My cousin was a real, live writer.
A professor and a writer.
I was so impressed.
“Can I read your manuscript?” I asked.
Gillian laughed. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”
“You won’t! I think it’s cool that you’re a writer. I am too. I mean, I want to be one.”
Mr. Orton smiled proudly. “It runs in the family.”
“Will you read my book?” Brett asked. “It’s smashing! It’s about an owl and a kitty cat —”
“Pussycat,” Bernard corrected him. “And you’re just copying.”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Ahem!” said Mr. Orton.
They sounded just like my brothers.
I knew I was going to feel right at home.
* * *
The Ortons lived in a gorgeous neighborhood called Chelsea, with elegant brick townhouses on quiet, winding, tree-lined streets, not far from the River Thames.
“This feels so Dickensian!” I exclaimed, climbing out of the Ortons’ BMW.
“A bit more sinister,” Gillian said. “Bram Stoker lived in this neighborhood … the author of Dracula.”
“Really? Can we visit his house?” I asked.
“Come see my room!” Brett was pulling on my arm.
“Go ahead,” Gillian said. “It may not be Bram Stoker, but it has its own horrific elements.”
So upstairs I went with my little cousins.
Each of them had his own room on the third story (or second, depending on how you counted). Gillian had been right. The messes on their floors reminded me of my own brothers’ rooms.
But the rest of the story was pretty amazing — slanting eaves, creaky wood floors, and a polished wooden wardrobe in each room.
“This is so cool,” I said, standing in the vestibule at the top of the stairs.
“Cool. It’s really cool. Way cool. Like, like.” Brett was beaming. “Do I sound American?”
Bernard groaned. “Don’t you have any manners?”
“Want to see my cool book?” Without waiting for an answer, Brett raced into his room and returned with a sheaf of construction paper fastened into a book shape with about a hundred staples along the left side. Each page was full of scribbles and random letters that seemed to be arranged into words, some backward and some forward.
“I told you it was gibberish,” Bernard remarked, pulling me by the hand toward his room. “My artwork won first prize this week,” he added.
“She has to read it!” Brett shouted.
“How can she? It’s written in Brettish!”
“Shoo! Shoo! Who let a smelly old Saint Bernard in the house?”
Oops. Time to shift into baby-sitter mode.
“Have you guys ever thought of collaborating?” I asked.
Blank looks.
“For example,” I continued, “C. S. Lewis wrote the words to The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, but a different person illustrated it. Bernard, with your artwork and Brett’s stories, you could make a book together.”
A smile spread across Brett’s face. “That is so so so way cool!”
Bernard looked a little more reluctant. “Well, I suppose if you let me help you write letters straight …”
By the time Gillian called us to dinner, I could not get the boys out of Bernard’s room. Mr. Orton had to come upstairs.
“We’re working!” Brett protested.
“May we eat after you do?” Bernard asked.
“Of course.” Mr. Orton grinned. “Mallory, if you are ever in the market for a nanny position …”
And that’s how I ended up eating a nice, cozy dinner alone with Gillian and Peter Orton.
We gossiped about our families. Gillian explained that my mom’s family was originally from Ireland and England, but one branch moved to the U.S. in the 1950s.
“Gillian has researched the family tree,” Mr. Orton said. “Show it to her, Gillian. I’ll feed the tigers.”
Gillian led me into a gorgeous oak-paneled library, carpeted with Persian rugs. As she looked through the shelves, I sank into a crimson leather armchair that was angled to face a fireplace. I imagined myself in a cardigan, sipping tea and thinking deeply about the plot for my next highly awaited novel.
“Here it is,” said Gillian. She sat in the armchair next to mine and opened a large, leather-bound book on her lap.
At the top of the page was the name BENNETT (my mom’s maiden name). My glance slid down to the bottom of the page. Part of it (the important part) looked like this:
There I was.
Published.
I felt goose bumps all over.
“But it’s not complete,” I said. “Brett’s not there, and neither are my brother Nicky and my sisters Margo and Claire.”
“The book is already eight years old. It needs to be updated.” Gillian had a funny smile on her face. “I think you’ll find it interesting to go further back into the past, Mallory. Particularly since you want to be a writer.”
I flipped the pages backward. The book was divided into chapters. Each chapter represented a span of years. It began with interesting tidbits about the family lines. The further I read, the more complicated the family lines became.
I was swept away by the flood of names. Some of the family lines branched off into question marks or were connected by vague, dotted lines. But a few of them kept going back and back … through the seventeen hundreds … the sixteen hundreds …
“There!” Gillian suddenly shouted as I turned to a page near the front.
At the top of the page, a name was circled.
It was no bigger than any of the others, but when I saw it, I nearly fainted:
“Gray hair. A handlebar mustache. Tweed jacket. He answers to Fred Dougherty.” Mom was in Frantic Mode.
The security guard repeated the description into his walkie-talkie.
“I’ll check the shop!” Ms. Post said, running off.
“Please hurry!” Mom called out. “Stacey is a diabetic and has to eat a meal within the hour — and if we don’t make it to Harrods, she’ll have no clothing to wear!”
“Really?” I heard Alan Gray’s goony voice say.
Everyone else was cracking up.
Me? I was melting into the floor.
I wanted to fall asleep, wake up, and discover this was all one big, horrible nightmare.
Half the group had already split off to go to Harrods with Mr. LaVigne and the Berger chaperones. I, of course, had to stay with Mom’s group and track down Mr. D.
Grrrrr.
“What if he’s been mugged?” Abby asked.
“Or kidnapped,” Jessi added.
“Maybe Louis Anderson has him,” Kristy suggested. “As we speak, he’s writing a ransom note: ‘I will return Mr. Dougherty if you return my ashes, no questions asked.’”
“Not funny,” I grumbled.
To add insult to injury, Jacqui Grant was still slobbering all over Robert. She had him practically pinned against the wall. They were comparing prints they’d bought at the shop.
“You actually like that?” she asked, grimacing at one of Robert’s choices. “It looks like something my five-year-old brother could paint.”
Robert shrugged. “I thought it looked cool.”
“This one looks cool,” Jacqui said, unrolling one of her prints. “The guy in it? He’s supposed to be a god or something? He looks just like you!”
Robert rolled his eyes, red-faced. He glanced at me as if to say, “Help!”
I wanted to vomit.
Mom was pacing the floor now. “Are you all right, Stacey?” she asked me.
“Yes, Mom,” I said.
“Not too tired or hungry?”
“No, Mom.”
“I’m hungwy,” whined Alan Gray in a mock baby voice. “When are we gonna eat?”
His voice resounded in the Tate Gallery’s front lobby. People turned to look.
“We’ve never seen that guy before,”
announced Kristy. “He’s not with our group.”
Kristy’s pick-a-shoe partner was by her side. Michel Something. That seemed weird. She had told me she detested him. She said he was a Canadian Alan Gray. (He sure was cuter than Alan. Even in my sour state I could tell that.)
Michel was snickering. “Don’t any of you have manners in public?”
“No way,” Alan said proudly. “In America, we like to speak our minds.”
“If that were true, you’d be silent,” Abby murmured.
Michel glowered at Alan. “In America? As opposed to where?”
“Your country,” Alan replied, rolling his eyes. “It’s called Canada. Duh.”
“Alaaaan,” I warned.
“Hey, that’s funny. Canaduh!” Alan said.
“For your information, Canada is part of America too,” Michel said, stepping toward Alan. “You live in a country called the United States.”
“Uh, guys? If you want to pick a fight, do it outside,” Kristy said.
“Yeah!” Alan agreed. “Kristy will beat you up!”
Michel laughed. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“NO WAY!” Kristy blurted out.
“She wishes,” Alan murmured.
I thought Kristy was going to slug both of them.
Instead she stormed away.
For a moment — just a moment — I felt a little better. At least I wasn’t the only miserable person around.
“Ohhhhh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!” a deep voice echoed in the room.
We all spun around. Mr. Dougherty was strolling toward us, followed by a harried-looking Ms. Post.
Mr. D’s mustache curled upward with his broad smile. He was loaded down with shopping bags. “So sorry,” he continued. “I slipped away to see the pre-Raphaelites for a moment, and I spotted a painting I had to own, so I scurried to the Gallery Shop — quick, quick — to buy a print, but I was sidetracked by the Whistler mural in the restaurant, and …”
I was the first one out the door. I didn’t even wait to hear him finish. I could not believe how immature he was being.
Mom followed right behind me. She had murder in her eyes. I could hear her muttering something about “inappropriate behavior.”
Ms. Post led us to the nearest station of the Underground, or tube (which is what Londoners call their subway).
We piled into the first arriving car. Robert sat on one of the few empty seats, looked at me, and gestured toward the place next to him.
“The tube!” Jacqui squealed as she plopped down into the seat. “That’s the nickname for the subway. That is so cool!”
Not. My. Problem, I told myself.
We rode two stops on the Victoria Line to the Green Park station, then switched to the Piccadilly Line and rode two more stops to the Knightsbridge station. (Got that? If you’ve grown up using the NYC subways, navigating London is no sweat, although it’s hard to adjust to the cleanliness.)
How was Harrods? Well, let’s put it this way. It was like stepping into Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s, Zabar’s, and half of Fifth Avenue all rolled into one. (If you don’t recognize those names, you must visit New York.)
Forget Buckingham Palace. Forget Paris.
I was in heaven.
The moment I stepped into the store, I zoomed off to the designer dresses.
“Bulletin. We have finally located the real Stacey,” Abby said. “Send fireworks.”
My shop-stravaganza was interrupted only once, for high tea (which is what the British call an early dinner) at a restaurant right in Harrods. There we met the other group, and then we all shopped.
I must have picked out twenty fabulous outfits.
Mom must have had twenty heart attacks when she looked at the price tags.
We ended up buying two of the outfits — one for the theater that night and one for daytime sightseeing. “To tide you over until your suitcase is returned,” Mom said.
Arguing did no good. (Sigh.) I took what I could get.
All of my friends found wonderful things — well, all except Kristy. She bought a pack of white crew socks. Also, she spent the whole shopping trip arguing with Michel. Something about baseball. I couldn’t understand it.
As we took the tube back to the hotel, I was feeling so-o-o-o much better. I wasn’t mad at Mom. I wasn’t thinking about those ashes. I didn’t care that Jacqui was showing off her new clothes to Robert. Or that Robert kept looking at me, as if he wanted me to rescue him. Or that Kristy and Michel were still at it. Or that Abby had started a singalong of Elvis songs, right in the train.
I was so psyched about going to the theater in my new dress that I flew into my hotel room without even noticing that the telephone message light was blinking.
Mom had followed me in, to drop off one of my bags. When she saw the light, she quickly picked up the receiver. “Hello? … Yes? … He did? Where is he?” She took a pen out of the nightstand and scribbled on a notepad:
L. ANDERSON
HÔTEL DES GRANDES ÉCOLES
RUE DU CARDINAL-LEMOINE
43.26.79.23
As she was writing, Kristy came in and glanced over her shoulder. “That’s the guy!” she mouthed to me.
Mom said good-bye, hung up, and tapped out the phone number she’d written. “He’s in Paris, not London,” she said over her shoulder. “Apparently he called the airline around the same time we did, and he has your suitcase.”
“Yyyyyes!” Kristy shouted.
“You’re not going to make me return the new clothes, are you?” I asked.
Mom ignored me. “Hello?” she said into the receiver. “Is this Mr. Anderson? Hi, I’m Maureen McGill. I believe my daughter and you switched luggage … yes, I know … Oh? Oh, dear …” Mom’s face fell.
Kristy and I gave each other a Look.
My stomach growled.
Mom muttered a few “Mm-hm’s” and “Oh, my’s” before saying good-bye. When she hung up, she looked pretty grim. “Well, the good news is that Mr. Anderson is a very nice man, and he’s offered to make arrangements with the airline to deliver your suitcase here tomorrow.”
“And the bad news?” Kristy asked.
“Well, it seems Mr. Anderson is a World War II veteran,” Mom replied. “The ashes in his suitcase belong to his platoon buddy, Dennis. They stormed the beach together at Normandy, France, on D-Day.”
“He’s been carrying around the ashes since then?” Kristy asked.
“No,” Mom said softly. “Dennis died this year. On his deathbed, he asked Mr. Anderson to scatter his ashes at Normandy. So that’s why he’s in France.”
“So we’ll send him his suitcase, and everything’ll be fine,” I said.
Mom shook her head. “I didn’t feel right about trusting the ashes to the airline, Stacey. Neither did he. So he asked if we’d deliver them when we arrive in Paris.”
“Of course you told him no,” I said.
“How could I?” Mom sighed. “I’m afraid I agreed.”
I slumped onto the bed.
Playing messenger with a cremated body. What a way to spend a vacation.
* * *
I thought about those ashes all evening.
Why would a grown man ask someone to scatter his remains on a beach halfway around the world? Wouldn’t he want his ashes to be near his friends and family? And why would another man actually travel all the way to Europe to do this for him? I mean, okay, they were in the war together. That was important. But it was over fifty years ago.
It seemed weird. Morbid.
I thought about it even during the theater. It didn’t help that the play was a revival of the musical Shenandoah, which was about war and death. (The Civil War, though, not World War II.)
That night I had trouble getting to sleep.
I was deep in the the middle of a dream when Mom woke me the next morning.
She was grinning. “Wake up, you two. Time for our morning trip.”
“Rrraumpf?” Kristy grumbled sleepily.
“To where?” I asked.
“The Cabinet War Rooms,” Mom explained. “Where Winston Churchill and his cabinet hid underground during World War II, planning the strategy that won the war.”
Ugh. My beauty sleep was being ruined for the sake of a war exhibit?
“Must we?” I asked.
“Just think of how knowledgeable you’ll be if Mr. Anderson starts talking about the war.”
Kristy was hopping out of bed already. “Cool.”
“Meet you in the lobby,” Mom said.
I was outnumbered.
It was a good thing Mom had asked the hotel staff to launder the outfit I had worn on the airplane. I dragged myself out of bed and threw it on.
Minutes later we were wolfing down croissants and orange juice with our group at the breakfast buffet. Then we dashed outside to the tube and rode it to Westminster station.
Once we arrived at the Cabinet War Rooms exhibit, we stepped down into a corridor of dark, windowless rooms.
The rooms were two stories underground. They were also covered by solid concrete ten feet thick.
“Bombproof,” Mom remarked. “In the U.S., people didn’t experience stuff like this. But the Nazis conducted air raids on London for years.”
You know what popped into my mind? The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I had never really understood why Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy were sent away from their London home during the war. “Air raids,” was what the book said, but that never meant anything to me.
Now it did. The kids were sent away so they wouldn’t be blown to bits.
And during all this, the British military leaders were in this cramped, tiny hole.
Living deep underground.
We looked into the rooms, through Plexiglas barriers. Papers were piled on the desks and maps still hung on the walls, covered with little flag markers. As if the war leaders had just stepped out for tea and were about to return.
I could hear snatches of what our tour guide was saying.
“The bombing went on for years, and the mood down here was awful, until a bleak morning in June of 1944, when one of the boldest strategies was set in motion. Thousands of American, British, and Canadian troops launched an all-out surprise attack. It was called Operation Overlord, and it began on a lonely beach in Normandy, France. After this landing, the tide of the war changed. The Allies pushed across Europe and never looked back….”
Baby-sitters' European Vacation (9780545690577) Page 4