Lightning Strikes (Hudson 2)

"It's no good this way, Randall. Many small bites aren't as good as slow, big bites. I'm not absorbing it. We'll come back. I promise."

He laughed.

"Okay. Okay. Let's just go for a walk back again toward Big Ben and enjoy the beautiful fall day," he suggested. "I promise, I won't rush you. We'll take little steps."

We left the museum.

"When I'm walking around in my own country or in places I'm used to," I said as we crossed the square, "my eyes can fall asleep, even while they're open, but here or someplace as new as this, I can't see enough. It tires me out, Randall."

"Oh, I know. I just get a little too enthusiastic sometimes. Sorry," he said.

"I don't blame you. I suppose if our roles were switched and I had been here before and wanted to show it to someone who hadn't, I'd act the same way."

When we crossed a street, he took my hand and we didn't let go of each other for a long time as we walked up to Big Ben. Afterward, we crossed another street and just wandered down a smaller, narrower road until we saw a pub called the Hearty Sailor.

Randall checked his watch.

"Well, what do you know. It's time for tea," he said. "Would m'lady like a bit of shepherd's pie and a pint of stout?"

"Stout? You mean beer?"

"Well, you have to be eighteen to be served here," he said, "and I won't be for three months."

"I'm already eighteen," I said.

"Really? Great. Come on."

Above the door of the pub was a colorful metal sign with a robust-looking sailor holding a mug of beer. Randall caught the direction of my gaze.

"All British pubs have a painted sign on the outside because most people couldn't read until the beginning of this century, so when their mates said, 'Meet me at the Hearty Sailor,' they'd just look for the picture."

"How do you know so much about this city?" I asked him.

"I just spent my time reading about it when I knew I would be living here and going to school here," he replied.

"For me it all happened so fast, I barely had time to learn the difference between a pound and a dollar," I said.

"No harm done," he said opening the door. "You have me, the perfect guide and translator, and I come cheap."

I laughed at his happy smile and we entered the pub. It was somewhat darker inside than I anticipated, but somehow I felt a warm and cozy feeling the moment we entered. The people who were inside gazed at us with interest, but no resentment like people often did when I walked into a new place back home. They made me feel I had intruded on private property and that where I was did not welcome strangers.

"Here's a couple a real customers, Charlie," someone cried and everyone laughed, even the man behind the bar. A short, dark-haired woman with deep brown round eyes and a face like a marble cherub appeared with a plate of food in her hands. She placed it on the bar in front of an elderly man dressed in a suit and tie.

"Can I help you?" the bartender asked Randall. He looked up at the menu written in Gothic style on a board above the bar.

"Want to try the shepherd's pie?" he asked me.

"Sure," I said.

"We'll have two shepherd's pies and two shandies," he said and produced two ten-pound notes.

We heard people chuckling.

"Ya old enough for an ale, are ya?"

I handed him my student identification card. He glanced at it and nodded and looked at Randall. "Forgot mine," Randall said.

"He looks old enough to me, Charlie," cried a tall, thin man with an Adam's apple so prominent, I thought it would bust out and roll over the counter.