noxious pollution of high-decibel clashing and blue fumes; the signs in shop windows screamed in fluorescent letters Sale! and Ultra Discount! Everything Must Go!
Yet… and yet-these streets heaving with traffic, bristling with advertising, and thronged with oblivious pedestrians bowling along in pursuit of their own private agendas were exactly the same as she remembered. The bleak skyline of grey apartment blocks, the dreary sky crisscrossed with vapour trails of roaring jetliners, the litter and garbage discarded in the gutter, the thrum and thrust of a busy metropolitan street-all of it was precisely the same as it had always been. Funny, she had never noticed the casual brutality of it before. Well, she noticed now, and she did not like it.
The assault on her senses staggered her; she felt the city closing in on her, and her stomach grew queasy. At the first opportunity she ducked into a side street and slumped onto the bottom step of a townhouse to gather her wits and regroup. You don’t live here anymore, Mina, she told herself. Just let it wash over you. After a few minutes she was able to regain her composure enough to continue on to her old neighbourhood.
Since leaving, Wilhelmina had had plenty of time to consider what she would do if she managed to return to London again. Her first inclination was to avoid Giovanni’s Bakery-too many memories, too much explaining to do- but now, as she entered more familiar streets, she changed her mind. Part of settling her affairs involved making a clean break with her old life so that there would be fewer questions left unanswered, fewer loose ends left dangling. If nothing else, she reckoned she had back pay coming, and she could use some ready cash for getting around the city.
First, however, she had to find out the present day, month, and year so she would know how much time had elapsed since that first fateful journey. She passed a W. H. Smiths and stepped inside, moving directly to the wall of magazines and newspapers. A quick examination of The Times caused her to do a double take; a glance at the dateline on the nearby Guardian confirmed it. The newspapers were dated the month and year she had left, and the day… what day had she departed? A Sunday-yes, Sunday-she and Kit had planned to go shopping on her day off. It was Monday’s edition of The Times that she held in her hands.
Flabbergasted, she stumbled back onto the street, her mind spinning with the implications. By the time she reached her old workplace, Wilhelmina was slightly dazed and not at all certain what her reception would be. She paused across the street from the little shop and watched for a moment. Nothing seemed to have changed: the green-and-white striped awning was the same, the sign on the window proclaiming Artisan Breads Our Specialty was exactly as she had last seen it. Fixing a smile to her face, she crossed the street and pushed through the door. The bell over the door tinkled, announcing her arrival, and the girl behind the counter looked up.
“Mina!” screeched Tatyana, the cashier. “You’re here!”
“I, uh-”
“What are you wearing?”
Wilhelmina glanced down at her travelling attire. “Clothing crisis,” she explained. “Don’t ask.”
“You didn’t come in this morning,” Tatyana pointed out. “What happened?” Before Mina could answer, she continued, “We tried to call you. We were worried. It’s been crazy here all morning.”
“Sorry,” said Wilhelmina.
Just then John, the bakery owner, bustled into view carrying a tray of sticky buns. “Who’s sorry?” he asked, then glanced around. “Mina! What happened? You didn’t open this morning.”
The sight of her employer, the shop, the warm yeasty smell of baked goods in the display cases brought a surge of emotion Mina had not anticipated; she had not spared a single thought for the place in all the time she had been gone. “I think I ate a bad shrimp,” she muttered. “Sorry. I couldn’t get my phone to work.”
“No kiddin’. I tried to call you.” He set down the tray and regarded her closely. “You look different. You okay?”
“Actually, I need a sick day,” she replied gamely. “If that’s okay.”
“Sure,” agreed John. “Take a couple days if you need to. I’ll cover for you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” She hesitated, then said, “I don’t suppose I have any pay coming?”
“Isn’t it direct deposited?”
“Right,” said Mina. “I wasn’t thinking.” Her salary would have been deposited electronically into her account; to get any money would require a visit to the bank and production of her bank card- which she no longer possessed.
“Well, I’d love to chat,” John was saying, “but I’ve got another tray of buns coming out. See ya later.” He turned and retreated to the kitchen. “Go up and see Rachel-maybe she hasn’t done the endof-month stuff yet.”
Wilhelmina called her good-bye as he disappeared around the corner. Two women customers entered the shop, followed by a mum with a pram. The place was suddenly filling up.
“Hope you feel better, Mina,” said Tatyana, turning to serve the newcomers. “Hi, can I help you?”
Wilhelmina backed toward the door. Somehow, now that she had seen them, she could not make herself say good-bye for good. A cheery, “See you later,” was all she could manage.
A quick visit to John’s wife in the office upstairs confirmed that her paycheck had been, as always, deposited directly into her account.
“Is anything wrong, Mina?” asked Rachel.
“Um, no-not really. It just that I seem to have lost my card. It’s a huge bother.” She sighed. “Oh well.”
“I can give you last week’s,” suggested Rachel, “if that’s any use. That hasn’t gone in yet.”
“You can? That would be a big help.” She waited while the middleaged woman took out a key and opened the bottom desk drawer and withdrew a metal cash box.
“I’ll need you to sign for it,” said Rachel. She withdrew a handful of bills and began counting them out onto her blotter. “You sure everything’s okay?”
“Never better,” said Mina. “Why?”
“I don’t know-you look different is all.” She handed a tidy stack of bills to Wilhelmina. “Six hundred. Here you go.”
“Thanks.” She stuffed the money into her pocket and scribbled her signature on the slip Rachel offered. “Thanks a lot. I’ll see ya.”
A minute later she was back on the street. Next stop, Kit’s flat.
The walk to his front door gave her time to think about what she might say to him-how she might explain not being able to see him for a while, if ever. There was no easy way to do that, so she decided a clean break was best. Taking a deep breath, she gave the door a few solid raps and waited, then knocked again. She tried two more times before giving up. Kit was out. Typical, she thought, and considered leaving him a note, but she had nothing to write with or on, so she let it go. She could break up with him some other time.
Back on the street again and buoyed by the thought that it had only been a day since she was last in London, she resumed her walk and her feet directed themselves to her old flat. Why not? she wondered. She could at least check on the place and see if there was anything worth taking away with her; and while she was there, she could let the landlord know she might be gone for a while.
Ten minutes later Mina turned onto the street, and a few minutes after that was bounding up the steps of the building. She paused briefly to collect her spare key from the old lady who lived in the apartment below.
“Did you lock yourself out, dear?” asked Mrs. Parker as she handed over the key.
“Silly me,” replied Wilhelmina. “I’ll put this back through your letter box when I’m finished.”
“You do that.”
“Cheerio, Mrs. Parker.” Mina moved away and climbed the stairs to her flat. She slid the key into the lock and stepped inside. One look at her cosy little nest and she was overcome by a surge of melancholy that weakened her at the knees. There was mail on the doormat, which she collected and tossed on the hall table. She stepped into the lounge and took in the sight of her couch and pillows, and the fleece blanket she used to curl up in, the book she had been reading-it was almost too much to bear. She went into the kitchen, and one glance at the flowers still fresh in the vase on the windowsill and she lost it. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she stood in the centre of the room and bawled.
If anyone had asked her why she was crying, she would not have been able to provide a reasonable answer. In fact, even as the tears flowed she told herself she was being a big baby and that she was far happier with her life now than she had ever been and that she would not trade her new life for anything. Still, the tears flowed.
When she was finally able to drag her ragged emotions together, she went into her bedroom, emptied the stale water from the glass beside her bed, and straightened the duvet, then proceeded to look around for anything
