Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [69]
It was then I knew the identity of the shadow trailing Letty. It was my grade school chum, Ducky Harris, with whom I’d shared everything. It was Ducky who shared my preadolescent passion for swimming and tap dancing, for scouring thrift shops in search of exotic beaded evening purses, for putting on plays in Eve Blum’s club basement.
And it was Ducky who taught me how to lighten my hair by dousing it with lemon juice and sitting in the sun. And it was from Ducky that I learned it was okay to wear navy blue with green. The two of us even had matching outfits—red beanies and white smarty-pants shorts—that we wore each Saturday to our tap-and-tumbling classes at the YWCA. For some reason—I wasn’t sure why—Letty made me feel the way Ducky had: profoundly alive.
After an hour or so of Mousehole-watching, Letty and I decided to take tea at the Golden Pheasant Hotel. Seated in front of a window overlooking the street, we watched the townspeople go by. We talked without constraint, the two of us, the way travelers often do when they meet someone they like but know they’ll never see again.
After asking me about my trip, Letty told me she regretted not having traveled more. “I always wanted to go to China,” she said. “When I was a little girl I read about the Great Wall and the Forbidden City, and, oh, just the names caused quite the stir in me. Then there were the books later—what I call the Pearl Buck influence—that made it all seem so romantic.” She laughed. “I was always sure if I went to China I’d meet an exciting foreigner who’d sweep me off my feet.”
I told her that I thought Paris was my China; that for as long as I could remember Paris was the city I’d dreamed of making my home. “Maybe that’s why Paris—even on my very first visit—always seemed familiar to me,” I said. I described visiting Père-Lachaise to search, always unsuccessfully, for Proust’s grave. “Maybe I don’t want to find it,” I said, as much to myself as to Letty. “Maybe I like the idea of having unfinished business in Paris.”
Letty poured more tea into our cups. “I wonder if the tea in China tastes different,” she said, lifting the white porcelain cup to her lips.
I laughed. “Oh, Letty, wouldn’t it be fun if you could pop over to Paris when I’m there. It’s not that difficult now, you know. And you could stay with me.”
“Yes, being with you would be grand,” she said, leaving it at that.
Later, when Letty and I walked down the High Street, our arms linked, to purchase the almost-forgotten lemon curd, we stopped again at the pristine rows of lavender outside the Church of St. John the Baptist. It was almost time for me to board the bus back to Oxford.
I began saying good-bye to Letty when suddenly she bent over and broke off a stalk of the purple flowers. “There’s lavender,” she said, handing me the blooms. “That’s for remembrance.”
Impulsively, I kissed Letty on the cheek. “I could never forget you,” I said. Then to lighten up the moment, I added, “We may not have Paris, but we’ll always have Mousehole,” and we both laughed.
Later that night as I sat in my rooms writing in my journal and spooning lemon curd onto a biscuit, I read the white paper wrapped round the lid of the jar: “Specially prepared for Aubrey Newman at Christmas Court. 94, High Street, Burford, Oxfordshire.” Carefully, I flattened the paper and pressed it, like a flower, between the pages of my notebook.
I thought of Letty, of her remark about how she loved living in a town where you could walk about and “always meet someone you know.” In some ways, it was the opposite of what lay behind this trip—my wish to break away from being a known entity. And yet in London, from time to time, I’d felt the tug of familiarity and the wish to belong somewhere.
It was a cold night and I sat wrapped in a quilt listening to the wind outside. Distracted,