Seasons in the Mist

by Deborah Kinnard

Jessica tightened her seatbelt one more millimeter, though it already threatened to hit her spinal cord. She could barely keep her hands still. In a moment, in only a moment, the 747 would break through cloud cover for her first glimpse of England. [I’d stick with “In only a moment” instead of repeating it. I understand the emphasis and characterization in repetition, but it’s too early. The reader hasn’t settled in yet.]

She did an imperceptible [seems like something someone else should determine] bounce in her seat and felt herself flush in embarrassment. Casting a covert glance around, she figured nobody had seen. Good thing, too. Twenty-six year old PhD candidates should not bounce. [paragraph needs tightening. Try: She bounced in her seat, then flushed and cast a covert glance around. She hoped no one had seen her. Twenty-six-year-old PhD candidates should not bounce.]

She’d planned, dreamed, speculated, and schemed this trip all her life. As a child she’d read every middle grade book in the school library that dealt with medieval British history. She’d studied ‘til [till is proper—it’s even in the dictionary with a meaning of until] eyedrops no longer helped the strain. She’d outlined studies, written theses, defended her dissertation, labored over ecclesiastical Latin and legal French, learned Anglo-Saxon and vernacular Middle English ‘til she could converse with a contemporary, should one materialize. In short, she’d won the brass ring. [I think I’d skip that sentence in favor of “As a result, she’d been granted…”] She’d been granted a summer semester at Oxford and finally—finally—enough grant money to make the flight and to support herself during three fantastic months in England.

England. The very name beckoned like a siren song. Jess leaned to see past the lady in seventeen-A [What to do with numbers is debatable, but I think 17-A would be proper here.] as clouds scudded past the tiny window, obstinately refusing to clear on final approach to Heathrow.

“It’s your first visit to the U.K., isn’t it?” asked her seatmate with a smile.

“Yes,” Jessica answered. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“Oh, you’ll see plenty in a moment, luv.”

Since boarding, she and her seatmate had chatted off and on. Jessica had learned that Sheila Tyrrell lived in Cornwall. Violating every stereotype about the taciturn English, Sheila had talked volubly of her family, her small town on the coast and the local amenities. “You really must find time to visit,” she’d urged. “No holiday is complete unless you see Cornwall.”

“Is it far from Oxford?” Jess [Choose one instead of going back and forth between Jessica and Jess.] wondered how she’d afford bus fare, so tightly had she budgeted every last pound-sterling.

“Oh, not so far. You can take the Inter-City to Exeter, and from there you’re just a short hop to Truro…”

Jess had listened, fascinated. Learning she was a historian, Sheila mentioned many ancient sites in her native county. “Of course, most folks want to see the places associated with King Arthur.” She’d snorted delicately.

“Not an Arthurian fan?”

“Well, he belongs to the English, luv, doesn’t he? Not the Cornish.”

“There’s a difference?”

That gaffe had gained Jess a ten minute discourse on differentiating the present-day English and the Cornish—a Celtic race, and therefore far superior. Sheila’s lecture fell apart in quiet laughter. “My, I guess I do get rather passionate about not being called English. We’re British, and visitors don’t know it matters.” Sheila had dabbed her eyes with an airline napkin and given Jess a helpless grin.

Then she said something that Jessica wondered about, even now while watching the clouds part for her long-awaited first glimpse. “Passion isn’t always easy, though, is it? You’ll need all of yours, and more of strength, to finish your journey well.”

“Journey?”

Sheila had waved her hand. “Never mind. My husband always jeers at my ‘seeings’, as he calls them. Just middle-aged rubbish.”

Seeings. Jess believed in facts, dates, translations, authorities, source documents. And the Word of God above and before all. Not arcane glimpses into the future, or for that matter, into the past. So why, as the tidy neighborhoods of London suburbs came into view, did Sheila’s statement ring in her mind like the tolling of Big Ben?

She put it down to excitement, nerves, and jet lag. Not that she felt tired. Quite the opposite. She had arranged to be met at the airport by a transportation service, so she’d see Oxford within a few hours. She would ignore fatigue if it hit later, for the day was still fresh, and an entire “scepter’d isle” waited for her eager inspection.

Thank You, Lord. This is England. I’d pinch myself, but I’m awake, and here at last.

At the Customs queue they parted with a civilized handshake. Sheila pressed a business card into Jess’s hand. “Do ring,” she said. “Whether you’re able to squeeze in a Cornish holiday or not. I’ll be that glad to hear how you’re doing.” Jess put Sheila’s card in her blazer pocket and shoved her carryon an inch further toward clearing Customs. [Okay, I’m being picky here, but shoved and is a more drastic movement than an inch. I’d say nudged.]

An hour elapsed. Jess claimed her baggage, a single duffle. Her one good outfit sagged travel-wrinkled. She’d always traveled light, and for this trip she’d pruned her packing ruthlessly, unwilling to be overburdened. Her accommodations would be collegiate-small, and Spartan, like her tiny place in grad school. She didn’t mind living minimalist, and she was ready. Now if only she could spot the driver from the transportation service. They said he’d be holding a placard bearing her name.

She wove in and out of bustling travelers until the offload from the 747 thinned out. No driver. Plenty of signs searching for other people, even entire tour groups. She hunted for Jessica Lindstrom, Jessica, Ms. Lindstrom, even Jessie. No sign. No driver.

The last uniformed chauffeur gathered his group around him like a hen with a brood of jet-lagged chicks. She dug the transportation firm’s business card out of her passport case and dialed. The cell phone seemed reluctant, but finally put the call through.

“That number,” intoned a British-accented voice, “is not in service.”

She figured she’d misdialed, so she tried again. Same result. Her heart sank, speeding up with a healthy additive of fear. How was she supposed to get to Oxford? Should she seek out an airline representative? Was there a booth for stressed-out, abandoned international travelers?

“My ivers! You’re still here?”

Jessica whirled around to see Sheila Tyrrell bustling toward her, tugging a rolling suitcase and wearing a concerned expression. “Someone was supposed to come for me, but I think the plans got fouled up.”

Sheila clucked. “Do you have a phone number? I have my mobile.” She pulled the phone out of her jacket pocket.

Jessica’s heart warmed just to see someone slightly familiar. She’d been feeling six, not twenty-six, lost in a strange land with nobody to help her—or care. “I tried to call. More than once. They’re not answering.” She gnawed on her lower lip, a habit Mom hated. “For that matter, why are you still here?”

“Graeme was to pick me up. He’s late, as always.” Sheila gave a shrug. “Sons don’t always listen carefully enough, do they?” Her expression lightened. “But I gave him a ring—he said the traffic on the M-4 is horribly snarled. I said, what do you expect, on a weekday noontime?” She chuckled, then raised her brows, apparently on a new thought. “Say—must you get to Oxford today, particularly?”

“No, but I should find another way to get there. My schedule’s open enough, but I only have three months and I don’t want to waste any of it.”

“If you’ve nothing pressing today, then, why not come to Cornwall? We’ve plenty of room, and we’ll get you to Oxford on the morning train from Truro.” She held up a hand. “Truly, Jessica, this will be no inconvenience. Blame it on my foolish ‘seeings,’ and I never accost strangers. You mustn’t think me forward or brash—”

Touched, Jess chuckled. “Like Americans can sometimes be?”

Sheila smiled. “Do come to Mossock. Graeme won’t be much longer, and we can chat more on the way.”

“Mossock! You live at Mossock House? In Cornwall?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Of course.” Jessica mulled her options for a quick moment. Her alternatives all looked bleak: stay tonight at an airport hotel, wasting money she’d rather hoard for Oxford. Seek help from the airport, which might have the best intentions but couldn’t offer temptation to equal a twelfth century manor house. Brave the bus to central London and figure out which train might get her to Oxford, then from the train station to the college. Keep trying to get hold of the transportation company.

Or spend a wonderful day or so rubbernecking and making notes in one of the premier ancient homes of England. She spent no more time deciding. “You’re very kind. And I’d love to see your house. Thanks—I think I will.” [By the time she says this, I already knew she was going, so it doesn’t seem necessary.]

***

It’s a promising beginning to a story. Jessica’s excitement immediately drew me in. I want to know why the number to the transportation company is dead.

Two things seem to be at odds in this piece. Starting at the right point (Jessica’s excitement at flying over England) and a need to introduce Sheila. As excited as Jessica is to be finally catching a glimpse of England, it isn’t quite logical that she’s remembering a conversation which took place just a short time before. It also creates the problem of inserting all the “hads” so we know this isn’t happening at the moment. And that can get a little awkward.

I initially thought of doing a rewrite for that section. But it’s really not necessary. My advice to Deborah is to simply make the conversation happen while Jessica is looking out the window at the landscape. That will avoid any confusion and awkwardness.

Deborah Kinnard has had two books published by Treble Heart Books, Powerline and Oakwood. Her story, Something Borrowed appears in Brides and Boquets, an Anthology 2007, and her latest book is Angel With a Ray Gun (gotta love the title) both from By Grace Publications.

To read more about her books, visit her site.