The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street Read Free Page A

the pants) only to find there wasn’t a member of the staff in sight. The other passengers, lining up to leave the plane, stared at me curiously as, red-faced but awash with relief, I gathered up everything in my free hand and got on the end of the line. Now that I knew I was being met, I was giddy and half drunk with excitement. I had never really expected to make it to London—and I’d made it.
    I reached the stewardess who was saying goodbye to disembarking passengers, and told her I was Miss Hanff. She pointed to the bottom of the ramp and said:
    â€œThe gentleman is waiting for you.”
    And there he was, a big, towering Colonel Blimp with a beaming smile on his face and both arms outstretched, waiting to get my dainty feet onto British soil. As I went down the ramp to meet him, I thought:
    â€œJean was right. Keep a diary.”

Thursday, June 17
    Midnight                
    There’s a radio in the headboard of this bed, the BBC just bid me goodnight. The entire radio system here goes to bed at midnight.
    Arrival triumphant.
    â€œHelene, my dear!” boomed the Colonel, stooping to kiss me on the cheek, nobody would have believed he’d never set eyes on me before. He’s a beaming giant of a man with tufted gray eyebrows and tufted white sideburns, and a vast stomach that marches on ahead of him; and he strode off to see to my suitcase ramrod straight, a Sahib out of Kipling’s Old Injah. He came back, followed by a porter with the suitcase on a trolley, put an arm around me and walked me past the Immigration and Customs tables, calling genially to the men behind them, “Friend of mine!” and that was all I saw of Immigration and Customs.
    â€œNow then,” he said. “Are you being met?”
    I told him Nora and Sheila Doel were there somewhere.
    â€œWhat do they look like?” he asked, scanning the crowd jammed behind a rope that cordoned off the arrival area.
    â€œI have no idea,” I said.
    â€œHave they a snapshot of you?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œDo they know what you’re wearing?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œBut my dear girl!” he boomed. “How did you expect to find them?! Wait here.”
    He parked me in front of an Information Desk and strode off. A moment later, a voice over the public-address system asked Mrs. Doel to come to the Information Desk—and a pretty, black-haired woman ducked under the cordon directly in front of me, thrust a sheaf of roses in my arms and kissed me.
    â€œSheila said it was you!” said Nora in a rich Irish brogue. “We saw every woman off the plane. I said, ‘That one’s too blond,’ and, ‘That one’s too common.’ Sheila just kept sayin’, ‘It’s the little one in the blue trouser suit, she looks so excited.’”
    The Colonel steamed up and got introduced, and we went out to Nora’s car. She and Sheila got in front, I got in back and the Colonel announced he would follow in his car, unless Sheila would rather he led? Did she know the way to the Cumberland?
    â€œThe Kenilworth,” I corrected. I explained about the two hotel rooms and the Colonel stared at me in horror.
    â€œWell, in that case,” he bellowed, “some total stranger at the Cumberland has a roomful of beautiful roses!”
    He drove off to the Cumberland to reclaim his roses and I drove off toward the Kenilworth with Nora’s roses in my arms, thinking, “It was roses, roses, all the way,” and trying to remember who wrote it.
    It was dark and rainy as we drove along a highway that might have been any highway leading to any city, instead of the road to the one city I’d waited a lifetime to see. Nora was lecturing me for not staying with her and Sheila in North London (“Frank always meant you to stay with us!”), and as we entered London both of them pointed