Crescent Hill

by Jackie Wang

  “I didn’t come to London because of him,” I said, adjusting my laptop screen. “I came here to learn how to bake.”

  Mom flashed me a ‘sure, just-keep-lying-to-yourself’ look. “How’s the weather? Are the boys adjusting?”

  I looked out at the rain-splattered windows. Iron clouds and ashy smog rolled over tired townhouses and slushy streets. Welcome to the city. “They’re fine. The weather is…cold. Rainy. Kind of miserable…but what did I expect, coming here in the middle of December?”

  Mom held up her pointer finger. “Hold on, Dad wants to say hi to the boys.”

  “Hurry, I’ve got to drop them off soon,” I said. “My first class starts at noon.”

  “It’ll be quick,” Mom replied. She turned her head and called out, “Langston! Get over here. Say hi to Maggie and the boys.”

  Dad hobbled into view, scratching his scruffy salt-and-pepper beard. It’s long enough that he can comb his fingers through it now. “Hello there.” He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “You settled in alright?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I’m good. It’s a bit drafty, but it’s home, for now.”

  “Four whole weeks. You sure you’ll be able to handle it?” Dad asked.

  “I’m here already, aren’t I? Either way, this is happening,” I said resolutely. “Greg, Jason, come here and say hi to Grammy and Grandpa.”

  “Crescent Hill feels empty without you and the boys,” Dad muttered, rubbing his puffy eyes. When did Dad start looking so old? “Can’t believe you’re spending Christmas abroad.”

  “I’ll be home before you know it,” I said. “Don’t get emotional on me now, Dad.”

  I looked over to Greg, who was still struggling with jet lag. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and flashed the webcam a crooked grin. “Hi, Grandpops. Grandma.” He pulled his hoodie down over his eyes. “The screen’s too bright, Mom. Turn it down.”

  “How’re you doing over there, Sport?” Dad asked.

  “The air smells funny,” Greg said, curling against the armchair. “Like rotten eggs. But other than that, it’s good.”

  “Where’s Jason?” Dad asked.

  “Jason, put down the iPad and get over here,” I said. Jason tapped on the iPad, then put it in the bedside drawer before coming over. “Hi Grammy, Grandpops.”

  “Jason, sweetie, what’s that all over your face?” Mom asked, squinting. She pressed her face so close to the camera that all we could see was her nose.

  Jason wiped his chin with a grimy sleeve. “Just ketchup. We had fish and chips for lunch.”

  “Don’t feed the boys too much junk food,” Mom reminded me. “You know what happens—”

  I cut Mom off before she could launch into some long-winded speech about the evils of fast food. Ever since she had started the Godfried Diet, Mom had become a real health nut. “Gotta go, Mom, Dad. Love you lots. Talk to you later!”

  “You be careful over there. Call me every day,” Mom said. “Love you!”

  I nodded. “I’ll try my best. Love you. Mwah! Bye!”

  After hanging up the video call, I got the boys dressed for their first day of day camp. I’d signed them up for a place called Camp Bellevue, near the Fulham Broadway Tube Station. It was about a half-hour train ride to Le Cordon Rouge, the pastry school I’d enrolled in. Camp Bellevue had loads of great reviews, and they offered activities such as museum tours, ice skating, skiing and arts and crafts. It was fairly pricey, but I’d saved up a lot of money over the course of the past year. I figured the boys deserved to be spoiled a little. After all, it was the first time they’d ever gone on a real vacation.

  I’d signed Greg and Jason up for various fun social activities on the days I had class, which were Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. The rest of the week, we could explore the city and enjoy our much-needed family vacation.

  Eight weeks ago, I’d started building a virtual scrapbook of all the places I wanted to visit, including: St. Paul’s Cathedral, Buckingham Palace, London Eye, Big Ben, Hyde Park and Westminster Abbey. I wasn’t sure if we could visit all those places with the little free time we had, but I would sure as hell try.

  In terms of accommodations, I’d rented a short-term sublet for the month, near Euston Square. We shared an older, boho-chic cottage with a kooky, albeit friendly cat lady named Margaret Thatcher (who, I was disappointed to learn, wasn’t the least bit related to the ex-Prime Minister or even royalty). The furnished one bedroom (with a Queen and a trundle bed) was a bit small for the three of us, and sharing a bathroom covered in cat hair was no fun, but for twelve-hundred pounds a month, I couldn’t argue. I had been shocked to learn that London rent prices were almost triple what I paid back home.

  I didn’t know what type of weather to expect here, so I overpacked (a lot), and brought pretty much any winter-related clothing and gear I could think of. I even lugged along an old pair of snowshoes, which in hindsight, was a terrible idea.

  As Greg pulled a wooly hat over his head, he asked, “Do you think we’ll see Uncle Roman? I kinda miss him.”

  “Yeah, his stories were the best!” Jason added, slipping on a pair of mittens.

  Why did they have to bring him up too? It was bad enough Mom thought I’d chosen to come here to find Roman. I didn’t need the boys jumping on the idea too. I zipped up my purse and shook my head. “Probably not, boys. He’s a busy man, and this is a big city. Even if I wanted to contact him, I wouldn’t know how.”

  “But couldn’t you find him in the phone book or something? Or Google him?” Greg asked. “You can Google anything nowadays.” He was sharp, I had to give him that.

  I found my keys and slipped them into my pocket. “We’re only here for four weeks, Greg. I don’t think it’s a good idea to reconnect with him.” No, reconnecting with him would be an absolute disaster.

  I straightened out Greg’s jacket and handed him an umbrella. “Besides, we came here for a family holiday. The three of us should spend as much time as possible with each other, not a stranger.”

  “Uncle Roman promised if we came to London, he’d let us stay in his hotels and eat good food there,” Jason said. “I want hotel food, like a full English breakfast buffet with tea.”

  “Demanding this morning, are we?” I said. “I didn’t raise you to be spoiled, Jason,”

  “I just—”

  “Do you two have all your things?”

  “Yes, Mom,” both boys chimed in unison.

  “Do you know my new number by heart?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Recite it.”

  “Oh-eight-four-four-nine-two-seven-oh-nine-three-four,” the boys recited in a sing-song voice.

  “What do you dial to call the police?”

  “999.”

  “Good. What’s the name of your day camp leader?”

  “Mr. Albion Henley.”

  The man’s name sounded horribly pretentious, but I heard he was actually quite nice, and young too. About my age.

  “And what do you do if you get lost?”

  “Stay put, stay together, and call you, or the police.”

  “Good. Now do you have your lunches and snacks?”

  “Mom! We’re not babies,” Jason said, scrunching his nose. “Let’s go.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and fixed a stray lock of hair that’d fallen across Jason’s smudged glasses. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  We bundled up and descended two flights of creaky stairs, and out into the bitter London air. We looked like three marshmallows getting tossed around in a huge bowl of whipped cream. Thick swaths of muddy, tire-tracked snow blanketed the streets, and parked cars were buried under several inches of powder. Heavy traffic congested the streets; the scene complete with road-raging cabbies and ear-splitting honks.

  My furry boots slipped a little on the final icy step, and the ground rushed up to greet me. I let out a very unladylike “Oomph!” The snow instantly soaked through my jeans, leaving an unsightly wet splotch on my butt
for the world to see. To make matters worse, a chunk of half-melted snow slid under my collar and down my back. I let out an exasperated cry. Talk about a humiliating start to my day. A few passerby stared and pointed from across the street, as if they’d never seen someone slip on ice before.

  My first day of school hadn’t even started yet, and London had already put a target on my back.

  Holding Greg’s arm for support, I pulled myself back up and rubbed my stinging butt cheeks. Brushing snow off my down coat, I winced. I’d be sore tomorrow.

  “You okay, Mom?” Jason asked, his nose already bright red.

  I nodded, my breath escaping in foggy puffs. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Figuring out the London transit system had been more difficult than I thought, and I’d spent my first few days here a hopelessly lost tourist with two rugrats in tow. I was slowly getting better at approaching strangers for directions, but it was hard to understand them sometimes. The locals’ accents varied widely, and they always spoke so goddamn quickly. Everyone was always in such a goddamn rush to get somewhere. I wasn’t used to the fast-paced vibe in this city. Not at all.

  It didn’t help that the boys had short tempers and little patience. Anytime I wanted to get anywhere, I’d get bogged down by their nagging. Mom, I’m hungry. Mom, I need to pee. Mom, can we check out that store for one sec? The Tube Map looked like it was designed by and for physicists and engineers, not commoners like us. It was a diabolical maze of numbers and lines that made no sense to me whatsoever. To make matters worse, everything was expensive, especially for someone like me, who’d grown up in a small town.

  I looked right, then left. “Hold my hand. Let’s go.” We crossed the street and arrived at the bus station, where people of all ages, sizes and races were shivering in the cold. A young teenager with mocha skin and huge headphones around his head was beatboxing behind me. An elderly man with severely wind-chapped skin was engrossed in the latest James Patterson novel. And to my right, a haggard old woman with a burgundy shawl around her head held out her hand and asked for some change. I fished into my purse and gave her two pounds. “God bless you,” she whispered. “God bless you, ma’am.”

  “I have to pee,” Jason said, tugging on my shirt sleeve. His nose was already dripping down to his upper lip. His snot was yellowish-green. God, I hoped he wasn’t getting another cold. His immune system was weaker than the wi-fi signal in our room.

  “Why didn’t you go earlier?” I asked, glancing at my watch, then at the bus timetable. The bus was coming in seven minutes.

  “I need to go,” Jason said, knocking his knees together. “Mom…it’s bad.”

  “You’re such a baby,” Greg sneered. “Just hold it in.”

  I looked at the desperation written all over Jason’s face and sighed. “Make this quick, baby.” The three of us ran back across the street, up the stairs and Jason made it to the bathroom with milliseconds to spare. I could hear him let out a long aaaahh, as he emptied his bladder.

  As my son washed his hands, he said, “I swear, Mom, I was this close to peeing myself.”

  I yanked Jason’s wet hand and dragged him out the door. “Let’s go. I’m late, baby. I’m late!”

  And as luck would have it, the moment we stepped out of the building, the bus we needed to catch was pulling away from the curb. “Shit!”

  “Mom, you said a bad word,” Jason said.

  “That’s because this is bad, okay? I’ll miss half the class unless we take a taxi.”

  “Then let’s take a taxi, duh!” Greg said. “There’s one right there!” Sure enough, a bright yellow taxi was parked less than a block away, the cabbie’s face hidden behind an open newspaper.

  I bit my lip and thought about the meager contents of my wallet. This would cost me thirty to forty pounds, easy. A luxury I couldn’t afford. This trip was already eating into my savings…

  Snow slapped against our red faces, making my eyes water. It was so chilly, my ears hurt. I pulled my boys closer. “Okay, let’s go.” I clenched my hands into fists, and we headed for the cab.

  I told the cabbie where we needed to go, and he attempted to make small talk. Where you from, love? How long you stayin’ here? Have you seen Miss Tussaud’s…

  I was cranky and cold, and in no mood for banal chatter. So I kept my replies to one or two words, and Tim Charleston (his ID read), caught on pretty quick.

  By the time we pulled up to Camp Bellevue, I was already way too late, so I didn’t have time to properly say hi to the administrator who welcomed the boys inside. “Sorry Mr. Henley, I’m running late. We can chat when I pick them up?”

  Mr. Albion Henley, a thirty-something man with a scruffy goatee and round glasses, gave me a small wave. “No worries, Ms. Summers. I’ll see you later.”

  After several wrong turns, I found my classroom on the fourth floor of Le Cordon Rouge. By then, it was 10:45, and the lesson had started fifteen minutes ago.

  I’d enrolled in a series of short courses and workshops over the next month that would teach me essential baking skills. Then, there would be an opportunity to take a full, six-month course, at the end of which, I’d receive a Diplôme de Pâtisserie.

  My austere-looking instructor, a fifty-something French woman named Madame Felicity Closette, greeted, “Miss Summers, I presume?” She pronounced ‘miss’ like ‘meez’. Her voice sounded snooty.

  I nodded as I unwrapped my scarf. “I’m so sorry, Madame. I missed the bus and had to drop my sons—”

  She peered at me through huge retro glasses and tsked-tsked me. Closette was about 5’5”, Rubenesque, and she looked like the type of woman who regularly made little children cry. In short, not a teacher who’d hold my hand and sing any undue praises.

  “Tardiness is not tolerated in my class,” Closette said in a thick accent. “Next time, I will be locking the doors. Now take a seat beside Miss Baumgart.”

  I shuffled toward an empty seat near the back of the class. Turning to the redhead I presumed was Miss Baumgart, I whispered a few quick introductions. She didn’t seem to hear me. “Hi, I’m Maggie,” I said again, extending my hand.

  “Mandie Baumgart. Now shh, I’m trying to learn here,” Mandie said. “Some people are actually serious about this class.”

  I was about to defend myself, but decided it wasn’t the time or place for that.

  I slipped an apron around my neck and stood as tall and as straight as I could. So this was how it was going to be. I had no problem staying strictly professional. I came here to learn, not to make friends. I scraped my hair back into a high ponytail and focused on the stainless-steel worktop whereupon Closette had piled an assortment of utensils and baking equipment.

  “Today, we start with something easy,” Closette said, pulling out a bright red, heavy-duty stand-up mixer. “Basic safety and sanitation practices. In the afternoon, we will learn about theory and basic techniques. I’ve outlined everything on your syllabus.”

  I raised my hand. “Sorry, I didn’t get a copy of the—”

  “Do not interrupt the lesson, especially when I am talking,” Closette said, giving me the evil eye. Then, she began rambling on about the importance of proper hand-washing technique.

  The rest of the day dragged on. Though I stayed attentive and took meticulous notes throughout the day, I could feel my patience waning with each passing minute. Closet’s accent made it incredibly hard to concentrate, and the thermostat must’ve been broken, because the building was sweltering.

  “Mademoiselle Summers!”

  “Huh?” I snapped to attention, running a hasty hand through my hair.

  Closette’s beak nose twitched. “Please tell us the difference between granulated and sheet gelatin.”

  Shit. “I…granulated…I’m not sure.”

  Closette walked toward me, hands on hips. She stopped in front of my seat, took out a small handkerchief, and handed it to me.

  I arched my brow. “What—”

  “To wipe the drool,” C
losette said, pointing to my face, “That’s running down your chin. If you want to take a nap, feel free to sleep on the sofa outside.”

  Several women giggled beside me. I felt like I was in high school all over again, and everyone was laughing at me for getting knocked up three months before graduation. Guess mean girls existed everywhere, and even adulthood couldn’t keep them away.

  “I’m sorry, I…jet-lag and—never mind.” I hastily wiped the corner of my mouth with my sleeve and focused back on my notes.

  When I picked the boys up later, they wanted to hear all about my first day of school. Jason had no idea why I was going back to school, seeing as how I was a grown-up and school wasn’t mandatory anymore.

  “I was late, and the teacher called me out on it. Then, I accidentally fell asleep and my teacher embarrassed me in front of everyone,” I moped. “It was an awful first impression.” I didn’t expect them to show any sympathy, but I was glad that I could vent to them.

  “Now you know why we get so nervous on the first day back to school,” Greg said. “Appearances are everything, you know.”

  I pinched his cheek. “Okay, wisecrack. Come on, let’s get home.”

  On the tube ride home, I asked the boys about their day. Despite the snow, they’d paid a visit to the Horniman Museum, an experience that proved quite educational and surprisingly unforgettable for the pair.

  After dinner, the boys went straight to bed, completely exhausted by the day’s adventures. I was left alone with a nice glass of Moscato and my thoughts.

  Closette’s class was too important to fail. I’d gotten off on the wrong foot, but I was determined to change her mind about me. Coming to London was one of the toughest decisions I’d ever had to make, and I needed to make every second here count. If that meant schmoozing up to a cranky old teacher, so be it.

  Over the next week, I learned a dizzying array of techniques, from creaming to infusing to whipping and blending. Closette taught us leavening methods and how to work with different types of dough. Despite being uptight and sometimes harsh with her feedback, I had to admit, Closette knew her stuff. Twenty years ago, she’d trained under Jean-Luc Moreau, one of the finest pastry chefs in the world. Now she ran one of the best pastry schools in the UK. Of course, I could’ve chosen to attend pastry school in Paris. That was my first choice. But the tuition was significantly more expensive there, and I didn’t speak any French. Besides, I didn’t want my parents to shell out any extra money unless it was necessary. London seemed like a much safer alternative.