Late afternoon. I can feel the gravel through the thin soles of my shoes as I follow my cousin from the car toward the imposing manor house.
"Who lives here again?" I ask, struggling to keep up with Rachel's longer legs. My glamorous older cousin is eighteen, and a good foot taller than me at twelve.
"Nobody but Alfred right now." I catch the sadness in her voice.
"Alfred?"
"Mr Pennyworth to you. The butler. He's from London too, you know."
I digest this new snippet of information as we hurry around the well-tended flower beds towards the kitchens. Rachel knocks on the kitchen door, and a few moments later a beaming old man opens it.
"Hello, Miss Dawes. Glad to see you. My goodness, you're more grown up and elegant every time I see you." His familiar accent, London laced with Cockney, is a shock to hear after a week of American twang.
"Hello, Alfred," Rachel smiles. "I'm so sorry to bother you like this, but Mom simply had to check if that vase was here. I'm sure it smashed years ago, but you know she won't rest until she's checked everywhere."
"Absolutely," Alfred nods. "And who's this?"
"This is my cousin Monica, from England."
"Goodness me." He peers down at me. "Now there is somewhere I haven't been back to for a while. Where do you live?"
"London, in Primrose Hill," I answer shyly.
"What a lovely part of the world. Are you over here for long?"
"She's leaving tomorrow," Rachel answers for me. "Her mom and mine are off seeing Great Aunt Helen, so we're having a day out. There's a busy day ahead…"
"And you'll not be wanting to delay your fun any longer than necessary," Alfred finishes her sentence. "You know where the attics are, Miss Dawes."
"Thanks. Can I leave Monica here?"
"Whatever you wish. I'm rather busy at present, but I'm sure she won't be any trouble."
They leave me alone in the kitchen. It is strangely empty, and all the plates on display on the dresser and in the glass-fronted cabinets have a thin film of dust over them, as if they are never used. I get up from my seat and wander over to the refrigerator. It is huge, white and very American, and having never seen one so large, I cannot take my eyes off it.
I am about to reach out to open the door, just to see what lies inside, when I hear footsteps. I whisk back to the chair I had been sitting on just in time, as the kitchen door opens and a tall, dark haired young man enters the kitchen.
He's handsome. Even I, aged twelve and with a studied disdain for boys, can see that. He's handsome and tanned, and wearing jeans and a pale blue shirt. He is halfway across the kitchen when he notices me, sitting frozen at the kitchen table, and starts in surprise. "Who are you?" he asks, and though he's rude it somehow doesn't matter.
"Monica." He seems even more surprised at my British accent.
"Are you some relative of Alfred?" he asks, confused.
"I'm Rachel Dawes' cousin." This really does shock him; he goes pale underneath his tanned skin.
"Rachel… is she here?"
"Yes. Who are you?" I ask, figuring that it may be bad manners, but he's already been just as impolite.
"I'm Bruce." When I don't respond, he speaks again. "Bruce Wayne? I own this place?"
"Oh." And because this seems insufficient, I add, "Rachel mentions you all the time."
I don't know where it comes from, but his eyes light up like Christmas. "Really?" he asks, taken aback. "What has she said about me?"
"What has who said about you, Bruce?" Rachel is back, an old crystal vase tucked carefully under one arm.
"Rachel! I was just… I was just talking to your cousin," Bruce says, quickly standing up straight and running a hand through his hair. I look from one to the other, sensing a tension I can only begin to guess at.
"Really? About what?"
"Nothing much. What's that you've got there?" He gestures to the vase.
"It's one of Mom's, she left it here in storage when we moved out. She's been looking for it everywhere, and I'm so glad it's been safely here all along." Rachel has moved to put the table between herself and Bruce. "So are you off to Princeton in the fall, then?"
"I was thinking about taking a year out," Bruce says slowly. "Going off and seeing the world, maybe."
"That's nice." My cousin's voice is dead.
"What about you? I heard about your scholarship for Harvard, congratulations!"
"Thanks." Her cheeks are slightly red, but I can tell this is an old question for Rachel. "It should be great. Anyway, we should get going. We've got plans for the day."
"Oh, OK… well, it was good to see you. You should come by more often." I can tell that Bruce means it.
When we are back in the car, the vase is on my lap and Rachel is silent, biting her lower lip as she drives. "Who was he?" I ask, not needing to elaborate.
"Bruce Wayne. His parents used to own that house; my mom worked for them. They died about ten years ago, and now he owns it."
"He seemed nice."
"Bruce is… well, he's Bruce. He was a really sweet kid."
"Isn't he sweet now?" Something flickers across my cousin's face.
"He's different to what he was. Hey, hold onto that vase a little better. I don't want it smashed! Now, where do you want to go first? There's a great mall just outside Westhills, or we could go to downtown Gotham, maybe see some sights too…"
I look up out of the passenger window at the blue sky, and though I'm listening to Rachel, I'm really thinking about Bruce Wayne. I wish I'd had longer to talk to him, more time to study his face, the expressions on it…
I wonder if I shall ever see him again.