“On the internet,” the young man says.
“We would prefer a book,” Nicolas says.
“To be certain the information is correct,” I add.
“Just check the source,” the young man says. “Don’t rely on Wikipedia.”
When we hesitate, he takes out his mobile phone, and I think he must be receiving a call. Instead, his fingers tap over the screen.
“Who are you looking for?” he says.
“Dick Turpin.” I spell it.
More tapping. Then he smiles. “A highwayman? Cool. Let’s see. Okay, here’s what you want.”
He turns the tiny screen around. On it is words. Many words. It takes a moment for me to adjust to that—I can certainly read them, but the format is so small. Then I spot a headline, as if in a newspaper: “The Myth of Highwayman Dick Turpin Outlives the Facts.”
“Oh!” I say. “That is precisely what we need.”
I’m about to ask how he stored such information on his phone when I recall Bronwyn talking about the internet. I admit I did not pay much attention—while I was certainly interested, I found the concept quite overwhelming. Exciting, to be sure, but with a vastness that my brain rejected. Information—endless information—floating through the air, able to be seized by devices called computers. Yet this is not a computer. It is a phone.
I carefully take out our mobile phone. “Could you show me...?”
I trail off, realizing how strange it will sound for me to ask him how to use such a thing. That might work if I were significantly older. Rather like needing to show an elderly relative how to operate gas lights. But we are of an age where we would have grown up with devices like this.
“Could you show us where you have found that?” Nicolas says. “On the internet.”
Again, he exaggerates his accent so that if he uses incorrect words, it will seem the mistake of a non-native English speaker.
“It’s a site called The History Press,” the young man says. “Seems legit.”
He shows us his screen again.
I lift my phone and try to figure out how to get the screen to look like his.
“Forgive us,” Nicolas says. “Our mobile phone is new. A friend lent it to us for our travels.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a different carrier and SIM card here in the UK. Saves a lot of money. I’m guessing you’re used to an android.”
“Yes,” I say, as if I understood any of that.
“May I?” He gestures at our phone. When I nod, he leans over and hits buttons. “First, you need the Wi-Fi on. There. Hooked up. Now the browser. Okay, type in...”
He tells me what to type. I have seen typewriters in the future—they do not exist in my time—and so I understand the concept of pressing tiny letters to form words. It seems much slower than writing them out, but Bronwyn insists it will revolutionize my occupation. I will take her word for it.
I find all the right buttons, and the article appears on my phone, just as it did on his.
“Oh!” I say and then cover my surprise with a heartfelt “Thank you.”
Nicolas nods. “Merci beaucoup.” He pats the young man on the back. “We will let you return to your studies, but we very much appreciate the time you have taken for us.”
“No problem. I know what it’s like to be in a strange country. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”
As we walk away, I whisper, “What did you put into his pocket?”
Nicolas’s brows rise.
“You patted his back,” I say. “That is not a gesture you typically make, and so you were using the opportunity to slip a token of gratitude into his pocket, not wishing to risk offense by offering it outright.”