With Love from London(52)
She was brilliant.
“Anyway, if you can find the box, I bet you’ll get your next clue.”
“Wow,” I say, astonished. “Thank you. I’ll ask Millie about it.”
Our conversation shifts to other topics as we finish our meals. I ask him about his work, and he tells me he’s a journalist, which piques my curiosity, but Jan returns to the table before I can ask him more.
Eric reaches for his wallet, but she insists on treating us, and waves us off before we can stage a protest.
“That was fun,” he says on the street outside. “Maybe we can get together again sometime?”
“I’d like that,” I say, and then we part ways—he in his cab, and me in mine.
I tell the driver to take me to Queen Mary University, then lean back against the seat smiling to myself as I think about the last hour at Café Flora. If I ever do meet Daniel Davenport, I wonder if—and if I’m being completely honest with myself, hope—he’d be a little, or a lot, like Eric.
* * *
—
When I see Tower Bridge approaching, I ask the driver to drop me off so I can take in its iconic structure up close. I think of my mother’s stories of her beloved London, which most often included references to this very bridge—a stalwart of her formative years. She told of riding her old bike, with an attached basket and a bell on the handlebar, pedaling gleefully, wind in her hair, across the River Thames. I knew her childhood in one of London’s poorer neighborhoods hadn’t been easy, but to me, her stories still seemed like the very best fairy tales, and I longed to live in them.
I follow the path that leads to the bridge’s pedestrian walkway, dodging an oncoming jogger and brushing off a stray droplet of his sweat when it hits my arm before zigzagging past a group of tourists ambling along slowly behind their guide. When I reach the other side, I check the navigation on my phone and realize I’d miscalculated the walking distance to the university, which is still forty-five minutes away. I could hail a cab, of course, but the sunshine beckons, and I decide to keep going. These are my mother’s old streets, after all. And even though we’re separated by so many years, I cautiously let myself imagine her walking beside me now, our strides in step, as she shows me her homeland. It’s almost as if she were whispering in my ear. “Do you see that corner over there. It’s where I skinned my knee walking home from school when I was eleven. The pain wasn’t nearly as bad as my embarrassment that Johnny Easton saw the whole thing. And, Val, look, the old Cornish Café. On the last Sunday of each month, if my mum had any spare change, she’d take me there for breakfast.”
I think of what Eric and I spoke about at lunch, about knowing our parents as adults. Would we be friends, my mother and me, if she were here right now, if I could…forgive her?
After I cross the bridge, I walk on, lost in my thoughts, while checking the navigation on my phone from time to time. Eventually, Queen Mary University’s sprawling campus appears in the distance. I round the next corner, then follow a brick walkway, where a regal-looking white stone structure stands in the distance. It looks like a palace, which is fitting, given the sign at the entrance that reads QUEEN’S BUILDING. A clock tower in matching pale stone juts out above the trees, presiding over students as they scurry in and out of the entrance.
I ask one of them for directions to the English department. She shifts her headphones to the side as I repeat the question, then points to a building just ahead, on the left. I thank her and continue on until I find the entrance and follow two backpack-clad students into the lobby.
“I’m here to see Mr. Harvey Ellison,” I say to the front-desk receptionist, who has the look of someone who isn’t interested in doing any favors.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks, smacking her gum.
I immediately regret not calling ahead. I mean, I intended to, but then I had lunch with Eric and…
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I say. “But I only need to speak to him briefly. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”
“Are you a student?” she asks, her suspicion growing.
“No, I—”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to do things in the proper fashion and make an appointment in advance. Mr. Ellison is quite a busy man, and I’m afraid we have a no-drop-in policy.”
I sigh, taking a step back as a nearby classroom door opens and students begin flooding out. A male student waits outside as I decide what to do. “Excuse me, Professor Ellison,” he says a moment later when a man in a tweed suit appears in the hallway. “I have a question about today’s assignment.”
Encouraged by my good fortune, I linger until their brief exchange ends, then seize the opportunity to approach. Fortunately, the watchdog receptionist has stepped away from her desk.
“Professor Ellison,” I say, catching his eye. “I’m sure you must be very busy, but may I have a word?”
He looks at me quizzically, then nods. “Sure, but I only have a minute. The last class ran over, and I’m sorely behind.”
“Of course,” I say, following him down the hall to his office.
“Now,” he says, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, and for a moment, I remember how much I used to love the kiss of gray at Nick’s temples. “Is this about your semester’s-end paper?”