Category: A Couple in England

Finally, and all at once, taxi’s drew up at the Station and I left Hubby to choose one and get our luggage into the boot while I climbed into the back seat. Okay, I fell into the back seat.  And I have to tell you that I have no memory of the drive to the hotel. It’s all a feverish blur. But before long, we pulled up in front of Duke’s Hotel – the place I had been longing to be for months.

I peered out the back passenger window at the building and could have cried. Literally. It was perfect; just as I’d imagined it would be. And here I was, arriving as a hot, feverish mess. Sigh. Hubby climbed out of the cab and went around to the boot in order to wrestle our bags to the sidewalk, while the taxi driver came around to open my door. I was still cognizant enough to know that this was my signal to exit the taxi and I tried my best to comply, rocking myself back and forth in an effort to propel myself from the rear seat. At least I think I rocked, but in any case I made no headway at all. The driver stooped to peer into the cab at me.

“Look,” I told him, “If you want me out of this cab, you’re going to have to pull me out. I haven’t got  the strength to do it myself.”

 

Somehow, Hubby and the cabby together got me out of the taxi and into the hotel, where we were greeted by a lovely young woman named Eliza. Duke’s Hotel is nestled within the confines of a Georgian townhouse, with a lovely staircase in the entry and a reception room to the left. It is furnished like a gentleman’s townhouse and filled with comfortable furniture, period fittings and artwork. What I recall most is that Duke’s was filled with warmth and a feeling of home.

 

“Are you not feeling well?” Eliza asked kindly as I collapsed, all loose limbs, onto a sofa.

 

“I’m not. In fact, I think I may have died on the train somewhere around Didcot. Or it might have been Swindon.”

 

“You came on the train?” Eliza refrained from adding in that condition? “Perhaps some tea would help?”

 

Oh, Eliza, you angel. I nodded.

 

“What kind of tea would you like?”

 

“Hot.” I still felt as though my bone marrow had been removed and replaced with ice. I could not get warm.

 

Eliza bustled efficiently out of the sitting room in order to fetch the tea and I gazed around as Hubby put a hand to my forehead.

 

“You don’t look so good, Hon. And you have a fever.”

 

I nodded, expressionless.

 

“This is a nice place, huh?”

 

I nodded again.

 

Hubby went to peer out of a window. “Looks like there’s a nice garden back here.”

 

I continued to nod. A wooden Indian had nothing on me.

 

Eliza came back with the tea tray. “Shall I pour it for you?”

 

More nodding.

 

“Sugar?”

 

Nod.

 

“Milk?”

 

A raised hand. She gave me the cup and saucer and I sipped gratefully. Oh, joy! The tea felt wonderful going down my throat. It was hot and sweet and just the ticket.

 

 

 

 

“Thank you.”

 

“My pleasure. We’ve all been looking forward to your stay with us. We’ve been reading and enjoying your blog.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I’m amazed at how much you know about British history.”

 

Nod.

 

“And the content. It’s excellent.”

 

“Thank you,” I repeated, taking a long pull at my cup of tea. I was dimly aware of the fact that this was the point at which I should probably mention Victoria’s equal contribution to our blog, but I wasn’t up to the task. Sorry, Vic.

 

“And you know so much about the Duke of Wellington. He was a fascinating man, wasn’t he?”

 

Nod. Nod, mind you.  Now, as you are well aware, I would normally have welcomed nothing more than a relatively captive audience who displayed an interest in Georgian and Regency history, not to mention one who was also at least familiar with the Duke of Wellington. At any other time, I would have settled in for a nice chin wag about all manner of period topics. And all I could do in the moment was to nod.

 

“Let’s get you upstairs, hmmmm? The Wellington Suite, yes?”

 

 

“This is a listed building and I’m afraid there’s no lift,” Eliza told us over her shoulder as we headed towards the stairs. I climbed the first three or four tre
ads before I realized that I just might not be able to make it any further. I felt as though I might pass out. Good thing Hubby was bringing up the rear, I could use his body to break my fall should it become necessary.

 

We got to the second landing and I had to rest. My coat now felt has though it weighed three stone (forty-two pounds), at least.

 

“Give me your bag,” Eliza said, taking my traveling shoulder bag from me and thus lightening my load by what felt like twenty pounds (or roughly one and half stone). Up we trudged until, finally, before us was a door marked “Wellington.”

 

We entered a sitting room complete with a sofa, desk and television and then went through a set of French doors into the bedroom.

 

The Wellington Suite, at last! Eliza was giving us an overview of the room, where the hair dryer was, the tea making facilities, etc. etc. etc. but I heard none of it. As she spoke, I pulled off coat and scarf and threw them on a chair. I caught a glimpse of the townhouses across the street through a window but only marginally registered the fact that I was, at long last, in Bath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, and with poor, kind Eliza still speaking, I pulled off my boots, pulled down the bed clothes and climbed between the sheets with the blanket and duvet pulled up to my chin.

After a time, I realized that I no longer heard Eliza’s voice. “Is she gone?”

“Yeah. This is some room, huh? Even nicer than London. It’s huge, Hon. Look, we have a living room.”

“Are there bath robes in the bathroom?” I asked. “There are supposed to be bathrobes.”

“You feel like crap and you’re worried about the amenities?”

“Only the bathrobes. Go and see. Please.” Hubby came out of the bathroom with a terry cloth robe in each hand and stood holding them out to me like some two fisted corner man at a boxing match.

“Can you cover me with them?”

“You’re under all the covers already.”

“Freezing. Lay them one on top of the other over me. Please.”

I felt the warmth and weight of the robes as hubby tucked them around me and that’s all I remember. My head sunk gratefully into the crisp, clean and very comfortable pillows and I promptly passed out.

Sometime later, it could have been an hour or a month, I woke to find Hubby offering me orange juice. He’d gone out into Bath, all on his own, and found a nearby newsagents where he bought juice. There was even ice in the glass. I sipped. Nectar!

“They didn’t have your usual orange, pineapple and banana juice, so I got this. I think it’s orange and mango.”

I drank some more and looked at my surroundings – huge windows, a desk, even a window seat. The Wellington Suite. I fell back upon the bed.

“Medicine,” . . . croaked I, and passed out again.

The next time I woke up, it was growing dark outside and Hubby was sitting on the side of the bed and handing me a chicken wrap.

“Where’d you find that? I croaked.

“There’s this great take-out place over that bridge up the street.”

Pulteney Bridge, I thought.

“I’ve been walking all around Bath. You were right, this is a great City. And not half as crowded as London.”  Well, at least one of us was getting something out of Bath. If only Hubby’s personal scavenger hunt would include something more practical. Again I collapsed upon my pillow and croaked, somewhat more forcefully, I hoped, “Medicine.”

The next time I surfaced, Hubby had indeed found me some sort of vile tasting cough and cold syrup and a packet of throat lozenges. As I sucked on one, I noted that it was well and truly dark outside now. Our first day in Bath was gone and I had spent it bed, barely on this side of living. Cholera might have been an improvement.

When last we met, I was sitting in the first class carriage of the Bath bound train shivering, coughing and feeling feverish. Beyond the windows, the English countryside sped by as I sat huddled beneath two coats, my gloved hands shoved deep into the pockets of the top coat. I tried to focus my mind . . . how long could this illness (cholera, typhus, the bird flu, whatever it was) possibly last? Was there even the ghost of a chance that it was but a passing fancy and I would recover by tomorrow? I took stock of my symptoms and decided that it was highly unlikely.

 

The ticket guy came through the car at this point. What is the ticket guy actually called? The conductor? Wasn’t the conductor the guy who drove the train? Was he a ticket taker? Nah, that didn’t sound right. Does anyone actually drive trains anymore, or are they all on auto-pilot like the airplanes? Remember when you could actually smoke on an airplane? What were they thinking?

 

“Tickets, please.” The ticket guy’s voice interrupted this fascinating stream of thought. I pulled my bag towards me, fished around for my wallet and finally presented my credit card along with the required tickets. 

 

The ticket guy/ticket taker/conductor upgraded us for the aforementioned fifteen pounds each, sliding my credit card through his hand-held credit card thingy before handing me two new tickets and moving on.

 

Hubby was looking at me expectantly. “Done and dusted,” I told him.

 

“Huh?  How much did he charge us? Did it work? Speak English, will ya?”

 

Sigh. Cough. Shiver. “Yes, just like the woman told me. We’re now officially first class passengers for only fifteen pounds more. You can relax.”

 

“Done and dusted? Where do you get this stuff? What was that thing you said to me when we were first dating? Remember? That English thing you threw at me?”

 

“Behoove.”

 

“Yeah. Behoove, that’s it. I mean, who talks like that? And our wedding ceremony, oh brother!”

 

“I told you to read through the vows beforehand. I encouraged your participation. You couldn’t be bothered. You left it all up to me, remember?”

 

“Who knew you were going to go with I pledge you my troth? What in the Hell was that? What in the Hell is a troth?”

 

I chose to interpret Hubby’s question as being rhetorical and closed my eyes. The next thing I remember is pulling into Bath Spa Station. I got up, unsteadily, from my seat and took a few steps towards our luggage.

 

“I’ve got it,” Hubby said, in a brook no argument sort of way.

 

“You can’t manage it all,” I told him.

 

“I can. You just worry about yourself.” God, I must look even worse than I feel. I directed Hubby to the elevator and we went down a flight.

Coming out of the lift, I marshaled what little strength I had to hand, took one of the bags from Hubby, headed towards the exit turnstiles and tried to get through.

The bar wouldn’t budge. Again I tried. Again the bar wouldn’t move. After my fourth attempt, and just before I was ready to duck beneath the arm and get the Hell out, a nice young man in a Great Western uniform approached.

“May I help you?” he asked. “Do you have your ticket?”

My ticket? What’s my ticket got to do with the price of turnstiles? Not in the mood to argue, I felt in my coat pocket and produced our tickets, which the nice man took from me and inserted into the little slot on the top of the turnstile, which then magically slid open. Yes, Reader, that’s how sick I was. Imagine my forgetting the reason for keeping one’s ticket handy.

Outside, it was a miserable day – grey and wet with a dash of blowing wind. I huddled under the awning and looked bleakly at the empty forecourt. Don’t let the picture above fool you. I swiped it off the web. When Hubby and I arrived, there was not a cab in sight. You’d think the cabs would have the arrival times down pat, especially in such bad weather, but there we were, marooned at Bath Spa Station.

“Where do we get a cab?” Hubby asked.

“Here.”

“But there aren’t any.”

“They’ll be along in a minute,” I told him, pulling my scarf up to my chin.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, lying through my chattering teeth, whilst all the while thinking a cab, a cab, my kingdom for a cab. Sigh.

 

 

 

 

Or Bath In The Time Of Cholera . . . . . .

 

 

Hubby and I began our last day in London in the usual way – at Café Nero.

 

“Are you depressed because we’re leaving London?” he asked me as we sipped our coffees at the outdoor table.

 

“Not exactly depressed,” I answered, thinking his question a bit odd. “Why do you ask?”

 

“You don’t look so good. I thought maybe you were depressed.”

 

“No, not depressed.” Sick, but not depressed. I had awoken that morning to the realization that I was well and truly coming down with something. You know that feeling you get where you just don’t feel like yourself? Like your head’s in a fog and you’re not really present? Like you already have a somewhat sore throat and you’re just waiting for the other symptoms to drop? Yeah, that’s the feeling. And I had it. In spades.

We went back to the room, where I finished packing and then got us downstairs and into a cab.

 

“Paddington Station,” I told the driver.

 

“You know where we’re going?” Hubby asked.

 

“Yeah. To Paddington Station.”

 

“But do you know how to get us to Bath?”

 

“Not really, but then I don’t have to know. The guy who drives the train knows. All we have to do is buy a ticket and get on.” I smiled at him. “It’s okay, Hon. I’ve done this before. You’ve done it before, too.”

“I’ve never been to Bath.”

 

“No, but we went to Oxford on the train last time we were over, remember? Same station.”

 

This seemed to reassure him and before long we pulled up in front of Paddington Station.

 

I paid off the cab and we got our luggage out of the boot and headed into the Station. I took a few steps and stopped.

 

“What’s wrong?” asked Hubby.

 

“Nothing. I’m just trying to get my bearings,” I said, leading us deeper into the crowd. Before long I spotted the coffee bar I’d sat at so many times before (often with Victoria) and knew that I was, indeed, heading in the right direction.

 

 

 

 

As I headed toward the ticket booths, I began to feel as though I were walking through thick, sucking mud, each step a monumental effort.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finally, the ticket office was in sight. I left Hubby guarding the luggage and approached a window.

 

 

 

 

“Two first class tickets to Bath Spa, please,” I told the woman behind the glass partition, who was looking down at her monitor.

 

She punched a couple of buttons on her keyboard. “Two hundred and fifty four pounds,” she said.

 

I leaned in closer to the speaking hole in the glass. “I’m sorry. You must have misunderstood me. I said to firsts to Bath, not two first class tickets on the Concord to Dubai.” My good woman.

 

She looked up at me then and I swear she did a double-take. And gasped. Her entire demeanor suddenly changed. Did I look that bad?

 

“Look,” she said, “Being as it’s Sunday, I’ll give you two regular singles and you get in the first class coach. When the man comes round for your tickets, he’ll upgrade your tickets to first class for an extra fifteen pounds each. Sound good?”

 

“Sounds exactly right. How much are two regular singles?”

 

“S
ixty-one pounds all together.”

 

“Sold. Does that work everyday?”

 

She shook her head. “Just on Sundays and Bank Holidays.” She slid the tickets through the window. “Track three.”

 

I thanked her and made my way back to where Hubby was waiting.

 

“Let’s go. We’re on track three.”

 

“Where’s track three?”

 

I looked about as we neared the tracks. “Here it is.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

I pointed to the sign that read “Track Three – Bath Spa.”

 

“Where are you going? There’s an open door on this car here.”

 

“First Class. We’re going to the First Class carriage. Just follow me.”

We got to the First Class carriage, threw our selves and our luggage inside and set about choosing our seats.

 

“These are reserved,” Hubby pointed out. “Look, the signs on the seats say reserved.”

“They’re reserved for First Class customers. That’s us. Just pick a seat.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

I told Hubby all that had transpired at the ticket window. To which he said, “How do you know that will work? What happens if we have to pay full whack?”

 

Sigh. “I don’t think she’d lie to me about it. If worse comes to worse, we’ll move.”

 

 

At long last and somewhat grudgingly Hubby chose a seat on one side of the aisle, while I took the empty seat on the opposite side of the aisle. We both had two seats and a table to ourselves. The remainder of the carriage was empty.

 

Our train pulled out of the station and it was just a few moments later that I was attacked. Someone, I didn’t see what the blighter looked like, hit me with the sick stick. Full force. It began with the chills. Soon after the chills were replaced by the feeling that someone had filled my spine with a shaft of ice. I began to shiver in earnest and what little reserves of strength I’d previously had now completely deserted me.

 

“You okay?” asked Hubby.

 

I shook my head.

 

“You don’t look good. Are you sick?”

 

I nodded, finally admitting what I’d tried to keep at bay by not speaking of it. The jig was indeed up. I tightened the scarf round my neck and drew on my gloves. “I’m freezing,” I whispered.

 

“Here,” Hubby said, taking off his coat and covering me with it.

 

“Now you’ll be cold,” I told him.

 

“No, I won’t. It’s not cold in here at all. The heat’s on.”

 

Bundled up as I was now, in my coat and Hubby’s, I continued to shake with the cold.  My cough returned and my throat felt as though it was being slit by razor blades. The train soon entered a tunnel and I was able to see my reflection in the glass – I looked as though I’d died on Friday. Bear in mind that this was Sunday. . . . not a pretty sight.

 

Did I have the flu? The Norovirus? Some other virus? Bird Flu? Cholera? Did people still get cholera? What about malaria? Understand, I am by no means a hypochondriac. Really. But I hadn’t been this sick for yonks. It was the type of total incapacitation one usually only sees in small children and that I can only recall having as a child, when doctors used to actually make house calls and mothers would wrap handkerchief’s smothered in Vick’s Vapo Rub round small patients necks. It had come on fast and hit me like a freight train, no pun intended. I thought fleetingly of dying, which served to cheer me up somewhat, for not only would the misery end, but I would have accomplished my hearts desire – to die in England. To die, with any luck, more specifically in Bath would be a real coup. If I made it that far. And to die in England, in Bath, in Duke’s Hotel, whilst occupying the Wellington Suite would be the icing on the cake.

 

Typically, the highlight of a train trip in England for me was to look out the window at the surrounding countryside, to catch unexpected glimpses of quaint houses, sheep, cows, fields and hedgerows, not to mention snapshots of various towns along the way as glimpsed through the windows as one sped by. This time, I took little interest in the passing views. All I could think of was the irony  of my getting sick just as I was headed for Bath. And Duke’s Hotel. And the Wellington Suite.  When first planning this trip, I’d meticulously done my research into Bath hotels. This portion of the trip was especially important, as we’d be spending New Year’s Eve there. Imagine my joy when I found that there was a small hotel off Great Pulteney Street, not far from Laura Place, where they actually used a likeness of the Duke of Wellington as their logo. Where their suits were named after various dukes – including Wellington. I booked the suite on the spot and have been looking forward to it ever since.

 

Typhoid? Could I have typhoid? I seemed to recall something about one of the symptoms of thyphoid being a bloody nose. Or was I confusing the blood with consumption? I’d have to brush up on my 19th century illnesses. If I lived that long.