A complicated musical composition of accents—from Cockney and melodic Irish to sophisticated Queen’s English—carried me along the sidewalk as if it had been written for my very arrival. I boarded a train and then disembarked in London to hail a cab. The city passed by with beauty: cobbled streets and red double-decker buses, lampposts arching over the sidewalks so majestically they seemed to guard the city. Men in suits riding bicycles, women in smart, waist-cinched dresses tottering on high heels along the sidewalks. Cathedrals with spires reaching toward the sky. Cherry-colored phone booths on the corners, the doors often swung open like a secret invitation. The taxi arrived at Phyl’s flat on 11 Elsworthy Road, a road lined with silver birch and sycamore trees that beckoned like a secret passageway.
My sea legs swaying beneath me, I stood on the brownstone steps and knocked with the confident hope of a new beginning. Phyl threw open the door, and for a moment I didn’t recognize her. The last I’d seen her had been at my house in Staatsburg, where she’d been suicidal and wan—but there she was, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide, full of vitality with a boisterous greeting and a grand hug. “You’re here!”
Transformation. Yes! That was what I sought. To name something was to make it mine—transformation of my heart and body.
And it would all begin here in London.
Today I will meet Jack.
The thought awoke me with a smile in the guest bedroom at Phyl’s. I’d been in England for a month already—wanting to become strong and ready to meet my pen-friend, as well as enjoy the peace and rest I needed. Today was the day.
I rose slowly to the whistle of a teapot.
In the past days I’d been seduced by England, and time had flown by with proof that it is relevant, that it moves quicker in happiness, fleeing away from me like water from the highest fall. I’d explored London with an awakened desire to learn and see everything I could in the nine-hundred-square-mile regal city. This journey, these days away from my little boys, must be worth the absence, and I set forth to make it so. As Phyl and I ambled through Trafalgar Square, she huffed, out of breath. “You’ve walked all of this city, I’m sure. Aren’t you tired of it?”
“Tired of it?” I spread my arms wide and laughed. “Walking has always allowed me to slough off the darker parts of myself. And I’m stunned by this city’s beauty.” I sat on the edge of the fountain and motioned for her to do the same. “What’s fascinating is the way I see the world now. It’s as if in believing in God I was given new eyes—the world is full of possibility and fascination. It’s no longer just nature, or just beauty—it’s revelation.”
She squinted into the sun and jostled me. “Looks the same to me.”
“Oh, Phyl!” I held my hands to the sky. “Can’t you see now that anything is possible? Anything. The world changes when you understand the Love behind it, over it, and under it.”
“You love life by the fistfuls, my dear.” She patted my knee.
We made our way home, and for the remaining weeks I was poked and prodded by the dentists and doctors I visited—healing was paramount in this journey. I also filled my days with reading and research, writing and traveling, meeting new friends and finding a writing group.
Loads of letters flew back and forth between Bill, the kids, Renee, and me. I wanted to tell them every detail of my journey.
Joy:
Oh Renee, how I wish you’d been with me at Trafalgar Square where I found a Spanish restaurant you would have adored. But I’ve realized this: Londoners must be half duck. If not for the crepe-soled shoes I’d have swum through the streets.
Bill:
I’m very glad to hear that all is “beer and skittles” for you, and that you are marvelously happy, but we are having a hard time here. Money is tight. Forgive me for not sending more this time.
Joy:
Dearest Poogle,
I am sorry money is tight. I will do what I can here to write and sell, to pinch the shillings. I think of you often—I wish you could have been with me when I went to an open-air theater where a huge thunderstorm shook the tent as if we were still in Vermont! I also took a trip to Hampstead Heath, where I bought three pieces of art for cheap-cheap, a watercolor for only thirty-five shillings. It’s a wonderful place and full of all sorts of artists and writers. Maybe we should sell the house and move here. Love all around, Joy.
P.S. to Davy: The aquarium here has a five-foot grand salamander from Japan!!
Davy had written to me of the snake Bill had finally let him get—Mr. Nichols, he named him. I thought of my boys continuously, and when I went to the London Zoo I missed them fiercely and bought souvenirs to send.