Epic. Kelly Wilson
to expect on the other side. Standing in the glare of the bathroom light was a matronly woman who reminded me of a cross between Mary Poppins and Mrs. Doubtfire. She had silver hair that was tied up in the tightest bun and held in place by what looked like chopsticks. She wore a beige tweed coat with large wooden buttons. In her right hand was an umbrella and in her left an immense black satchel. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. How long had I been crying? My eyes were red and puffy and my face was blotchy.
“You look like you could use a friendly face,” the stranger remarked.
“I suppose I do,” I answered.
“You also look as if you have been through quite an ordeal.”
I don’t know whether it was her genuine concern for me or the fact that she was the epitomy of what a grandmother should look like, but before I knew it, I was unloading my grief onto her.
“My name is Scotia Sinclair. I left home about ten hours ago from Canada to search for a father whom I’ve never known, and who doesn’t even know I exist. I have no place to stay and only around five thousand pounds to my name. On top of it all, I know no one here and I feel so alone…” I trailed off.
“Well then, it appears that I was right in assuming that you had been through an ordeal, although I suspect the brunt of your ordeal started long before you even left home,” she stated as she handed me a delicately embroidered handkerchief with the letters “BF” stitched into the bottom left-hand corner.
“Sorry to have burdened you,” I answered as I took the handkerchief and began to mop up the tears that had begun to flow again.
“Not at all, my dear. Besides, you are now free to come with me.”
Perfect, I thought. Now, on top of everything else, I was going to be abducted and probably killed by Mary Poppins Doubtfire.
She must have seen the fear on my face, for she immediately interjected, “Don’t look so alarmed, my dear girl. My name is Elizabeth Farquharson. My friends call me Betty. I am the owner of perhaps the best bakery in Camden Market, and landlady to the apartment located above it. I am currently looking for a shop girl to help me out in the bakery and the flat above is vacant. If you are so inclined, they are both yours for the taking.”
I was dumbfounded. Could I be so lucky? What was the catch?
“Well, are you interested, or shall I leave you here to your misery?”
“Yes, yes I am interested,” I replied emphatically.
“Jolly good,” Betty said with a brisk smile.
“Now, let’s get going. I don’t make a habit of frequenting public toilets at the airport.” Betty turned on her heels and walked out the door. I quickly grabbed my dufflebag and followed her.
Betty navigated through Heathrow with ease, and before I knew it, we were on our way to the London Underground. I could not believe that within a matter of hours I had gone from no job prospects and no place to live to having both and possibly a friend in Betty Farquharson.
The Underground, or Tube as Betty called it, was perhaps the best way to navigate through the streets of London. Although it was incredibly busy, it was far easier to negotiate than trying to drive the traffic-laden streets. Or so Betty instructed. Since I hadn’t the money to buy or rent a vehicle, I took her word for it. Besides, driving on the opposite side of the road did not appeal to me. While we rode, Betty filled me in on Camden Market and her bakery. From what she described, Camden seemed like a perfect place to stay while I looked for my father. It was central enough to London and filled with a vast array of pubs, shops, and outdoor vendors—-a perfect place to keep me from getting bored, although looking for my father was going to occupy a significant portion of my time. Betty advised that I might want to begin my search at the British Library, because as she stated, if a person was lost, you could probably find them in the myriad of microfiche, old newspaper articles, and registry books that the British Library was sure to have.
After Betty and I exhausted topics ranging from how to find my father to the weather, we passed the rest of the train ride in silence. Betty opened up a newspaper and began to read it, while I decided to take this opportunity to once again retrieve the picture of my father out of my bag. I did not know what to expect so I braced myself for the unknown. As before, my father was gazing in my direction and not at my mother, as he had been when I first discovered it. How was this possible? I distinctly remembered the way he had been looking into my mother’s eyes.
“Scotia,” my father’s image mouthed. “Please do not try to find me. You will be in mortal danger.”
Not only had the image of my father moved, it was now speaking to me! I felt faint as the blood drained from my face. I wanted to scream but I was mute. I began to clutch the picture so tightly that I felt my fingernails digging into the skin on my palms.
“Scotia, are you all right? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”
I looked up at Betty, totally unaware of my present surroundings.
“Scotia?” Betty probed.
Unable to speak, I handed Betty the picture.
“What a lovely couple. Your parents sure seem happy.”
“How did you know those were my parents?” I stammered.
“The resemblance between you and them is uncanny.” She smiled. “Your father looks as though he was totally enamoured with your mother. I mean, just look at the way he’s looking at her.”
“What? You mean he’s not looking at you?”
“No, my dear girl, he is not.”
I grabbed the picture from Betty and looked at it. What was going on? A minute ago he had been looking straight out at me and speaking, and now his image was right back to the way I remembered it. I couldn’t get my head around what was happening. Perhaps I was getting cold feet, and this was my subconscious mind playing tricks on me.
“Our stop, love,” Betty said and rose to her feet.
I followed dutifully. Although my mind was still trying to figure out what was happening with my parents’ picture, the sights and sounds of Camden were a welcome diversion.
The moment we ascended from the Underground station, I could see why Betty had been raving about Camden Market. The streets were narrow but filled with a multitude of stalls selling everything from fruits and vegetables to clothing. Tiny shops were filled to capacity. Pubs bustled with patrons who either had the day off work or had decided to play hooky that Friday. I could not wait to get acquainted with the area, and hoped to be drinking beer with the locals very soon. From what I had heard, London’s pub culture needed to be experienced rather than explained. The thrill of the market was enough to make me momentarily forget about the picture of my father.
One pub in particular appeared to stand out from the backdrop of the market. Directly across from the Underground station stood a building that seemed too ostentatious amongst the shops. Its name almost made me laugh. There in gold lettering stood the “End of the World Pub”. Its name had a pleasantly eerie quality to it. The patrons standing outside were all dressed in black, making this particular pub appear rather mysterious. The men were all gorgeous and the women were strikingly attractive. Everyone looked like they had just stepped off the pages of a Victorian-themed fashion magazine. Perhaps it was theme night at this particular pub. Did they even have those in London?
I was so caught up in my thoughts that I missed the curb and proceeded to fall like a ton of bricks. Betty tried unsuccessfully to grab me before I landed on the pavement. One of the men turned my way and started to laugh. Was he laughing at me, or had his girlfriend just told him an incredibly funny joke at the exact moment of my unfortunate luck?
“You could at least help us instead of standing there laughing at her,” Betty scolded.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love, you might blow a vein,” he responded.
“Delectable,”