Chapter 4
Lesson 4: You cannot judge a book by its cover, but you can still hate the book nonetheless.
Reading List: The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown (read)
Bridget Jones Tally:
deeply mysterious corn cobs—dozens
thoughts of homicide—16
Stepping on to the bus came as quite a surprise. It wasn’t at all the run-down pile of scrap metal I had imagined it to be.
The small, retro school bus had been renovated inside and looked more like a ladies’ tearoom than a tour bus. The walls and
ceiling had been painted a softer version of the minty green outside, with white trim. The floors were gray, glossy, and immaculate.
The original wooden bus benches had been spread out to offer more room, and each bench had cushioned backs and seats upholstered
in a tartan of lavenders and grays with a light thread of green that complemented the paint. There were extra cushions on
each bench, as well as folded blankets to cover one’s lap should one catch a chill.
In front of each seat was a little padded foot rest that could be pulled down to support dangly legs, and a variety of pockets and hooks to store your things. In the spaces between windows were brass sconces with tiny white lampshades glowing away pleasantly. It was really quite cute. Perhaps I had judged too hastily.
As luck would have it, the only seat available where I would not have to share a bench with one of the other women, who would
no doubt talk my ear off about her latest mole removal, was the one directly behind the driver’s seat. He watched me settle
my smaller bags on the overhead rack and then sit down behind him, flashing me a self-satisfied grin.
“You see? You’re warming to me already.”
“The only way I’d warm up to you is if I set you on fire first,” I mumbled, too quietly for the others to hear.
His smile stretched in gratification.
Moving to stand between the rows at the front of the bus, he placed a hand on the benches at either side and leaned forward
to address us all in the relaxed and confident manner that smacked of arrogance.
“Good morning, ladies. Welcome to Boadicea Adventures. I’m so happy that you’re all here.”
Armed with the rolled R s and soft vowels of his Scottish accent and a warm smile that made his blue eyes crinkle at the edges, he tried to trick
a bus full of women into finding him charming. It might have worked, had I not already known him to have all the charm of
a wool thong.
The ladies were taken in, however, and began to applaud while whispering to one another in sotto voce about his dazzling good
looks and which granddaughter or grandson they were going to set him up with. I heard the phrase bobby dazzler , and even though I didn’t know exactly what it meant, I was disgusted all the same. I rolled my eyes so hard that I burst
a blood vessel.
“Now, I apologize that we’re setting out a bit late, but I’ve a fantastic day planned for you, and I’m eager to get started. I’m called Robbie, and this lovely lady”—he patted the bus bench—“who will be whisking us away to some of the most beautiful sites in the British Isles is affectionately called Rosie. Why don’t we have a quick round of introductions so we can start being friendly right away?”
Ugh. What is this? Summer camp?
“Where should we begin?” He pretended to look around the bus as if he hadn’t already marked me for sacrifice. “Let’s see...
why not right here in the front with Alice Cooper? Can you stand up for us, please, so that everyone can see you?”
I waited a beat or two and stared at him in defiance, just to make him sweat it before I gave in.
“Hello. I’m Alice. I’ve just arrived this morning from Washington, DC. This is my first time in the UK, and I’m very excited
to be here.” I sat immediately back down to discourage any questions or comments.
“Could we have that again a wee bit louder please, Alice Cooper? So that they can hear you right the way at the back.”
I narrowed my eyes menacingly to leave no question that he would pay for this, and then took my time over it, enunciating
the words slowly and loudly. The smile on his face showed far too much pleasure than was decent.
“Very nicely done, Alice Cooper.” He got my last name in there. Of course he did. “Who’s next? How about you, Helena, and then we’ll work our way back from there?”
An elegant woman, whose silky platinum hair fell in fashionably messy waves just past her shoulders, sat behind me and smiled.
She was tall, even in her seat, though I noticed she made no effort to stand. She must have been in her late sixties or early
seventies, but the years had done nothing to diminish her statuesque looks. She was dressed casually yet very expensively,
as only the truly rich can manage.
“Hello, everyone.” Her English voice was low and smooth. “I’m Helena. I live in Bourton-on-the-Water in the Cotswolds with my husband and our two lurchers. We have five children and nine grandchildren, some of whom are now starting to have children of their own. I’m here for a bit of ‘me time,’ as they say.”
“Thank you, Helena.” Our gargoyle guide gestured behind her to a sturdy-looking woman, probably in her midsixties, with an
Angela Merkel haircut.
“I am Berrta” came a sharp, loud voice. “I am from Heidelberg, Germany. This is my third time to visit to the UK. I am here
to learn, and to bird-watch.” She held up the binoculars that hung around her neck for illustration but did not bother with
a smile.
Next were two ladies who looked to be in their midseventies and who sat side by side on the bench: one wiry and angular, the
other plump and soft with a pleasant and amiable look about her. It was the wiry one who spoke up first. “I am Agatha. This
is my sister Flossie. She never was a genius, but in her old age she’s grown as batty as a march hare. She’s perfectly harmless,
provided you tune out her nonsense.”
The pleasant one batted her round blue eyes and smiled sweetly. Then she raised her hand and confidently ordered the trout.
Next was another pair of women sitting together. They were both in their late sixties, I suspected, but the two couldn’t have
looked more different. One had a massive rope of silvery hair piled artfully in a messy Gibson girl bun and was wearing a
colorful, flowy dress and eccentric jewelry, while the other one, a Black lady, had very neatly cropped short hair and wore
a simple black top and jeans.
The tidy lady spoke first. “Hi, I’m called Madge, and this is Lorna. We’re originally from Edinburgh, and—”
“Well, actually, I’m from Lanark, and Madge is from Glasgow, but we did meet in Edinburgh,” interjected the eccentric one.
“That’s right. We lived around Canonmills for twenty-some-odd years before we bought a little place in North Berwick and moved over.”
“Now that Madge is retired, we have a lot more time to travel.”
“I was a social worker for thirty-five years, and Lorna is an artist—a sculptor and painter.”
“Yes, we’re hoping to see a bit more of the world now that we have the time to do so.”
“But we haven’t really so much time as all that. We’re starting an art therapy center for at-risk youth.”
“No, we haven’t much time, but we should still take a holiday every once in a while,” said the artist. This last bit was more
to her partner than to the rest of us, airing some ghost of a former argument, it seemed.
“Anyway, we’re happy to meet you all.”
“Yes, we are.”
They smiled at the crowd and then at each other, and seemed to decide that that was enough for now.
Finally, last in line was the tiny lady whom I could not possibly have forgotten from the airport that morning. Was airport pickup an option? Well, that could have saved me a triple heart attack. On the bench next to her, the little vested dog sat atop a cushion and scratched at his ear. She spoke energetically with
a broad Welsh accent that singsonged its way over to us.
“Hello, everyone! My name is Doris. I split my time between Betws-y-Coed and London, where my great-grandchildren run me ragged.
I’m ninety-eight, but I’ve never let that stop me! My friend Beatrice ran a marathon at a hundred and one. Although that sounds
bloody boring, if you ask me. Instead I take senior’s aerobics, and I started a book club for steamy romance novels. This
handsome devil is my Percy. He’s a service dog and goes with me everywhere. Very helpful. He’s a very good boy, aren’t you,
Percy?” She patted Percy’s head and he dangled his tongue out contentedly.
“Probably has fleas,” the wiry sister said in a displeased whisper loud enough for everyone to hear.
Undeterred, or hard of hearing, Doris went on. “I never got to travel much when I was younger, so I’m doing my best to make
up for it now. I have been on every tour that Robbie has operated since this company opened three years ago. And I can personally
guarantee that we have the cleverest, sweetest tour guide in all of Britain. Plus, he’s awfully easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”
Good God. What is he paying this woman? Oops. He caught me rolling my eyes again.
“Aww, thanks, Doris!” He laughed. “Great! So let me see if I have this all straight.” Our despicable driver clapped his hands
together and pointed at the women one by one. “My buddy Doris, of course, and the dapper Percy. Lorna, Madge, Flossie, and
Agatha. Then Berrta. Then Helena. And finally, Alice Cooper.” He said my name quickly, as if it was one word.
I loathe him with the burning fire of a thousand UTIs.
“Please just call me Alice, actually.” I half stood to address the bus. “Cooper is my last name. It’s not a double-barreled
first name or anything like that.” I slumped back in my seat and refused to acknowledge his smile.
“Ah, but it sounds so well together,” he said. “It suits you better that way.”
I was back in middle school.
Old Ladies:
Helena—quintessential English rose
Berrta—perfunctory Prussian bird-watcher
Agatha—the type of old lady that would pop your ball if it landed in her yard
Flossie—likes trout and has already improved the trip immensely
Madge—bickering social worker
Lorna—bickering artist
Doris—little Welsh lady who likes saucy bodice rippers
Percy—best-dressed male on the bus
I thought it would be a good idea to sleep a bit, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Edinburgh was far too beautiful
to close my eyes on. Even when we left the city, the surrounding area, with its little stone towns and villages, was so picturesque
that my heart swelled with the roll of each hill.
We were at our first destination within half an hour: the enigmatic, fifteenth-century Rosslyn Chapel, with its ties to the
Knights Templar and the supposed resting place of the Holy Grail. Like the rest of the world, I had read about Rosslyn Chapel
in the early 2000s in Dan Brown’s novel The Da Vinci Code , and it had piqued my interest.
We all toddled off the bus, with some ladies stopping to stretch as if they’d been traveling for days, and then ducked in
under a low doorway. To my surprise, Percy relieved himself on the chapel wall and then trotted right in alongside us in his
little vest, nails tapping along the hallowed flagstones.
The chapel was much smaller than I had expected. The vaulted ceilings were relatively low, but every spare inch of the stonework
was carved and adorned. Smelling of dust, cold stone, and incense, it had an ineffable air of ancient secrets that grabbed
hold of me as soon as I walked into the chilly shade of the space.
A clever-looking bespectacled woman approached and offered us a guided tour.
Our torturous tour guide declined with a polite smile. “That’s kind, but no, thank you. I generally like to do the honors myself.”
I was disappointed yet again. The website had promised expert historians guiding us through the wonders of British history,
not some driver whom they had clearly scraped off the streets selling plasma for booze.
He saw my face. “Something the matter?”
“I thought we were supposed to be getting an expert historical tour at each site?”
“And you will be.”
“By you, do you mean?” I scoffed and rolled my eyes. I couldn’t stop myself. “Great. This should have about as much historical
substance as a Happy Meal.”
He turned his body then and looked pensively up at the stone carvings not far from where I was standing—quite close, but seemingly
separate to any onlookers.
His voice was quiet, nearly a whisper. “Oh, come on, Alice Cooper. I don’t come to Washington, DC, and heckle you while you’re
turning puppies into fur coats, now, do I?”
I narrowed my eyes to blade-thin slits. He was such a child. Well, I was too mature to play that game. No, I wasn’t.
“Actually, I am great at my job. The question is, can you do yours? Because it looks to me like you’re far more of an expert
at flouting traffic laws, ignoring your personal hygiene, and seducing the old and infirm than an expert of fifteenth-century
architecture.” We moved around slowly, knitted together in battle while keeping up the facade of appreciating the incredible
stonework.
“Ah well, did no one ever tell you that you can’t judge a book by its cover? After all, if I did that, I would have pegged
you as an uptight control freak who doesn’t own a hairbrush and likes to kick up a fuss when she doesn’t get her own way.”
“A fuss is not the only thing I’d like to kick right now,” I said quietly. I turned to him, locking eyes, and added sweetly with a saccharine smile, “Preferably right off a cliff after choking you with my hairbrush.”
He took his time looking down at my thin frame. I squirmed internally. “Don’t be silly. We both know that you haven’t the
bodily strength to be much of a threat to anything.” He tilted his head to the side. “Except for eardrums, of course. Mine
have been bleeding since the moment I met you.”
Then he turned swiftly away and denied me the retort already on my lips. “Alright, ladies, if you can please make your way
back to me, we’ll start the tour here, thank you.”
A smug little grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. He was pleased with himself. What an idiot! I would have to make more
of an effort to eviscerate him next time.
Well, I had to admit (to myself, at least) that I was shocked and impressed by how engaging and professional his tour was.
His smooth, accented voice echoed off the stones with clarity and authority as he described in detail the complicated history
of the chapel and made its stories come to life. His cadence sounded natural and unrehearsed, and he threw in some well-timed
jokes that delighted the ladies.
The stonework boggled the mind. There were Masonic symbols, saints, pagan green men, and Lucifer himself scowling down at
us. Some mysterious symbols were believed to be in code, and anachronistic anomalies—like depictions of corn, a New World
food—had been carved some fifty years before Columbus’s crew even set sail. The whole building was a mystery. I loved every
minute of it.
Our own personal Lucifer was careful to point out the more curious and significant carvings and urged the group to search and find them amid the overwrought abundance at our every side. The German woman, Berrta, decided it was a competition and shouted with enthusiasm whenever she located a carving before the others. The sweet trout lady pointed out what she said was “a great big fanny” and later, Michael Jackson. Her sister swatted her, but I had to agree.
Afterward, we all filed into the little chapel café for a quick spot of tea to fortify us before moving on to the next location.
My antagonist walked by to take a phone call outside, and I was careful to take great interest in the postcards and avoid
his eyes, lest he have the opportunity to give me a look of triumph. A better woman might have complimented him on an excellent
tour, but I was not a better woman, and had no plans to become one for the rest of the day, at very least.
Next we stopped by Rosslyn Castle, which was built by the Masonic Sinclair family. It was half in ruins and bewitching, the
crumbling “lamp tower” still managing to stand these past seven hundred years. Unfortunately, it wasn’t open to visitors,
but we strolled over the high-arched stone bridge to get a closer look as we learned about the castle’s history and the enthralling
exploits of Henry Sinclair.
“For those of you who feel up to having a bit of a scamper around the grounds, I’m going to take a little side tour through
the meadow and under the bridge to get a different vantage point. Otherwise, you’re welcome to stay here and enjoy the view
in the sunshine before we head out to lunch.” Lunch! Thank God.
We were down the road and onto the path when he looked back to address the group but stopped short. A wry smirk curled his
lip. I had been snapping photos in my own little world as we walked, so I looked behind me to see why. No one else was there.
We’d both unwittingly set out alone together. Like two fucking idiots.