Liberty in London

Chapter One

“For how long?” Jonas asked.

“A couple weeks. A month tops,” I replied. I was trying to talk my brother into staying put in Chicago so I could fly to London.

“I don’t know, Miranda. Simon probably just got cold feet. I’ve got an assignment to shoot sea turtles in the Galapagos. It’s just the right time of year. If I wait too long…” he said, trailing off and leaving room for me to make a concession. This time, he was out of luck.

“He didn’t get cold feet, he disappeared,” I insisted. “Daphne is terrified that something bad has happened. She needs me, Jonas, and I’m going. Which means you’re staying. Work it out. Please.”

After my speech, I immediately fled the room. The longer I let the discussion drag on, the greater chance that I would give in. Jonas was twenty-five years old, and in the outside world he was making quite a career for himself as a freelance photographer. He mostly shot for travel magazines and had journeyed to over fifty countries. His pictures were three deep under vegetable magnets on the refrigerator. Dad and I would take them down every Sunday night and re-examine them over a dinner of popcorn and ice cream, our one unhealthy meal of the week.
Occasionally, when Jonas was in town, he would do a friend a favor by shooting a wedding or a family reunion. I liked to play his assistant on these volunteer jobs because it gave me a chance to observe Jonas the adult. In addition to being able to capture beautiful pictures, he was able to slide in and out of his photographer roles effortlessly. One moment he was friendly and disarming, coaxing people to relax and smile without their realizing it. The next, he was all but invisible as he weaved his way through a crowd, the click-click of the camera obscured by waves of conversation.

When he was around the house it was a completely different story. We both still lived at home, me because I took care of my dad and Jonas because he was only in Chicago for a few weeks a year and it was pointless to get an apartment. My brother left his socks on the living room floor next to empty beer bottles and crumpled up bags of Fritos. He slept past noon and when he finally dragged himself out of bed, he ignored my presence and monopolized the television with his Nintendo.

The Jonas I was most familiar with still acted like the seventeen-year old boy he had been when our mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Back then, I had been a twenty-two college senior planning, majoring in international journalism and planning for a grand career. Now, I was thirty and had only recently obtained my first passport. In the beginning, I’d stayed home to care for mom. After she died, my job became helping dad manage our family-run organic market. Jonas was the one who got to chase his dream.

I’d accepted my role as family caretaker and joining the family business wasn’t so bad. Sometimes when I read the paper or listened to the news on the radio, I secretly thought I would have been a great journalist. But I truly enjoyed working with dad at the store. My favorite part of the day was tending to the produce section. In the spring and summer, we got delivery three times a week from a farm collective near Kenosha, Wisconsin. Once the exhaust fumes from their rickety old pickup had dissipated, I breathed deep to take in the fragrant aroma of fresh food pulled right out of the musty earth.

Instead of placing the produce by category, I always positioned the food to best show off the colors. I situated bright orange carrots next to light brown mushrooms darkly spotted with dirt still attached, and made neighbors of crisp green celery and luscious red strawberries. I spent summer days rearranging the section to achieve the perfect rainbow balance. Dad would walk by and shake his head, but he never said anything because he knew it made me happy. Also, the customers liked it.
In Rogers Park, the northernmost neighborhood in Chicago, both parents worked, kids played, dogs barked, cars rolled by. There wasn’t much not normal in Rogers Park. But at Carl Liberty’s Organic Fresh Foods, the produce stand was arranged by color. It made our decidedly un-quirky customers feel original.

Last fall, my brother had been in the store one morning after I had achieved a particularly first-rate display, with purple turnips next to shimmering red Jonathan apples and potatoes and yellow bell peppers on either side of dark green bunches of romaine. Never without his camera, Jonas snapped a few frames without telling me. For Christmas, he’d presented me with the colorful blend, blown up to poster size and framed. I hung it behind the cash register so I could comfort myself during the long, blustery winter months. It was a wonderful gift. Jonas had his moments. But then he could turn around and be a selfish ass.

“I don’t know anything about running the market,” he said, walking into my bedroom and picking up the conversation where I had left it a half-hour before.

I was in the midst of making traumatic packing decisions. If April in London was anything like April in Chicago, the temperature could range from mid-thirties to mid-seventies. I had no idea what to take.

“Dad will tell you what to do. It’s not that complicated,” I told him.

“Come on, Miranda,” he whined.

I so did not have time for this.

“I already booked my flight, Jonas. So, suck it up. I’m leaving in four hours and I need a ride to the airport.”

For a long moment Jonas stared at me, eyes wide and mouth open. Then, he turned and sulked out of the room. In that moment, I realized that maybe it had been a mistake to always give in to his way. I told myself I was doing him a favor by leaving. What he needed was some character-building stress.

I quickly decided on a travel wardrobe of a couple pairs of jeans, red turtleneck, white turtleneck, black cardigan, burgundy sweat suit, two t-shirts, and assorted undergarments. There was still room in the backpack, but I was packing light. If I stayed longer than a week, I would start wearing Daphne’s clothes. At 5’11”, she was four inches taller than I was. But we weighed about the same. I looked dumpy in her clothes, but they would fit in a pinch.

I threw on my hooded Northwestern sweatshirt with the jeans and t-shirt I was already wearing. All that was left was to locate my sneakers and I would be ready to go. But first, I needed to make a call. Before I could pick up the phone, there was a knock on the front door. I opened it without looking through the peep hole. Chicago was a big city, but it wasn’t unusual for neighbors to stop by. It was Mrs. Lambert, a widow who lived three houses down. In her oven-mitted hands, she was holding a foil-covered baking pan.

“Oh, Miranda dear. I thought you’d already gone. I baked the boys a tuna casserole for supper.”

Daphne had called at seven in the morning and it was now four in the afternoon. Mrs. Lambert was slipping. I would have expected the news to reach her before lunch time. She was our street’s very own town crier.

“I would have stopped by sooner, dear. But I had my bridge club.”

Ah. Of course. I gratefully accepted the pan. At least they wouldn’t go hungry while I was gone. They might not even want me back. Mrs. Lambert was a much better cook. With the casserole safely stowed in the fridge, I finally picked up the phone and made my three-way call to Allegra and Kelly, my two other close friends from college. I needed to fill them in.

Allegra was born and raised in Santa Fe. In college, she had traded her childhood curiosity of Native American culture for a full-scale obsession with Cleopatra and the pyramids. She was now lecturing to budding Egyptologists in the NYU archeology program. Kelly was a southern belle through and through. Excepting four years at Northwestern and a yearly family vacation to Virginia Beach, she’d spent the whole of her life in Savannah with only one ambition: to marry her high school sweetheart and make lots of babies. So far, she had five kids. Not bad for eight years.

I related what I knew of the situation which was only that Daphne’s fiancé, Simon, hadn’t come home in three days.

“That’s terrible,” Kelly drawled. “What does she think happened to him?”

“I’m not sure. We weren’t on the phone very long. She basically just begged me to come.” 

“Daphne doesn’t beg,” Allegra pointed out. She was right. Our friend was pathologically self-sufficient. She had been born into an ultra-wealthy Boston family. When her mother wasn’t jetting to Bali or Monaco, she was spearheading local Junior League events with little time left on her calendar for parenting. Her father was always at the office. Daphne was taking care of herself by the age of five and she rarely relied on anyone for help.

“Too bad he didn’t go three weeks ago when I was on Spring Break. I could have flown to London with you,” Allegra said. “How are you even going? I thought you didn’t have a passport.”

“I got one a couple months ago. For Daph’s wedding.”

“Then you think he chose to leave?” Kelly asked. She always spoke slowly and with candy cane sweetness but nothing got by her, including Allegra’s insinuation. Despite what I had told Jonas, I silently wondered whether Allegra was on to something.

The three of us had all met Simon in Boston over Valentine’s Day. Daphne’s mother had insisted on throwing the engagement party of the season and as bridesmaids our presence was not voluntary. I hadn’t disliked Simon, but I hadn’t exactly liked him either. During the party, the three of us snuck outside so Allegra could smoke a cigarette and she’d put words to my odd feeling.

“I hope he’s not a goldigger,” she sighed. “He’s too smooth. Almost smarmy. He gives me the creeps.”

“Maybe he only shows his good side to Daphne,” Kelly remarked thoughtfully. It was the meanest thing I’d ever heard her say.

“Miranda, are you still there?” Kelly asked.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said, tuning back in to our present discussion.

“I was saying I’d like to go along with you. But Gaylen and Graylen are just babies. I just can’t leave them, honey.” Kelly’s youngest children were two-year old twin boys. I could never remember their names, and always had the urge to call them Goofus and Gallant, after that old Highlights cartoon. Her other children were Treadway, an eight-year old girl; Marlson, a six-year old boy; and, somewhat inexplicably, Nancy, her four-year old.

“It’s fine. I don’t mind going alone.” It was true. Daphne had stayed at my side throughout my mom’s illness. I owed her.

I talked to Kelly and Allegra for over an hour, trying to settle on the most plausible reason for the missing fiancé. Allegra told me to check Daphne’s financial statements, certain that Simon had emptied one or two accounts and was on a continental spending spree. I speculated that Daphne might receive a ransom note. Kelly’s hypothesis was that Simon lie trapped at the bottom of a ravine. I wasn’t sure ravines were common in the English countryside but to Kelly’s mind blaming nature was preferable to blaming people.

When we finally hung up, I glanced at the clock. It was after five-thirty and I had less than a half-hour to get to the airport. If it hadn’t been rush hour, we might have had a chance to make it in time. I pulled on my shoes and tied back my hair. I was ready.

Dad was standing by the couch, holding his keys and looking at his watch nervously.

“We’d better get going,” he said when he saw me.

If it were me driving him to the airport, I would have forcibly ended the phone call a half hour ago, but my dad was too polite for that. Instead, he fretted quietly. And too patiently. I grabbed the keys out of his hand and kicked Jonas in the shin.

“Ouch. Crap. Look what you made me do,” he said as Mario was eaten by a mutant  caterpillar. Jonas made a move to restart the game and I grabbed the controller out of his hand.

“You’re driving,” I said, tossing him the keys.

My father pushed out a little cough, but that was his only comment. Jonas raised his eyebrows and gave me a wry smile, understanding perfectly what was required of him.

Dad would spend the trip pushing down on an imaginary brake and clutching the dashboard. I would sit in the back seat, alternating between deep breathing and swearing under my breath. But we would make it to the airport by ten after six. It was a little later than recommended, but they would still let me on the flight.
Jonas brought the car to a stop in front of the international terminal. He dropped the keys into dad’s waiting hand, content to be the passenger on the return trip. I didn’t have time to waste, so I gave them both quick hugs and turned toward the door.

“Wait, Miranda. Take this,” dad said, pressing a vaguely egg-shaped plastic thingee into my palm.

I looked down and tried really hard not to roll my eyes. Dad was always buying useless gadgets. As technology progressed, he was getting more sophisticated. First, he’d ordered from late night TV advertisements. There was an entire kitchen drawer dedicated to As Seen On TV items that never worked, among them a battery powered mini-juicer, a hard-boiled egg slicer, and even a long plastic fork in the shape of a hand. I wasn’t certain what its function was, but it looked suspiciously like a back scratcher I’d once bought for ten cents at a school carnival.

When we finally got cable, all of his presents to us were purchased from QVC or the Home Shopping Network. Lately, he’d graduated to E-Bay. A new package arrived every week or two and I’d long since lost any curiosity about the contents.

“What is it?” I sighed.

“It’s a Memor-Speak.”

I silently waited for the explanation, certain that dad had the product description committed to memory.

“Push this button here, and you get up to three minutes of recording time. Where you parked, your shopping list, whatever. And, look here,” he said, motioning for me to push a black button on the side. “It’s even got a flashlight.”

I didn’t have time to hurt my dad’s feelings, so I thanked him and threw it in my bag. I gave him another quick hug and headed for London.

###

The flight touched down at Heathrow the following morning at just after ten local time. After collecting my suitcase and clearing customs, I went looking for my ride. When Daphne had told me she would send her driver to meet me it shocked me. Money wasn’t the issue. Daphne could have employed the entire Chicago Bears football team as butlers. But every decision that she made was calculated. She thought, what would mother do? Then, she did exactly the opposite. She had grown up being shuttled to school by her mother’s driver. I would have expected her to get around on London’s Underground.

Daphne did have employees, sort of. Their jobs were to be creative. She owned a big flat with four apartments and a studio where artists lived for free and received a monthly food allowance. Her mother might have even been proud of her career as patron to the arts had she stayed in Boston and supported more established artists. Instead, Daphne had set up camp in London, choosing to assist cutting edge youth. She’d been at it for five years and had bet on some real talent. Three of her protégés had begun selling work, profiting enough to move out of the flat and give new kids a chance.

Outside of customs, I quickly spotted my name on a piece of cardboard that was being waived wildly about by a tiny little bald man wearing a dingy white tank top and bright orange parachute pants. At least Daphne didn’t make him wear a uniform, I thought as I approached.

“Hiya,” he said, grabbing my hand and pumping it up and down vigorously. “I’m Driver.”

“I’m Miranda,” I said, smiling at his enthusiasm. The baldness should have given the impression of an adult male, but his size and squeaky little voice made him seem more childlike. I decided he was probably in his early twenties.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Driver,” he said again, enunciating very clearly through his singsong Irish brogue.
I laughed inwardly at my mistake. Daphne hadn’t said she was sending the driver. This little guy was her friend.

“Well, let’s go then,” he said, grabbing my backpack from me and taking off for the exit. I was at least three inches taller than little Driver, but I had to trot to keep up with his pace. He came to a stop next to a taxi parked at the curb and gave the man leaning against the vehicle a couple of colored bills. Then, he motioned for me to get into the taxi as he walked around to the driver’s seat.

“This is your cab?” I asked him.

“That’s right,” he said, shutting the door and settling behind the wheel.  “Daphne let’s me live at her flat so I can paint. But just in case I never sell anything, I hold down a real job.”

“So, Driver’s a nickname?” I asked.

“More of a calling, I’d say,” he snorted, informing me that his father was a cab driver in Dublin and his mother had chosen the name in honor of the breadwinner’s career.

“If it was good enough for him, I figured it was good enough for me.”
Driver pulled the cab away from the curb and kept right on talking. During the forty minute drive from Heathrow to Hampstead, the neighborhood in north London where Daphne’s flat was located, I learned he had six older brothers, all married and living in Dublin. None of them had any interest in art and couldn’t understand why Driver didn’t find a woman and settle down. His mother felt pretty much the same way. His dad had been the one to encourage him to paint. When he’d talked about himself all he cared to, Driver started acquainting me with London’s history, turning frequently to look at me when I wished he would look at the road. I gripped the seat as he swerved from lane to lane, negotiating daytime traffic throughout the streets of London. It was the kind of ride Jonas would have loved.

Finally, the cab pulled up in front of a narrow, white, three-story row house with an empty flower box in each of the two front windows. There was no front yard. The front door was flush with the sidewalk. I could clearly hear Depeche Mode blaring from a window above the first floor. Driver grabbed my suitcase and bounded toward the door while I took a moment to look up and wonder what I was getting into. I took a deep breath and followed him inside.

“There’s my room,” he said, swinging his head toward an open door on the right. I peeked in as we walked by. There was a lumpy looking mattress on the floor surrounded by stacks of books and piles of clothes. A few paintings were leaning up against the wall.

“I’m not very tidy,” he said, reading my mind. “A girl called Kalliope lives across the hall from me. She paints a little, but she mostly does performance art. And here’s the kitchen,” he said, reaching the stairs at the back of the hall. He was waiving his arms around, pointing out the features of the flat like a good little tour guide.

“The toilet’s just down there,” he said, motioning down the hall at the back of the flat running parallel to the street. “But Daphne has her own kitchen and bathroom upstairs, so we probably won’t run into each other much down here.”
That was a relief. I didn’t relish the idea of sharing a kitchen and bathroom with a slob. I got enough of that at home when Jonas was around. Driver had already reached the second floor landing, so I took the stairs two at a time to catch up.

“A bloke called Jeremy lives here. He’s fairly new. Still a lot to learn, but he’s got a good eye for color,” Driver said, nodding at the door at the top of the stairs. The laundry room, he pointed out, was just on the other side of the stairway. As I rounded the corner, I saw another door.

“That’s the studio,” Driver said, continuing down the hall to the final flight of stairs.
I was silent as I struggled to keep up with him. He could move pretty fast on his short little legs.

“We all spend most of our time in the studio. Tortured artists are we,” he said, letting out a loud snort that I thought might knock him backward down the stairs.

“Right, here we are,” he said, arriving finally on the top floor. There was a very small landing, and only one door. The depressing music was pounding inside. I tried the handle. It was locked, so I knocked. After a few moments, I knocked again, a little harder. Daphne did not come to the door, so I let loose and really pounded on the sucker.

“I’ve got a spare key downstairs. Back in a flash,” Driver said, throwing a concerned look over his shoulder as he bounded down the stairs. He sure was a perky little guy.

“Here we are. Good luck,” he said, backing away down the stairs.

“Wait, where are you going?” I asked.

“Got to run, love. Laters,” he said.

On my own, I turned the key in the lock opened the door into Daphne’s flat.