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Authors: Elisa Ellen
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getting used to.
One afternoon, we go a bit farther than before and come to a small white church standing all alone on a hill. We lean the bikes on the cemetery wall and look at the old gravestones, many of which have fallen askew with barely legible ancient inscriptions.
“What kind of strange church is this?” I ask Edwin. “Where is the village?”
Edwin told me that there had been an entire village here in the Middle Ages. Most of the residents died in the plague, and eventually other people scavenged building materials from the abandoned houses. But they respected the church and the cemetery too much to tear them down, so that’s why they are still intact centuries later.
On other days, Catherine and I meet up to go shopping in the village. Sometimes we buy things; other times we just window-shop. Most days we meet for lunch in the cafeteria or in the teachers’ lounge.
“You know, it’s a pity we have almost no contact with the other teachers because of the separate teachers’ lounges,” Catherine says one morning.
Anne, a small, wiry Scottish teacher with freckles, overhears her remark. “That’s true, Catherine,” she says. “I hadn’t even thought about it, but it would be nice if colleagues from other departments socialized more. Would you two like to visit my flat in Brantwood sometime? I could invite some of our younger colleagues.”
Catherine and I nod at the same time. So far, we’ve only seen our hosts’ homes. We’re curious to see how young teachers here live.
“May I make a suggestion?” asks Catherine.
“Of course,” says Anne.
“I’d love to make crêpes for you and the other teachers. They’re a Breton specialty.”
Anne smiles. “Oh, that would be wonderful. I love crêpes! Are you sure it won’t be too much work? I’m thinking I’ll invite about eight people.”
“Lea will help me,” says Catherine. “Won’t you, Lea?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’d be delighted to help.”
“Good,” replies Anne. “I’ll check to see if Saturday night works for everybody.”
On Saturday morning Catherine and I go to Tesco, the supermarket in Gatingstone, and buy ingredients for the crêpes. We can hardly wait for the party.
Of course, it happens again, but this time to both of us. When the cashier sees the bottle of cognac on the conveyor, she pauses and eyes us critically. “Are you girls eighteen?”
“Of course I’m eighteen,” I say, and hastily add, “Actually, I’m twenty-three.”
Now the cashier looks even more doubtful. “Then show me your ID, please.”
A bit unnerved, I pull the card out. The cashier looks at it without comment, then gives it back to me and taps the price for the cognac on the cash register.
Afterward on the sidewalk, Catherine and I stare at each other incredulously.
“‘Actually, I’m twenty-three,’” Catherine says, mimicking me. “That doesn’t sound suspicious at all!” She almost falls down, she’s laughing so hard.
I force a smile. I’m starting to feel like Oskar in Günter Grass’s The Tin Drum , who still looks like a child or a dwarf as an adult.
“Luckily, you’re with me,” I say pointedly. “I look a couple years older than you.”
Catherine is so amiable that this comment only leads to more laughter.
In the evening, we meet on the bus to Brantwood. Catherine is carrying the grocery bags from Tesco.
“Oh boy,” she says. “I haven’t made crêpes since I was a kid; I’m a little nervous. What if they don’t turn out well?”
“Oh, then we’ll just say it’s a special recipe from your village.”
“Funny,” Catherine says, but her voice sounds strained.
Neither of us has dressed up. Instinctively, we’re both wearing jeans, sneakers, and a sweater. As always, Catherine looks insanely beautiful. Just in case, I’m wearing mascara and a touch of lipstick. With makeup, I look more twenty-three than fourteen.
When we finally reach Anne’s, I’m a bit surprised to find that a
One afternoon, we go a bit farther than before and come to a small white church standing all alone on a hill. We lean the bikes on the cemetery wall and look at the old gravestones, many of which have fallen askew with barely legible ancient inscriptions.
“What kind of strange church is this?” I ask Edwin. “Where is the village?”
Edwin told me that there had been an entire village here in the Middle Ages. Most of the residents died in the plague, and eventually other people scavenged building materials from the abandoned houses. But they respected the church and the cemetery too much to tear them down, so that’s why they are still intact centuries later.
On other days, Catherine and I meet up to go shopping in the village. Sometimes we buy things; other times we just window-shop. Most days we meet for lunch in the cafeteria or in the teachers’ lounge.
“You know, it’s a pity we have almost no contact with the other teachers because of the separate teachers’ lounges,” Catherine says one morning.
Anne, a small, wiry Scottish teacher with freckles, overhears her remark. “That’s true, Catherine,” she says. “I hadn’t even thought about it, but it would be nice if colleagues from other departments socialized more. Would you two like to visit my flat in Brantwood sometime? I could invite some of our younger colleagues.”
Catherine and I nod at the same time. So far, we’ve only seen our hosts’ homes. We’re curious to see how young teachers here live.
“May I make a suggestion?” asks Catherine.
“Of course,” says Anne.
“I’d love to make crêpes for you and the other teachers. They’re a Breton specialty.”
Anne smiles. “Oh, that would be wonderful. I love crêpes! Are you sure it won’t be too much work? I’m thinking I’ll invite about eight people.”
“Lea will help me,” says Catherine. “Won’t you, Lea?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’d be delighted to help.”
“Good,” replies Anne. “I’ll check to see if Saturday night works for everybody.”
On Saturday morning Catherine and I go to Tesco, the supermarket in Gatingstone, and buy ingredients for the crêpes. We can hardly wait for the party.
Of course, it happens again, but this time to both of us. When the cashier sees the bottle of cognac on the conveyor, she pauses and eyes us critically. “Are you girls eighteen?”
“Of course I’m eighteen,” I say, and hastily add, “Actually, I’m twenty-three.”
Now the cashier looks even more doubtful. “Then show me your ID, please.”
A bit unnerved, I pull the card out. The cashier looks at it without comment, then gives it back to me and taps the price for the cognac on the cash register.
Afterward on the sidewalk, Catherine and I stare at each other incredulously.
“‘Actually, I’m twenty-three,’” Catherine says, mimicking me. “That doesn’t sound suspicious at all!” She almost falls down, she’s laughing so hard.
I force a smile. I’m starting to feel like Oskar in Günter Grass’s The Tin Drum , who still looks like a child or a dwarf as an adult.
“Luckily, you’re with me,” I say pointedly. “I look a couple years older than you.”
Catherine is so amiable that this comment only leads to more laughter.
In the evening, we meet on the bus to Brantwood. Catherine is carrying the grocery bags from Tesco.
“Oh boy,” she says. “I haven’t made crêpes since I was a kid; I’m a little nervous. What if they don’t turn out well?”
“Oh, then we’ll just say it’s a special recipe from your village.”
“Funny,” Catherine says, but her voice sounds strained.
Neither of us has dressed up. Instinctively, we’re both wearing jeans, sneakers, and a sweater. As always, Catherine looks insanely beautiful. Just in case, I’m wearing mascara and a touch of lipstick. With makeup, I look more twenty-three than fourteen.
When we finally reach Anne’s, I’m a bit surprised to find that a
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