Windsor majestically commands a determined effort from those who want to come in her gates and participate in one of the tours.
Kellie, Annette, and I formed a jolly, rosy-cheeked trio by the time we made it to the ticket booth at the grounds’ entrance.
Once again we opted for the self-guided tour that came with the audio wands. This was especially good for Annette because she could rent the French version.
Our tour began in a room that contained a fabulous dollhouse built for Princess Anne. The three-story dollhouse came complete with miniature furniture in every room and working electric lights.
The royal family still occupies a portion of Windsor Castle. When I heard that, I assumed our tour would be limited. It wasn’t. We walked through dozens of rooms, viewed endless pieces of original furniture, and lingered by the windows in one of the grand rooms where we could gaze out at the gardens and the peaceful-looking town that gathers at the hem of the sloping green castle grounds. We viewed cases filled with weapons, armor, and bits and pieces of historic memorabilia.
“What do you think?” I asked Annette. “Is this as much of a fairy-tale castle as castles in Fr
ance?”
“I have only been to the Palace of Versailles. This castle I like more.”
“Why?” I asked.
She seemed to have difficulty forming her sentence in response. “Versailles is a sad beauty to me. Much, much rich. Much of this.” She pointed to one of the huge oil portraits in the hall.
“Too many portraits at Versailles?” I asked.
She didn’t seem to recognize the word portraits.
“Paintings,” Kellie tried. “Pictures of people. Are you saying the castle in France has too many pictures of famous people?”
“No, this.” She pointed more directly at the highly detailed, inlaid gold carvings in the frame of one of the pictures.
“Ah! Too many ornate decorations. Too many fancy details in the décor.”
“Yes, décor. Here, I like the beauty because it is a strong beauty. I like this castle.”
“I like it too,” I said. I also liked Annette’s term “strong beauty.”
All of us were ready at the same time to be done with the royal tour. We turned in our audio wands and exited the castle just as a procession was coming across the cobblestones. The three of us stood back to watch as the castle guards came marching by in stiff formation. The procession of the guards in their tall, bearskin hats and shiny brass-buttoned uniforms was powerful and impressive. We watched for more than ten minutes as the company moved into formation, shifted their bayonet-tipped weapons from one shoulder to the other, and clicked the heels of their well-shined boots. This was protocol to the smallest detail, and we were certain the drill was unfolding just the way it had been performed for centuries.
After a pleasant detour through the garden, where we took lots of pictures, Annette, Kellie, and I headed down the hill into town in search of some lunch. At one of the checkpoints along the stone wall, a castle guard stood like a statue in front of a small wooden guard station. He kept his gaze straight ahead from under the huge, rounded hat. His mannequin stance just begged us to go up to him and try to make him smile.
“Go ahead,” I told Annette. “I’ll take your picture.”
Sisterchicks Go Brit! Page 14