about a million shades of red.
“Right. Okay, your papers look to be in order, so good luck, Miss Sinclair, and enjoy your stay in jolly old London.” With that he smiled and passed my passport back to me.
“Thank you, I think I might.” I smiled back, gathered my passport, and proceeded to walk out of the security area toward the baggage claim.
After locating the carousel where my dufflebag was to appear, I decided that my next task was to find a decent place to stay. Hotels were definitely out of the question. My part-time summer job back in Vancouver had not left me with a lot of extra funds, and the money I did have could only be stretched so far before I would need to find myself a job. I looked over and saw an information desk by the baggage claim area, no doubt strategically placed for bewildered newcomers such as myself. I collected my dufflebag, then strolled over to the information area.
“Alright, love. How can I help you?” the portly man behind the counter inquired.
“Ummm, I need a place to stay—-a hostel, really. I can’t afford a hotel, and I really only want to stay in a hostel for a few days before I take on the task of finding a job and an apartment,” I blurted out.
“First time in England then?” he responded without looking up from his laptop.
What was your first clue? I was tired and feeling sarcastic.
“Yes,” I answered dryly.
“Well then, here is information for the hostels in London and the surrounding area. As for finding a flat and a job, good luck with that one.” He handed me a vast array of pamphlets and went back to tapping at his computer.
Great, I thought, what now? For the first time since I had decided to embark on this expedition, I felt utterly alone. I was in a foreign country and didn’t know anyone. I could feel the hot sting of tears welling up in my eyes, so I turned on my heels quickly and ran for the nearest bathroom before the tears exploded. I bolted myself inside the first stall and started to sob uncontrollably.
“Are you alright, love?” a warm, pleasant female voice on the other side of the stall inquired.
Was there someone else in here? I hadn’t noticed anyone when I ran in, but then I wasn’t really concerned to look at the time. Of course, there must have been someone else in the bathroom; this was an airport, for goodness sakes.
“Yes,” I said through sobs.
“Are you hurt?” the concerned voice answered back.
“No, not at all.”
“Are you lost?” she continued to probe.
I unbolted the lock and opened the stall door slowly, not quite sure of what or whom 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
