The Romeo and Juliet Code (17 page)

When we walked into the school yard full of American “kids,” as they are called, Uncle Gideon put his arm across Derek’s shoulder and his cheek on the top of Derek’s head. “You can handle this, Derek. You can,” he said.

Everyone seemed to rush towards us then to say hello to “Mr. Bathtub” and Derek and to look at me as if I were a creature from the moon, which I was wondering if perhaps I was.

British children are very brave and can often speak up when necessary. I told them right away in a very clear voice. I said, “My name is Felicity Bathburn Budwig and I am staying at the Bathburn residence while my parents are away on holiday.”

And when everyone asked about Derek’s arm, I told them. (I found out that day that British children in a pinch have a dreadful capacity to lie.) I said, “Derek fell down our fifty-two steps to the ocean. It was quite frightful. He tumbled like a rubber ball. I fainted when I saw it happen. It might have killed any other boy, but Derek only broke his left arm. They say it may take years to heal.”

Then everyone looked very sorry for Derek, indeed. And they wanted to tell all about the time they broke a wrist or an arm. We had to listen to one little boy who went on and on and on about his brother and how he had broken his ankle while visiting the Catskills in upstate New York.

From everything I could gather, Uncle Gideon appeared to be quite popular with all the students and teachers. The librarian even called out to him in the hallway, “Mr. Bathtub, did you have a good summer?” The music teacher walked by, pulling a large black cello case and holding the chubby hand of a first grader. “Good morning, Mr. Bathtub!” she said, smiling.

Once we were installed in class, I had my own desk, and Uncle Gideon began calling me Felicity, which was ever so appreciated. He told the class we would be reading all the works of Frances Hodgson Burnett and then he said that I was an expert on Frances Hodgson Burnett, which made me feel quite lovely and very posh.

I looked round our classroom and I noticed there was a large photograph of Uncle Gideon all dressed up in a suit and bowler hat and sitting in an empty bathtub, reading a book. It said underneath the photograph, M
R
. B
ATHTUB SAYS
, “READ.” I did recognize the bowler hat, actually.

We had recess at ten o’clock and Mr. Bathtub told the class he was going home briefly and that he would be back in a flash just at the end of recess. I knew he was going home to get the mail. He didn’t fool me. And when he came back, he was all out of breath and he looked quite somber and serious and he didn’t make any more jokes until lunchtime.

I think the best part of going to school is when you’re just leaving the building at the end of the day and the sun is shining and the rest of the afternoon is ahead of you. Then you just feel proud and not half chuffed because you didn’t play sick and stay home.

I was waiting for Derek now outside the John E. Babbington Elementary School, which I learned today some teachers call the Babbington El for short. I hadn’t had such a bad day, really, at the Babbington El. Mr. Bathtub had been rather lively in geography class, pretending to be the continent of Europe. He twisted himself all up and crouched under a table to show the state Europe was in right now with the war. Then later, he had us all line up outside and he blew his whistle, and everybody ran back and forth from one end of the playground to the other. Then he blew his whistle again and we all froze and dropped to the ground, which was ever so fun.

I met a girl named Rose, who was my desk mate, and I told her about Lily Jones and then I said, “I usually only make friends with people if they have a flower for a name.”

I was just wondering how Derek had fared. Now as I saw him leaving the school, coming towards me, I thought he looked a bit glum. I still wondered all the time if there was any chance that Derek
liked
me. How did anyone find out such things?

“Gideon has meetings in the library,” said Derek, “so we have to walk home.”

“I see,” I said, deciding
not
to ask him how his day had gone. “Hmmm. Guess who went home at recess to check the mail today.”

“We really ought to talk to Mr. Henley,” said Derek.

“Why don’t we write him a letter,” I said. “And since we don’t know his address, we’ll pop round and deliver it to the post office right now.”

And so we did. We sat on the grass in the park across from the Babbington El. Derek ripped a page out of his notebook and wrote while I dictated the letter.

I said, “Dearest Mr. Henley.”

And then Derek said, “I don’t think we should address him as ‘dearest’ since we barely know him.”

“Very well,” I said, “Dear Mr. Henley, Derek and I are working on a secret project. We are observing the peculiar habits of the great blue heron.”

“Are they peculiar?” said Derek.

“I don’t know, actually,” I said, “but it makes it sound more interesting, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” said Derek. “Go on.”

“Derek and I will be writing a very complicated report, indeed. Could you, by any chance, give us a ride in your boat to Peace Island on a Saturday? I would telephone you in advance to let you know what time and which Saturday. Very truly yours, Flissy and Derek. P.S. I was terribly sorry to hear that you do not have a wife. Perhaps the following year will prove more fortunate.”

And then Derek said, “I think we should cross out the part about the wife.”

And so I said, “Oh, all right, then.”

We folded the letter up nicely. (I had to help. That’s another thing you can’t do with just one hand.) Derek drew a knight on the outside, but he didn’t put him on a horse because horses are too hard to draw and we were in a hurry.

Then we went off to the post office. We went up to the counter and I said, “Excuse me, is Mr. Henley here?” I could actually see him at the back, sorting mail. I saw stacks and stacks of letters and I wondered if any of Winnie and Danny’s letters were in those piles. I could see how easily a letter could get lost or damaged. And what if a mail plane got shot down? Wouldn’t all the letters then fall into the sea?

Soon enough, someone brought out a note from Mr. Henley. It said, “
Hi, I’d be pleased to give you a ride on a Saturday. I can check my lobster traps while you are on the island. Give me a call when you want to go. Bob.
”

“Oh,” I said, once we were out on the street again, “Mr. Henley’s name is Bob. Bob Henley. How lovely.”

I saw for a moment that Derek was kind of laughing. His laughter was always a rarity. As rare as a yellow sea finch, if there is such a thing. As rare as a sea turtle in a tide pool. Oh, I did so want to put my arms round Derek just then and lean my face against his. But of course I didn’t, because British children are ever so proper. Mostly.

Derek and I were going to have to wait for the right Saturday to phone Mr. Henley, and that wasn’t going to be easy because we didn’t always know exactly
where
Uncle Gideon was. Last week, the music teacher and the art teacher from Babbington El were walking along the beach. They were both wearing straw sun hats even though it was late in the season. They called out and waved to me, “Hello, Felicity. Is Mr. Bathtub around?”

“No,” I called back. “I don’t know where he is.” And I didn’t.

Rehearsals at the town hall were to begin that week in the evenings and I had to make good on my promise to Aunt Miami. And you can always count on a British girl to know how to knit and to know how to keep a promise. About six o’clock just after supper, when it was time to leave, I started looking for Aunt Miami.

In the kitchen, Uncle Gideon was finally doing his turn washing dishes, making a big display of it, I thought. “You see, Fliss,” he said, holding up a Brillo pad, “the other day when you said you’d
never
seen me wash a dish was a complete exaggeration.” And then just to make his point more dramatic, he put on one of The Gram’s big aprons, threw a dish towel over his shoulder, rubbed his hands together, and began singing “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.”

I do love that song so very much and I wanted to join in, but instead I stood there with my arms crossed, waiting to see if he was actually going to wash a dish or two. Soon enough, he had all the soapy teacups stacked up high and he called them The Leaning Tower of Teacups. “Want to help me, Flissy? I could use a good assistant,” he said. But I hurried off without turning round. He always looked a bit blue when I wouldn’t join in with one of his awkward projects. I had to get upstairs to see what was keeping Auntie Miami.

When I went into her room, Auntie Miami was sitting at her dressing table. She was brushing her hair and staring sadly at herself in the mirror the way people do when they are only half sad and they find that sadness fascinating to watch.

“I’m all ready to go, Auntie,” I said. “I’ve got my shoes tied and my jacket all buttoned, and The Gram braided my hair.” And I spun in a circle so that my braids flew out behind me. “The Gram says now I look all tidy and properly taken care of. I told her I’ve
always
been properly taken care of. And The Gram said, ‘No, I really think Winifred was too busy to care for you properly.’ And then I said, ‘That’s not so. Winnie always brushed my hair.’ Are you ready to go, Auntie?”

I sat on the edge of the bed and remembered Winnie brushing my hair, back in London. We were playing beauty parlor. Winnie’s hair was so fine and light and her skin was pale and she wore dark lipstick.

“Winnie is very beautiful,” I said to Aunt Miami. “The Gram forgot to say that. Are you almost ready? Shouldn’t we be leaving?”

Auntie Miami looked down.

“You are going, aren’t you?” I said.

She didn’t answer. She kept looking at the lovely little things on her dressing table.

“Auntie, you
have
to go. They are expecting you. You are a great actress. Winnie always told me when you are called to do something, when you have greatness in you, it is bigger than you, it’s beyond you, and it is your duty to follow it through. That’s what Winnie says.”

Aunt Miami smiled at herself in the mirror. Then suddenly, she turned round and got up and put on her sweater with beads along the collar. She took my hand, and as we walked towards the stairs, she looked at me and said, “Flissy B. Bathburn, you are a strange little duck, you know that?”

And I leaned my head against her arm and I looked up at her and smiled and I said, “Quack. Quack.”

By the time we got to the first rehearsal, we were quite wet as it was raining that night. It was a real autumn rain, the kind that, when you hear it, you know summer is definitely over. Yes, summer was over. The ocean was saying it as it rushed again and again against the rocks. The wet trees were saying it as the wind pulled them back and forth, shaking loose orange leaves that blew over the road. The dark, rainy sky was saying it too, all the way to Bottlebay in the old sneezing, freezing Packard.

And the windows wouldn’t roll up. The handles just went round and round and did nothing at all. Before we left, The Gram had brought out a couple of blankets to put over us, and Uncle Gideon had waved his arms about and directed us out of the driveway. (He was still wearing that silly apron.) He leaned in the car window and looked quietly at Aunt Miami. “Take good care,” he said, patting the top of the car. Then he wanted Derek to go along in case we needed help with backing up and directions. Soon Derek came running through the rain in his macintosh and wellies, and it was jolly nice to have him in the backseat, offering advice to Auntie Miami as she drove along in the windy, rainy darkness.