It took a while to sort the letters my mother sent me. I arranged them by date, the oldest on the top. I picked up the topmost letter handwritten on fading blue stationary.

    My brows knit together as I repeated the date in my mind, August 27, 1968. According to my calculations, I must have written it a mere four days into my journey. Looking back with prejudice, I cringed when I read the scribbled lines. 

    One line popped out a glaring red flag. “Don’t worry about me; I’m staying with a family in Weston.“ I snickered at that cause I knew it was a lie.

    The letter continued; “I met a guy on the boat crossing the English Channel, he helped me and Bonnie to carry our bags and without his kind, thoughtful help…”   I double-cringed at the overkill. The stupid bags, I thought, but the next paragraph began with the words, “he invited me to stay with his folks.” Now, that was an out-and-out lie. Perhaps I should explain….  

    In my defense, it was a long, long day. And when David offered me a port in the storm, I took it. But there was a problem. I boarded another train in London with him without asking where he lived. And then fell asleep on the journey.  

    A man’s voice jolted me awake with the words “It’s okay.”

    “Um”, I stammered when I noticed his chest was my pillow. I pushed myself upright, feeling eyes on me. My cheeks burned. I wiggled on the seat, scooting over, cleared my throat, trying to think of something to say, and then peered around at the empty train compartment. 

    “What time is it,” I asked mid-yawn.  

    “About two am,” the man next to me said as he slouched back, draping his arms along the top of the bench seat. I swung my head around, peering out the dark window where lights from the train flickered on fence posts and empty fields. Bewildered, I willed myself to wake up faster. 

    As I blinked awake, my mind spun with disturbing thoughts. “You boarded this train three hours ago with a man you met yesterday. You should have asked more questions before agreeing to this. Three hours is a long way from London, and you should have stayed there… But when my mental assessment reached the responsible parental lecture part, my youthful logic stepped in, and I figured, well, Can’t change that now. Right? 

    “We’ll be in Weymouth soon.” David’s voice interrupted my interior mom’s reprimand. 

    “Where is…”

    “Weymouth?” David finished my question. He pushed himself upright and turned to face me. “Weymouth sits on the southernmost tip. Use’ta be a fishing village in the day. Now we cater to the grockle crowd.

    “The what?”

    An easy grin lit up his face. “Grockles, you know, tourists with buckets and spades to dig into the sand on the beaches. Right? Wait till you see the seashore you’ll love it.” He continued telling me where we could go, his eyes alight with anticipation. I heard little to nothing of what he said because my eyes were glued to his lips and thick lashes; I tilted my head, soaking up his accent. 

    We should be there any minute. I have a car at the station." I threw my head back, fully awake then. 

    Chill bumps spread into my legs and arms when we pulled the compartment door open. I pulled my poncho closer, fighting icy gusts for control. The two of us hurried as we loaded a luggage cart.  

    “It’s not far.” David said, walking away. I glanced at the train, my stomach getting jittery. 

    We stuffed and pushed my luggage into his box shaped midget car then I hopped into the left side and at once felt disoriented. Gripping the dashboard, my knuckles grew pale as David expertly drove down the narrow roads, and with every passing moment, I braced myself for what could be my last.   

    At last, the little car sped along a lane of two-story modest duplex homes, each with a fenced front yard. I steadied myself as we approached the intersection, ready for the turn, but David pulled over by the curb; the vehicle shuttered, then stopped.

    As if an invisible conductor were guiding us, we both nodded, opening our doors in unison. David rounded the car in two strides, coaxing the trunk open, and began piling luggage on the sidewalk. I picked up what I could carry. 

    “Its on the left,” he told me. 

    “Look out”! I paused abruptly, practically tripping. A yellow tabby sprang out of the boxwood hedge, cast a furtive glance in our direction, and scooted on twitchy feet, disappearing around the side of the house. 

    “That’s Mr. Tibbs; he belongs to Mrs. Beckett next door.” David said.

    In hindsight, my decision to go with a man I just met came to immaturity and racing hormones. You could say I was “ripe for the picking.” True, the previous day went differently than planned. The agency’s inefficiency had thrown me into a day of dramatic and unexpected events. Events I had little control over. But meeting David became not only a godsend but a titillating adventure. 

    We fell in lust at first glance. My cloistered and inexperienced life left me unprepared. Not naïve or unprepared in the physical sense. But experimenting with my boyfriend in the back seat of his 57 Chevy could not compare to entering a man’s home. To prepare for this trip, I avoided romance novels and the Haley Mills movies. I felt them unrealistic and cheesy. Now, I was the star, and this relationship became my cheese. And by saving me in London, David became my salvation, my protector, my hero, and my excuse not to be responsible.  

    But fate had a different plan. I stood in the small bathroom in shock. 

    “Of course,” I thought. It felt surreal, this nature’s call. And the timing. Was it fate? Or did the trauma at customs cause the surprise visit of what Mother called “the curse?” Curse indeed. The idea of intimate relations during this time of the month was repugnant to me. I related my views to David, but his response shocked me. 

    “You are different, aren’t you? Most girls would just pull it out.” His jovial demeanor changed, his face flushed, and the words sputtered as the muscles in his jaw stretched taunt. I watched in stunned silence as he marched out of the room and returned, his arms full of blankets and sheets. He dropped them in a heap, suggesting that his couch was safer for me. Then disappeared into his upstairs bedroom without saying goodnight. 

    Exhausted, deflated, and alone, I sat on my makeshift bed, in the lamp lit living room, staring through tears at the dim stairwell until the light went out. My only company is a ticking clock on the mantel.

 

    Savory scents of fried potatoes wafted into my nose making my eyes pop open. I pulled on a red sweater and jeans and padded into the kitchen. David smiled as if nothing had happened. I felt so happy and relieved I decided my distress and pain were misguided. A second pot filled with pork and beans bubbled away on the white ceramic stove. My eyes widened as he scooped a pile onto a waiting plate and added the potatoes.

    Mrs. Beckett stood watering her foxgloves as David and I emerged from his duplex. Mr. Tibbs lounged on the stoop, supervising.

    The woman’s eyes fixed on me. I lowered my head and hurried up the walk. David waved hello to her without speaking, looked at me, and said, “Ignore her.”

I spent a total of five days in the tourist mecca of Weymouth. I remember only snippets, like snapshots.

    The two of us became inseparable. I remember strolling along the seaside boardwalk with him, eating fish and chips. He purchased a newspaper-wrapped connection from a local vendor and presented it to me with an impish grin. I wore more grease than I ate and spent the majority of the day smelling like a French fry, or as the British called them, ‘chips’

    Weymouth had shops of every kind, but one in particular captured my attention. The Butcher Shop.

    “Ewe, Why do they have heads?.” I asked. I stood appalled, staring at six plucked chickens displayed in the window. They hung by their still connected feet, dangling their still attached dead-eye heads.

    “It’s so people know how fresh they are,” David explained.

    On my third day in Weymouth, David proposed. I try to remember the details, but I cannot. We decided on a December wedding, and I spent the rest of my week staring into his eyes.

    Near the end of the week, I built up the courage to call the other number on my info sheet. I intended to stay in Weymouth with my new fiancé, but the woman I spoke with instructed me to travel to Manchester. She insisted the only way to get my passport extended was to come to Manchester, then told me they had a job saying I should come ‘straight away.’ So I choked down my objections and never mentioned my upcoming marriage.

    David and I agreed to meet in London on weekends, and he offered to keep most of my luggage until I got settled. I followed my ‘just in case’ method when I repacked. This resulted in two heavy, unmanageable satchels. But I concluded there was no need to worry because carts were everywhere, just as my Mother told me. I mean, in what scenario would I need to lug them further than a block?

    My second letter home is dated September 8. It began with, “I hope you haven’t been worrying about me too much.” Again, I remembered much had transpired in that short time, and she might have worried if she knew the details. Details I never related to her. My journey continued this way...