Skylark by Sheila Simonson

chattering
schoolchildren, and the trim businessmen striding alone or in pairs toward the City. I left
Kensington Gardens at the main gate and jogged in place until the light turned green. The traffic
had thickened by then, along with the sweet scent of exhaust fumes.
    Slowing to a walk, I retraced my path. My favorite sidewalk cafe had opened. Also the
news agent next door. Elbow deep in uniformed school children buying sweets, I waded over to
the spread of newspapers and chose a tabloid at random--the Daily Mail . Also copies of
the Independent and the Times . Ann liked to read about royalty.
    I bought cafe latté and a croissant with the last of my change and settled down at
a small white table just outside the door. A pleasant babble of French rose from a clutch of
young matrons at the next table, two with babies in carriers. I sipped until the caffeine
jump-started my brain, then I started looking for word of Milos's accident or our break-in or both.
    There was nothing on the burglary. The Independent gave Milos a paragraph on
page three, a bare summary of fact: Passenger Assaulted on Underground. The Daily
Mail was less restrained. Commuter Stabbed! it shouted. Terror on the Tube! and, in smaller
type, MP Calls for Guards on Public Transport. No One Safe In Thatcher's London Says Liberal
Spokesman.
    I read the Daily Mail item through twice. The prose was purple, the writer had
embroidered, and the story boiled down to the same facts the Independent had reported.
I deduced that the police had made a statement. There was no mention of my name or Ann's, but
the Daily Mail investigator had tracked down Bert Hoskins, who said colorful things
about foreigners. His wife must have been unhappy when he showed up late.
    At eight I walked back to the flat. When I entered the hall, Ann made an interrogatory
noise so I answered her, low-voiced, and slipped into the bathroom. I was in dire need of a
shower, but the flat didn't have a shower. There was a Victorian tub. It had separate taps for hot
and cold water, so it wasn't even possible to attach a rubber hose with a showerhead. Baths are
for meditation. I had already meditated my way past the tulip beds in Hyde Park. Sighing, I
turned on the taps.
    I rummaged through the shambles of my bedroom and found black tailored pants, a grey
blazer, and a fuchsia blouse that didn't look too crumpled.
    While I bathed I did an inventory of chores. I would have to take my raincoat to the
    dry-cleaning shop by the Tube station. And tidy the flat. And cash travelers' checks, and go to the
police station to sign my two statements, and visit Milos--where was St. Botolph's? I was leaning
back in the tub trying to remember the cross street when I found myself drifting off to sleep. I sat
up with a start, climbed from the tub, and almost blacked out from the effect of the steaming
water. A shower would not have done that to me.
    Cross and groggy, I dried off and dressed. My face looked pallid in the fogged mirror. I
dabbed on some lipstick, gave my hair a last damp fluff and went out. Ann was sitting at the
table in her pink robe, staring at the coffee pot.
    "Good morning."
    "Lark, honey, will you press the damned lid down? Pouring hot water into that little old
pot took all my strength."
    I obliged, grinning. "I hope I didn't wake you."
    She blinked. "You may have or you may not. Who knows? I had to face the day sooner
or later."
    I poured two cups. "I brought you a copy of the Times ."
    She looked around, still blinking.
    "I left it in the bedroom. Don't move. I'll get it for you. Drink your coffee."
    When I returned she had drunk half a cup and was half-focused.
    "Do you want me to find your glasses for you?"
    "I'm near-sighted, Lark. I don't need glasses to read." She raised the Times between us in the universal don't-talk-now signal, so I picked up my Independent and
began to read the other news stories, the ones I had skipped over in the cafe.
    Princess Diana had indeed worn shorts to her son's