As I've done in a couple of blog posts, I would like to share a short story I wrote a few years ago. If you're an Anglophile, or if you like history and/or the paranormal, perhaps you'll enjoy
Charing Cross. Thanks for taking the time to read my work and, as always, copyright applies. (
©Veronica Randolph
Batterson)
Charing Cross
By Veronica Randolph Batterson
The bookshop was
isolated, its location hidden from the steady stream of traffic along Charing
Cross Road. That gave it an
appealing quality, and each time I visited, I felt I’d found something in
London no one else had discovered.
Entering the shop
was similar to taking a step back in time; a dust coated interior, dim lighting
and dated titles along the bookshelves greeted you. As an American tourist, I found it a welcome alternative to
the bookstore chains. It was a
pleasure to spend a few rainy hours discovering the hidden treasures in the
little bookshop called Charing Cross.
It was one such
overcast afternoon that I found myself perusing the shelves once again. The storms had started and the steady
sound of raindrops pelting the front window of the shop was soothing. I made my way to the rear of the
building and set the few books I was carrying on top of a table. As I did so, I noticed a gentleman sitting
nearby. His posture was bent; he
slumped forward and had white, unkempt hair. He was dressed in a faded, military-like overcoat that
obscured his build, yet he appeared small in stature.
The man was
engrossed in a book, and as I turned away, he sighed heavily. He seemed distraught at what he was
reading and kept his face lowered over the pages. Then small sobs shook his body. Tentatively, I approached the man and asked if there was
something I could do for him. His
cries ended then and he looked directly at me, yet I felt he didn’t see
me. His stare was sorrowful, but
his gaze seemed to go through me.
Worried, I sought the bookshop owner.
“There is no one
else in here besides you, love,” he said behind the counter at the front of the
shop, making no move to assist me.
“I have been sitting here for quite some time, and you have been the
only one to enter.”
The proprietor
peered at me over the top of his small-framed spectacles, which rested on the
bridge of his nose. Turning back
to the newspaper he was reading, he moved a magnifying glass slowly over the
print and I wondered just how poor his eyesight was. Perhaps the strange man had slipped in unnoticed. Looking at the doorway, I glimpsed the
small bell that jingled delicately announcing arrivals and departures. I then doubted the shopkeeper would
miss the man had he entered.
The shop owner
probably viewed me as something of an oddity because I visited so
regularly. Most tourists were
sightseeing the city’s well-known attractions, but I was continually drawn to
the charm of Charing Cross. Oddly,
I had yet to make a purchase.
Attempting several times, it seemed that each book I tried to buy wasn’t
for sale. I began to wonder how
the shop stayed in business.
Rarely did I see any customers.
Regardless of what the shopkeeper thought of me, I knew that there was a
distraught man in the back of the bookshop and I was determined to help him.
Wondering how I
might approach the gentleman, I made my way back to where he had been. However, when I reached the table, the
man was gone. Searching every
aisle, I found no trace of him. Returning
to the empty table, I noticed the book he had been reading. It was old, as were all of the books in
the shop, but the cover on it was worn and ragged from use. It was difficult to make out the
title. It appeared open to the
page the man had been reading and I wondered if it might give clues as to what
had upset him. It showed only a
faded image of a child playing.
The caption underneath read:
“Horatia Nelson, daughter of Admiral Lord
Nelson and Lady Emma Hamilton.
Lady Hamilton died penniless and Horatia never wished to acknowledge she
was Lady Hamilton’s child. She
took great pride, however, in being the daughter of Britain’s greatest hero.”
There were other
books on the table. Each one of
them had something to do with Horatio Nelson, his daughter Horatia, and Lady
Emma Hamilton. I sat down and
began reading the pages.
“Admiral Lord Nelson was one of Britain’s
most famous war heroes. He died in
1805 at the Battle of Trafalgar against Napolean Bonaparte. Lady Emma Hamilton, his mistress, gave
birth to their daughter Horatia in 1801.
Admiral Lord Nelson, upon his death, provided for the future of Lady
Hamilton and asked his constituents to look out for Horatia and Lady Hamilton’s
affairs. Possibly due to the fact
that Nelson was married to someone else, as was Emma Hamilton, Nelson’s
counterparts never acknowledged Horatia or her mother. As a result of Lady Hamilton’s
extravagant lifestyle, she died penniless and even spent time in debtors’ prison. Horatia, it was said, never knew for certain
if Lady Hamilton was her mother, as Lady Hamilton never acknowledged that fact
to her child, preferring to allow her daughter to think she was adopted. Once presented with the name of her
mother, Horatia refused to believe it.
Lady Hamilton died in 1815 while her daughter lived a very long life
until 1881.”
I immediately
thought of Trafalgar Square and the column that stood proudly commemorating
Admiral Lord Nelson. Searching the
bookshop once more, I still found no sign of the gentleman. I then left the shop and made my way
south along Charing Cross Road to Trafalgar Square. As usual, the great square was filled with people and
pigeons, while the massive bronze lions appeared to guard Nelson’s statue. I had been there dozens of times, but
something stirred me into visiting again.
It was unexplained and I couldn’t pinpoint why; perhaps it was for the
same reason I was drawn to Charing Cross.
At any rate, I found myself searching the crowd.
A movement caught
my eye and I saw it was the sorrowful man from the bookshop. He was wandering through the crowd,
weaving between people feeding the birds and children who were playing
tag. The man kept moving, apparently
with no intended destination. He
looked to be very short and was oblivious to those around him. The crowd appeared unaware of him as
well. It seemed that I was the
only one who had taken notice of the stranger. I followed him and when I was within just a few feet of the
man, I attempted to say something.
However, a pigeon flew a bit too close to me, causing me to stumble and
take my eyes from their target.
When I regained my balance, I had lost sight of him. It seemed he’d just vanished before my
eyes.
I decided I’d endured enough adventure
for the day, but the image of the man troubled me, and my thoughts wandered as
I walked home. The drizzling rain
continued and I was thankful to finally open the door of the flat I was
leasing. The rhythmic ticking of
the mantelpiece clock greeted me as I shrugged out of the rain slicker, dripping
water in small puddles on the tile floor.
I relayed my
experience to a British friend later and he joked that I had encountered the
spirit of Lord Nelson.
“It must have
troubled him greatly that his poor Emma and little daughter hadn’t been looked
after as he’d wanted. I guess when
he read it in the books, it upset him,” Nigel grinned. “You would’ve known if it were Lord
Nelson. His right arm was
amputated due to a war injury.”
It must have been
the look on my face that caused Nigel to sound alarmed. I assured him I was fine, but the
memory of the man troubled me even more.
I was convinced I had noticed his right sleeve was pinned to his shirt,
although at the time I just assumed his arm was tucked inside his coat. The thought made me determined to go
back to the little bookshop on Charing Cross, although I knew it must be closed
for the day. Nigel decided to come
with me.
“What’s the name
of the shop?” he asked, as he struggled to keep up with my strides.
“Charing Cross,” I
replied.
“Oh, that’s a well
known place for rare books. I’ve
been there a few times myself,” he said.
Nigel took the
lead, yet as we reached Charing Cross Road, he traveled in the opposite
direction from where I knew the bookshop to be. As I tried to convince him of
this, we reached the place he had indicated. This particular establishment was indeed Charing Cross
Bookshop, but it wasn’t the same bookstore I had frequented.
“This isn’t the
place. The bookshop I went to was
called Charing Cross. This is
Charing Cross Bookshop. Obviously,
there are two different shops,” I insisted.
I knew the store
to be a little farther north, so we began walking. The weather had cleared and it was no longer drizzling. The sun was setting and the sky became
a palette of color. I suddenly recalled
that each time I had visited the bookshop, it had been raining. I’d never really noticed that before
and absently mentioned it to Nigel.
We crossed the
street and approached the storefront.
Although, when we reached where I was certain the bookshop to be, it
wasn’t there. Another store with
an entirely different name graced that corner. Confused, I turned about, checking the cross street, and
each landmark, and I was certain that Charing Cross had been there just hours
before.
“It’s not here,” I
stammered.
“Maybe we’re in
the wrong block. It’s easy to get
turned around,” Nigel said.
“It’s not in
another block,” I cried. “It was
right here!”
We stood together
silently, looking at the space where I knew with all my being Charing Cross had
been. Reluctantly, I allowed
myself to be directed up and down both sides of Charing Cross Road and we never
located the little bookshop I had so enjoyed. Its address would’ve been exactly as I had said, so I knew
it pointless to look elsewhere; however, I was in no mood to argue.
“You don’t suppose
you encountered a time portal, do you?” Nigel asked.
I stared blankly
at my friend. His red sweater was
unraveling at the bottom and a small hole was visible near the neck. I made a mental note of a possible
birthday gift for him and focused my attention on what he had just said. Anything was possible, I reasoned, but
a time portal was something that seemed far-fetched. Yet how much more out of the ordinary was a time portal
compared to a non-existent bookshop and the ghost of Britain’s greatest war
hero? Since it appeared my
bookshop had disappeared into thin air, the explanation seemed plausible.
“But how do you
explain the fact that every time I visited, except for this particular time,
the shop had been here?” I asked.
“Think about when
you came by. Didn’t you mention
you had never been here when it hadn’t been raining? Maybe that has something to do with it,” he said.
“You mean the
portal is open only when it’s raining?
And somehow I step through that time link and that’s when the bookshop
appears?” I asked skeptically.
Nigel nodded
enthusiastically. It might also
explain why I’d never been able to buy any of the books in the store. However,
I still wasn’t eager to completely embrace his line of thinking. At least one question remained.
“How would you
explain the gentleman? Not only
did I see him in the bookshop, but he was also wandering around Trafalgar
Square. If he was part of a time
portal, then how did I see him outside of it?” I asked.
“Joking aside,
what if the man had been Nelson?
What if, by some strange fate, you came upon his apparition in that old
bookshop, and for whatever reason, his spirit led you to Trafalgar Square?”
Nigel asked.
“It makes no
sense,” I replied.
“It makes perfect
sense to me. Try coming back when
it’s raining and see if your old shop is here again,” my friend said.
***
The weather was
dreary and the sky looked as if it would drop buckets of rain at any
moment. The air was damp and cold
and a light drizzle moistened my face as I made my way to Charing Cross
Road. Most people would wish for
clearer skies, but I was so happy with the current conditions that it took
great resolve not to skip the rest of the way. Nigel was accompanying me and the look on his face mirrored
my feelings. He, too, would’ve
been greatly disappointed if the sun had suddenly decided to peek through the
clouds and make an appearance.
We were getting
closer and my heart was pounding so loudly I could hear nothing else. The rain was coming down heavily at
that point and much of the pedestrian traffic hurriedly sought shelter. We crossed the street and I was almost
afraid to look. I was soaked and
shivering and I was suddenly aware of taking Nigel’s hand in mine.
As we stepped upon
the sidewalk, I noticed a subtle change in my surroundings, something I had not
recognized before. The walk was
cobblestone and the lanterns that framed the door of the shop hung unlit in the
daylight. I peered closely at the
storefront façade and, just as my friend had said, there before us stood
Charing Cross.
As we made our way
inside, I wondered if I might encounter the distraught little man once
again. The thought of it being the
ghost of Horatio Nelson was appealing.
Would I discover some reason I might have crossed paths with this
wandering soul?
Suddenly I
questioned what would happen if we remained inside the little bookshop when the
rain ceased. Would we find
ourselves trapped in the past? I
looked out the front window as the rain continued to pour. Perhaps it would let up soon, I
thought. I made my way to the back of the shop in search of Admiral Lord
Nelson, secretly hoping that on both accounts the results would prove
favorable.
(
©Veronica Randolph
Batterson)
