82 
Channel Reflections

Amanda stood on deck of the channel ferry waiting for the lines to be cast off and to begin the voyage over the twenty-one miles of sea separating Great Britain from the mainland of Europe.

She had traveled most of the night between Antwerp and Calais, taking what trains were available and snatching catnaps while she waited in deserted stations. She was exhausted and still had a whole new day ahead of her.

Getting back out of Belgium and into France had proved a little difficult, especially with the war front so close. She doubted the French officers in charge believed a word of what she said about possessing vital information and needing to get to England right away. But it didn’t matter. They let her through, and now here she was on board the first ship of the day.

She squinted through the morning’s cloudy sky, as if hoping she might, even now, be able to catch a faint glimpse of the Dover cliffs. But it was no use. The storm had passed, but lingering haze and clouds still obscured the vision. Yet just knowing that England lay over there, and that in less than two hours her feet would feel English soil once again beneath them, was enough, in spite of the fatigue, to send tingles of excitement through her whole body.

Maybe she could find a chair inside and catch an extra few winks once they set off. But right now she wanted to savor the scent of the channel waters in her nostrils, and the thought of returning to her homeland.

She hadn’t anticipated feeling this way. National pride was the last emotion she expected to rise in her breast. But after all she had been through, and the horrible months in Vienna, and the terrifying flight across Austria and Italy . . . all of a sudden she very much wanted to be back . . . back in England.

The very word rang in her mind with safety and hominess.

Her thoughts turned to her father. Why, she couldn’t say, but she did not resist them. Strangely, for the first time in a long while, no anger or bitterness came with them. He was a patriot, she thought, who loved his country—more than she had in recent years.

What had come over her to allow her mind to be so clouded by all that ridiculous Fountain of Light talk? And that caustic pamphlet she had let them put her name on. What in the world had she been thinking!

Her father was ten times the man Hartwell Barclay would ever be.

A hundred times!

She had been gone from England not quite a year, and from her home for eight years. She had no one to blame but herself for all that had happened to her. Her parents had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened.

What have I done with my life? thought Amanda.

Over and over, it seemed, she had done one stupid thing after another, always leaving when the going got rough. She left home, she left the Pankhursts,’ she left Cousin Martha’s, she left Vienna, she left the chalet. Always leaving . . . always running away.

Again her father’s face came into her mind’s eye.

Actually, now that she considered the idea, it might be all right to see her father again. It might even be good to see him. Perhaps she was finally ready.

Maybe it was time she started growing up and facing some things. Like herself. Facing what she had let herself sink to . . . and maybe facing what she wanted to become.

Before her thoughts could go farther down that road, Amanda felt the boat jerking beneath her and the waves of the Channel beginning to rock it in a gentle, swelling motion.

They had cast off. She was on her way back to England!