A Second Helping of Magic

Two days after I arrived in Texas, letters came from Mother and Alice early in the morning.  Alicia and I took the letters to the little alcove off the kitchen, and made some tea.  The alcove has a large bay window with a seat below.  The window seat pad and curtains are yellow French country print, which matches her yellow, everyday Quimper ware dishes. Ivy trailed from copper pots hung beside the window frames.

I had slept late and Alicia had just come from a shower after feeding the animals and seeing the children off to school.  So we were both all comfy in our bathrobes.  We read the letters to each other, giggling and making comments as we read.  The sun coming in the window, the smell of fresh baking, I could tell this would become a tradition with us every time we received their letters. We read Alice’s first to get a realist’s view of what was happening.  We saved Mother’s letter for last, like dessert.

Dear Arden and Alicia,

I wanted to write you as soon as we got to London to let you know how everything went. Well, it’s gone pretty bad.  The flight over was miserable. I just can’t sleep sitting up, so was awake most of the night. They make those seats for tall men and my feet didn’t reach the floor.  I had to prop my feet up on my overnight case. The flight attendant kept coming over and telling me to put the case overhead or under the seat.  Finally she just gave up and stopped annoying me. The food wasn’t bad, awfully starchy, and we did get free wine. The movies were jumpy, ones I’d already seen, but I tried to listen, nothing else to do. The person seated next to me was snoring, so even with earphones I could hardly hear the movie.  I was finally just getting to sleep when they turned up the lights and started serving breakfast! I’ve had so much tea, I slush when I walk. Mother seemed to hold up very well.

A friend of Judge Anderson’s met us at the airport and drove us to the bed and breakfast Mother had selected. Butler’s Hotel is a small, family owned place, with a capacity of about thirty people.  Mother made reservations here for a month, sight unseen, and now that I’ve seen it, I have my doubts.  It’s an old Victorian house, three or four stories, hard to tell with stairs that go about halfway up and then turn. Thank God we’re on the second floor; there are no lifts. The place is in some disrepair.  The floors slope, the windows are drafty, and the furniture has seen better days. The location is good though, behind the British Museum, close to all the attractions, which is something like saying of a blind date, she has good teeth! The toilet takes ten minutes to flush and closets are non-existent.  A wardrobe takes up most of the room; a small table and chair are wedged in the corner. Mother insisted I take the room with a view out to the British Museum.  Her room is to the back.

Most of the people staying here are short-stay, American tourists, professors I think, but about three of the ladies are English. One is a retired schoolteacher, another is a librarian and the third, Mrs. Holdon, is rather queer.  She’s well to do and has a home out in the country, quite nice, one of the ladies told me. Surely she could pick a more upscale place here in London, one that people of her class might choose. Mrs. Holdon’s staying here while she plans her funeral! Now don’t laugh. (Alicia and I were in stitches by this time. I dropped my teacup I was laughing so hard.) This Mrs. Holdon wants the funeral service to be perfect in every detail.  If she stays at her house, she says she can’t concentrate on the precise way she wants the funeral done. Most of the people here avoid her and her constant talk of her preparations.  Small wonder! Mother has taken kindly to her and listens as if interested.  I think Mrs. Holdon has broken all contacts with her social group.  Only her family calls on her.  It seems the queer Mrs. Holdon has a younger brother, Sir Albert.  When I say younger, everything is relative. He’s about Mother’s age.  When her brother comes to visit, he spends most of his time reading the newspaper. But I will say, after he tasted Mother’s spoonbread, he started talking to us. Probably was hungry for some real food.  Sir Albert is an attractive man, athletic figure, graying hair and moustache.  He got the looks in the family.

Mrs. Butler, a tall, skinny woman, runs the hotel like a major general.  Her husband and young son do repairs and maintenance.  I haven’t heard her husband say a word since we’ve been here. One of her daughters acts as the housemaid. She’s quiet like her father and scurries around like a little mouse.  Mrs. Butler told us that if we want to have dinner and tell her ahead of time, we might eat with the family. So Mother has planned for us to take three dinners a week with them. Mrs. Holdon eats all her dinners here.  I guess she doesn’t want to waste any time going out when she can be planning her funeral!

Today we took a ride on one of the bright red double-decker busses.  We sat up on top, very drafty, but we had a good view of the city.  We visited St. Paul’s Cathedral, very plain building shaped like a cross. No stained glass windows.  The guide said Lord Nelson is buried here. Nelson was a small man.  After he died, they put him in a barrel of rum to preserve him and brought him back to London to be buried. I wonder how they got r