On the Trail of King Richard III. L. M. Ollie
into conversation, while others checked then re-checked their documentation or sat staring out the window, perhaps seeing the lush green of the English countryside for the first time.
Earlier, after a Continental breakfast, Laura and Gail had busied themselves filling in their arrival forms. The usual name, address, nationality, but Gail came to a screeching halt on the line marked “Occupation”. ‘What do you think I should put down? I hate housewife and there’s not enough room to put cleaner, school committee member, Halloween costume maker, cook, closet organizer, orphan sock finder …’
‘Put down Lifestyle Co-ordinator.’
‘Lifestyle Co-ordinator; I like that. Is it one of yours?’
Laura nodded as she slid her completed form inside her Passport. Ruefully, she had written “Company Director” on her form. A grandiose title, but the truth was that her little company had not proven as successful as she had hoped. Warned by those in the know, she was learning the hard way that being paid for services rendered, specifically computer training, was a hopeless task. She had boarded the aircraft with only a portion of the receivables paid, or ever likely to be.
Still childless after ten years of marriage, Laura’s relationship with her husband had deteriorated rapidly over the past few months. The trip, it was hoped, would provide a breathing space for both of them; a chance to review options; an opportunity to think things through. Laura idly tapped the tips of her fingernails on the arm of her seat as she thought of her husband, Roger, who was, perhaps at that very moment, sleeping with another woman; a divorcee with a young son. Oh, yes, Laura knew what was happening, and she also knew that Gail had been instrumental in introducing this woman to her brother. It only remained now for Laura to choose just the right moment, when Gail was sufficiently off guard, to … Laura smiled inwardly.
‘Plenty of time yet, so let her enjoy herself; for awhile at least.’
*****
Laura weaved her way around several mounds of luggage then dropped with a heavy sigh into the soft leather sofa beside Gail. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. Our room won’t be ready for at least two hours.’
Gail groaned. ‘An eight hour flight, a delayed departure, it’s ten in the morning but it feels like midnight and I want - I need - a shower.’ She groaned again, louder this time.
‘Buck up old thing, at least we’re here. London lies at our feet, waiting, so let’s do it. We’ve got Westminster Abbey, Madam Tussauds, Harrods, London Dungeons, Covent Garden, Piccadilly, Buckingham Palace, the Royal Mews. You name it.’
‘Madam Tussauds first,’ Gail said, suddenly excited.
‘You’ve got it.’
*****
‘Well, what do you think?’ Gail asked as she proudly held up the souvenir photo of herself, taken with a waxen Arnold Schwarzenegger.
‘Very nice,’ Laura said, as she luxuriated in the roomy interior of an English taxi.
‘I’m going to take it out of its frame and tell Wayne that I met Arnold, we had lunch together, and …’
‘You would lie to your husband?’ Laura was scandalised.
Gail shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t believe me anyhow. Nothing exciting ever happens to me.’
Laura smiled wickedly as she turned towards the window. ‘Maybe we can change that,’ she whispered under her breath.
*****
By the time they arrived back at their hotel it was nearly two o’clock. Laura watched, fascinated as Gail tried to wrestle monster bag onto her bed. ‘Do you want some help?’
‘No, just stay where you are smoking that damn cigarette while I get a hernia,’ Gail said from the floor where she had positioned herself in the hope that she might be able to push the case upwards.
Laura relented so that, between the two of them, they managed to get it onto the bed. Laura retrieved her cigarette from the ashtray. ‘Tell me when you’re finished with it. For God's sake, don't push it off the bed or it’ll end up in the lounge downstairs.’ Laura had to raise her voice at the end as Gail entered the bathroom, determined to take a quick shower. ‘Don’t be long. Our next stop is Westminster Abbey; resting place of kings and queens.’
Gail stuck her head around the corner. ‘Is Richard buried there?’
‘His wife Anne is but no one knows where he’s buried, if indeed, he’s buried at all.’
‘That’s strange, isn’t it?’
Laura considered the question. ‘There’s plenty about Richard Plantagenet that is singular in the extreme.’
‘Why didn’t you want to stand beside him at Madam Tussauds so I could take your picture?’
‘I’m not a complete tourist you know. Come on, hurry up.’
*****
‘Well, what did you think of Westminster?’ Laura asked over top of her wine glass. They had chosen their hotel restaurant partly because it offered an Early Bird Dinner Special plus, they were both extremely tired now and the knowledge that their beds were so close, appealed.
‘Beautiful, but honestly, you tell the most disgusting stories. Where do you get all that stuff from anyway?’
‘What stuff? You mean about Mary Queen of Scots execution being botched?’ Laura chuckled.
‘And what you said about Elizabeth the First blowing out her coffin because she hadn’t been embalmed properly. Cromwell being dug up, the body hung at Tyburn before being decapitated.’ Gail shook her head in disbelief.
‘Henry the Seventh has a nice tomb though, don’t you think? I especially liked the angels sitting on the lid making sure he can’t get out.’ Laura smiled wickedly.
Gail took a couple of sips of her wine. ‘Well, brat child that you are, if you insist upon relating your disgusting anecdotes and we’re planning to visit the Tower tomorrow, you had better tell me more of the Story. Last I heard Richard was wiping his blade on his pants and his brother was trying on crowns.’
‘My notes are upstairs.’
‘That's okay, I'll wait.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ Laura pushed her chair back. She was assisted by a member of the staff. Explaining the need to get something from her room, she made her apologies and left.
By the time she returned, Gail had finished her wine and had ordered another. Their meals had not yet arrived. Assisted back into her seat, she glared at Gail. ‘And what did your last slave die from?’
‘Never mind. Have you seen the dessert trolley?’ Gail’s eyes fairly danced with delight.
‘Not interested,’ Laura said with a shrug of indifference as she sorted through her notes. In all the years that Laura had known Gail, there was one constant - desserts. Gail had a passion for them; for anything sweet. Oh, Laura could, upon occasion, be tempted with a piece of chocolate, but Gail? Laura figured it would be only a matter of time before the trolley, laden with pies, cream tarts, custard, trifle, death-by-chocolate cake, would find its way to Gail's side totally unaided.
‘You need a sweet now and then to keep your strength up,’ Gail said in self-defence.
Laura had heard this argument before. ‘I don't want to keep my strength up and even if I did, I’d opt for a medicinal brandy, not a sticky cake.’
‘You drink too much,’ Gail huffed.
‘Perhaps,