Chapter 20

When I think of all the London busses I have boarded without blinking an eye—far too preoccupied with finding a seat or getting out of the rain or hurrying to my next appointment . . .

Out of its usual context, away from Oxford Street’s giant department stores and burly black cabs, this double-decker looks huge. And red! So red. And glossy. And iconic. I run my hand over the engine bonnet—goodness, these things are solid.

“Classic Routemaster 1956,” Gracie puffs with pride. “Feel free to step on board!”

The downstairs interior has the authentic itchy-fuzzy seat coverings, but the driver’s cab has been opened out so Gracie can interact with us along the way, as opposed to being sealed off in her own cube. Seatbelts have been added in the passenger area, and apparently there are a few more tweaks upstairs.

“Pamela, why don’t you lead the way?”

I hear a squeal and clatter before I’m halfway up the curved staircase.

“What is it?” I call ahead.

“Oh Mum! I can’t believe it!”

As my gopher head pops up, I see the entire upstairs level has been kitted out with a chintzy-fresh, Cath Kidston-style kitchen—there’s a baby-pink oven and fridge, an immaculate white preparation area lined with mixers and bowls and assorted lacy cake stands.

“Everything is secured so it won’t slide around as we take a tight corner,” Gracie explains. “And I got those cake tins you were talking about the other day.” She points to a vintage set in pale-blue enamel, not so very dissimilar to the cream ones at Marble House.

“Oh I love them! I love it all!” Pamela reaches to embrace her mother.

“Happy birthday, love.”

“It’s your birthday?” I startle.

“Next week,” Pamela replies, now stroking the stack of rose-print tea towels. “I just can’t believe it!”

I watch as she opens each drawer, holds up each spatula and pastry brush, turns each aluminum baking tray and then pauses beside a framed picture of the three Lambert-Leigh women a good fifteen years ago. Ravenna is up on Pamela’s hip, pointing to the candles on the cake Gracie is holding up.

“My forty-fifth birthday,” Pamela remembers. “You piped all those tiny roses yourself, didn’t you, Mum?”

“I did. One for every year that I wished the best for you.”

Pamela gives her a rueful look, as if to say, “I have no idea how things got so bad.”

I feel a little awkward, intruding on such a personal moment, and pretend to be intently studying the side of the box of Typhoo.

“One more surprise.” Gracie leads us back off the bus and gets us to look up at the destination panel.

The largest lettering spells out NEW ENGLAND. The states are listed in smaller type. But Gracie is most excited about the numbering.

240.

“D’you get it?”

We frown, looking at each other for clues. I was always on the 19 or the 390 in London.

“It’s not Golders Green, is it?”

“As a matter of fact it is, but you’re thinking too literally. Say it out loud.”

“Two hundred and forty.”

“Like the Americans do.”

I have to think for a moment. “Two-forty.”

“Again.”

“Two-forty.”

“A little slower.”

“Two-for . . .” Suddenly the penny drops. “Two for tea!”

Pamela and I laugh. “That’s brilliant!”

“Ready to go for a spin?”

The engine chugs to life.

•   •   •

Ravenna, who hasn’t said a word throughout the inspection, tucks herself directly into the back row, whereas Pamela and I sit as close to the front as possible, admiring Gracie’s dexterity with the giant horizontal steering wheel.

“It’s like coming home,” she beams as we set off.

This really is incredible—who gets to drive around New England in a double-decker bus with a celebrity chef and on-board cake-making facilities? Heaven or what?

Gracie’s living the dream too—blaring out Cliff Richard’s “Summer Holiday” and waving to all the fascinated faces we pass on the way to Ocean Drive. When we get there, the local trolley tour bus draws level and the driver calls across:

“Should I be worried about the competition?”

“Nooo!” she chuckles. “We’ll be gone by morning!”

“That’s a shame!” he says, giving her a flirty wink. “I like your style!”

“I like everything about this place,” Gracie sighs as we continue on. “I really do.”

“Here comes our photography spot.” I point ahead.

Ravenna grudgingly dislodges herself as we disembark and line up on the grassy bank by the water’s edge, preparing to snap an image worthy of Gracie’s Christmas cards.

“What she really wants is a picture to put on Georgie’s grave,” Pamela gives us an extra motivation to make a timely click. “Show him she’s still got it.”

As if anyone could doubt that.

I mean, look at her now—hugging the curves of the road in a vehicle that’s twice the size of my apartment, leaning out of the window giving us a joyful woo-hoo!

“She’s going pretty fast!” I express concern as I begin to snap.

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“Tell me that seagull isn’t thinking of crossing the road,” I fret, eyeing the puffed-chest fella making plodding progress from the rocks to the tarmac. “Can she see him?”

“Mum! Watch out!” Pamela tries to alert her with flailing arms.

She just gives a bigger wave back.

“Mum!”

“Gracie!”

“Granny!” even Ravenna gasps out loud as the bus swerves to avoid the strutting bird, rucks up onto the bank, grabs at the grass and halts just millimeters before plunging into the sea.

The three of us hurtle toward the bus.

“Oh my god! Mum! Mum? Are you all right?” Pamela claws her way onto the bus.

Gracie’s head is down on the steering wheel.

“She’s bleeding!” Pamela shrieks. “She’s bleeding!”

It seems to be coming from her jaw. I fumble for my phone, dialing 911 with a trembling hand.

As I hurriedly give our details, Gracie tilts back in her seat, looking dazed, hand going to her face. She tries to speak but winces in agony.

“I think she might have cracked her jaw, it doesn’t look right.”

I run and grab the stack of rose-print tea towels and use them to stem the flow of blood, which seems to be getting everywhere now.

I try telling myself it’s just food coloring, but still my stomach churns.

I can’t believe this happy-go-lucky moment has taken such a horrible turn. Did someone up there misunderstand when Gracie said she wanted to immortalize her drive along this stretch of coast?

“The ambulance is here,” Ravenna alerts us.

We step out of the way to give the paramedics full access. As they undo the seatbelt and ease her out, she grabs at her ribs. Looks like she might have cracked one of those too—that is a darn big steering wheel and she did brake with quite some force. No airbags here.

We’re all stunned to silence as she is strapped to the stretcher. This is real. Gracie is hurt.

I want to go with them to the hospital, but Pamela asks me to stay with the bus.

So what happens now? I want to believe it’s just a nasty bump, but I fear the worst. She certainly won’t be up to driving anytime soon. And even if she could, and as feisty as she is, would she even want to after this?

I sigh as I think of our original plans—quick spin on the bus, tour of The Breakers, then dinner at the oldest bar in America. Gracie had already decided she was having the local scallops.

I look back at the red behemoth—one minute the promise of unlimited fun, now our ruin.

When she said I should prepare for anything, she wasn’t kidding.

And then I well up thinking of her lovely face, all bashed and bleeding. I can’t even go there in terms of this being life-threatening. It could so easily have been, but it’s not, is it? She was still conscious. She just couldn’t speak. She’s going to be okay. Not straightaway, but she will be fine, she has to be. I drag my fingers across the front grille and then check my phone. And then check it again.

“Let me know the diagnosis as soon as you can,” I text Pamela.

I know Krista won’t be available for another few hours, so I call the garage and explain our predicament.

The worst part is having to convince every passing tourist that we are not a new landmark attraction.

But of course that’s not the worst part at all. The worst part is that Gracie is in hospital, in all kinds of shock and pain, with her dream in peril.