Sisterchicks Go Brit! Read online

  “Yes, thank you,” I added.

  Opal gave a sweet little shake of her head and said something that caught Kellie and me off guard. “You Americans do tend to overstate everything.”

  That’s when we realized the twin we had supposed was Rose that morning was really Opal. Rose was the one who had been sitting beside us at the table all along while Opal was the one serving the eggs, tea, and toast. In their matching robes it was nearly impossible to tell them apart. I kept scrutinizing their hands and faces, trying to find some distinguishing mark.

  I spotted the one clue I thought I could count on. On her wedding ring finger, Opal wore a gold band with an inset iridescent stone. An opal. I had first noticed the ring when she was serving us gingersnaps at her apartment a few weeks ago. Opal wears the opal ring.

  “More tea?”

  Before Kellie or I could respond to Rose, Virgil made a grand entrance. And I do mean a grand-slam, crazy-as-a-Mad-Hatter entrance.

  He swung open the back door in the kitchen and entered the breakfast room with Boswald tucked under his arm. Boswald was wearing an argyle sweater with a harness-style leash over his midsection. Over Virgil’s barreled midsection he wore a matching argyle sweater covered by a striped navy blue and white apron. On his head a tall, floppy white chef’s hat skimmed the top of the doorway.

  “I’m on my way to commence with the pancakes.” His booming voice seemed to fill every inch of the previously peaceful breakfast room. “Who’s coming with me, then? Opal? Miss Kellie? Elizabeth?” He gave me a bow, and his puffy white hat gave a flop as he teased me with “Your majesty.”

  “You’re early.” Rose glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s not quite—”

  “Eight,” Opal finished for her. Neither of them expressed any other surprise or disapproval over Virgil’s outfit or performance.

  I glanced at Kellie. She had covered her mouth with her hand and seemed to be trying valiantly not to laugh aloud.

  Virgil offered no explanation for his outfit or his behavior. He simply stood his ground with his gaze fixed on Opal. She was peering into her teacup.

  With a wave of her hand, Rose said, “We’ll be over—”

  “Soon,” Opal said softly.

  “Well, I should hope.” Virgil gave Kellie and me a nod, causing his Poppin’ Fresh chef’s hat to slip forward. No matter. He turned without making an adjustment, and we heard the back door close behind him.

  I could tell Kellie was having a difficult time holding in her mirth. We sat quietly, anticipating some sort of explanation.

  “Honestly, Opal, I don’t see why you encourage him so. Virgil will never amount to—”

  “He’s still Virgil,” Opal said with finality in her voice. “I wish you would—”

  “Perhaps I shall.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Indeed.”

  With sheltered glances at each other, I pursed my lips, and Kellie pressed a finger to the side of her nose. We just had witnessed the most civilized sibling argument ever. The subject of debate was obviously Virgil, and it appeared Opal had acquired a small victory.

  “Shrove Tuesday,” Rose said out of the blue.

  “Excuse me?” Kellie said.

  “Today is Shrove Tuesday, in case you were wondering why we’re going to church this morning after the race.”

  Kellie quickly put down her teacup and covered her mouth as she coughed. I expected tea to come out her nose at any minute. We definitely had walked in on the Mad Hatter’s tea party this morning.

  “You’re welcome to come with us, if you like,” Opal said.

  “Thank you, but we need to be on our way.” Then to prove my determination, I quickly munched my last bite of toast and gave Kellie a let’s-get-outta-here-before-the-White-Rabbit-shows-up look.

  She didn’t catch my message. Instead, she asked a fateful question. “What is Shrove Tuesday?”

  Rose stared at her sister as if Opal had invited sheer heathens into her home. “Shrove Tuesday is the day before Ash Wednesday, which is, of course the beginning of—”

  “The season of Lent,” Opal finished.

  “I’m familiar with Lent,” Kellie said. “The forty days before Easter. And Ash Wednesday, of course. But I’ve never heard of Shrove Tuesday.”

  Opal tilted her head to her sister and in a confiding voice said, “They attend the church I told you about. The one with the contemporary service.”

  Rose lifted her chin and gave a knowing look. We weren’t heathens. Just reprobates.

  “What does shrove mean?” Kellie asked.

  I tried to get her attention and subtly pointed at my watch so she would realize we needed to be on our way. But she was caught up in the discussion.

  “The Shriveners were the priests in the Middle Ages,” Rose said. “They listened to confessions and prepared contrite hearts for Lent. Hence, Shrove Tuesday, the day when the faithful abstained from such rich foods as eggs, butter, and milk—”

  “To demonstrate a penitent heart.”

  Rose wasn’t about to be outdone by her sister, so she added, “Which is why the women used up those ingredients on Shrove Tuesday before the church bells called the repentant to gather—”

  “At midday,” Opal concluded, as if everything should now be clear to us.

  It wasn’t.

  Kellie asked, “Is Shrove Tuesday the same as Mardi Gras?”

  “The French!” Rose and Opal crossed their arms in unison.

  “How disappointing that the Americans are familiar with the French Mardi Gras but not with our Shrove Tuesday.” Rose shook her head at Opal, as if her sister were responsible for our lack of understanding.

  “Doesn’t Mardi Gras mean ‘Fat Tuesday’?” Kellie asked.

  “Yes. Not repentant Tuesday or confession Tuesday,” Rose pointed out with an air of disgust. “They turned it into a day of debauchery.”

  “But the idea is the same, isn’t it?” Kellie asked. “The premise is to feast on Tuesday and start forty days of depriving yourself on Wednesday.”

  “Well …” Rose tilted her head from one side to the other, as if weighing the question. “Yes and no.”

  “They don’t know about the race,” Opal said in an aside to Rose. It sounded like another apology for us.

  “Does the race have anything to do with women carrying frying pans?” Kellie asked.

  Now I thought I was the only sane guest left at this tea party. Kellie had gone bonkers right along with Virgil and his pancake hat.

  “I saw the sign on our way into town. Liz, didn’t you see the sign with the women in head scarves running with frying pans?”

  “No, I missed that.”

  “The sign was for the Shrove Tuesday pancake race,” Opal said matter-of-factly.

  “The race is today,” Rose added.

  “So,” Kellie said slowly putting together all the clues, “does that mean Virgil was going to make pancakes?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did you think?” Opal asked with her endearing, soft-eyed innocence.

  Neither Kellie nor I answered that one.

  “As I said, you’re welcome to come if you like.” Opal stole a glance at the clock. “We really should get ready to go.”

  Rose and Opal excused themselves from the breakfast table and left Kellie and me to try to make sense of the last half hour.

  “What do you think?” Kellie asked.

  “I think it’s better for our longstanding friendship if I don’t say what I’m truly thinking right now.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I think. I think we should go to the race.”

  I gave Kellie my best you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.

  “It seems like an extraordinary opportunity.”

  “I’ll agree with your choice of the word extraordinary. Doesn’t all this seem just a little odd to you?”

  “What do you mean? We’re in an old English village, and we have a chance to observe a very old tradition.”

>   “What tradition? Pancakes? Races? Church on Tuesday? I’m so confused.”

  “I am too, but I’m strangely intrigued by all this. What do you think, Liz? Could we follow the twins to the race and then come back and get our things and leave right after that?”

  “Okay.”

  “Really? You’re okay with this?”

  I sighed and gave a resigned shrug. “I can’t explain it, but I have the feeling we’re being hoodwinked somehow.”

  Kellie laughed. “What exactly do you think these two little elves are going to do with us? We can leave anytime we want.”

  “Anytime we want. I’m going to hold you to those words.”

  “Fine.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  And off we went to the upstairs guest room to get ready to watch some sort of race that involved women in head scarves with frying pans. Never in all my imaginings did I see this as the ideal way to spend my precious few days in England.

  My theory of being conned by these two sisters wasn’t going to carry any weight with Kellie until I had evidence of wrongdoing. So far all we had experienced was gracious hospitality and free plane tickets. Not exactly reasons to accuse anyone of deceptive behavior. Still, the unfolding of these events felt peculiar.

  When it was time to go, Kellie and I joined the twins at the front door. My bad attitude and skepticism had dissipated, and I had to smile when I saw their outfits.

  Opal and Rose had shed their matching bathrobes and donned matching green knit sweaters and plaid wool skirts. Rose said the new ensemble was her welcome home gift for her sister. The only part of their outfits that didn’t match was their shoes. Opal was wearing hot pink tennis shoes, or “trainers,” as she called them. Rose appeared jealous of the racy little cuties as she stood next to her sister in her well-worn brown loafers.

  “It’s a ridiculous notion,” Rose was saying as Kellie and I approached.

  “It may be ridiculous, but when will I again have the chance? I’ve made my choice.” Opal held a frying pan in which a single, misshapen pancake was cooling. She brushed past us and made a beeline for the kitchen.

  “Is everything all right?” Kellie asked.

  “Her life in Florida certainly has changed her.” Rose shook her head. “My sister has not been quite this bold since the last time she was in the race.”

  “Opal was in this Shrove Tuesday race?” Kellie asked.

  “We both were. Three years in a row.”

  “Four,” Opal corrected her. She had returned to the entryway wearing an apron and was donning a head scarf. Apparently she was now decked out in the official racing apparel for the Shrove Tuesday pancake race.

  “Did either of you win?” Kellie asked.

  “No, Isobel Dix won all three years,” Rose reported.

  “Four,” Opal said. “It was four years.”

  “No, Isobel won three years in a row. Florence won that first year, don’t you remember?”

  “What year was that?” Kellie asked.

  “Nineteen fifty,” Opal spouted quickly.

  “Nineteen fifty,” Rose echoed. At last they agreed on something.

  Next to the front door were two lightweight folding chairs. The twins looked at the stools, then sedately looked at Kellie and me as if they didn’t dare ask the obvious. We didn’t make them ask. We picked up the stools and followed them out the door.

  “I hate to ask another question,” I said as we strolled a few feet behind the twins in what felt like proper ladies-in-waiting formation. “But can one of you tell me what this race is all about? I don’t understand the connection between the frying pans and the church and—”

  “It’s a tradition that goes back to the Middle Ages,” Rose began. “It started when a churchgoing woman in Olney had not finished making her Shrove Tuesday pancakes. The church bells began to ring a few minutes before midday, calling her to the service. She—”

  “Didn’t want to leave the last of her butter, eggs, and flour in the pan to burn, so she ran to the church, flipping the pancake in her frying pan. And when she arrived—”

  “This part is hearsay,” Rose said with a disapproving wag of her head.

  “The woman was given a kiss of brotherly love from the vicar in recognition of her noble efforts,” Opal finished for Rose.

  “And that is why Olney continues to celebrate the pancake race every Shrove Tuesday. Resident women run from the market square to the church at noon.”

  “Five minutes before twelve o’clock,” Opal corrected her. “That’s when the church bells are rung.”

  “And you’re going to run in the race this year, Opal?” I asked.

  With her shoulders back she said, “I intend to give it a noble effort, like a true daughter of Olney.”

  I thought I heard a snicker escape from Rose, but I couldn’t be sure because the narrow streets were teeming with spectators talking, walking, and reserving viewing spots at the starting line.

  As soon as we entered the congested area, Rose and Opal caused an exhilarating stir. The twins glowed, grinned, and all but kissed every baby they saw along the way. Their stature seemed to grow with every greeting. Many of the older residents expressed delight at seeing Opal again. Others—most likely those who were new to Olney—were stunned to see that Rose had a twin and kept doing the same sort of double take Kellie and I had done the day before.

  Everyone made note that Opal was dressed for the race and all but hoisted her onto their shoulders by the time she reached the starting line. She was hailed as the wild-card, last-minute entry, but the judges wouldn’t go for it.

  “The rules clearly state that the race is open only to current residents of Olney. In that you are no longer a resident, Opal, we cannot allow you to compete. Should your residency change in the future, you would, of course, be welcome.” The man delivering the news to a disappointed gathering of Opal fans was growing red in the face, which soon matched his red blazer.

  Kellie and I went from maids-in-waiting to personal bodyguards as we moved away from the starting line and tried to keep up with a smug Rose accompanied by a humbled Opal.

  We rounded the corner of the main street and were directed to Rose’s preferred viewing spot. If we leaned forward and looked left, we could see the starting line. To our right, the racecourse wove around a bend before hitting the straightaway to the church. We could see the looming church spire behind the buildings. The location was ideal for viewing the race’s start as well as for the reigning princesses properly holding court.

  Kellie and I set up the chairs on the front row exactly as Rose directed. My conspiracy theory seemed to be playing out. These two ever-clever twins had taken us on as their handmaidens.

  Kellie seemed oblivious to the oddities going on. She was caught up in the village charm and chatted with those seated around us.

  “Are you by chance from Liberal?” one of the British bystanders asked Kellie and me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Liberal, Kansas. Are you from Liberal?”

  “No, we’re from Florida.”

  “I thought you might be from Liberal. They’re our sister city, you know. We’ve been competing with them since the 1950s for the fastest time.”

  “Are you saying a race like this one takes place in Kansas?” Kellie asked.

  “Indeed. The pressure is on us this year. We need a win.”

  Kellie turned to me. “Maybe next year we should go to Kansas on Shrove Tuesday.”

  When I saw her merry expression, I realized I needed to lighten up. We were in England. And this was by far the most hilarious and quirky thing I had ever seen. Why was I so uptight?

  Opal was seated with her feet tapping in her hot pink sneakers. She held the frying pan in her lap as if ready to jump in the game on a moment’s notice. Looking at her made me realize that was the way I needed to position myself for the rest of the trip. Expectant. Flexible.

  So what if we hadn’t gone to London last night as planned? Why should th
at ruin my attitude or make me cynical? I took a deep breath of the chilly, damp air and felt my heart mellow.

  We watched as a dozen or so racers lined up at the starting point. I hadn’t expected such a mix of sizes, shapes, and ages. All the women wore skirts covered by aprons in a wide variety of colors and styles. All of them wore some sort of kerchief or scarf on their heads. And all of them wore modern-style running shoes. It was quite an eclectic array, as each held out her frying pan and listened to the instructions being given by an official-looking gentleman in a red blazer.

  “It appears that the outfits haven’t changed much since the two of you raced in the fifties,” Kellie said.

  “Except for the shoes,” I added.

  Rose gave an uncomplimentary snort.

  On the mark of some sort of signal we couldn’t hear, the line of women flipped their pancakes in the air just once. It seemed they had to prove their pancakes weren’t glued to the pans. The test run of the flying flapjacks brought an eager round of approval from the hundreds of spectators.

  “Just about ready,” the man behind us said.

  The ancient Shrove bell rang out from the church steeple, and off they went! The herd of seriously competitive women with their aprons and scarves hit the asphalt. Images of the past and present raced past us as flapjacks flipped, head scarves flapped, and the women pounded their way toward the parish church of St. Peter and St. Paul.

  That quickly, they rounded the corner and were out of view. All except for one lone trotter: Opal.

  While we were watching the official race zoom past us, Opal had sprung from her seat and now was trotting along, playfully flipping her pancake. No one was going to tell her she couldn’t participate in the race fifty-some years after her last competition.

  She flipped her pancake again with an exaggerated grin or grimace. It was difficult to tell which. Both her hands then grasped the frying pan and clasped it right under her bosom. I assumed the wrists-under-the-bustline position was for added athletic support. She wasn’t exactly an athlete, but she definitely could use the support.

  A spectator behind us said, “The poor dear looks as if she’s been harpooned with a long-handled frying pan and is trying to pull it out!”