Page 19 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Twelve
ANNABELLE
She streaked through the crowds of the wide, bustling street, denial coursing her veins as fast as the sea of people invading her space. This was still the grand finale of the swinging sixties, she told herself. This was just London, a place she’d never been before; a place where people evidently dressed decades ahead of themselves to dazzle and confuse. None of which helped a country girl who’d somehow gotten herself entwined in this most ridiculous mess. Still, on and on she sped, laden down with an invisible cloak of guilt: first she’d cajoled her cousin into a fortune teller’s lair, got them randomly transported to the heart of the capital, and now she was leaving her there to fend for herself, amidst a scene of foodie carnage.
She had no idea which way to turn, but her decision to flee had been compounded by the force of that crash with the waiter.There was something about him.As their eyes had met, he hadn’t berated her for her clumsiness; for trashing his cakes, tearing across his café, jostling with chair backs, tumbling over a forest of legs and hopping over an ocean of shopping bags. And she knew she already knew him.
But from where, she had no idea.
All she could do was run in a (sort of) straight line, thankful at least that she wasn’t wearing heels the height of her cousin’s. This was self-preservation. She had to get back for her parents. Besides, Polly needed this adventure more than she did; seemed remarkably unfazed by it all despite her earlier reluctance to contemplate any sort of move. So yes, best leave her there to forge ahead with her new life, alone. Oh, she’d make it on her own, no two ways about it. And she’d be a million times better off without the burden of her brothers, and without Annabelle holding her back.
Shop windows passed by in a blur, dummies draped in outlandish clothes staring at her and thoroughly modern cars flashing their eyes and tails. She looked up at the sign on the edge of a crossroads: Oxford Street. Lord, she was out of her depth. But in the recesses of her mind she recalled a piece of trivia that suddenly became of utmost importance: Paddington. Yes. That’s where she needed to be; home of the bear that devoured marmalade sandwiches by the bucket load. Bristol Temple Meads connected with Paddington, didn’t it? So that was her means of getting home.
She hopped down the steps of the nearest Underground station, feeling as vulnerable as a sparrow. The sign, in the colours of the Union Jack, was a petrifying sight in the flesh; a stark contrast to the promise of fun and frolics the iconic image seemed to push. She’d never felt more alone.
She panicked at the top of the colossal escalator, teetering on the edge of that slope of moving silver steps. And then the decision was made for her; a frenzy of suits pushing past her, committing her. She corrected her wobble, amazed at the way nobody else was showing signs of a meltdown.
What the hell lay in the chasm below?
She took a deep breath and tried to focus on the colourful posters next to the safety rail. Would she like whiter teeth? A trip to the theatre to watch lurid green witches soaring through the air inWicked? A luxury holiday to the palm-fringed Maldives withKuoni?
When she finally reached the bottom, a bank of hi-tech steel gates cordoned off a rabbit’s warren of tunnels. It was enough to make her wish she was running back up the mountain she’d just descended, but then she spotted a map – of sorts. Annabelle inhaled sharply and charged across to it with purpose. How difficult could it be? Thousands, no, millions of people buried themselves beneath this great city’s streets every day. She stared at the childlike felt-tip colours of the labyrinth that was the Underground network; tears betraying her again, gathering on her lashes within moments. None of it made any sense. What colour was Paddington’s stop? Which dot-to-dot line connected it with Oxford Circus? Everything merged into one giant primary-coloured mess, against the background thrum that was rush hour. Panic engulfed her.
“Need a hand there, doll?”
A striking, glamorous woman with a distinctly American accent sidled up to her. Annabelle didn’t dare study her features for long, but she couldn’t have looked more like a senior version of Barbra Streisand if she’d tried.
“Here. Take it.” The woman thrust a roll of notes into Annabelle’s hand. “I’ve been in your position before, but everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see.”
Annabelle’s mouth formed the letter O. Fabulous! What vibe of desperation was she giving off?
She made to protest at such a kind offer, but the philanthropic stranger had trotted off and was through the gates already, leaving only a trail of expensive perfume in her wake. Annabelle hardly dared count her pound note blessings in such a public place. The gift sent goosebumps up and down her arms. There’d be no worries now about ticket inspectors as she clattered home along the train tracks. She’d have an actual seat on the train, maybe even a first class one.
She gratefully stashed the bundle into her denim pocket, tying her jumper tighter around her waist, ignoring the whisper that this random turn of events must have been scripted by a certain woman in a striped tent, since Polly had been looking after Annabelle’s purse in her bag –a bag which was still sitting in a patchwork armchair in that very same striped tent in a field in the middle of blimming Somerset. Without this sudden windfall, she’d have been toast. She shook her head, to free it of its wild and galloping theories. Annabelle drew a breath. This sudden financial independence was producing a much-needed surge of energy for the journey that lay ahead.
She could do this.
She looked at the map again, calmer this time. There it was: Paddington. She had only to take the poo-brown Bakerloo line in a north-westerly direction; it was just a few stops.
Fifteen minutes later, ticket purchased, barriers opened and shut, a sweaty shunt (now she understood why they called it the Tube) through a dark subterranean tunnel completed, and she was standing in the behemoth vortex that was London Paddington; awestruck at the endless list of destinations whose letters click-clacked on the big black departures board suspended in mid-air.
If Oxford Street had startled her with its incessant toing and froing, this place was something else; a dizzying assault of confusion. Everybody looked frazzled; stress creased brows so they resembled the zigzag patterns on her parents’ Formica kitchen table. Takeaway coffees were glued to mouths; mobile phones –no, come on… they had to be walkie-talkies; this was the late sixties, remember?– cemented to fingers, faces and ears.
Annabelle pushed away the urge to scream like a Hitchcock heroine. Instead, she immersed herself instead in the nearby Dunkin’ Donuts window. This array of plump iced treats would have had Polly screaming too – but in sheer delight. How her parents would despair at this cake shop’s spelling, though.
What the hell! She’d need some form of nourishment for the trip. A smart blue Sentinel shunter train to Bristol would take at least two hours – at a conservative guess, with stops to let folk on and off. And she’d made a mess, in every sense of the word, of her last attempt to eat.
She followed her nose into the shop, where the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee and sweet sensations was even stronger. It wasn’t so very different to that place where they’d landed on Oxford Street. It stocked myriad caffeine combinations. But that was because they were in the capital of England, and there was more choice here than in a sleepy Somerset village… and categoricallynotbecause they were in a different millennium. And there were more cake creations than your wildest dreams could provide. Annabelle dithered and then pointed at a maple frosted donut, digging her hand deep into her pocket and pulling out a fifty-pound note – for the Tube ticket she’d fished out a ten. She was desperately trying to ignore the fact that her purchase was setting her back a crazy three pounds and something, as opposed to the threepence that an equivalent-sized treat from her bakery would cost.
London prices. That was all. She was not in a parallel universe.
She thrust the roll of notes deeper into her pocket, overcome with dizziness, and headed for the nearest bench. The fifty was probably a one-off, she reasoned, as she tried her best to stash her change away, as though she were wearing a garment straight out of Narnia. She bit into her sticky doughnut and let the sugar hit surge through her veins. These American goodies were far out. She was only feeling half zombie now. Paper bag clutched tightly in her hand, she wandered back to the big blackboard, determined not to reward herself with the rest of her feast until she was safely sitting on the very next train West Country-bound.
Her eyes scanned the list of destinations:
Edinburgh, Newcastle, Norwich, York.
Come on, Bristol! It had to be amidst that jungle of cities.
