Autumn Leaves

Chapter 8

Copyright (c) 2013. All rights reserved by the author.

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"The only way of catching a train I have ever discovered is to miss the train before."

              - Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Before I realised, Saturday rolled around, and it was time to visit Mr Roberts at the fancy-and-overly-expensive Ritz Hotel. My mum and I argued about how to get there for a while, her telling me it would be better to take the car seeing as we don’t quite know where the Ritz actually is, but I suggested (well, more like debated) that taking the Tube would be easier in terms of parking (there is none involved) and besides, it’s better for the environment. We ended up taking the train anyway because my brother needed to go to his football club at half past one, and we only have one car.

                As my mum worries about meeting deadlines and being punctual, I got woken up at 7:30 with my mum telling me to hurry up and get my bum downstairs to eat breakfast before we set off. After she herself went downstairs, I groaned, literally rolled out of bed and fell on the floor. I just lay there, emitting a strange guttural sound from the back of my throat. Just stayed still, wrapped in my duvet cocoon until my mum half-stormed, half-tiptoed back upstairs fifteen minutes later, trying not to wake my brother or my dad while at the same time trying to retain what she thought was a fierce and commanding tone.

                “Emma! Hurry up, we’re going to be late!” she hissed at me.

                “Mum, were you any good at maths when you were at school?” I asked, my words slurring slightly.

                “What? That has nothing to do with – “

                “Just answer my question. I’m sorry for being rude, but it’s not even eight in the morning. I don’t want to cushion my question with chitchat or waffle. Were you or were you not good at maths when you were at school?”

                “Yes, I was actually, thank you very much,” she replied haughtily, “so what?”

                “Well then mum, riddle me this,” I began. “If it takes ten minutes to walk to the station, twenty-five minutes to get the train to Paddington, fifteen minutes to navigate around the Tube and a further ten minutes to walk to the Ritz, how long does our journey take altogether?” I sighed.

                She paused for a moment, doing all the addition. “Well, if we add an extra ten minutes for error, one hour and ten minutes.” She stopped, and frowned. “Your point is?”

                I rolled my eyes. She still didn’t get it. I got up from my now-uncomfortable position on the floor, and replied, “Then please explain to me why we are setting out almost three hours early?”

                “Because,” she snapped back in a hushed tone, “we always end up getting lost when we go to London. There is, of course, the unwritten rule of not speaking to anyone on the Tube, so you can’t ask them for help-“

                I cut her off, adding, “Yeah, I feel sorry for anyone visiting England who’s lost in the Underground. They’ll have a bad time.”

                She just ploughed on. “- and there are no maps which are simple enough to show all the roads without missing any vital detail. So, let’s go! I’ve put your breakfast out on the table; it’s ready for you to eat. Please can you at least get dressed and come downstairs, and then we’ll work something out.”