“It was nothing,” he says. “As you say, a token of gratitude. A mere shilling.”
He takes a handful of coins from his pocket, and I have to laugh. They are indeed shillings, which are no longer in use, in a world where even a pence is all but worthless. Yet these are mint-condition shillings from the eighteenth century, and while I doubt they are worth a fortune, they are certainly worth far more than their face value.
“I left one on our table after tea,” he says, “and I slipped one into our concierge’s pocket when she handed me the packages. I have also deposited several on our walk, dropped into the snow. I do not know what they are worth, but at the very least, they will be an interesting find for those who spot them.”
I squeeze his arm. “Have I mentioned how much I adore you?”
“Not in the past hour or so. I was feeling quite bereft. But now that you have...” He holds out a few of the shillings. “You may enjoy the fun yourself.”
“I will indeed,” I say.
“Now, what does that tiny box of wonder tell us about Mr. Turpin? I am guessing by the headline that he is not quite the heroic figure of legend he seemed.”
“Apparently not. Shall we read the article in a cab? We ought to reach our next destination before it grows too late.”
“An excellent plan. Now, having thoroughly impressed you with my shilling trick, I shall redouble my achievements by completing the Herculean task of calling for a cab.”
7
Nicolas was joking about the Herculean task of calling for a cab. How much different can it be in this world? We have seen the motorized hansom cabs, and we simply need to wave one down. We spend ten minutes doing that before a kind passerby informs us that we need to look for a black cab with a yellow light on. If the light is off, it is occupied—even if there appear to be no passengers, the driver has been summoned to collect one.
Finding a cab with its light on takes another ten minutes, but by then, Nicolas is determined enough that he all but steps in front of it to get its attention. Once we are inside, we are presented with our next obstacle: convincing the poor fellow to follow our list of directions. Again, Nicolas plays the hapless French tourist, while being very apologetic and contrite.Our friends sent us on this hunt, but it’s getting late, and we went the wrong way.
I expect the driver to grumble, but he seems quite amused, and once he sees the list of directions, he says, “Oh, they’re sending you to Hyde Park.”
When I express surprise, he laughs. “I’m a London cab driver, miss. I’ve taken the Knowledge.”
“The...knowledge?” I say.
He pulls into traffic. “It’s the test for becoming a cab driver in London. You must be able to give the shortest route to any place within six miles of Charing Cross. That’s twenty-five thousand streets.”
“That is incredible,” Nicolas says.
“Takes years of study to pass it,” the driver says, with understandable pride. “They’d revoke my license if I didn’t know this”—he shakes the list—“took you from your hotel to Hyde Park. You were right to hail a cab. It’s quite a walk from the library.”
I had intended to peruse the Dick Turpin article as we drove, but Nicolas and our driver engage in a conversation about which is more difficult—the test to become a doctor or a cab driver, and it is entertaining enough that I forget all about Dick Turpin. Then we arrive at our destination, and I am all but crawling over Nicolas to see out the window, my nose touching the cold glass.
The driver gives a soft laugh. “Never seen the Wonderland, miss?”
“No, but they have certainly chosen the right name for it.”
Lights. That is all I see. Illumination in such abundance and color that I cannot quite believe my eyes haven’t failed simply from overstimulation. Lights on trees, on light poles, on circus tents, on a giant wheel that soars into the night sky. And the people! They are everywhere, bundled up against the cold, happily braving it to enjoy the delights of a winter’s fair that stretches as far as the eye can see.
“Best have your wallet full,” the driver jokes as Nicolas pays him. “This will set you back a bit.”
“I believe our friends have taken care of that.”
The driver wishes us a heartfelt good night, and we are off, with me nearly stumbling along in my excitement, my boots slipping on the new snow. Nicolas catches my hand, and we follow the instructions to a spot where we give our names and receive tickets to, well, everything.
We are assured that every show and every “ride experience” is included, and our “hosts” have also left an envelope, which we open to find a hundred pounds and August’s script saying simply, “Enjoy!”
The next few hours are magical. It is a wonderland beyond imagining to anyone from our world. There are exhibits we understand. Skating! A circus! Ice sculptures! Then there are the “rides.” Some are wondrous but sedate, such as that giant wheel I saw. It whisks us up over the park, where we can see the entire city. It is glorious and romantic, as we snuggle in our cart, entranced by the lights of the city.
Then there are the other rides. Oh, those other rides.
On the drive to York, when the winter sun had been beating down, Bronwyn had briefly lowered the top on her motor vehicle, as I most eagerly wanted to experience such a thing. It had taken my breath away, quite literally, and after those first moments of primal terror, I’d loved it, my hair whipping behind me, heart beating ever faster with sheer exhilaration.
The world that created those motor vehicles took the same mechanics and applied them to these carnival rides. How can we go faster? What if we go faster in circles? What if we whiz in a tiny cart down steep hills and around tight corners? What if we whirl up into the air and then swing down again? Oh, these are magical things. Ride experiences indeed. I insist on taking the “roller coaster” three times, although I will admit I regret the third, as we had just visited a Viking-inspired tent to warm ourselves with a fire and hot cocoa laced with alcohol.