After we boarded, I asked him what his plans were, hoping to turn the conversation away from Rob and me. “Are you going to The Tech in January?”
“No. I’ve completely changed my plans. I’m going into medicine.”
“Are you talking about the whole nine yards? Are you going to become a doctor?”
“Not sure yet. I’ve been interested in medicine since I was a boy in India, but I don’t just want to practice Western medicine. When I was in hospital in India, Indian troops were segregated from the British troops, mostly because of the diet restrictions of the Moslems and Hindis. I noticed the Indians, who were receiving a combination of Western and Eastern medicine, healed quicker than those who were receiving just Western treatments. Pain management is critical to healing, and Eastern medicine is much better in that area.”
Looking at him in a totally different light, I said, “I know you’ll be very good at whatever you decide.” Michael took my hand and squeezed it and asked what I would be doing that weekend.
“I’m supposed to divert your attention, so that you won’t know we’re giving you a surprise party.
Laughing, Michael said, “I’m looking forward to being diverted.”
I was told to keep Michael busy for at least two hours, so we decided to go to the British Museum while Beth got everything ready for the party. Of all the museums and historical points of interest in London, the British Museum was my favorite, mostly because of the Elgin Marbles.
There had been an ongoing debate since the marbles had been removed from Greece in 1806 as to who owned the friezes taken from the Parthenon atop the acropolis in Athens. Britain’s position was that they had “rescued” the marbles from centuries of neglect and mutilation by a series of invaders. Greece’s position was much more emotional. Britain had looted its artistic patrimony, and they wanted the marbles back.
I was surprised to find Michael firmly on the side of the British and not the Greek underdog, saying that, if the British had not removed the friezes, people hoping to see them in situ in Athens would have found little more than fragments lying on the ground. Although I loved being able to view the friezes, the marbles were remnants of Greece’s glorious classical past. Surely, something so emblematic of their country should be returned to the Greeks. We decided to enjoy the marbles and let the Greek and British governments fight it out.
The two hours passed quickly, and I told Michael it was time to go home to meet his adoring fans. The double doors to the dining room were closed, waiting for the honored guest to arrive. When they were opened, everyone broke into applause, and Michael gave a bravura performance of acting surprised. I was looking around the room at all the people who had come to welcome Michael home when I saw Leo and my boss.
“I don’t want to seem rude, but what are you doing here?” I asked Don.
“Beth contacted me, figuring that I could come up with a good-sized turkey for the party. She felt it was only fair that if I supplied the bird, I should be invited.”
Don was going to say more, when Patricia rang the dinner bell and asked all of her guests to be seated. At a signal from Patricia, Andrews and Jim Budd, who had been waiting behind a screen, began to serve fruit cocktail and tomato juice, which was just what I would have had if I had been at home. After the servants cleared the fruit cups, they entered the room carrying dishes of roast turkey, mashed potatoes, dressing, green beans, biscuits, and something I never expected to see in England — cranberry sauce. It was when the cranberry sauce was placed in front of me that I realized what was happening. Everyone shouted, “Happy Thanksgiving.” The party hadn’t been for Michael but for me, and I started to cry.
Because it had to have been Geoff who told Beth how much I missed the Thanksgiving holiday, I gave him a big kiss. Michael said from across the table, “Hey, wait a minute. I did more than he did. I kept you busy all morning.”
I went around to Michael and kissed him, and he said quietly, “May I have more of that later?”
Chapter 40
When I first moved in with the Alcotts, Patricia had said I should feel free to have my friends visit, and my most frequent visitor was Pamela. When we had worked in the same office building, Pamela and I had lunch together almost every day. Since Jack had gotten her husband a job on a construction crew resurfacing roads, Troy was frequently away from their home in Stepton, and she didn’t like to be alone. With her son cradled in a carrier, she often came to London, and on one of those visits, she came up with a real nugget.
“After the ball, my mum and I were talking, and that’s when she told me my granny had been a scullery maid at Montclair, but only for a short time. Her dad had died, but once her mum remarried, she was able to bring her back home. Anyway, you should come up to Stepton and meet Granny. She could tell you what it was like to work at Montclair around 1900.”
As it turned out, I didn’t have to go to Stepton because Granny had given Pamela the name of a woman who had also been in service at Montclair and who lived in London. I told Michael about Dottie, and he asked if he could tag along. Dottie was living with her daughter in a small flat in a South London neighborhood that had miraculously survived the bombings. She was probably in her midsixties, and like many of her generation, was missing most of her teeth. She was very pleased to meet Michael, the grandson of her former mistress, and throughout the afternoon, kept telling him that he should go to Hollywood because he was “better looking than Cary Grant and Clark Gable put together.” And to me she said, “And you are quite a looker yourself, with your dark hair and blue eyes and nice figger. You two look just like Tyrone Power and Gene Tierney in The Razor’s Edge. Did you see that one, Luv? It were the first movie I seen after the war.”
I asked her if she minded talking about her time in service. She said her memories from Montclair were good ones, and she had no problem sharing them with us.
“I didn’t start out at Montclair but at Turner Hall as a scullery maid when I was thirteen,” Dottie began. “My dad was killed in a mine explosion, and my mum couldn’t feed all of us — six children — that’s how many we were. Two years later, she was gone, too, so there were no going back home for me. Mr. Turner was one of Sir Andrew’s right-hand men. He bought some property from the Laceys that were north of Stepton, and the Turners went and built this monster of a house on it. Taking a deep breath, she said, “It were a horrible, horrible job if ever there were one — sixteen hours a day, scrubbing pots and pans, mopping the kitchen floor over and over, plucking chickens, hauling coal. By the time I was fifteen, I had the hands of an old woman. Your whole life were working and sleeping, working and sleeping. The only time I didn’t work was on Sunday mornings, when we all had to go to church with the Turners, and the time my throat swolled up so bad I had to go to hospital, which meant three days of lost pay.
“Mr. Cutter, the butler, who always acted as if he had a broom up his arse, would tell us that servants were supposed to be invisible. Say, I was sweeping the stairs, and by sweeping I mean using a hand brush and going stair by stair on my knees, and Mrs. Turner come by. I was to stay perfectly still and make myself as small as possible until she passed. We were never ever to talk to the family. Not that I would have wanted to. That house wouldn’t have lasted one day without the servants, but God forbid the master or mistress should know we were in the house. When I started out at Turner Hall, I cried every night. Poor Ellie, she’d be the scullery maid I shared a bed with, would listen to me cry ’til I fell off to sleep, but she said she done the same thing for the longest time until she seen there weren’t nothing she could do about it, so why lose sleep.