Antiques Carry On Page 4

  Mother had insisted on British Airways, the Airbus 380 – a decision that nearly decimated our bank account – booking two First Class seats through something called World Club.

  After clearing security at O’Hare – Mother’d had her recent passport photo taken three times at Walgreens before one met her approval – we were soon herded onto the massive double-decker jet, greeted by a female flight attendant with a pleasant British accent, crisp white blouse, navy skirt and sensible pumps. Our seats were on the upper level, via a front flight of stairs, and we found our places on an aisle and window. We were enclosed, capsule-like, for privacy.

  Now this was the way to fly!

  Taking the one by the window, knowing from past experience that Mother would have to relieve herself more often than me, I settled into the cubbyhole and began familiarizing myself with what would be my little world for the next nine hours.

  Through a separating partition that (we’d been told) couldn’t be closed until airborne, Mother said, ‘I was just visiting with such a nice young man in the waiting area. His name is Andrew.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I said, continuing to check out my world – pillow, blanket, headphones, cloth bag with amenities, including eye mask, toothbrush and paste, and skin cream …

  ‘And he showed me a picture of his lovely wife and two adorable little children.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Pop-out TV screen, entertainment control panel, seat and panel controls …

  ‘He’s been on a furlough to see them, and is on his way back to Iraq.’

  ‘Dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it, I guess.’ Power adapter, side storage bins, fold-down ottoman to make a bed … wait a minute.

  Get in the game, Brandy! This is no idle chit-chat from Mother, passing the time till take-off.

  ‘Poor darling,’ she was saying. ‘He’s six-foot-four, and simply stuffed into a seat on the lower level in coach.’

  I viewed her through narrowed eyes. ‘You haven’t offered him my seat, by any chance?’

  ‘I knew you’d understand, dear!’

  I sat up, as if thrust forward by turbulence, though the plane was on the ground. ‘No, I don’t understand! What’s wrong with offering him your seat, if you’re such a passionate patriot?’

  She put a finger to her lips. ‘I did consider it. But that would be quite impossible considering my double hip replacements, lumbago, arthritis, and plantar fasciculus.’

  ‘You left out hammer toes.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to sound like a complainer.’

  I whined, ‘But I’ve never flown this nice before!’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities to do so in the future … but that brave soldier may not.’ A dramatic beat. ‘Dear, his job is disposing of explosives. As you say, a dirty job but someone has to do it.’

  Fuming, I snapped, ‘Oh, fine.’

  Mother reached through the opening and patted my hand. ‘Good girl! I knew you’d do the right thing, so I’ve already made the arrangements and asked a flight attendant to show him up.’

  The young veteran who arrived was indeed tall, and muscular, and, yes, would have suffered an extremely uncomfortable flight. Giving up one of our seats was a dirty job, but …

  I gathered my things, then on my way into the aisle, purposely stepped on Mother’s foot, and she howled as if she’d spotted a gremlin on the wing of the plane.

  ‘This is awfully nice of you,’ Andrew addressed me. ‘But are you sure?’

  I gave him a smile I hoped looked sincere. ‘Happy to do it.’

  ‘Well, I can’t thank you enough.’

  As we exchanged tickets, I commented, ‘There are earplugs in the little bag – she snores.’

  ‘That’s a scurrilous accusation,’ Mother grumbled, rubbing her foot.

  ‘And a true one,’ I whispered, and the soldier smiled.

  After taking the back stairs to the lower coach section, I located my seat in the center of a middle row of five near the back of the plane. I managed not to bust out crying.

  But as passengers struggled to their feet to let me in, a smattering of applause greeted me, as the soldier’s former neighbors understood the sacrifice I’d made, which I didn’t deserve since I’d been forced into it. I acknowledged this with a brave nod. Might as well take the credit.

  An hour into the flight, dinner was served, but instead of the usual coach fare served to my neighbors, I was handed a large tray with nice tableware, the flight attendant saying, ‘Compliments of British Airways.’

  On a linen cloth was a fresh fruit salad, chicken-and-barley soup, filet of salmon, steamed vegetables, and for dessert, a divine-looking chocolate cake with vanilla pudding. Everything was scrumptious.

  Later, when trays had been cleared, and the cabin lights dimmed, I fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until breakfast. My meal, again, was First Class.

  After a smooth landing at about nine in the morning London time, Mother was waiting for me inside Terminal Five, my group being the last to deplane.

  ‘Well, dear, how was the flight?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m here,’ I said stiffly, not mentioning the excellent food, how nice everyone was around me, and that I’d slept most of the way – that all in all I’d had a delightful flight. Let her think I suffered.

  She was saying, ‘Andrew wanted to tell you again how grateful he was, but he had a tight connection.’ She paused. ‘We did exchange information, so you’ll probably be hearing from him.’

  Little did the Iraq veteran know the price that seat upgrade would cost him. Mother would add him to her ever-growing Christmas letter list – where life-long friends and casual acquaintances received equal footing – off of which the only escape was via the grim reaper. (If you moved, she would only track you down.)

  I took a moment to text Tony that we’d arrived, not expecting to hear back until later, since it was about three in the morning at home; but he responded immediately, saying he missed me, and adding that Sushi was curled up with Rocky.

  After a trek to baggage claim – did you ever notice that the first luggage down the shoot at the carousel never belongs to anyone, and just goes around and around and around? – I was bracing for a long wait through processing. But Heathrow had installed e-gates for speedy entry for certain countries, which now included the USA: step up to a machine, insert your passport open to your photo, look into a screen, the machine makes a match, then off you go.

  Only, there was a hitch with Mother. Remember how I said she’d had three different photos taken, before accepting the last one? That’s because she went home and used a facial kit where rubber bands were attached in the hair, pulling back her skin – instant face-lift, an old (double meaning) Bette Davis trick.

  An officious type came over and, as the British say, sorted things, after Mother reluctantly explained her recent youthful photo – ‘I’m an actress, dear, and it’s a technique we thespians use’ – and we were sent on our way.

  Not until I was settling back in one of those iconic black taxis could I finally relax, even if it was unnerving to see the driver – a pleasant-looking middle-aged chap in a sporty cap – seated on the right, as we traveled on the left.

  The trip to the Savoy in Central London took about an hour, but that passed quickly as we gawked at such landmarks as the Victoria and Albert Museum, Harrods, and Trafalgar Square. Gliding by Buckingham Palace, where the Queen’s flag was not flying today, Mother blurted, disappointedly, ‘Oh, the old darling’s not in,’ as if we’d been planning to drop by for tea.

  Through a hole in the Plexiglas separating us from the driver, he said, ‘No, ma’am. The Queen ’ardly lives there anymore, preferring Windsor Castle.’

  Soon the cab turned down a short, narrow street that ended in a circle with a fountain, beneath a grand overhang with the famously recognizable S A V O Y green neon sign.

  Before we left Serenity, Mother had our banker get us British currency, to avoid the high airport exchange fees, and
now she seemed to relish using some of the colorful bills to pay the driver and then tip the formally attired top-hatted doorman, who dealt with our luggage.

  We whisked through one of two gleaming wood-and-glass revolving doors and stood agog, blocking the entrance, taking in the splendor of the lobby.

  ‘Hasn’t changed a bit,’ Mother enthused, ‘since the days of Gilbert and Sullivan! … Not that I was around back then, of course.’

  ‘Good to know,’ I said.

  Actually, the lobby had changed quite a lot. During a lull back home at the shop, I’d read about the hotel’s refurbishment in 2007, in which the lobby had expanded immensely, yet still retained the Art Deco and Edwardian styles for which London’s most famous hotel was renowned.

  ‘Remember what you promised?’ I asked, taking her gently by the arm to clear the path for other guests coming in those revolving doors.

  ‘I make many promises, dear, some that I actually keep, few that I keep track of. Enlighten me, ducky.’

  ‘You promised, if I agreed to this trip, that you would not use your fake British accent.’ Which she would often trot out to impress people, having of course quite the opposite effect.

  Mother tossed her head. ‘I would not characterize my accent as “fake.” In the world of theater, I am quite well known for my amazing accents.’

  If by that she meant, in the world of (Serenity, Iowa) theater, her accents had amazed many a theatergoer, keeping in mind one definition of ‘amaze’ is ‘bewilder,’ well … yes.

  ‘I’m going to insist, Mother.’

  ‘But I have various accents of the British variety – cockney, Yorkshire, Estuary English, and what of Irish and Scottish?’

  ‘Not a one, Mother. Not a one.’

  She unleashed the put-upon sigh of all put-upon sighs. ‘Very well, if you’re going to get your knickers in a twist.’

  I followed her as she sashayed across the black-and-white checkered floor to the registration area, where two men, impeccably dressed in dark suits, were seated at a massive mahogany desk, in winged-back tapestry chairs, awaiting guests.

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ said one, addressing Mother. He was older than his co-worker, with a touch of gray at the temples. ‘Checking in?’

  ‘Ah surely am,’ she drawled, in the manner of Blanche DuBois in her (unauthorized) musical version of A Streetcar Named Desire at the Serenity Playhouse. ‘Mrs Viv-yun Boown, and Miss Bran-dah Boown.’

  Well, she had kept her promise, technically.

  ‘Welcome to the Savoy, ladies. Have you stayed with us before?’

  ‘Ah suh-tin-lah haaave,’ Mother said. Suddenly her Southern accent vanished, forgotten in a rush of memories. ‘Back in the Swingin’ Sixties! Carnaby Street, the Beatles, and free love … Those were the days, my friends! We thought they’d never end.’

  The man’s eyes rose to mine, as I had remained standing. I smiled back, then raised my eyebrows in quick succession. Welcome to the Savoy? Welcome to my world.

  I patted Mother’s shoulder. ‘Seems to me you’re doing fine here. Whistle if you need me.’

  I wandered off to explore the rest of the lobby, which was divided into three seating areas, each like a living room of the rich and famous, separated by gilded columns to lend intimacy. Unlike the accommodations we more normally encountered, there were no nailed-to-the-wall oil paintings or glued-to-a-tabletop chintz vases.

  But I admit I did feel shabby in my best clothes, a downstairs maid who snuck upstairs when the Lord and Lady were otherwise occupied.

  The center rear of the lobby gave way to a descending flight of wide marble stairs that led to a landing with a few shops, and then on down to the fabled Thames Foyer, where I hoped we’d be having tea later. But for now I stayed put, up top.

  Mother materialized beside me. ‘Our room won’t be ready until this afternoon,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, I’d like to take care of a bit of business.’

  ‘What business is that?’

  Our meeting at the new publisher wasn’t scheduled till tomorrow morning.

  ‘I promised Skylar James,’ she said, ‘that I’d drop by an antiques shop on Charing Cross Road.’

  ‘Running errands in London? What’s this about?’

  She told me about the agreement with the necklace.

  I snorted a laugh. ‘Any other such shady dealings you haven’t mentioned yet?’

  ‘No, dear. And I’d hardly describe a favor for a fellow antiques dealer as “shady.”’

  The shady things that Mother didn’t consider shady could fill a book. This one, for example.

  ‘OK,’ I said with a sigh, ‘but we have limited time on this expensive little trip of ours. So after your errand, I want to do some touristy stuff.’

  Leaving our bags behind – they would be delivered to our room in our absence – we took another of those classic black taxis, Mother giving the driver the address.

  After we got in, she called, ‘Tally ho!’

  The cabbie chuckled, but I elbowed her. ‘You promised!’

  ‘That was an unaccented “tally ho,” dear.’

  She’d got me on another technicality!

  We sat in silence on the brief ride to our destination, getting dropped off on Charing Cross near Old Compton Street, in an area I wouldn’t call shabby, but not exactly upscale – more for locals than tourists.

  The Old Curiosity Shop was sandwiched between a vaping store and a tiny Indian restaurant catering to mostly carry-out; a sign on the inside of the door’s window indicated the shop was open.

  An overhead bell announced us as we entered a claustrophobic world difficult to take in – one of taxidermy, medical items, the occult, and assorted oddities. As we made our way through a narrow aisle beneath a canopy of hanging, vaguely sinister puppets, a man suddenly appeared.

  ‘How might I be of help?’ he asked.

  He was tall, cadaverous, with slicked-back silver hair, a long thin nose, and hollow checks, his mouth a mere slash. He reminded me of the older Peter Cushing, Dr Frankenstein in the old Hammer horror movies. But his eyes were friendly, even twinkling, giving me the sense that he enjoyed his slightly macabre surroundings.

  ‘Vivian Borne,’ Mother said – neither Southern belle nor cockney Brit. The atmosphere had smothered such pretensions, momentarily at least.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he replied, the wrinkled face beaming, his teeth white and perfect and almost certainly courtesy of the National Health Service. ‘Skylar James said you might pay a visit! Humphrey Westcott, at your disposal.’ He offered a bony hand.

  Mother took it, shook it, returned it, then without further preamble, announced, ‘I’m afraid I have rather disappointing news for you, Mr Westcott.’

  ‘Oh?’ Shaggy eyebrows ascended a high forehead.

  She touched the turquoise and silver jewelry at her throat. ‘I have decided to keep the necklace.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I rather fell in love with it.’

  That was almost an English accent – I narrowed one eye at her.

  She went on, ‘I’ve had so many compliments wearing it that I simply cannot bear to let it go.’

  He nodded, expressionless. ‘I see.’

  ‘And the necklace is mine, after all – I paid for it and have a receipt.’

  The shopkeeper leaned slightly forward for a better look at the necklace. Then admitted, ‘It is a very nice example of Native American jewelry, especially for the price quoted me.’ He straightened and gestured with a gracious open hand. ‘And, yes, the turquoise stones indeed bring out your eyes.’

  Rarely have I seen Mother blush, but that’s just what she did.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been hearing!’ she burbled. ‘Everywhere I go. And turquoise isn’t even in my color analysis!’

  He gave her half a smile, his expression warm. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider finding a different necklace?’

  ‘I really don’t think I can locate one that I’d like better.’

&n
bsp; One eyebrow went up. ‘Even for a nice profit?’

  Mother took a step back, as if affronted by the notion. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Mr Westcott sighed. ‘I can’t deny my disappointment, Mrs Borne. But I do quite understand. When a woman falls in love with a piece of jewelry’ – he tossed an ancient hand – ‘there’s no dissuading her.’

  Mr Westcott seemed to speak from experience.

  Her lips pressed together in a simpering smile. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  The way I’d understood giving up my First Class seat.

  ‘Well, Brandy,’ Mother said, finally acknowledging my presence, ‘as long as we’re here, we should have a look around this fascinating establishment.’

  ‘Please do,’ the shopkeeper replied. ‘Oh, and before you leave, perhaps you’d do me a favor.’ He reached under the counter, brought out a hardcover book, its cover (depicting a train in a snowy landscape) protected by a plastic sleeve, and placed it on the counter.

  ‘Skylar mentioned that his wife loves Agatha Christie. And I’d appreciate it if you’d give him this copy of Murder on the Orient Express. It’s an inexpensive reprint, not worth much, at best a few pounds … but it will be my way of assuring Mr James there are no hard feelings regarding the necklace.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mother said graciously.

  ‘I’ll have it wrapped, and waiting.’

  We began to browse the aptly named Old Curiosity Shop, because I was curious about why Mr Westcott thought much of anything here would ever sell. Perhaps he had a curious clientele.

  He’d have to, because not just anybody wanted a mangy stuffed hedgehog, did they? Or a collection of bugs? A plaster dental mold of upper teeth? Or an old mannequin missing a glass eye?

  I picked up a metal medieval-style letter opener, couldn’t find a marking, and put it back down. What would I have done with it, in an e-mail age? Open junk mail?

  After a polite amount of time, Mother and I returned to the counter, where the book lay wrapped in plain brown paper tied with twine.

  Mr Westcott was not around. Since no little bell was available to ding, Mother called out. Once, then twice. But the shopkeeper seemed to have disappeared, like just another oddity in the shop. But then I heard his voice faintly coming from somewhere in the back, a one-sided conversation that told me he was on a phone.