do we just tip at the end, or every time he stows our luggage?” Joe Riddley usually does our tipping.
“At the end, plus if he performs an extraordinary service.”
“Looks to me like it’s going to be an extraordinary service every time he heaves all those bags into the bus, as tottery as he is.”
When he finished, he looked questioningly at Joyce. She gave him her plastic, practiced smile. “That’s all,” she said in her bright tour-guide voice. He shrugged and touched his cap.
When she got closer to Jim, though, her smile turned to another worried frown. “It’s fine,” he said shortly. He climbed aboard and slid into a seat near the front.
“Hey, it’s warm in here!” Brandi bounded up after him. “And we can each have a seat and see out the window.” She took the seat behind Jim.
Joyce climbed on last, consulted with the driver, and announced, “Since none of you had ancestors who came from Glasgow, we’ll only stay here one night before heading north. I suggest you rest this morning. The bus will pick us up at two for a short tour of the city.”
As we rode into town, my energy drained with the drizzle. I propped my head against the window and stared out at bleak trees against a charcoal sky. I nodded as pastures of sodden sheep gave way to slick wet streets of gray houses and Monday morning traffic. My watch showed that Joe Riddley still had hours to sleep. I wished I were lying beside him, reaching out a toe to touch his warm calf. I let out an involuntary yelp as we passed a large thermometer. “Two degrees?” I clutched my trench coat and knew I was going to regret having left the liner at home.
Dorothy laughed. “That’s two Celsius, thirty-four Fahrenheit. Not too bad for early spring, eh? And aren’t the colors marvelous? All those grays and browns! Whistler should have painted this.” That morning, the pink in her cheeks looked more like delight than painful shyness.
“Look at that Scotch broom!” Brandi called, pointing to waterfalls of yellow flowers on bright green stalks beside the road. “We are really in Scotland!”
Nobody answered. My guess was that only Brandi and Dorothy were awake.
Glasgow in the rain is like any big city—slow and dreary. By the time we arrived at the hotel, I was so sleepy that I followed Laura to our room in a blur. I didn’t bother to look for a nightgown, just stripped down to underwear and socks and fell into bed.
A big mistake.
The bed was so icy, I felt like warm ham in a frozen bun. I waited a few minutes for my body heat to thaw the sheets, but my corpuscles began to solidify instead. Finally I faced the inevitable, climbed out of bed, and rummaged in my suitcase for a flannel gown. I topped it with a sweater, climbed back into bed, and lay there mentally reviewing the clothes I’d brought. I concluded that to stay warm, I would need to wear so many layers I would roll through Scotland like a ball.
Why had I let packing in Georgia’s heat lull me into ignoring the average daily temperatures listed in our trip materials? Why hadn’t I remembered that “early spring” is a relative term, depending on your latitude? Even little Cricket knew enough to brag to his friends, “Me-Mama is going to Scotland and it’s way up at the top of the world! ”
I didn’t get warm until about the time Joyce called to say the bus was ready to leave. That’s why I elected, while others looked at Glasgow, to visit that great tourist attraction Marks and Spencer. I roved the department store filling bag after bag with sweaters, slacks, socks, a hat and gloves. While clerks rang up my purchases, I checked my watch to figure out where Joe Riddley and the boys might be. They must be loading the car. Now they are heading west. They must have gotten to I-75 already. Before I knew it, I had bought so many clothes, I had to buy a big new suitcase to put them in.
In the cab on my way back to the hotel, I tried to convert pounds into
“At the end, plus if he performs an extraordinary service.”
“Looks to me like it’s going to be an extraordinary service every time he heaves all those bags into the bus, as tottery as he is.”
When he finished, he looked questioningly at Joyce. She gave him her plastic, practiced smile. “That’s all,” she said in her bright tour-guide voice. He shrugged and touched his cap.
When she got closer to Jim, though, her smile turned to another worried frown. “It’s fine,” he said shortly. He climbed aboard and slid into a seat near the front.
“Hey, it’s warm in here!” Brandi bounded up after him. “And we can each have a seat and see out the window.” She took the seat behind Jim.
Joyce climbed on last, consulted with the driver, and announced, “Since none of you had ancestors who came from Glasgow, we’ll only stay here one night before heading north. I suggest you rest this morning. The bus will pick us up at two for a short tour of the city.”
As we rode into town, my energy drained with the drizzle. I propped my head against the window and stared out at bleak trees against a charcoal sky. I nodded as pastures of sodden sheep gave way to slick wet streets of gray houses and Monday morning traffic. My watch showed that Joe Riddley still had hours to sleep. I wished I were lying beside him, reaching out a toe to touch his warm calf. I let out an involuntary yelp as we passed a large thermometer. “Two degrees?” I clutched my trench coat and knew I was going to regret having left the liner at home.
Dorothy laughed. “That’s two Celsius, thirty-four Fahrenheit. Not too bad for early spring, eh? And aren’t the colors marvelous? All those grays and browns! Whistler should have painted this.” That morning, the pink in her cheeks looked more like delight than painful shyness.
“Look at that Scotch broom!” Brandi called, pointing to waterfalls of yellow flowers on bright green stalks beside the road. “We are really in Scotland!”
Nobody answered. My guess was that only Brandi and Dorothy were awake.
Glasgow in the rain is like any big city—slow and dreary. By the time we arrived at the hotel, I was so sleepy that I followed Laura to our room in a blur. I didn’t bother to look for a nightgown, just stripped down to underwear and socks and fell into bed.
A big mistake.
The bed was so icy, I felt like warm ham in a frozen bun. I waited a few minutes for my body heat to thaw the sheets, but my corpuscles began to solidify instead. Finally I faced the inevitable, climbed out of bed, and rummaged in my suitcase for a flannel gown. I topped it with a sweater, climbed back into bed, and lay there mentally reviewing the clothes I’d brought. I concluded that to stay warm, I would need to wear so many layers I would roll through Scotland like a ball.
Why had I let packing in Georgia’s heat lull me into ignoring the average daily temperatures listed in our trip materials? Why hadn’t I remembered that “early spring” is a relative term, depending on your latitude? Even little Cricket knew enough to brag to his friends, “Me-Mama is going to Scotland and it’s way up at the top of the world! ”
I didn’t get warm until about the time Joyce called to say the bus was ready to leave. That’s why I elected, while others looked at Glasgow, to visit that great tourist attraction Marks and Spencer. I roved the department store filling bag after bag with sweaters, slacks, socks, a hat and gloves. While clerks rang up my purchases, I checked my watch to figure out where Joe Riddley and the boys might be. They must be loading the car. Now they are heading west. They must have gotten to I-75 already. Before I knew it, I had bought so many clothes, I had to buy a big new suitcase to put them in.
In the cab on my way back to the hotel, I tried to convert pounds into
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