Chapter 14: London Calling

Walking the Mall before St James’s Palace was a culture shock for Charity. The crowd’s volume and diversity amazed her. Amidst jostling and grumbles like “Watch it!” “One side!” and “Move it Paki!” She felt exhilarated by the sounds, smells, and sights. Inspired, she took out her camera, capturing the moment. Then she looked around more discerningly, sorting and categorizing the myriad of players in the scene around her. The sun was out for the first time since they arrived, limiting her exposure options.

Celeste stepped beside her friend, trying to protect her from the brunt of some hurried pedestrians. Two security detail members followed in matching black khaki pants, forest green shooting sweaters, and ballcaps. The tall and formidable Patricia Fitzgerald could be mistaken as Terrance Gallagher’s sister with their matching red hair and dark Oakley wraps. She stood a head taller than him while he outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds—all solid muscle that stretched the fabric of his clothes. The crowd seemed less inclined to bump into either of them.

A nearby fountain splashed musically and drew a tighter crowd as people flocked to drizzle the refreshing water over themselves. Charity noticed a woman with thick dark braids standing in the fountain, collecting water in her cupped hands. She raised her camera and zoomed in on the girl as she lifted her hands and let the water trickle onto her upraised face. Her eyes were closed, but Charity felt the same intimate closeness whenever she captured a compelling image.

“Whoa!” Celeste grumbled. “She should tame those pits.”

“I think she’s beautiful,” Charity gushed, squinting through her viewfinder. The woman suddenly opened her eyes and tossed her head, causing her braids to fly up and water to cascade around her like a rainbow-hued halo. Yes! She snapped several more pics and held her pose ... waiting. Now, if you’d just... she gasped when the woman turned and looked directly at her. Her eyes were liquid cobalt and big on her smooth, freckled face. Charity felt a rush and waved. She squealed when the woman’s face lit up with a bright smile, showing rows of gleaming white teeth. “Gotcha!” she declared triumphantly, lowering her camera. She pressed a button to display the image on the screen and sighed happily.

“Wow! That’s lovely!” the blonde girl beside her said. “I take it back.”

“We have to catch her!” she exclaimed suddenly, dashing toward the fountain.

“What? Why?”

“So, I can get her address and send her prints after I get home!”

“Charity! Slow down!”

“Hurry up ... oof!” she gasped as she collided with a heavyset, sour-faced man in a striped sweater and greasy Dudley flat cap. “Excuse me,” she said automatically as she tried to swerve around him. She was shocked when he grabbed her arm in an iron grip.

“Why doncha watch where yer going, ya fecking sand rat?” he snarled, twisting her arm.

“Ow! I said excuse me,” she replied tartly. “Let go, fucker!” She jerked her hand futilely, trying to escape his grip.

He cruelly twisted her arm in response, “What’d you say to me, Paki?” he snarled.

“Let her go, this instant!” Celeste demanded from several feet away.

“Mind yer own...” he never finished his sentence as Terry’s huge hand appeared and clamped tightly around the wrist he used to hold the girl. How the bodyguard closed the distance, passing the blonde while she was rushing forward, was a mystery. The surly Englishman cried out in pain and despair as the bones in his forearm were suddenly crushed.

“Let her go, and you’ll keep your hand,” the angry Irish-American growled.

Charity jerked her hand away and rubbed her wrist as she glowered at her assailant. “Asshole!” she spat.

“Get gone!” Terry ordered and propelled the portly man away. “Are you all right?” he asked casually, knowing his charge was tougher than she looked.

“Yeah,” she grumbled, glancing around for the subject of her pictures. The woman was nowhere to be seen. She slumped her shoulders and replaced her lens cap. “Why does everyone here call me ‘Paki’?”

“Because you have dark skin and black hair,” Pat replied, stepping forward. “So, to some, you are Middle Eastern.”

Celeste snorted with disgust. “Pakistanis are the largest immigrant group in the UK. They are unfairly disparaged and ostracized because they work harder than most British.”

“Racism at its finest,” Terry agreed.

“That is not typical!” the blonde girl insisted defensively. “London is likely the most cosmopolitan city on Earth. That level of boorish intolerance is hardly par for us.”

Later, they were seated outside a busy café enjoying lunch. The two bodyguards shared a nearby table and ate pub-battered fish and chips. Celeste picked at a cucumber sandwich while Charity dug into her plate of sausages, mashed potatoes, and peas.

“Oh my God!” she mumbled with her mouth full. “This is so good!” The two adults grinned at her expression as she savored every morsel. After slurping her iced tea (disappointingly unsweetened, which she discovered before adding a dozen sugar packets), she pointed her knife at the beautiful girl across from her. “Okay, I get the ‘mash’ part; I mean, mashed potatoes, right? But why are they called ‘bangers’?” she stabbed her fork into a thick sausage and waved it at her friend.

“Probably for the same reason you Yanks call eggy bread French toast,” the blonde girl replied as she sipped her straw and stared back.

“Hunh?” Charity twisted her nose, causing Pat and Terry to chuckle. The man tipped his fork at the two. “It’s more an Irish thing, Ms. Charity,” he said. “To answer your question, it concerns the tough casing. When fried in lard, the steam causes them to burst, sometimes with a bang.”

“Hunh,” the Native American girl replied satisfactorily, gazing smugly at her chaperone. “Bet you didn’t know that did ya?” she simpered, taking a hearty bite of her last sausage.

Celeste’s demure eloquence faltered with a derisive snort, “Of course I did!” she muttered.

“Mmhmm,” Charity remarked diffidently as she chewed.

Fifteen minutes later, they sat with full bellies, finishing their drinks.

On a whim, Charity pulled out her camera and snapped a picture of the blonde girl across from her. She toggled the screen and gazed at the image, marveling at her perfect face and crisp blue eyes. She sighed and looked back at the frowning girl.

“What?” Celeste demanded.

“I just can’t believe how damn beautiful you are,” the native girl replied wistfully. “I mean ... you are like a perfect, living Barbie doll!”

“Oh please,” the other girl blushed, “I’m a right mess!” She was precisely the opposite. She wore a medium-length plaid, pleated skirt with knee-high stockings and green suede flats on her tiny feet. A short, checkered green cardigan covered a cream-colored blouse, and her radiant golden hair fell to her shoulders in thick, wavy curls. Besides Chapstick, she wore no makeup. Before leaving their shared room at the posh Berkeley on Knightsbridge hotel, she spritzed herself with a thin mist of perfume that reminded Charity of the crisp, clear Fall nights on the high plateaus.

“What’s a hija baba?” she asked abruptly, changing the subject.

“A hijab?”

“Yeah, that too,” she finished her tea and rose from the table.

Celeste paused after leaving the outdoor café and looked around. She pointed toward a pair of Middle Eastern women window shopping nearby. They wore thin, dark, flowing gowns to their feet. Their heads were covered by tightly wrapped scarves that concealed their necks and hair. “There. See the hood-like covering those two ladies have on their heads? And the long robes? Those are hijabs.”

“Oh, cool,” Charity replied, snapping a quick picture.

“Why do you ask?” she inquired. “You should get permission before taking their pictures. Some Muslims might take offense.”

“Is that why they wear hijabs? Because of their religion?”

Celeste nodded. “It relates to modesty in Islam. In public, they must conceal their bodies except their hands and face.” She gasped when Charity boldly approached the two women.

“Excuse me,” the brown girl said confidently, holding her camera. “May I take your picture?”

They smiled warmly, “Yes, of course,” one replied with a slight accent. “Thank you for asking.” They posed for the girl, and she took several pictures from different positions.

“Thank you,” Charity replied. “You’re very beautiful. I’ve never seen or heard of a hijab before today when some weirdo told me to put one on.”

“You’re American?” the second woman asked with a thick British accent.

“Native American,” she corrected with a nod and a shrug.

They held hands to their faces as they giggled. “American Indian then?”

“Yep,” the girl replied proudly. “I’m Apache.”

The first woman to speak gasped incredulously. “Ah,” she stated. “Like Geronimo!”

Charity’s face lit up. “Yes! Exactly! I’m distantly related to one of his trusted allies,” she blurted excitedly. “My Nana Shima is my great-grandmother, and she is the great-granddaughter of Lozen, a brave warrior with magical powers. Of course, it’s also said that she never married or had children, so that could be bullshit. But my Nana Shima is a powerful Sàman.” She paused to catch her breath.

Both Muslim women laughed delightedly and clapped their hands. “You are so precious!” the older one said. “I’m so glad we met you!”

“Oh, me too,” Charity replied eagerly. She shuffled in her bag. “Can I get your address? We could be pen pals, and I can send you the prints after I get back home. I’ll even make a sketch for you.”