Kissing Father Christmas (5 page)

A
fter spending over half an hour prowling around every corner of the Christmas room, which provided an eye-popping array of decorations, we made our purchases and found our way to the ornate Georgian Restaurant for our much-anticipated afternoon tea.

All of us, including Julia, had bought ornaments in the Christmas room and were talking about them as we were seated at a round table. I said that the cute little teapot ornament I got reminded me of the sign that hung on the lamppost by the Tea Cosy and that it would always bring me a happy memory.

“It can also bring you a happy memory of our tea party right now,” Julia said enthusiastically. She scooted in her chair, getting comfortable.

“You're right. I'm sure it will. I've never been in a tearoom like this before.”

“The décor used to be all pink,” Ellie said. “Ever so pink. I like this look much better.”

I glanced around at the gorgeous art deco style. Live palms and brass light fixtures added to the lush feeling of the burgundy-colored upholstery. I thought the design looked decadent in an almost-but-not-quite-over-the-top sort of way. The intricate Christmas decorations added a festive feeling.

“What type of tea should we have?” Ellie asked. “They've quite an assortment.”

The four of us studied the menu, reviewing the tea selections and reading the descriptions of the tea along with the details on where it had been grown. I selected the No. 16 Afternoon Special Blend for my tea. That was because Julia had whispered that we should have the same kind of tea and No. 16 Afternoon Special Blend was her “favorite” because it had the word
special
in the name.

Waiters in their formal attire soon delivered four individual teapots and poured the celebrated beverage for us into our china cups. The tea was loose tea, so they used silver strainers that were then placed in silver holders. We each had our own cream and sugar accoutrements. I added a splash of milk to the dark brew and took a cautious sip.

“Mmmm.”

“You sound like you're purring,” Julia said politely. She sat up straight and added a spoonful of sugar and a generous amount of milk after the waiter poured only a half a cup of tea into hers. She took a sip, holding her cup with both hands, and imitated my purr of approval.

Ellie drew in a lingering sniff of her Jasmine Dragon Pearl Tea. “I must take some of this tea home with me. It's so reviving.”

A three-tiered assortment of bite-sized tea treats was delivered to the table and we all listened closely as the waiter described the freshly baked pastry sweets on the top tier. Small, puffy scones occupied the middle tier and an assortment of finger sandwiches filled the lowest tier.

Julia and Ellie reached for the scones first.

“Still warm,” Ellie chirped. “Lovely. Scones are always best when they're still warm. You must try the rose-petal jelly with the clotted cream. It's heavenly.”

“I like mine with both the strawberry jam and the lemon curd.” Julia sounded like a little connoisseur of all things fancy as she expertly opened her biscuit-like scone and swirled the strawberry jam on the outside and decorated the center with the lemon curd.

“I think I've become a purist.” Miranda balanced half of a scone between her fingers and demonstrated how she had added a single dollop of the thick clotted cream to the center. It looked like a pointed ski cap. “I like to work my way to the center for the prize. But you really should try it all, Anna. That way you can decide what you like best.”

I followed the advice of my experienced hostesses and was not disappointed. The soft scone crumbled on my lips. The thick, sweet clotted cream and dab of rose-petal jelly turned the first bite into a mouthful of melting deliciousness. I took a sip of my dark tea and as the flavors combined and slowly coursed down my throat, I closed my eyes and smiled.

Now this is a tea party.

The few tea parties I'd experienced in my life were at occasional baby showers or church benefits. They had never tasted anything like this. I was now a lifetime fan of having tea with friends. Especially when it was done properly.

I thought about the cute little teapot I'd just bought and realized why the ornament felt like a treasure. It was the first ornament I'd ever purchased for myself. All the other Christmas ornaments I had helped hang on the tree over the years had been my mother's ornaments. A few were my grandmother's. Each one carried a special memory. But this teapot was my very first ornament and it was infused with memories that were mine alone. I was creating my own Christmas traditions and shaping my own memories of Christmas present as well as Christmas yet to come.

The surprising thing about our sumptuous treats was how full we all became from such small portions. Everything was delicious and so of course I wanted to try everything that was offered. The sweetness lingered in my mouth and I felt immensely content.

Miranda leaned back, looking equally content. “What shall we talk about now?”

We'd already discussed our favorite Christmases, our favorite Christmas presents, and our favorite Christmas carols. Julia had a new idea for us.

“Let's talk about what we would do if we were a princess for a day.”

“All right,” Miranda said. “You go first, Julia.”

She wiggled in her posh chair as if she'd already given this much thought and was so glad someone had finally asked her.

“I would come to London and ride around in a taxi all day long. Whenever I wanted to stop and look at something, I would say, ‘Stop here, driver.'” She put up her hand and used such a cute
Downton Abbey,
upper-class voice, we all started laughing.

“He would stop and I would roll down the window and take pictures of all my favorite places before saying, ‘Drive on.'”

“That sounds like a very fun day,” Ellie said. “What would you wear?”

“I would wear a blue princess gown with long strings of pearls and a tiara, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

“The tiara is the most important part,” Miranda said.

“Oh! And I would drink No. 16 Special Afternoon Tea all day long with milk and sugar and I would eat as many pink macaroons as my tummy would hold.” Julia patted her middle and giggled.

We giggled with her. My imagination was popping with ideas for sketches to put in Julia's customized purple princess coloring journal. I couldn't wait to draw Princess Julia wearing her tiara and nibbling her pink macaroons in the long backseat of a big, black London taxi.

“Look!” Julia said, pointing behind me. “It's Peter. What is Peter doing here?”

Instead of turning around to watch him approach our table, I leaned closer to Julia and said, “He's taking me around London so I can see some of the sights.”

“In a taxi?” Julia's expression was a burst of elation.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“May we come, too?” Julia asked, looking up at Peter, who was now standing by my chair.

“Not this time,” Ellie answered quickly so that I didn't have to. “We need to get home with all these gifts. You're the best gift wrapper I know, Julia. You wouldn't desert me in my time of gift-wrapping need, would you?”

I turned my head and smiled up at Peter. He smiled back, looking nice in his navy blue peacoat with a Christmassy red wool scarf around his neck.

“Maybe next time, Princess Julia,” I whispered before getting up.

Peter pulled out my chair for me and I tried to go through the motions as gracefully as possible. I reached down to get my purse and Julia whispered, “I wish you had a tiara you could wear.”

I kissed the tip of my finger and touched the kiss to the top of her nose. I didn't need a tiara. Or pearls. Or a flowing blue gown or any pink macaroons. I had everything I'd dreamed of during the months I'd thought about this return trip to England.

Of course, my dreams of how it would be when I got to spend time with Peter had been conjured up with a much more vividly romantic imagination. Just like Julia, the little girl princess in me had imagined a storybook full of fanciful scenarios. But at that moment it didn't matter that Peter was escorting me as a “just friends” sort of tour guide. This real-life scenario was almost as thrilling as anything I'd dreamed up.

Just then, Peter gently placed his hand on the small of my back in order to steer me through the Georgian Restaurant like a gentleman. I felt like Cinderella while she still had both shoes on.

“So you want to see that old clock you keep talking about?” Peter teased.

“Yes. I just don't want it to strike midnight.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

P
eter ushered me through the maze of shoppers. The crowd down on the first floor had changed to a more anxious-looking bunch. It seemed as if many of them had popped in on their way home from work. The collective hum in each department was rising.

“Did you work today?” I asked, not sure if Peter could hear me in the swirl of voices as we walked side by side, smooshed together in the crowded rooms.

“Yes. Today was my last day before the week off. It was a full day.”

“I appreciate you taking the time to do this.”

“Of course. It's my pleasure. I was looking forward to it.”

“So was I.”

“How was your tea?” he asked.

“So good! I've never had tea like that before. It was so filling.”

Peter glanced at me. “You're not hungry, then?”

“No. Not at all.”

“I'd thought you might want to have a bite after I take you to see your big crush.”

“My big crush, huh?” I smiled at him. It was getting too noisy to talk anymore.

We exited into the cold air. I had been carrying my coat and quickly put it on. I looked up and saw that the lights were lit around the top of Harrods. “Oh, look. It's so pretty.”

Peter reached for my hand and pulled me along before I could get sidetracked and caught up in the crush of people coming and going and waiting for taxis.

“This way.” Peter kept hold of my hand for several blocks. I didn't mind. His hand was warm and felt rough compared to my delicate artist hand. I wondered what he was thinking. Was this a friend-to-friend hand-holding sort of thing just so I wouldn't get lost? Or did he feel like I did, that holding hands was just about the best thing to do when all the buildings around us were lighting up with Christmas lights as twilight fell on London?

He let go when we entered an Underground station. With patience, he showed me how to buy a ticket at the machine, put it in the turnstile, and then take the escalator down into the belly of London's efficient transportation system.

I was in awe at all of it. The immenseness of the tunnels, the musicians playing in the tiled corridors, the billboards, and the sound of the train approaching. The doors opened and he ushered me inside past lots of people and into the center area where we held on to a pole together with our hands just barely touching.

“I'm not jealous, mind you.”

“Jealous?” I was looking directly into Peter's pale blue eyes. He was so close. I had no idea what he was talking about, though.

“In fact, he should be jealous of me.”

“Who?”

“Your big crush. Ben.”

I chuckled. “And why should he be jealous of you?”

“Because he's stuck. He can't leave Parliament. Not even for the holidays.”

I gave Peter a funny look and then realized he was trying to make a joke. “Did you work on that joke all day?”

“No. Just on the way to the Tube. What do you think? Needs more work?”

I nodded.

“An honest critic. That's refreshing. Here. This is our stop.”

I followed Peter up a long flight of stairs, warming and feeling the stretch in my legs. We emerged from the Underground and stepped out into the darkened night. The view took my breath away. A huge lion statue rested near the entrance to Westminster Bridge. Across the bridge with its Victorian-style, multiarmed streetlamps was the immense Parliament building. It stretched along the bank of the Thames River with all the windows lit and twinkling like gold coins about to be tossed into the water below.

At the end of Parliament stood Ben. Tall, stately, distinguished Big Ben, with his face glowing and his hands outstretched.

I didn't want Peter to see that I was crying. It was just a few tears and they were happy tears. I had tried my best to persuade my mother that we should come to London after the wedding last May. We had an extra day when we could have gone. Ellie had provided us with the train schedule and a link to a few helpful websites. My mother was convinced that we needed someone to go with us. She was afraid of what might happen if we tried to navigate such a monstrous city on our own. I discovered then that my mother was afraid of many things. Most of the choices she had projected onto me over the years had come from that well of fear that had been dug deep into the core of her heart.

I suppose the tears were mostly for her. She was missing this. She had tried to keep me from experiencing this splendid beauty. Why didn't she understand that this was what fed the artist in me? Moments like this fueled my passion for artistic expression. I felt alive.

Peter and I stood side by side with our hands in our pockets, gazing at what I said looked like a life-sized vintage-style mural from a Peter Pan book.

“Can't you just picture Wendy and her little brothers flying past the face of the golden clock at any moment, led by the fearless Peter?”

The real-life Peter tilted his head as if trying to imagine it. “No.” He seemed fascinated that I would say such a thing.

It didn't matter that his whimsy dial wasn't turned all the way up as mine was. This was the city where he worked. All this had to be blasé and familiar to him. I drew it in, feeling the cool air as it came in through my nostrils, laced with the scent of murky riverbank and exhaust from the red double-decker buses that were passing each other on the bridge.

“Right, then.” Peter clapped his hands together. “What's next on your list?”

“You're not ready to go, are you?” I looked at him in disbelief, my mouth open.

A wily sort of grin moved up from the corner of his mouth to his eyes. He playfully tagged my arm with his elbow. “I'm only teasing. Come on. I brought you up from the Tube on this side so you could have the experience of crossing the bridge. I know you're going to think he's watching you the whole time but he's not. Just so you know.”

We headed for the sidewalk that lined the Westminster Bridge, walking in step. I wanted Peter to hold my hand again but I was keeping both of them warm in my pockets and he was doing the same with his hands. Besides, holding hands now would clearly be a romantic gesture whereas before it had been more of a safety precaution on the crowded sidewalk outside of Harrods.

“I wonder how old he is?” My gaze was fixed on Big Ben as we got closer and closer. Cars and buses and taxis drove past us in the center of the bridge. Hordes of people lined both sides, pausing to take pictures.

“I happen to know the answer to that. Or at least a general answer. Would you like to hear about the tower from an architect's perspective? Or will that ruin the mystique for you?”

“I think I can handle the reality. Go ahead. Tell me the cold, hard facts.”

“They're rather interesting facts, I think. The clock tower was originally built in the late 1850s. Charles Barry was the chief architect. What's interesting is that he chose to go with brickwork and limestone for the base. The rest of the tower is cast iron.”

Peter took his hands out of his pockets and became animated as he described the foundation that was set on a fifty-foot square raft made of concrete that was ten feet thick. He said all this in meters and then translated the amounts for me.

“They set it at a depth of four meters below ground level. That's thirteen feet down. In the last one hundred and sixty some years the structure has begun to lean slightly to the northwest. Only a couple hundred millimeters. Less than ten inches. Not bad.”

I watched him fix an appreciative gaze on the tower as if he had X-ray vision and was venerating all the fine cast-iron work that none of the rest of us pedestrians could see. Peter turned to me with a look of deep admiration that fled as soon as he saw my face.

“I've ruined it for you, haven't I?”

“No,” I said slowly. “I need healthy doses of reality in my life. Thank you for that.”

“Can you handle one more brutal truth?”

I nodded even though I would have been fine without hearing about another meter of cement or limestone.

“Big Ben is only a nickname for the bell in the clock. It probably came from Sir Benjamin Hall who oversaw the installation of the first bell. The tower is actually the Elizabeth Tower. They renamed it not long ago in 2012 in honor of the queen's diamond jubilee. Before that it was just called Clock Tower.”

I didn't say anything.

“Not another word from me,” Peter said. “I've completely obliterated all your fairy-tale images now, haven't I?”

I thought for a moment, looking up into the golden face of the iconic clock. When I narrowed my eyes, I could still imagine Peter Pan soaring past it with a feather in his felt cap.

Turning to look at the human Peter beside me with his red scarf tucked around his neck and the collar of his peacoat pulled up, I calmly shook my head.

“No. You didn't change anything for me.”

I still believed in fairy tales and I was pretty sure I always would.