Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 47.1: October 7th, 2011
This is an untitled, unfinished novel that was technically left alone in late 2008. However, the last time it was modified and checked for errors was 2011, where upon I decided that the absurdity of the plot combined with the sloppy British research was too much for the story to continue.
However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it.
Have fun.
Untitled: Chapter Seven
by Belinda Roddie
Traveling through England with only a bag full of clothes and basic bathroom supplies, as well as about two hundred and thirty pounds in your pocket, is not a joy ride. While I may not have had to succumb to a pure survivalist’s strategy, I as well, as any other Brit, were aware of the consequences of simply wandering through such an expansive, populated country. There was no peaceful journey music, no fade-ins and fade-outs like in the cinema. Granted, I was lucky to do most of my traveling without much hassle, but to have been comfortably situated in one suburb for so many years without much moving around had left me with a sense of naivety about the true necessities of going on an adventure alone.
After all, I was a short, scrawny teenager, dressed in clothes unsuited either for summer heat or the occasional rainy day, with about enough money to buy two weeks’ worth of meals and perhaps a few nights in the cheapest hotel, judging by the excessive prices in especially the tourist parts of South East England. But I did have a plan. Above all else, I had an outline of places to go and observe, as well as people to question. While the latter could prove unsuccessful, based on who would still be around to witness something like a coffin go down the Thames about half a decade ago, I was convinced that my map for my journey was the most efficient.
Some of you who may not be familiar with the geography of England may ask if I ever had to travel to the maniacal, maze-like metropolis that is London. The truth is, I didn’t; in fact, I would be going the wrong way. If I had traveled down the Thames in a coffin for two days and wound up in Purley-on-Thames, it meant that I had to have come from a city north of Reading, and subsequently, a city north of London. Also, if I had only been on the river for two days – that is, depending on the speed and velocity of the current carrying the casket-laden raft – it meant that I couldn’t have come from a city too far from the Reading suburbs. Therefore, I decided to start in the most appropriate place possible, and that was Oxford.
Pleased with my rather sketchy mathematical as well as logical thinking, I had completely forgone the fact that by the time I made it to West Reading, where the Reading West station was, I’d have to wait until morning before the next train to Oxford. Standing in the nearly vacant station scared me, and I moved onto the outside platforms that displayed the Oxford Road Junction in all its wooden and steel glory. Needless to say, I found the nearest bench and slept on it for the night, using my bag as a pillow and praying that the rain wouldn’t seek its vengeance upon me. I must have looked like a vagrant, for I awoke the next morning with the sanguine face of a station guard about an inch away from my own nose. I subsequently shrieked in terror, and he reacted just as sharply, stammered to me that the next train to Oxford would arrive in ten minutes, and immediately rushed to the other side of the platform.
The train ride itself was the most comfortable I had been all day, the chairs rigid but cozy enough to let me rest some more. I spent about five quid on a bag of potato crisps and half a liter of cherry pop. Still, something in my stomach besides hospital food, no matter how little it did to satisfy my appetite, was refreshing, the carbonation and salt easing my palate and stomach for the next few hours. I took up an entire row of chairs in order to gain some more scattered sleep, paying little attention to the occasional commuter who’d glare and brandish his posh briefcase at me; after all, he’d just give up and leave me alone, making me wonder in my daze if he felt sorry for me.
The duration of the trip to Oxford was approximately two hours, mostly due to some delays on the railroad, but I didn’t really mind. I felt my knees crack as I pulled myself from my reclining position, dragging my bag along with me as the brakes whistled loudly and rattled beneath my feet. The Oxford air was surprisingly cool for a summer day, foggy but no rain yet. I breathed in the mist, feeling the droplets on the bridge of my nose and the tip of my chin, as I left the train and journeyed into Oxford Railway Station. I was amazed by how quickly I found myself surrounded by people, the heat of so many bodies permeating in the closed space. The glass windows projected high above my head were cast in a dim gray light from the outside skyline, and I stopped to buy a pastry from a quaint little quick stop bakery before following the “Way Out” signs that silently demanded I follow orders.
I wasn’t used to this environment at all; it was nothing compared to the open space in Purley-on-Thames. I hadn’t even imagined so many people could just pop up each time I took a step. I finally made my way out of the station, stopping beside a man in a brown jacket who was lighting up a Hypnose brand cigarette. I recognized the smell from my early days in Leighton Park School, when I watched an older student smoke for a bit before the headmaster caught him and dragged him by the collar of his shirt to his office, the boy kicking and hollering the entire way.
As I looked ahead, I felt the man’s eyes on me, his breath smelling of tobacco and red wine. He cleared his throat and, after catching my attention, jerked his thumb over to a single file line of parked cabs against the curb. “Need a lift anywhere, missy?”
He had a thick accent, not at all familiar to Oxford or even the whole of Britain. I perused him and guessed that he was foreign; it would be years later before I realized that he was Bosnian. The cab driver waited for an answer, the tip of his cigarette curling into a knot as it drooped out of the corner of his mouth.
“Can you take me anywhere near the Thames?” I asked, wondering if he’d look at me funny for asking such a question. The cabbie grinned.
“I can take you to Hythe Bridge, if that’s what you want,” he said. Despite his foreign accent, his English was actually very good, almost alluring the way it sounded. “Technically, it goes across Castle Mill Stream, but that’s a backwater of the Thames.”
“That’ll work,” I replied.
The driver spat the burnt stump of his fag onto the finely paved gray sidewalk and beckoned me over to the car line-up. His cab looked the best out of all of them, painted a rich licorice black and having what looked like a freshly added white logo on the side door. As I slipped into the back seat, I saw the man open the glove compartment and pull out a black and silver braided cap, the kind you’d see limo drivers or doormen wear. I stifled a giggle as he pulled it over his dark crop of hair, adjusting the brim in the rearview mirror.
“How do I look, missy?” he asked, and I smiled.
“Like a professional.”
The driver pulled away from the curb and roared into the open street, the signs reading “Botley Road” in white, crooked letters before it became “Hythe Bridge Street.” I felt like a tourist in this place, even though I knew the real tourist attractions were still a distance away. But Oxford felt unbelievably foreign to me. For its size and population, it was unnaturally quiet, the only sound being the hums of the engines around us. I noticed the occasional red double-decker bus, the sporadic flash of a camera bulb as a traveler took a random picture that one could find in much better quality on a postcard. But other than that, I didn’t feel like I was in England. At least not in this part of the city.
It was a short ride, but I was surprised when the cabbie started talking to me. At first it felt awkward, my nerves jumping at the vague ideas and hypothetical situations that only a cautious young girl would conceive. But the kind of questions he asked was not demanding, but instead simply casual, almost humorous as if to lighten the mood.
“So what’s a runaway like you doing in a big place like this?” he asked first, his eyes focused on the rearview mirror that reflected me huddled in the plush creases of the cab seat.
“Oh…well, I never thought of myself as a runaway, but I suppose you’re right,” I said.
“So why’re you here?”
I smiled and decided not to be too open. “It’s a bit of a long story.”
“Boy, do I hear that a lot from my passengers,” the cabbie sighed. He lowered his eyes in order to pay attention to the road and then asked, “I bet you’re looking for a new life. Is that it?”
“You could say that,” I said. I was a bit surprised by how intuitive the man was.
“See, that’s what I like to hear. In my country, we always look for new beginnings. New opportunities. You Brits don’t like it, but I don’t see you taking the opportunity to take up the empty spaces we left behind, eh?” He laughed at his own remark, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. I had heard plenty of opinions on the immigration problems in England, and Alfred had been no exception to that rule. There had been enough debates at the pub with Sam to tell me just how the old man felt about foreigners allegedly stealing hardworking men’s jobs. I always was tempted to remind Alfred that he didn’t work anymore, but it felt mean and somewhat irrelevant.
No matter how I felt or would eventually feel about politics or ethics, I grew to like the driver in the short time we talked together. He made me feel wonderfully comfortable, more at ease about where I was and where I was going. He gave me tips on where to stay if I was traveling, as well as cheap places to eat. I could imagine his own experiences simply by the advice he gave me. I was about a day or so into the whole survival game; he was most likely a pro after several years.
We crossed the Hythe Bridge, a simple structure with cast iron rails of bright blue as it spanned the murky water. The driver pulled up at a nearby building, which sign declared that it was the Oxford Retreat pub, and waited for his payment. I put twenty pounds in his hand.
“Keep five quid,” he said, and gave me five pounds in change. I protested, saying that he deserved a good tip. He told me I deserved it more.
“And don’t get into any trouble, all right, missy? It’s crazy here, always has been!” the driver called out as I pulled myself out of the cab. Before I could respond, he was already taking off back down the bridge, leaving me waving at him and inhaling the exhaust that his car had left behind.
Now what? I thought to myself as I surveyed my surroundings. The water beneath the bridge was dark and greenish brown, the usual tint of the river I had grown up beside. Cars whizzed by in a mixed blur of colors, disorienting me as I stepped back from the street. I turned my head and looked closely at the pub before me; it seemed inviting enough, beckoning me into its shelter with a metaphorical hand gesture.
Walking toward the large house-like structure, I could already see about three people hovering around the entrance. They looked to be about twenty or so years old, all men, wearing hooded sweatshirts and drinking. One of them was waving around his bottle, the liquid visibly sloshing about and threatening to escape from its vessel. I eyed the most heavy-set member of the trio, who was laughing raucously at a joke I hadn’t heard, and immediately pictured Bryce looking similar to him in another seven years.
As I attempted to brush past the three, I could smell the heavy stench of beer on their breath. It was just my luck to attempt to pass by alkies, because as soon as I moved to the right of where they were standing, one of the men, an unshaven bloke with dirty blond hair, whistled loudly.
“Oi! Want to see my package, totty?” he hollered, and I went bright red. I tried to head toward the door, but the heavier man stepped in front of me.
“Hey, pay attention. My mate’s givin’ you an offer,” he gurgled.
“Excuse me,” I whispered, restraining the urge to throw up on his sweatshirt due to the mixed smell of ale and body odor.
The cool air of the pub comforted me once I shoved my way past the trio of drunks and made my way to the door. Already the smell of various foods was getting to me, and my stomach audibly growled while I mentally told it to shut up. The Oxford Retreat pub was large, true enough, with several people still in rumpled business suits with their heads bent over their plates as they inhaled every last crumb. However, I felt like I could stay in here for a while. Even the tang of cigarette smoke didn’t tickle my nostrils like it usually did.
I watched as a waiter approached a small table with a platter heavy with food and instantly I craved something substantial. Perhaps a banger or two, or a standard sandwich. I moved further into the interior before a young waitress stopped me, her brown hair pulled back ruthlessly into a bun. She pursed her lips as she perused me, and I knew she didn’t have to check for my identification.
“Sorry, hon,” she said in a tone I read as horribly condescending. “But we can’t serve minors here.”
“Oh,” I stammered, feeling the blood rushing through my face. “Awful sorry.”
The waitress frowned at me. “Do you need something?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m all right, thanks.”
But she wasn’t done yet. “Where’s your mum?”
I felt like decking the girl, but I decided against it as I sharply turned and headed back toward the door, leaving the dream of a good dinner behind. I could feel the eyes of the waitress watching me as she left, as if she were a guard at Buckingham Place. I half-expected a bayonet to be jabbed into my neck if I didn’t hurry up. As I left, however, my eyes caught a glimpse of a young black man, who was watching me leave from over a cup of Earl Gray. But I didn’t pay much attention to his gaze.
At this rate, I’d have to simply start walking down the Thames and work on solving the mystery at hand first; food would have to wait. Maybe I could find a grocery and get something cheaper if I couldn’t eat at the pub. My mind mulled over these choices as my stomach screamed at me, trying to get a word in about its predicament. But I had other things to worry about and that thought was intensified as soon as I exited the pub, for as I closed the door behind me, a large hand closed around my arm and yanked me forward. I felt like a rag doll being shaken about before I stared into the eyes of the blond kid from before, his brown eyes swimming as he smirked and scanned my face.
“What’s the matter, baby?” he asked, as his mates laughed from behind him. “Didn’t like the menu?”
“Please let me go,” I managed to squeak, but it only made the men laugh harder. I fought against the blond man’s grip, but he held on tightly and I could feel his fingernails digging through the thin red fabric of my sweater sleeve.
“Oi, Rich, let me see ‘er,” said his other mate, a scrawny, buck-toothed boy with a shaved head. The odd bits of silver pierced around his lips probably were intended to give him an air of rebellion, but it looked more like he had stumbled and fell into a box of tacks and just left the things in his face.
“Nah, Cliff, you stay back. I saw ‘er first,” ordered the blond man.
“C’mon, everyone knows you’re an arse-bandit, Rich,” the fat mate insisted, and he and “Cliff” laughed and high-fived each other. I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead, and I choked on the smell of both Guinness and stout.
“Please,” I tried to beg. “Just leave me alone.”
“Oh, c’mon. Did you want a drink or summat?” asked “Rich,” a lopsided but deliberate smirk appearing on his face. “I can buy you a drink.”
“I want you to let me –”
“Oh, shut your bloomin’ mouth already!” Rich suddenly snarled; he clearly wasn’t happy with how unreceptive I was. He was already so bladdered I was sure he couldn’t see straight, and his friends weren’t helping out much, either.
“C’mon, Rich, make a bodge job out of ‘er!” Cliff hollered.
I knew I should have screamed, but my lips were stuck together as if they were glued. Rich was reveling in my silence, licking his lips as he reached out his other hand to touch my cheek. I felt extraordinarily violated, as well as betrayed – one would think that someone would have noticed the situation outside, especially in broad daylight. Luckily, I was saved, for as Rich extended his tongue, the door of the pub slammed open with an unprecedented thud. In the next moment, I felt my arm being ripped away from Rich’s fingers as I stumbled and fell on my rear against the pavement. My vision blurred momentarily before I saw the man I had seen in the pub earlier, his dark face tinged with red as he held Rich against the wall of the building.
“Blow me!” Cliff stuttered as the fat mate stepped toward the intruder, cracking his knuckles as Rich was reduced to a whimpering mess against the brick. The man from the pub whipped around to glare at Rich’s friend before speaking, his voice angry but tinged with a much more posh accent than I expected, regardless of the cussing mixed into his sentences.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing, trying to chat up a kid?” he demanded. “You out of your minds?”
“C’mon, man, we was just lookin’ for someone to bonk,” Cliff attempted to explain.
“I dunno what your problem is, but you lay off Rich,” the fat friend threatened, as if to cover up Cliff’s clear stupidity in his last remark.
“You all fucking clear off!” the man responded, and surprisingly, the heavier guy shrank back in response to the command. “Or I’ll punch all your lights out! Got it?”
With that, he released Rich and watched as the drunk slumped against the wall without much resistance. Cliff and the unnamed fat mate exchanged glances, and I had a feeling that they were wondering if they should try to challenge the guy. However, with their current inebriated conditions and continual swaying in an attempt to keep their balance, they were in no fit state to pick a fight. Instead, Cliff wobbled over to help Rich to his feet, practically dragging him as the latter growled a weak “Fucking coon” before the men staggered out of sight.
Having watched the whole scene silently, I had forgotten where I was and attempted to get back on my feet. In the next instant, the man was beside me, taking my hand and pulling me up. As he did so, I got my first real look at his face. He was certainly a handsome man, young and with a thin thatch of hair growing around his lips. His eyes almost appeared amber in his brown face, though they were slightly darkened behind a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. I stared at him while he looked me up and down, eyeing my surprisingly untouched bag and my ruffled clothing.
I opened my mouth to speak, but I heard a sharp breath most likely of amusement emit from the man as he smiled largely. He stretched out the fingers out of his right hand, as if he were studying them. “Sorry that you had to see me like that,” he said. “But they shouldn’t have been doing that to you.”
“Oh,” I uttered. “Well…thanks for helping out.”
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered. He then added, “I saw you get kicked out of the pub. You actually want something to eat?”
***
A chicken panini, a bowl of soggy chips, and a tall glass of milk had never tasted so good as I had dinner with the man, who had introduced himself as Allen once we had sat down. The waitress from earlier had taken our orders with a confused look on her face, but fortunately, she hadn’t asked any questions, instead glancing quickly at Allen’s ID card before scribbling down his request for another cup of tea. As I finished off half my bowl of chips, I could tell Allen was watching me, and I was sure that he was rather entertained by how hungry I appeared to be.
“You’re acting like you haven’t eaten in days, kid,” he said as I moved to drink my milk. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I managed to say in between breaths and swallows. “I only had crisps and pop today.”
Grinning, Allen sipped from his cup, the steam from his Earl Gray mingling in his curly hair. “Those blokes outside come around pretty often, just to warn you. One time, they actually came in for a drink on Saturday when I was having breakfast. Drop-outs, I’m betting.”
It was interesting how the man was speaking to me so comfortably. He had already been quite hospitable, something I actually had prepared myself not to expect as I traveled. He stirred some cream into his tea before sipping again, glancing at me over the brim of his cup.
“So what’s the deal with you?” he asked, as I polished off the toasted crust of my panini. “How come you’re trying to come in here all by yourself?”
“I didn’t know I couldn’t come in. I’m not from around here.”
“Well, I figured that much,” Allen said, “I mean, no offense, but…you look like a hobo.”
I couldn’t help laughing at that. In a sick way, it was a true statement.
“Where do you come from?” Allen asked, appearing quite insistent on keeping the conversation going.
“I’m from Purley-on-Thames,” I replied.
“That place? I’ve been there. Nice little spot.”
The waitress returned to clear my plate and Allen went to signing the bill. I held my hand up to stop him, reaching into my bag for my money. But he shook his head.
“No, no, missy. You need to save that for bread or…cheese or summat,” he said. “Whatever you hobos eat.”
“Okay, I’m not really a ‘hobo,’” I protested. “I’m more of a runaway.”
“Ah! Even better,” Allen remarked, raising an eyebrow comically and grinning when it made me laugh. “You look much nicer when you smile, you know that, right?”
I blushed and went silent. It was clear that Allen was much older than I was and meant no ill intention with his compliment, but his hospitality felt almost unnatural. Unbeknownst to me, however, these good deeds wouldn’t be his last. As we stood up from the table, Allen lowered his spectacles as if to get a better look at me, a smile appearing in the thin outlines of his beard.
“You do more like the rebellious sort of girl rather than the wandering type,” he said. “What happened? You have a tiff with your parents?”
I wish, I thought to myself, but I locked my jaw to stop myself from saying that. Instead I said, “It’s complicated.”
“I would suspect as much,” said Allen. “So where are you going to go next?”
I shrugged. “Nearest inn, I suppose.”
“Not on foot, I hope?” Allen asked, and I gave him a look. Did he really think I’d have a car on me?
We started for the door, embracing the slight drizzle as we entered the open space. The backwater of the Thames glimmered beneath the growing ripples of the drops, but other than that, the water sat lazily between its earthy fortifications. I looked at Allen as he walked slowly, and immediately I predicted that he was debating whether or not he should give me a ride. After all, I had almost been assaulted by three other men, and I didn’t expect him to believe I’d take his request lightly.
Still, after the while, my sweater was beginning to grow damp and I was starting to shiver. I began to walk towards the bridge, thinking maybe Allen would react. He did, and very assertively as well.
“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not walking to an inn in this weather.” Gesturing with his hand, he directed my attention to a standard looking Mini sitting in the pub’s parking lot.
I looked at him. “I don’t even know you.”
“C’mon,” Allen grumbled. “I saved you from a bunch of alkies. You really think I’d turn around and act like them?”
I couldn’t help hesitating, and Allen waited patiently for my response. The rain was coming down harder now, rivulets of water making their way through my hair and streaking the sides of my face. At this rate, I could end up sick before I even got close to a place to rest. I nodded, beginning to shiver.
“All right, all right. But if you do anything…”
“You’re already roaming Oxford by yourself,” Allen chuckled as he led me to his car. “You may as well learn to accept these kinds of offers.”
I knew my conscience was screaming at me again. I had already irritated the logical side of my brain with my endeavors, and every other step now was just aggravating it. Still, the smell of the musty car seat comforted me, and the feeling of being dry from the now pounding rain outside was relieving. Allen sat rigid in his seat, staring ahead like he was too afraid to look at me. I guessed he was worried that I’d take any glance the wrong way.
This journey was surprising me more and more. I began to wonder if my being raised in a smaller town with a protective guardian had given me an overly amplified sense of vigilance. I expected a rather shady, hostile world outside, and perhaps I was half right. But the other half of hospitality was fighting back to give this place a better name. And in the end, I kept reminding myself that I had only been out wandering for a single day. Who knew what could happen next?
As the Mini glided across the wet road, I decided that I needed to remove all expectations from now on. There could be no expectation that I would always be welcomed and supported in my journey. There could be no expectation of how I’d manage financially. And there absolutely could be no expectation for what I’d be able to find. All the moments of the day so far were simply given me the honest image of the city around me – what I could uncover, it couldn’t say. Never before had I felt that I was living in the stark present situation, and never did the future seem so unclear.
It was frightening yet almost relaxing at the same time. I shut my eyes in order to clear my head as we turned onto Hollybush Row, then Thomas Street. As Allen turned toward the curb, I saw the blurry outline of apartments against the gray mist. He stopped in the nearest car park and opened the door for me. I stepped out instantly to be streaked with rain.
“Well, this is it,” Allen said, beckoning toward what looked like the central office. I stared at him.
“Is this something I can afford?”
“It’s cheaper than any of the hotels and inns,” Allen said. “You can haggle with them if you want, maybe get a cheap studio.”
I stared at Allen for a moment in the rain, not knowing what to say for a while. His eyes were soft behind his eyes, his dark jaw line firm but relaxed. He seemed to hold no torment in his face, no anxiety in his muscles. I had been helped by a man who most likely was completely certain of what he wanted to do in life, and part of that, strangely enough, was helping me.
All I could do was shake his hand and mutter my thanks. I knew he was staring at the scars on my fingers. As Allen walked back to his Mini, he took one last moment to look back at me over his shoulder. As I stared back, he grinned and gave me a thumbs up.
“Watch yourself, okay, missy?” he called out, before he got into his car and sped away.
I watched him go, not noticing how the rain soaked into my bag and hair. I let the water pound on my shoulders, the percussion it made resounding in my ears. I was on my own again, a kid in an adult world. I felt my teeth sink into my bottom lip and create a dent, and I willed myself to turn to the building before me before the rain overtook me.
However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it.
Have fun.
Untitled: Chapter Seven
by Belinda Roddie
Traveling through England with only a bag full of clothes and basic bathroom supplies, as well as about two hundred and thirty pounds in your pocket, is not a joy ride. While I may not have had to succumb to a pure survivalist’s strategy, I as well, as any other Brit, were aware of the consequences of simply wandering through such an expansive, populated country. There was no peaceful journey music, no fade-ins and fade-outs like in the cinema. Granted, I was lucky to do most of my traveling without much hassle, but to have been comfortably situated in one suburb for so many years without much moving around had left me with a sense of naivety about the true necessities of going on an adventure alone.
After all, I was a short, scrawny teenager, dressed in clothes unsuited either for summer heat or the occasional rainy day, with about enough money to buy two weeks’ worth of meals and perhaps a few nights in the cheapest hotel, judging by the excessive prices in especially the tourist parts of South East England. But I did have a plan. Above all else, I had an outline of places to go and observe, as well as people to question. While the latter could prove unsuccessful, based on who would still be around to witness something like a coffin go down the Thames about half a decade ago, I was convinced that my map for my journey was the most efficient.
Some of you who may not be familiar with the geography of England may ask if I ever had to travel to the maniacal, maze-like metropolis that is London. The truth is, I didn’t; in fact, I would be going the wrong way. If I had traveled down the Thames in a coffin for two days and wound up in Purley-on-Thames, it meant that I had to have come from a city north of Reading, and subsequently, a city north of London. Also, if I had only been on the river for two days – that is, depending on the speed and velocity of the current carrying the casket-laden raft – it meant that I couldn’t have come from a city too far from the Reading suburbs. Therefore, I decided to start in the most appropriate place possible, and that was Oxford.
Pleased with my rather sketchy mathematical as well as logical thinking, I had completely forgone the fact that by the time I made it to West Reading, where the Reading West station was, I’d have to wait until morning before the next train to Oxford. Standing in the nearly vacant station scared me, and I moved onto the outside platforms that displayed the Oxford Road Junction in all its wooden and steel glory. Needless to say, I found the nearest bench and slept on it for the night, using my bag as a pillow and praying that the rain wouldn’t seek its vengeance upon me. I must have looked like a vagrant, for I awoke the next morning with the sanguine face of a station guard about an inch away from my own nose. I subsequently shrieked in terror, and he reacted just as sharply, stammered to me that the next train to Oxford would arrive in ten minutes, and immediately rushed to the other side of the platform.
The train ride itself was the most comfortable I had been all day, the chairs rigid but cozy enough to let me rest some more. I spent about five quid on a bag of potato crisps and half a liter of cherry pop. Still, something in my stomach besides hospital food, no matter how little it did to satisfy my appetite, was refreshing, the carbonation and salt easing my palate and stomach for the next few hours. I took up an entire row of chairs in order to gain some more scattered sleep, paying little attention to the occasional commuter who’d glare and brandish his posh briefcase at me; after all, he’d just give up and leave me alone, making me wonder in my daze if he felt sorry for me.
The duration of the trip to Oxford was approximately two hours, mostly due to some delays on the railroad, but I didn’t really mind. I felt my knees crack as I pulled myself from my reclining position, dragging my bag along with me as the brakes whistled loudly and rattled beneath my feet. The Oxford air was surprisingly cool for a summer day, foggy but no rain yet. I breathed in the mist, feeling the droplets on the bridge of my nose and the tip of my chin, as I left the train and journeyed into Oxford Railway Station. I was amazed by how quickly I found myself surrounded by people, the heat of so many bodies permeating in the closed space. The glass windows projected high above my head were cast in a dim gray light from the outside skyline, and I stopped to buy a pastry from a quaint little quick stop bakery before following the “Way Out” signs that silently demanded I follow orders.
I wasn’t used to this environment at all; it was nothing compared to the open space in Purley-on-Thames. I hadn’t even imagined so many people could just pop up each time I took a step. I finally made my way out of the station, stopping beside a man in a brown jacket who was lighting up a Hypnose brand cigarette. I recognized the smell from my early days in Leighton Park School, when I watched an older student smoke for a bit before the headmaster caught him and dragged him by the collar of his shirt to his office, the boy kicking and hollering the entire way.
As I looked ahead, I felt the man’s eyes on me, his breath smelling of tobacco and red wine. He cleared his throat and, after catching my attention, jerked his thumb over to a single file line of parked cabs against the curb. “Need a lift anywhere, missy?”
He had a thick accent, not at all familiar to Oxford or even the whole of Britain. I perused him and guessed that he was foreign; it would be years later before I realized that he was Bosnian. The cab driver waited for an answer, the tip of his cigarette curling into a knot as it drooped out of the corner of his mouth.
“Can you take me anywhere near the Thames?” I asked, wondering if he’d look at me funny for asking such a question. The cabbie grinned.
“I can take you to Hythe Bridge, if that’s what you want,” he said. Despite his foreign accent, his English was actually very good, almost alluring the way it sounded. “Technically, it goes across Castle Mill Stream, but that’s a backwater of the Thames.”
“That’ll work,” I replied.
The driver spat the burnt stump of his fag onto the finely paved gray sidewalk and beckoned me over to the car line-up. His cab looked the best out of all of them, painted a rich licorice black and having what looked like a freshly added white logo on the side door. As I slipped into the back seat, I saw the man open the glove compartment and pull out a black and silver braided cap, the kind you’d see limo drivers or doormen wear. I stifled a giggle as he pulled it over his dark crop of hair, adjusting the brim in the rearview mirror.
“How do I look, missy?” he asked, and I smiled.
“Like a professional.”
The driver pulled away from the curb and roared into the open street, the signs reading “Botley Road” in white, crooked letters before it became “Hythe Bridge Street.” I felt like a tourist in this place, even though I knew the real tourist attractions were still a distance away. But Oxford felt unbelievably foreign to me. For its size and population, it was unnaturally quiet, the only sound being the hums of the engines around us. I noticed the occasional red double-decker bus, the sporadic flash of a camera bulb as a traveler took a random picture that one could find in much better quality on a postcard. But other than that, I didn’t feel like I was in England. At least not in this part of the city.
It was a short ride, but I was surprised when the cabbie started talking to me. At first it felt awkward, my nerves jumping at the vague ideas and hypothetical situations that only a cautious young girl would conceive. But the kind of questions he asked was not demanding, but instead simply casual, almost humorous as if to lighten the mood.
“So what’s a runaway like you doing in a big place like this?” he asked first, his eyes focused on the rearview mirror that reflected me huddled in the plush creases of the cab seat.
“Oh…well, I never thought of myself as a runaway, but I suppose you’re right,” I said.
“So why’re you here?”
I smiled and decided not to be too open. “It’s a bit of a long story.”
“Boy, do I hear that a lot from my passengers,” the cabbie sighed. He lowered his eyes in order to pay attention to the road and then asked, “I bet you’re looking for a new life. Is that it?”
“You could say that,” I said. I was a bit surprised by how intuitive the man was.
“See, that’s what I like to hear. In my country, we always look for new beginnings. New opportunities. You Brits don’t like it, but I don’t see you taking the opportunity to take up the empty spaces we left behind, eh?” He laughed at his own remark, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. I had heard plenty of opinions on the immigration problems in England, and Alfred had been no exception to that rule. There had been enough debates at the pub with Sam to tell me just how the old man felt about foreigners allegedly stealing hardworking men’s jobs. I always was tempted to remind Alfred that he didn’t work anymore, but it felt mean and somewhat irrelevant.
No matter how I felt or would eventually feel about politics or ethics, I grew to like the driver in the short time we talked together. He made me feel wonderfully comfortable, more at ease about where I was and where I was going. He gave me tips on where to stay if I was traveling, as well as cheap places to eat. I could imagine his own experiences simply by the advice he gave me. I was about a day or so into the whole survival game; he was most likely a pro after several years.
We crossed the Hythe Bridge, a simple structure with cast iron rails of bright blue as it spanned the murky water. The driver pulled up at a nearby building, which sign declared that it was the Oxford Retreat pub, and waited for his payment. I put twenty pounds in his hand.
“Keep five quid,” he said, and gave me five pounds in change. I protested, saying that he deserved a good tip. He told me I deserved it more.
“And don’t get into any trouble, all right, missy? It’s crazy here, always has been!” the driver called out as I pulled myself out of the cab. Before I could respond, he was already taking off back down the bridge, leaving me waving at him and inhaling the exhaust that his car had left behind.
Now what? I thought to myself as I surveyed my surroundings. The water beneath the bridge was dark and greenish brown, the usual tint of the river I had grown up beside. Cars whizzed by in a mixed blur of colors, disorienting me as I stepped back from the street. I turned my head and looked closely at the pub before me; it seemed inviting enough, beckoning me into its shelter with a metaphorical hand gesture.
Walking toward the large house-like structure, I could already see about three people hovering around the entrance. They looked to be about twenty or so years old, all men, wearing hooded sweatshirts and drinking. One of them was waving around his bottle, the liquid visibly sloshing about and threatening to escape from its vessel. I eyed the most heavy-set member of the trio, who was laughing raucously at a joke I hadn’t heard, and immediately pictured Bryce looking similar to him in another seven years.
As I attempted to brush past the three, I could smell the heavy stench of beer on their breath. It was just my luck to attempt to pass by alkies, because as soon as I moved to the right of where they were standing, one of the men, an unshaven bloke with dirty blond hair, whistled loudly.
“Oi! Want to see my package, totty?” he hollered, and I went bright red. I tried to head toward the door, but the heavier man stepped in front of me.
“Hey, pay attention. My mate’s givin’ you an offer,” he gurgled.
“Excuse me,” I whispered, restraining the urge to throw up on his sweatshirt due to the mixed smell of ale and body odor.
The cool air of the pub comforted me once I shoved my way past the trio of drunks and made my way to the door. Already the smell of various foods was getting to me, and my stomach audibly growled while I mentally told it to shut up. The Oxford Retreat pub was large, true enough, with several people still in rumpled business suits with their heads bent over their plates as they inhaled every last crumb. However, I felt like I could stay in here for a while. Even the tang of cigarette smoke didn’t tickle my nostrils like it usually did.
I watched as a waiter approached a small table with a platter heavy with food and instantly I craved something substantial. Perhaps a banger or two, or a standard sandwich. I moved further into the interior before a young waitress stopped me, her brown hair pulled back ruthlessly into a bun. She pursed her lips as she perused me, and I knew she didn’t have to check for my identification.
“Sorry, hon,” she said in a tone I read as horribly condescending. “But we can’t serve minors here.”
“Oh,” I stammered, feeling the blood rushing through my face. “Awful sorry.”
The waitress frowned at me. “Do you need something?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m all right, thanks.”
But she wasn’t done yet. “Where’s your mum?”
I felt like decking the girl, but I decided against it as I sharply turned and headed back toward the door, leaving the dream of a good dinner behind. I could feel the eyes of the waitress watching me as she left, as if she were a guard at Buckingham Place. I half-expected a bayonet to be jabbed into my neck if I didn’t hurry up. As I left, however, my eyes caught a glimpse of a young black man, who was watching me leave from over a cup of Earl Gray. But I didn’t pay much attention to his gaze.
At this rate, I’d have to simply start walking down the Thames and work on solving the mystery at hand first; food would have to wait. Maybe I could find a grocery and get something cheaper if I couldn’t eat at the pub. My mind mulled over these choices as my stomach screamed at me, trying to get a word in about its predicament. But I had other things to worry about and that thought was intensified as soon as I exited the pub, for as I closed the door behind me, a large hand closed around my arm and yanked me forward. I felt like a rag doll being shaken about before I stared into the eyes of the blond kid from before, his brown eyes swimming as he smirked and scanned my face.
“What’s the matter, baby?” he asked, as his mates laughed from behind him. “Didn’t like the menu?”
“Please let me go,” I managed to squeak, but it only made the men laugh harder. I fought against the blond man’s grip, but he held on tightly and I could feel his fingernails digging through the thin red fabric of my sweater sleeve.
“Oi, Rich, let me see ‘er,” said his other mate, a scrawny, buck-toothed boy with a shaved head. The odd bits of silver pierced around his lips probably were intended to give him an air of rebellion, but it looked more like he had stumbled and fell into a box of tacks and just left the things in his face.
“Nah, Cliff, you stay back. I saw ‘er first,” ordered the blond man.
“C’mon, everyone knows you’re an arse-bandit, Rich,” the fat mate insisted, and he and “Cliff” laughed and high-fived each other. I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead, and I choked on the smell of both Guinness and stout.
“Please,” I tried to beg. “Just leave me alone.”
“Oh, c’mon. Did you want a drink or summat?” asked “Rich,” a lopsided but deliberate smirk appearing on his face. “I can buy you a drink.”
“I want you to let me –”
“Oh, shut your bloomin’ mouth already!” Rich suddenly snarled; he clearly wasn’t happy with how unreceptive I was. He was already so bladdered I was sure he couldn’t see straight, and his friends weren’t helping out much, either.
“C’mon, Rich, make a bodge job out of ‘er!” Cliff hollered.
I knew I should have screamed, but my lips were stuck together as if they were glued. Rich was reveling in my silence, licking his lips as he reached out his other hand to touch my cheek. I felt extraordinarily violated, as well as betrayed – one would think that someone would have noticed the situation outside, especially in broad daylight. Luckily, I was saved, for as Rich extended his tongue, the door of the pub slammed open with an unprecedented thud. In the next moment, I felt my arm being ripped away from Rich’s fingers as I stumbled and fell on my rear against the pavement. My vision blurred momentarily before I saw the man I had seen in the pub earlier, his dark face tinged with red as he held Rich against the wall of the building.
“Blow me!” Cliff stuttered as the fat mate stepped toward the intruder, cracking his knuckles as Rich was reduced to a whimpering mess against the brick. The man from the pub whipped around to glare at Rich’s friend before speaking, his voice angry but tinged with a much more posh accent than I expected, regardless of the cussing mixed into his sentences.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing, trying to chat up a kid?” he demanded. “You out of your minds?”
“C’mon, man, we was just lookin’ for someone to bonk,” Cliff attempted to explain.
“I dunno what your problem is, but you lay off Rich,” the fat friend threatened, as if to cover up Cliff’s clear stupidity in his last remark.
“You all fucking clear off!” the man responded, and surprisingly, the heavier guy shrank back in response to the command. “Or I’ll punch all your lights out! Got it?”
With that, he released Rich and watched as the drunk slumped against the wall without much resistance. Cliff and the unnamed fat mate exchanged glances, and I had a feeling that they were wondering if they should try to challenge the guy. However, with their current inebriated conditions and continual swaying in an attempt to keep their balance, they were in no fit state to pick a fight. Instead, Cliff wobbled over to help Rich to his feet, practically dragging him as the latter growled a weak “Fucking coon” before the men staggered out of sight.
Having watched the whole scene silently, I had forgotten where I was and attempted to get back on my feet. In the next instant, the man was beside me, taking my hand and pulling me up. As he did so, I got my first real look at his face. He was certainly a handsome man, young and with a thin thatch of hair growing around his lips. His eyes almost appeared amber in his brown face, though they were slightly darkened behind a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. I stared at him while he looked me up and down, eyeing my surprisingly untouched bag and my ruffled clothing.
I opened my mouth to speak, but I heard a sharp breath most likely of amusement emit from the man as he smiled largely. He stretched out the fingers out of his right hand, as if he were studying them. “Sorry that you had to see me like that,” he said. “But they shouldn’t have been doing that to you.”
“Oh,” I uttered. “Well…thanks for helping out.”
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered. He then added, “I saw you get kicked out of the pub. You actually want something to eat?”
***
A chicken panini, a bowl of soggy chips, and a tall glass of milk had never tasted so good as I had dinner with the man, who had introduced himself as Allen once we had sat down. The waitress from earlier had taken our orders with a confused look on her face, but fortunately, she hadn’t asked any questions, instead glancing quickly at Allen’s ID card before scribbling down his request for another cup of tea. As I finished off half my bowl of chips, I could tell Allen was watching me, and I was sure that he was rather entertained by how hungry I appeared to be.
“You’re acting like you haven’t eaten in days, kid,” he said as I moved to drink my milk. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I managed to say in between breaths and swallows. “I only had crisps and pop today.”
Grinning, Allen sipped from his cup, the steam from his Earl Gray mingling in his curly hair. “Those blokes outside come around pretty often, just to warn you. One time, they actually came in for a drink on Saturday when I was having breakfast. Drop-outs, I’m betting.”
It was interesting how the man was speaking to me so comfortably. He had already been quite hospitable, something I actually had prepared myself not to expect as I traveled. He stirred some cream into his tea before sipping again, glancing at me over the brim of his cup.
“So what’s the deal with you?” he asked, as I polished off the toasted crust of my panini. “How come you’re trying to come in here all by yourself?”
“I didn’t know I couldn’t come in. I’m not from around here.”
“Well, I figured that much,” Allen said, “I mean, no offense, but…you look like a hobo.”
I couldn’t help laughing at that. In a sick way, it was a true statement.
“Where do you come from?” Allen asked, appearing quite insistent on keeping the conversation going.
“I’m from Purley-on-Thames,” I replied.
“That place? I’ve been there. Nice little spot.”
The waitress returned to clear my plate and Allen went to signing the bill. I held my hand up to stop him, reaching into my bag for my money. But he shook his head.
“No, no, missy. You need to save that for bread or…cheese or summat,” he said. “Whatever you hobos eat.”
“Okay, I’m not really a ‘hobo,’” I protested. “I’m more of a runaway.”
“Ah! Even better,” Allen remarked, raising an eyebrow comically and grinning when it made me laugh. “You look much nicer when you smile, you know that, right?”
I blushed and went silent. It was clear that Allen was much older than I was and meant no ill intention with his compliment, but his hospitality felt almost unnatural. Unbeknownst to me, however, these good deeds wouldn’t be his last. As we stood up from the table, Allen lowered his spectacles as if to get a better look at me, a smile appearing in the thin outlines of his beard.
“You do more like the rebellious sort of girl rather than the wandering type,” he said. “What happened? You have a tiff with your parents?”
I wish, I thought to myself, but I locked my jaw to stop myself from saying that. Instead I said, “It’s complicated.”
“I would suspect as much,” said Allen. “So where are you going to go next?”
I shrugged. “Nearest inn, I suppose.”
“Not on foot, I hope?” Allen asked, and I gave him a look. Did he really think I’d have a car on me?
We started for the door, embracing the slight drizzle as we entered the open space. The backwater of the Thames glimmered beneath the growing ripples of the drops, but other than that, the water sat lazily between its earthy fortifications. I looked at Allen as he walked slowly, and immediately I predicted that he was debating whether or not he should give me a ride. After all, I had almost been assaulted by three other men, and I didn’t expect him to believe I’d take his request lightly.
Still, after the while, my sweater was beginning to grow damp and I was starting to shiver. I began to walk towards the bridge, thinking maybe Allen would react. He did, and very assertively as well.
“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not walking to an inn in this weather.” Gesturing with his hand, he directed my attention to a standard looking Mini sitting in the pub’s parking lot.
I looked at him. “I don’t even know you.”
“C’mon,” Allen grumbled. “I saved you from a bunch of alkies. You really think I’d turn around and act like them?”
I couldn’t help hesitating, and Allen waited patiently for my response. The rain was coming down harder now, rivulets of water making their way through my hair and streaking the sides of my face. At this rate, I could end up sick before I even got close to a place to rest. I nodded, beginning to shiver.
“All right, all right. But if you do anything…”
“You’re already roaming Oxford by yourself,” Allen chuckled as he led me to his car. “You may as well learn to accept these kinds of offers.”
I knew my conscience was screaming at me again. I had already irritated the logical side of my brain with my endeavors, and every other step now was just aggravating it. Still, the smell of the musty car seat comforted me, and the feeling of being dry from the now pounding rain outside was relieving. Allen sat rigid in his seat, staring ahead like he was too afraid to look at me. I guessed he was worried that I’d take any glance the wrong way.
This journey was surprising me more and more. I began to wonder if my being raised in a smaller town with a protective guardian had given me an overly amplified sense of vigilance. I expected a rather shady, hostile world outside, and perhaps I was half right. But the other half of hospitality was fighting back to give this place a better name. And in the end, I kept reminding myself that I had only been out wandering for a single day. Who knew what could happen next?
As the Mini glided across the wet road, I decided that I needed to remove all expectations from now on. There could be no expectation that I would always be welcomed and supported in my journey. There could be no expectation of how I’d manage financially. And there absolutely could be no expectation for what I’d be able to find. All the moments of the day so far were simply given me the honest image of the city around me – what I could uncover, it couldn’t say. Never before had I felt that I was living in the stark present situation, and never did the future seem so unclear.
It was frightening yet almost relaxing at the same time. I shut my eyes in order to clear my head as we turned onto Hollybush Row, then Thomas Street. As Allen turned toward the curb, I saw the blurry outline of apartments against the gray mist. He stopped in the nearest car park and opened the door for me. I stepped out instantly to be streaked with rain.
“Well, this is it,” Allen said, beckoning toward what looked like the central office. I stared at him.
“Is this something I can afford?”
“It’s cheaper than any of the hotels and inns,” Allen said. “You can haggle with them if you want, maybe get a cheap studio.”
I stared at Allen for a moment in the rain, not knowing what to say for a while. His eyes were soft behind his eyes, his dark jaw line firm but relaxed. He seemed to hold no torment in his face, no anxiety in his muscles. I had been helped by a man who most likely was completely certain of what he wanted to do in life, and part of that, strangely enough, was helping me.
All I could do was shake his hand and mutter my thanks. I knew he was staring at the scars on my fingers. As Allen walked back to his Mini, he took one last moment to look back at me over his shoulder. As I stared back, he grinned and gave me a thumbs up.
“Watch yourself, okay, missy?” he called out, before he got into his car and sped away.
I watched him go, not noticing how the rain soaked into my bag and hair. I let the water pound on my shoulders, the percussion it made resounding in my ears. I was on my own again, a kid in an adult world. I felt my teeth sink into my bottom lip and create a dent, and I willed myself to turn to the building before me before the rain overtook me.
The work you see here has not been edited nor modified since October 7th, 2011.
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