Eye Sleuth (20 page)

“Only by reputation. Most of the companies that sell visual training equipment and supplies have booths and sales staff at these conferences. Why?”

“He’s involved in the manufacture of Dr. Anders’ prototypes and is going to help me present the paper on the prototypes and handle questions and answers.”

We chatted about the journal papers he and Gus were preparing and then, satisfied we’d caught up, Bob moved on down the aisle to chat with someone else. I looked over the information about Bournemouth. Aerial photos showed curving sandy beaches and cliffs dotted with palm trees from the tropical Gulf Stream that blew over that part of the coast. Swimming weather it wasn’t but beach walks would be a pleasant change from Manhattan streets.

The outline of the eleventh-century Christchurch Priory was dramatic against the sky in one photo. My interest kicked up a notch when I read that one of the tours went to a cemetery where Mary Shelley’s grave was located. When I was ten, I’d discovered Frankenstein. I’ve moved on from monster tales, now I’m into mysteries like those by Naomi Hirahara, whose writing beckons me deep into my roots, the worlds of the Issei, Nisei and Sansei—the first, second and third generations of Japanese born in America.

I drowsed for the rest of the flight.

Nine

Stark predawn greeted us at Heathrow, where it was barely 6 AM. My biorhythm was still set on New York’s 1 AM, but fatigue was easy to ignore in the excitement of being in England. The airport officials were courteous but like us were in a state of borderline wakefulness. We shuffled along, first producing passports then waiting to claim luggage. The suitcases came out quickly, though I may have catnapped as I stood drowsily watching the cases slide by on the conveyer belt. Passengers around me yawned and stretched, glad to be off the plane. A bright-eyed courier whose nametag identified him as Stuart stood waiting for us as we exited. He flourished a sign, “OEPF Conference.” Gathering the nine optometrists who’d been on the flight, he shepherded us to a small bus.

“We’ll take the M25 out of London then head south on the M3,” Stuart said as he slid into the driver’s seat. “It’s ninety miles to Bournemouth.”

The motorway was modest compared to American freeways. The vehicles zipping by looked as if they were part of a giant’s play set. I wasn’t bothered they were on the other side of the road, I didn’t have to drive. Traffic was heavy as the bus wove through London’s outskirts but few pedestrians were out this early on a windy morning. Gradually, the buildings dwindled. In their place were fields, some covered with brilliant green grass, others were dotted with horses or sheep. Occasionally, I saw dark furrowed earth through which the tips of young crops showed. Hedges bordered the mosaic of fields.

Gentle snores came from Horrie Humphreys next to me. A Canadian, he’d been inspired by the forensic optometric work of Gus Forkiotis and Bob Bertolli. After visiting them in Connecticut, he’d taken a postdoctoral course in behavioral optometry at Yale’s Gesell Institute. Offered a position at the institute, he’d stayed. His snoring was soothing and my eyelids drooped in Pavlovian response but I resisted sleep, too much to see. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t worrying about Mary Sakamoto’s warning of danger. Lanny was home and recuperating and I could relax and enjoy the trip.

“We’ll reroute through the New Forest, the scenic approach,” Stuart said cheerfully. “It’s off the motorway and a bit slower but better than twiddling our thumbs for hours on the A31. We’re too early for the heather, by late July the heath will be purple with it, but the early rhododendrons are almost out. My daughter and her husband live in the New Forest, on Buddle Hill. He’s one of the verderers.”

“What’s a verderer?” someone called out.

“Comes from the Norman word, “vert” or “green.” It refers to woodland. The verderers are the officials who deal with the care of common land in areas that are the Crown’s. The Royal Court of Verderers was founded in 1877.”

He waited for the murmur of interest to fade and added, “My son-in-law’s family has grazing rights for ponies and other animals.”

“What does the Royal Court of Verderers actually do?” was the next query.

“They watch over the habitat and the health of the animals, we’ve got everything from donkeys and ponies to cows and other cattle.”

“Cattle grazing? Like a cattle ranch?”

“Not rightly a business, more like extra income. The family’s got ponies in the New Forest near Fordingbridge. In August, the verderers hold an annual pony sale.”

We turned off the motorway and onto a narrow road that wound through open land of gentle hills, clumps of ferns and windswept trees. At one place, our way was blocked by four or five small ponies straggled across the road and our bus came to a stop. The ponies paid no attention to our vehicle but stood companionably nose to shoulder, their shaggy coats and rough manes the soft grays, browns and blacks of the downs. Stuart didn’t touch the horn and soon the ponies ambled to the side of the road and we drove slowly past them.

“Don’t the ponies get hit by cars?” Amile Francke asked.

“Accidents do happen, though the ponies have right of way,” Stuart said. “In busy parts of the forest, fences have been put up so the animals can’t cross the roads there. They don’t venture near where it’s built up, round market towns like Ringwood. Mind you, quite a few ponies have been hit by golf balls but they still wander close to the golf courses.”

“How is it the ponies have right of way?” I asked.

“This is the New Forest. It was created by William the First in 1079 for a royal hunting ground. Royally offended the farmers, he did. They were mostly tenant farmers and crofters, and Rufus––the king’s nickname because of his red hair––kicked people off their farmland and planted trees so he could go hunting. In return for taking the land, certain rights were given forest people. A stray arrow killed Rufus, so you could say that hunting caused his death. Course, there’s some as says the arrow was shot deliberately, which would make it treason.”

Stuart shook his head. “Not necessarily. The New Forest is just over a hundred square miles. Forty-four belong to the crown. The whole place became a national park in 2005.”

“The land is so open, doesn’t look much like a forest.”

“We’re in an open area, part heath, part bog,” Stuart said. “The crown’s land is the most wooded, beech and oak, trees that provided timber that built a royal navy so strong Nelson won British control of the seas for more than a century.”

Our tour guide explained that houses were few and far between because building had been restricted for decades and remodeling was allowed only at the back of existing homes. The few cottages we passed were picturesque, some had thatched roofs and hanging baskets of flowers. A young boy leaning over the garden gate of one cottage was feeding carrots to the donkeys crowding around him.

“You’re not supposed to feed the animals,” Stuart said. “The donkeys get downright pushy. Backed one fellow into a pond last year.” He navigated a sharp corner and at a crossroads took the road heading away from the open heath. “Here’s where we pick up the A35 into Bournemouth.”

Twenty minutes later we pulled up outside a contemporary hotel next to the modern, glass-fronted conference center and people gathered their bags and got off. Soon I was the sole passenger left on the bus.

“So you’re the one going to the other hotel,” Stuart said. “You got the better part of that deal.”

Minutes later we pulled up at the elegant Royal Bath Hotel, a venerable building from a different era. Cream-colored and turreted, it sprawled luxuriously on the East Cliff. My room had tall windows overlooking a wind-swept Atlantic and the bed was queen-sized. No bed ever looked more inviting but even though I desperately wanted to lie down, I resisted. Lars, a veteran globetrotter, had warned me against this particular temptation.

“Don’t nap on the first day, you’ll have trouble adjusting to the time difference. Stay up till evening, go for a walk, drink lots of tea.”

It was just after 9 AM. I had a quick shower to dampen my drowsiness. Refreshed and in clean clothes, I wandered downstairs. Today was free, the conference proper started tomorrow. Tonight we’d gather at 5 PM for an informal cocktail get-together at the conference center. Tours were offered each day and I’d signed up for the 11 AM tour of the Shelley family tomb at St. Peter’s Church and Cemetery. Not that I’m much of a poetry lover but as a major fan of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I knew the feminist document her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, wrote, Vindication of the Rights of Women, was the first of its kind. I was intrigued with the idea of seeing the tomb of such historic figures. The receptionist at the front desk gave me a handful of pamphlets and told me the conference center was close to the hotel.

A waiter with a loaded tray hurried by and at the rattle of china I was immediately hungry. It was hours since the breakfast snack on the plane and suddenly I craved a real meal to make up for the lack of sleep.

“Is it possible to get breakfast now?”

“Certainly. The dining room is open,” and I was pointed in the direction of a large room with tables of people enjoying breakfast. French doors led to a flagstone patio but no one was eating outside. The waiter who brought me a menu explained that kippers were smoked herring and bangers were sausages. I couldn’t resist the kippers. A pot of tea arrived first and I looked over the pamphlets as I sipped strong black tea. I learned that a few years after it was built in 1838, the Bath Hotel added Royal to its name because it was “much frequented by royalty.” The first hotel in Bournemouth, it was opened on Queen Victoria’s coronation day in 1838. That made it a few decades older than 34 Gramercy Park, where Lanny lived.

“Here’s freshly baked Hovis,” the waiter said, when he returned with a full tray.

The small loaf, a cross between whole wheat and multigrain, was warm and wonderful. The kipper was crisp and delicious and soon only its backbone was left on my plate. Now I really felt sleepy. I set out to find the way to the conference center, hoping that fresh air would wake me up. The day was breezy and sunny, no clouds.

“The entrance to the Pleasure Gardens is straight ahead on this road, Westover Road,” the porter had told me. “Walk across the gardens and you’ll see a big glass building, that’s the conference center.”

One side of Westover Road was lined by pine trees and budding rhododendrons, the other by expensive looking shops. “Upmarket,” according to the porter. I found the entrance to the gardens, the British version of a park, and went down a path bordered by pansies and begonias. A stream meandered through thick green grass, its banks grooved deep by time. It wasn’t the city’s namesake, the River Bourne, but one of the many Avons in England, a really small Avon. I sat on a bench, people-watching. French, German and Italian filled the air as well as an astounding mix of English accents. Students, I’d read in one of the pamphlets, came from all over Europe to study English at Bournemouth’s language schools. The crowd thinned for a moment and there, opposite the bench where I sat, was the glitzy conference center.

My tour bus wasn’t due for another hour so now that I knew how to reach the conference center, I decided to follow the stream to the sea. It felt good to stretch my legs. The gardens ended close to Bournemouth Pier. Grouped at the pier’s entrance were rides, an arcade with beeping electronic games and kiosks selling balloons and souvenirs. The boardwalk was paved, not wooden. The winter must be temperate enough that roads didn’t heave and grow potholes like New York’s.

I walked leisurely back through the gardens to the conference center. The tour bus hadn’t arrived so I went inside to check conference information in the lobby. I was studying the floor plan when my name was called. It was Bob Williams, the longtime director of the OEP Foundation, the international association for optometrists. Bob and his staff ran the foundation in California, publishing books and journals and coordinating conferences like this one.