The Anglophile (20 page)

“Shank's pony, mate!” the son half screams from the door. The hipster bartender arches an eyebrow at me.

“Shank's what?” I ask Kit discreetly, like a woman who needs more details after witnessing a horrific car accident.

“He's walking, as he well should. There is something about this country that makes hitting acceptable.”

The father drinks silently with a shatterproof face.

To calm Kit, I shift subjects. “So tell me about the
place we're staying at tonight. Is there a bed-and-break-fast there?”

“We're staying in a hut,” he says sharply.

“I don't think we should keep in this man's business,” I say adamantly.

“Sorry,” he softens, trying hard to get out of his snit. “Yeah, um, they are renovated fishermen's huts. Part of the Hotel Continental, but their huts are much more highly desired by guests—”

The barman, doubling as waiter, plops the two pork pies down for us. I eye mine suspiciously.

“Would you like me to take a bite first?” Kit asks with forced cheer, perhaps guilty for his public anger.

“Would you? Pork is always a bit iffy for me. I was sick for two days over a nasty little eggroll.”

“It's very good,” Kit says, after the bit goes down the hatch.

I lift my own cutlery. “More about the huts please.”

The father leaves the pub with red eyes and a hateful look for Kit.

“Yorkshire man,” Kit says once the door is closed. “In case you were trying to pick the accent. His son is probably going to school in Canterbury, escaping him.”

 

“Keep your pecker up,” a father says to a bored ten-year-old on this long line to get in the Cathedral. At my shocked look, Kit wryly says, “That's a mouth in that expression, not a cock.”

“Oh, thank God.”

According to the handout, we can see where Saint Thomas was buried (before Henry VIII plundered his
tomb), and the tombs of Henry IV, his wife Joan of Navarre, and the Black Prince's effigy.

The cathedral is beautiful, as is the music from the enormous pipe organ, the soaring architecture, and especially the stained glass the locals so shrewdly hid during World War II. We've opted for a self-guided tour, and when we hang up our headphones after a well-articulated blitz of architectural details, we hear some good news from the headphone rental clerk.

“If you stay fifteen more minutes, you'll be here for a service.”

“Would you like to stay?” Kit asks me.

“Sure. It'll be probably be very interesting.”

“It will,” says the clerk.

 

Am I the only one at mass who doesn't know exactly what to do? If this isn't Catholicism, is this service called mass? Why is everyone going up for the bit of wafer?

Kit rises, too, and heads for the center.

“I thought that was a Catholic thing?” I quietly ask.

He shakes his head no.

“Am I supposed to take a sacrament? Isn't that a big sin, to eat the Body of Christ? What's the policy here?”

“Sit,” Kit whispers harshly, when he sees I'm about to follow him. “You don't have the training.”

“The
training?
”

Kit puts a finger to his lips.

“Are you confirmed?” a helpful woman says.

“No.”

“Sit,” her husband imparts to me.

I feel my face flush as I walk back to my pew. There's a few curious looks, but I happily spot a handful of others staying, including an Asian family and the man who told his son to keep his pecker up.

 

Inside the gift shop, Kit explains that the Church of England is closer to Roman Catholicism than to Protestant churches.

“I thought Protestant is Church of England.”

“No, you're thinking of Episcopalian, I think that's what it's called in America. Canterbury is the seat of the whole system. Technically the queen is on top, she's the supreme governor, but the archbishop of Canterbury is the chief cleric.”

“And that would be?”

“Rowan Douglas Williams.”

I look at a picture of a clean-shaven man on the Church's tourist handout. “Is this him?”

Kit looks. “Yes.”

“‘He is an accomplished pianist and lover of opera as well as a keen tennis player and traveler; he has also written some hymns.' What is this, a personal ad?”

“Hey, that's my spiritual leader you're disrespecting.” Kit gets his Zippo ready to light up the second we are out of sacred ground. My mother used to ready her lighter, too, whenever we were ready to leave my father's hospital for the night.

“Okay, I'm really confused. You've got to tell me again about when this whole Anglican thing happened.”

“Old Henry wanted to marry someone he shouldn't have, and—you know, it's rather complicated to boil
down to a minute.” As I look through a rack of religious postcards I definitely won't be sending to Aunt Dot, Kit buys me a souvenir guidebook that he says has what I need to know, and a little teddy bear with an archbishop's hat.

 

The ride to coastal Whitstable is a short, tired, but pleasant one.

Along the route (from A299 to M2) Kit tells me a few things he knows about County Kent, including the rumor that Ian Fleming's selection of “007” for his Bond character was from the bus number from London to nearby Deal. I gobble up the always-appreciated Bond trivia but soon, with considerable magic out of the window, I'm a less receptive trivia recipient. Kit senses I'm tiring out from a long day, and he switches into silent-driver mode, occasionally smiling as I soak up the view of the marvelous countryside of Kent.

A whistling man alongside us for a few yards, carting a wheelbarrowful of potting soil, turns toward a roadside bed-and-breakfast decorated with colorful buckets of spring flowers. A few kilometers later I spot another B&B with a wishing well, the old stone kind, not the gray plastic kind you buy at a Long Island mall.

As we exit the car at our parking spot in Whitstable, the strong scent of the sea wafts up my nostrils. We take a brief walk down stubby streets to the Hotel Continental on Beach Road.

“It looks art deco-ish,” I say.

“It is. A break from medieval.”

“But it's a hotel, not a hut.”

“The Fishermen's Huts are in the back.”

The perky Hotel Continental receptionist greets us with a smile. “If you're eating at the Oyster Bar you'll miss the sunset if you don't hurry. We can put your things in the Anderson Shed for you.”

“Do you need our credit cards now?” I ask. “We're splitting the bill.”

“You look like trustworthy folks. And remember, I'll have your luggage! Do you know which one is the Anderson Shed?”

“Yes,” Kit says. “I've been here before.”

She studies him. “Yes, I thought I'd seen you before.”

She hands us each a passkey. “I'll leave a note for my replacement who'll be doing the overnight. You can fix it up with him in the morning.”

“That's champion,” Kit says. “Very helpful.”

“The sunset is what it is all about. Oh, you can move your car later. There's private parking.”

“I forgot,” Kit says.

I am staring at him when he looks at my face.

“What?”

“I know you recommended this place, but who exactly have you been here with before?” How did it not occur to me to ask earlier? “With Helen?”

“Yes. Does that upset you?”

“Why should it?” My voice betrays my annoyance.

“Good. Because the hut overhangs the seascape. In the morning everything is, well—I want to share this with you.”

He looks so hurt that I squeeze his hand. “You sound charmingly earnest.”

He squeezes back. We hurry over to the Oyster Bar, and are seated near the water.

“Are you ready for that battered cod?”

“I'm ready, Freddy.”

Before we place our orders, Kit excuses himself for the men's room.

Out of Kit's minding, I'm free to eavesdrop again.

“Personally, I think she's got a very commonplace face, don't you?” says a nearby woman with a rather commonplace face; her features include droopy eyelids, and a boring slit for a mouth. Even though it is a warm but not hot day, the woman speaking is wearing a sleeveless shirt, and when she scratches her nose I can see that one of her underarms is shaven and the other is not.

“Oh, no, I think she is gorgeous. You're mad! And frankly, his life has certainly been on the uptick since he met her, don't you
think?
”

When Kit is seated again, I lose the conversation, and join him in looking over the menu. As always, he's forthcoming with advice. “Your basic choices are cod, haddock, huss, plaice.”

“I thought the plan was cod.”

“Yes, you should absolutely order it. There is a dire lack of codfish left in England—overfished, I guess. Cod might not be a culinary option the next time you're on my soil.”

After our order we are silent. A good silent. Holding hands. A sunset. Again I chastise myself. My recent paranoia must have stemmed from jet lag. I've never been far enough away to actually have hardcore jet lag, so how would I see that coming? Maybe I let a little ugliness slip,
but I stopped short of revealing my ugliest suspicions. Thank God for that. I wouldn't miss this moment. The colored skies out the window are perfectly hued: the pale blue of heaven melting into the early red of the evening sky is alone worth the three-thousand-mile journey to the British Isles.

According to my watch, still on New York time, it's time for my thyroid medicine again if I'm keeping a consistent hour. I pop another pill into my mouth and wash it down with a glass of room temperature water. Why ruin the moment and ask for ice?

Our waitress puts our meals on the table, and when she is out of view Kit leans over to hand me salt and malt vinegar. “Turner came here to paint the sunset,” he says softly.

I nod.

After I have finished my first forkful of fish, he asks nervously (which I find touching), “What do you think?”

“It's so, hey, this is
really
good,” I say like a television hostess visiting a famous restaurant. It is good, but as that sort of talent knows, a little theater never hurts.

“If we were in the north,” Kit says, after a bite, “this would come with mushy peas.”

“Mashed?”

“Yes.”

For once I am the one with the silencing finger. I kiss him on the lips and the women from the neighboring table sigh at the sight of new love.

“Ain't getting any of that from the old man,” one says.

 

We walk back to our hut through the narrow streets, our kissing ever intensifying every few feet.

We stop to watch the buskers in the square. I usually hate mimes, but with stomach full and love brewing, I love the mime. An hour passes of doing nothing. Doing nothing with your fantasy man is a wonderful thing.

The night is dark, and Kit lets a butterfly land on his finger. “This is a Woodman's Follower,” he says. “Very rare, especially so early in the spring.”

I jolt, remembering that butterfly collection in London again. The right side of my brain begs my left side to block the reemerging gnawing thoughts about Kit. But there they are again. How could I possibly harbor any suspicion about how lovely this man is? I didn't realize it would be so isolated at night. Does anyone know I'm here?

I count six weatherboard huts clustered near us, maybe seven.

A man hard to make out in the poor light addresses me. “Hi, there, Shari.”

“I
thought you were researching in a dusty room at the museum,” I say to Owen after removing my hand clapped over my mouth. I quickly glance at Kit. Even in the darkening light, I can see the supreme displeasure in his face.

“Great out by the water, isn't it?”

“Did you tell him we were coming here?” Kit demands.

I sway my head no. “We haven't even—”

Kit drops my hand.

We're close enough to see Owen's lips move as he says, “Nothing like Whitstable for an easy getaway from London.” After a tension-filled pause, he says, “How's the trip been?”

“Well for starters, we met Ringo Starr on our Beatles walking tour.” Anything but silence.

“No way!”

“Seriously! We took a picture with him. Everyone on our tour did. He was doing some kind of tribute to George Harrison at Abbey Road.”

“That's incredible.” Owen glances to my companion. “Kit? That you? It's hard to make out your face.”

“Yes,” is the curt reply.

“You like Ringo?”

“He was a nice man.”

“Did Helen introduce you to these huts?”

This time Kit doesn't answer.

So that's what this is about. A love rivalry. As uncomfortable as the situation is, I'm relieved. It appears no one's strangling anyone anytime soon.

We stiffly stand until Owen asks, “Where to next on your itinerary?”

Kit glares at me, and storms into the hut.

Should I follow Kit? We're all exhausted after that plane flight. Should I give him room to breathe? Is it betrayal to reveal any details? “We were going to maybe go to Kit's family's house,” I divulge against good judgment.

“In Yorkshire?”

“His family lives in the Cotswolds.”

“That's curious, because I thought our friend Helen told me his dad was a northerner.”

“His research was somewhere near Yorkshire, that's what she probably told you.”

“And what research is that? Linguistics, right?”

How can I back out of this conversation? The motormouth in me keeps going: “Yes. We both study Volapük. You know—the predecessor to Esperanto?”

Owen touches my elbow in the dark. “You mean like his father speaks? That's his field of research? I kept quiet when I met you, but our friend Helen—”

“His ex?”

“Yes, you could say that. Last time I spoke to her she said he was hard at work on a novel.”

A novel? This is like a game of telephone. I'm sure Owen's got this all mixed up. “You're mistaken. Kit's father is dead. There is a man who speaks Volapük near Yorkshire, but that's not his dad. He's an elderly man, there's no way—”

“I'm sure it was. But it's been a while now since I've seen—his dad could have died in that period of time.”

“Trust me on this, Owen. Kit's father isn't alive, and he does not speak Volapük.”

“You're arguing with a historian?”

It's dark enough that bugs are buzzing now. I press harder: “Do you think Kit could be lying to me?”

“I think I've opened my mouth plenty,” comes the reply in the dark.

“Go on, for god sakes. You're telling me Kit is a compulsive liar?”

The poison is practically dripping off Owen, but there is something curiously believable about what he is saying. Owen's obviously thought a
lot
about Kit, and once again I admit to myself that I've known Owen a hell of a lot longer than I've known Kit.

“Depends. What else has he told you?”

I struggle for a memory. “When I met him, he was talking about a Cambridge reunion, with Andy and some other guy.”

“Reece.”

“Yeah.”

“Those were his roommates. They were very dubious of him. Thought he was a loner.”

“They did?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “What can I tell you? Sounds like Kit's been feeding you an artful tale. Wish I had something nicer to say.”

A memory flash. That moment that Professor Dave picked “something else” in his Cambridge accent—could it be a telltale vowel that gave him away as a Yorkshire lad? Has my wooer been faking a life? What else has he faked? I excuse myself and head the few feet toward my hut. I still feel frightened, but once and for all I'm going to sort this out.

 

When I key into our room, Kit is staring out the window into the dark.

“We need to talk,” I say like a TV detective about to expose the charlatan.

“Tomorrow. I'm in a foul mood right now. I really don't like your friend, I'm sorry to say.”

“I'd be talking if I was you.”

“And why's that?”

“He let me know a few things about you that have really disturbed me.”

“Oh, really? What did that tosser say to you?”

“Maybe exactly what you didn't want me to hear.”

He pulls a chain on a standing lamp and light floods the room. “And what would that be? I'm a bit put off by your entrance, you know.” At the
p
in “put” I feel
his angry breath on my neck. “Why were you so chatty with him when I've told you how much I despise him?”

“I went to school with the guy. I know him from childhood.”

“And I'm the one you're with right now, or at least I thought I was.” He pours himself a glass of water in the sink. After a gulp, he says fiercely, “I'm so mad right now I could—” His words peter off mysteriously.

“You could
what?
” Am I baiting a madman?

No response.

“Kit, who are you really?”

“Pardon me?”

“You heard me. What is your plan for me? Are you going to threaten me so I can't let the world know the truth about your big research lies?”

“My
plan
for you? To see England together—”

“Oh is that it?”

“Are you
insane?
”

“You tell me. I just heard that the man you presented to my colleagues as your great academic find is your father who supposedly died when you were little. Remember that compassion you hurled at me? What a fucking crock!”

I spring back, scared. I'm even terrified at the psychosis in my own voice.

But Kit looks at me right in the eye as he answers: “You've got a very febrile imagination. And when you calm down, I think you will rue the day you said all of this to me.”

I can't stop what's been welling up inside me since we
first ran into Owen. I rock my head derisively. “That's your explanation? I note there is no denial—”

He slams a door hard as he leaves our highly desired hut.

What have I just done? My forehead is covered in perspiration. I shudder. Maybe I
am
insane. I'm definitely confused.

I run to Owen's hut and knock on the front door.

Owen answers with sleepy eyes, “Sorry I was just dozing off—” One look at my face and he forces himself to attentiveness. “What happened?”

“Kit and I had a nasty fight.”

“Over what?”

“Over you.”

He seems just a bit pleased. “Me? Can you throw out a bit more info here?”

“Over his lying. He made up friends, he made up an existence. I'm scared he might hurt me—”

“I don't think he's going to hurt you—”

“With all the lying he's doing, why not? Who knows what he's capable of?”

Owen gulps. “Well, it's not like they all hated him in Cambridge. That was a bit of an exaggeration, I guess.”

I look up nervously. “Exactly how much of an exaggeration?”

“Like I said, a bit.”

I lock eyes with him. “Tell me more.”

“Some days, I guess. We all have our months we fall out of favor.”

“What about the father connection? Is that real?”

“Now hey, I didn't say I was certain about that. It's just what I think I remember from Helen.”

“You said you have a photographic memory—”

“I said I was a historian. I never said anything about a photographic memory.”

I gasp loudly.

“I was getting caught up in the—Kit and I have a historical rivalry going, if you haven't noticed.”

I rhythmically blow out air, lost for what to do or think. “How long did Kit go out with Helen?”

“Well he went out with her through school, but he was married to her for—”

“
Married
to her?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“We always had a spark going.”

“A spark?” I say shakily. “You and Helen? Does that mean she cheated on him with you?”

“Frankly she found Kit boring, it was never going to work. She wants guys with New York energy. She was always going on about moving to a loft in the—”

I have a flash of clarity ending my paranoid rage. I've completely blown everything out of the water. Kit, what the fuck have I done? “Owen. I've destroyed—” I can't even finish the sentence.

“Calm down. This will sort itself out.”

“I have to find him!”

“He'll come back. He'll calm down. How nasty did it get?”

Instead of answering, I rush back to the Anderson hut in the dark. The windless night is chill and grim,
matching my mood. I key in and open a door to find a black room.

I'm spooked. “Kit?” I call, timidly at first, and then with no answer coming, I yell his name. Still no answer.

My pulse feels like I'm hooked up to a rowing machine, practicing for the Olympics.

I knock again on Owen's door.

“Still no sight of him?” Owen says. He's plenty awake this time, and beckons me in when I shake my head no. “I feel awful about this mess. Why don't you just stay here until the morning? You can take the bed, and I'll take the sofa. We've been traveling, we're all jet-lagged, and everything will straighten itself out.”

Eventually I agree to the plan.

In the bathroom I wring a bit of Colgate out of Owen's half-empty tube. In lieu of a proper brush, I swish it with a slug of bottled water. I look in the mirror. With all the sweating and crying going on, everything applied on my face has smudged. I'm a wretched raccoon.

I lay on Owen's bed in a fetal curl. I feel every inch the fool. I think I see a face in the window. Wasn't Heathcliff freaked by Cathy's visage in
Wuthering Heights?
I need to get my shit together.

“This is lunacy,” I sleepily tell myself. “Why the hell am I staying in Owen's room?” A better plan: when I go back to see if Kit is back, this time I stay. Wait for him. Alas, that plan never transpires—footsore and heart-sick, I am utterly exhausted, and I fall into a dead sleep.

After a loud knock on the door, I leap up from the bed. I can tell it's early morning by the light glowing into
Owen's bedroom. I've left my watch on: it's 6:00 a.m. It has to be Kit calmed down. I hesitate a second to smooth the quilt, sure the sight of me in his adversary's rumpled bed would roil.

It's a shorter line from the couch to the front door, a geometry lesson I learn when I spot Owen opening the door.

“Hello? Kit?” Owen says.

There's not even a ghost for Owen to do any explaining to. Kit's not there, but someone's plunked down my suitcase. Taped to it is an envelope that contains no note, but the remainder of the three thousand in cash from Gene. (After I admitted I always lose things during trips, Kit nicely offered to hold the pounds we transferred after the Beatle Brain tour in his wallet.)

“Kit?” I scream into the morning air, my naked feet wet in dewy grass. “Where are you?”

One of the other hut guests opens his door in white boxers. He implores me to keep down the volume.

Again I return to the Anderson hut. There's no one there. Outside. Inside. Outside. I silently scan the vista and hear the swish of the surf hitting the pebbled beach. I see now how beautiful the huts are and why Kit risked coming here despite fragile memories of his past.

The car! How could I have not checked? Opportunity gone, probably hours ago: on the unpaved parking spot assigned to our hut I see nothing but dust.