I would never choose flying over driving. Overseas flights are especially tedious, and my years married to a career serviceman had subjected me to a number of those. Trying to doze during the red eye flight to London and not being especially successful, I decided long flights are like pain. You never really get used to it. About noon British time, I wearily surrendered my luggage to a taxi driver who deftly deposited me at my hotel, chosen in part for its location just twenty minutes from the airport.
My room would not be ready for another hour, so I took myself to the dining room and ordered a light lunch to pass the time. I knew it would be a mistake to let myself sleep, and I was in no shape to do anything that required much thought.
Although the official tourist season was over, a sign in the lobby offered a guided tour to St. James during the late afternoon, leaving at two-thirty, cost not too inhibitive. Eyeing the weather, overcast but not raining, I signed up. The room was ready in time for my belongings to be taken up before leaving. It wasn’t easy to ignore those fluffy pillows and go back downstairs to board the bus, but it was a good move. My fatigue subsided and the only London sightseeing I would get an opportunity to do was worthwhile.
Knowing in advance nothing would get accomplished as far as my agenda the first day, I had reserved a room in my London hotel for three nights. I bought a map of England and a train schedule, and by mid morning on Tuesday was busy scrutinizing both. The concierge was also helpful. I knew it would not be cheap to make the phone calls and I considered whether I should take the train to Coventry or continue my search for Mary Whitaker locally. Tuesday afternoon I caught a bus to a library, thanks to the concierge, and considered directories of Stafford and Coventry, with the assistance of the friendly staff there.
Mary Whitaker was listed in the local Coventry directory, both address and phone number, the publication just six months old. I caught my breath as I read it. Was this my Mary Whitaker? Could there be another Mary Whitaker in Coventry? The name wasn’t unusual. It could also be a daughter-in-law, but it was a good lead.
In Stafford, I found several Tuckers, but the first names were not familiar. Mary was still my best hope.
It was dark by the time I returned to my hotel, hungry and tired again. I bought a sandwich in the lobby deli and spent the rest of the evening in my room. Wednesday was rainy and cold. I made arrangements to catch an early train Thursday morning to Coventry, assured there would be no problem finding lodging there, but armed with several suggestions from both the library and the hotel staff. By noon I felt adventurous enough to follow instructions, again by bus, to a larger branch of the same hotel chain. This one had Internet access. Fumbling around at first, I finally managed to send a message to George, telling him where I was headed and when, knowing he would get in touch with my son, as we had agreed in advance. Everett was going to notify his sister, and George would also call Anne Carey, so everyone would be in the loop on my travels.
Armed with a good umbrella and my raincoat, I moseyed down the street after sending my message, peering in windows and stopping in an attractive tearoom for just that. When in Rome …
Well supplied with English currency, I checked out of my hotel and stepped into the taxi graciously called for me by the desk clerk. I knew it would be an expensive ride to the train station, and it was, but I suppressed my natural inclination to be thrifty and paid up without blinking an eye. Knowing ahead of time prepared me psychologically. After purchasing my ticket there was still an hour before departure. It wasn’t hard to maneuver my luggage to a food booth; there were only two pieces. Settling at the one empty small table I grimaced at the strength of the coffee, thought about asking for some hot water, and decided to bear it. There was a prohibitive line at the counter. Mrs. Marsh told me once the British tended to brew coffee stronger than I was used to. The pastry was fresh and made it bearable.
The train left promptly at eleven forty-five in the morning. As usual I had a book handy, but I passed most of the two hour ride looking out of the window. Even in the early grasp of winter the scenery was appealing. It surprised me how much countryside there was even between London and Coventry. The train was fairly full, but not crowded. I had a seat to myself. The other passengers were mainly adults, and quietly read their own materials or conversed in low tones with their companions. On a head count there were only four young children, and it was nice hearing their childish chatter from my seat several rows behind them. The youngest, about two, slept in his pram.
So far the English people had been kind and friendly, and they did not disappoint me in Coventry. Traveling in an English speaking country was making my journey much easier, even with the differences in accents and figures of speech. A taxi driver singled me out the moment I stepped out of the station, rolling my larger suitcase behind me.
“Where to, mum?” he asked cheerfully, opening the passenger door to his conveyance, and reaching for my luggage, the trunk of his vehicle already open.
I eyed him contemplatively. He looked about fifty, wearing a slightly worn and slightly tight brown suit. But it was very clean, as was his scrubbed round face and his conveyance. Before leaving London I asked what to expect to pay for fares. If this man tried to cheat me he would soon find out he had not chosen an easy mark. But my guess was he wouldn’t.
“Can you take me to this hotel?” I asked him, showing him the top name on my list.
No problem, he knew the place.
I asked him how long it would take to get there, and about how much the fare would be. It depended on the traffic, he told me, but fifteen minutes should do it, and he quoted me an approximate price within the parameters I expected. I got into his cab.
It was amusing to ride on the left side of the street and to watch the driver maneuver through heavy weekday traffic. As most American tourists do, I also found the smaller vehicles interesting. In a moment the driver began to make small talk. Late in the year for a holiday, wasn’t it? I agreed noncommittally that it was, but added Coventry was still interesting in November. He urged me to make a point of visiting the cathedrals and the statue of St. Michaels. I told him I would.
“Bombed the hell out of us during the war, the Germans did,” he said, never losing his upbeat demeanor. “Took some time and work to rebuild, but that’s what we did, and St. Michael’s, too.”
We arrived in front of a motel that looked more like a boarding house. The driver assured me this was a decent place to stay so I decided to risk it and let him go. I paid what he asked and added a tip. He appeared satisfied, took my luggage up to the entrance, gave me a friendly salute, and departed.
I walked into a lobby and up to a desk that reminded me of a scene from a post war English movie. There was large stuffed furniture, a stone fireplace, old fashioned end tables with lamps on each one, and a huge, dark heavy wooden desk with a guest register on the counter top. Behind it stood a middle-aged woman, and behind her was another beautiful dark piece of wood with hooks and keys hanging from it. To my satisfaction everything looked and smelled immaculate. The desk clerk was a lady in a dark suit with a white blouse, her graying blond hair pulled severely back from her thin face. I knew she was sizing me up, and that my cranberry colored raincoat and luggage probably pegged me for an American traveler. She would find out as soon as I opened my mouth she was right.
“Your establishment was recommended to me in London,” I said after giving her a polite greeting. “I shall be in Coventry at least a couple of days, perhaps a bit longer.”
“Are you by yourself, then?” she asked, her manner totally correct but devoid of any expression.
I replied that I was.
“We have rooms available. The most expensive is the largest with a private bathroom and bathtub. We have two with a small private bath and shower, and our most reasonable rooms share a bath with one other room. You are welcome to view the accommodations before making a choice.”
What a great idea, yes, I would like to see the rooms before choosing. She obligingly took three keys off the hooks behind her and led the way, quoting me a room rate as she opened a door to each one. Thrift won the day. The largest room was tempting but the smaller room with a private commode and shower would do fine.
The room was on the second floor. An overweight young man materialized to assist me with my luggage, which wasn’t really necessary as there was an elevator and I had done fine without assistance at the train station. But it seemed rude to refuse so he led the way back up the lift and down to the end of the hall. He had the same lack of personality as the proprietress so maybe they were related. I gave him fifty pence for a tip and considered it fair. He said a perfunctory, “Thank you mum,” and closed the door behind him.
Fourth hotel room in less than two weeks, I thought idly, as I slowly removed my coat and looked around again. These accommodations were intended for function over luxury but they were pleasant and very, well, English. The bed was decidedly on the soft side. I hadn’t tried it when viewing the room the first time. Oh well. I had no back problems, and it was for only a couple of nights. Wandering to the window and looking out through flowery cotton curtains, I looked down at the street below. It was around the corner from the main entrance with a view of a side street with little traffic. I could see into the back entrances of several establishments, some business and some private. All were clean, well kept, and some had gardens in the throes of late fall. It wasn’t hard to picture how attractive it could be here when the flowers and the shrubs were in bloom. I loved the building structures so prominent in this part of the world, so much stone and brick masonry, some of it centuries old. I knew wood had gone out of favor as structural material because of the great London fire at the turn of the 17th century.
Heat was coming up through the grates in the floor, situated well out of the way of my feet, and the room was cozy. But all the caffeine digested at the train depot was in full gear and I was too restless to vegetate. That might come later, and there was the expected teapot on a tray on the desk, complete with prepackaged biscuits. I looked with pleasure at the china cups, a perk not expected. Right now half the afternoon was left and my appetite was crying for more than a shortbread biscuit. I freshened up and put my faithful raincoat back on.
If I had any intentions of going back to the front desk to ask for a recommendation in my jaunt, forget it. She was nowhere to be seen. There was no one else in the lobby, either. I paused on the steps after letting myself out and slipped on my gloves. I looked to the right, then to the left, and chose right, more activity in that direction.
Strolling down the street an unfamiliar feeling washed over me. It was loneliness. Here I was, a continent away from anyone who knew or cared about me, all by myself. Not many of the people I knew would choose to travel so far without a companion but I was often content alone. When my husband was alive he was often away. The wives of many of his fellow officers had hated the deployments, but I was among those who coped well. After retirement he was home more, but still occasionally left me to go on a buying trip or for a seminar. Sometimes I went along but other times my own commitments kept me at home. It wasn’t necessary to beg a friend to stay with me, and I never needed to keep the lights on all night and the radio playing. Usually I enjoyed the solitude, at least for short periods of time. Crowds and constant noise bothered me more. I only wanted that in small doses. It was possible if I lived as long as Mrs. Marsh did I would become one of those crotchety old codgers living in a seclusion who went out once a week for groceries, the only time anybody ever saw them. Of course my children might have something to say about that.
But right now I would have loved some company. Well, the book in my bag would have to do. Besides, I needed to make a list of what to do next. Walking three long blocks put me in the middle of a shopping center. It was time to sample some English fish and chips.
It was after nine when I got back to my lodgings. At the eatery my doldrums lifted. The fish and chips were a little greasy but tasty. The restaurant was nice and the waiter attentive. After finishing my meal I read a couple of chapters of At Home in Mitford, which further melted the melancholy. Now the afternoon tea drinkers were filtering in, but there were still empty tables and no one was pressing me to leave. I ordered tea. Waiter Michael highly recommended the carrot cake but I was full and declined. Leaning back, casually looking out the window at the pedestrians scurrying by, and listening to bits and pieces of conversations floating around me, I decided what I needed was to be a tourist for a little while.
My addiction into the life of Amelia Marsh could be put on hold for a day. A shopping spree was in order. Not only would I shop tonight—and I was informed the shops would be open for a while yet—but I would visit the churches in the morning. Waiter Michael brought my check and courteously answered a few more questions about getting about in Coventry. A good name, Michael, I told him.
So it was that I got back to the inn with three shopping bags and tired feet. The concierge was back at her post.
“You can leave your key here at the desk when you go out, if you like, Mrs. Nimitz,” she said politely, “not that you have to, of course, but some people find it heavy, and there is an extra charge if it gets lost.”
I approached the desk and peered at her nametag. Right. Mrs. Oliver. Her voice wasn’t bad but her face was still a mask. Did the woman never smile? I thanked her for the information, and agreed it was a good idea to leave the key; I would do that from now on.
“We also lock the front door at eleven,” she further informed me. “If you stay out later, please just ring the buzzer. There is always someone on duty for late arrivals.”
“That is good to know,” I replied cheerfully, “but this is probably as late as it will get. “Mrs. Oliver,” I added impulsively, “have you lived in Coventry a long time?”
“Yes,” she answered.
I waited for her to volunteer more, but nothing doing.
“Then perhaps I could ask you about this address,” I said, ignoring her lack of spontaneity. I pulled Mary Whitaker’s address out of my purse, and held it out to her. After a second of hesitation she took it and read it.
“I believe Manley Place is toward the south end of the town,” was her response, “but we have very good maps here, only forty pence each.”
Sure enough, at the end of the long front desk there was a display of maps, city, county, and others. I paid up and gathered all of my loot. On the second floor, small sconces on the wall with low wattage bulbs lit the way down the hall. Once upon a time they maybe have been gas lit, or even held candles. The lights made interesting shadows on the walls as I moved towards my door, and there was no noise coming out of any of the other rooms. Decidedly spooky, I thought with a grin.
There was no explanation for it, but with my goal of meeting Amelia Marsh’s sister, Mary, so close at hand, I stuck to the idea of the previous afternoon and put it off. It was rather like reading a book, coming to the climax, and setting it back on the shelf until the next opportunity came to read again. Such behavior might be explained as prolonging the anticipation.
As I left the hotel, about eight-thirty, the sun was coming out. I took my umbrella anyway.
It was a great way to spend a morning. If you ever go to Coventry, I would recommend the cathedrals. I promised myself to return someday, maybe bringing Miss Carey with me. We would come earlier in the fall, or in the spring. The umbrella wasn’t needed
It was necessary to return to my room before going on to find Mary Whitaker. Not only did my blouse need to be changed because of splashing some coffee on myself at breakfast, but I needed the map purchased the night before and had neglected to slip it into my bag. After freshening up I looked at it again. According to scale, Manley Place was a twenty or thirty minute walk. Should I call first? What if she refused to see me? That idea was pretty hard to take. Knocking on the door and being refused admittance was preferable. At least that was final. Then I would have to try someone, somewhere, else. That was an unbearable thought, too. One step at a time, and this step’s time had come.
Tucking my map into an accessible spot in my shoulder bag, I brought it out for reference several times and took a wrong turn only once, which cost me about three minutes to back track. The sky was overcast again but no rain yet, and here I was at last, standing in front of the address I had for Mary Whitaker. I glanced at my watch. It was after two-thirty.
The building was brick, two-story, and very long, with at least five other private dwellings enclosed within the single abode. If it was pre or post second world war I could not tell, but some of the trees in the yards had to be several decades old. The numbers, which matched the address I had, were beside the door to the far left. Taking a deep breath, I climbed the six steps to the front door and lifted the brass knocker, rapping it loudly againt the door three times.
For a long moment no one answered, and I was beginning to think no one would when the door opened.
Two young men looked at me curiously. The one on the right looked older, at a rough guess about thirty-five, the younger one maybe late twenties.
“Can we help you?” the older one asked. It was obvious they had been painting. Their casual clothes and shoes were dotted and splotched with a slate blue color.
“I am looking for Mrs. Mary Whitaker,” I said steadily, looking at each of them in turn.
They exchanged glances and the younger of the two spoke this time.
“Sorry, mum,” he said with a sad little smile,” I’m afraid she passed on a few weeks ago.”