Someone once said that the best stories always feature a newcomer. The arrival of Ren McCormack in the town of Bomont, Dorothy in the land of Oz, or in my case, Virginia Otis in a country where people drive on the wrong side of the street.
Here I am in un-jolly old England, cooped up with my mom and brothers on the way to some place nobody ever heard of. My dad came over early to start his research at the university. Mom says the grant he got is some big deal, the kind of thing that physicists get all excited about, but I don't see why he had to drag all of us along.
"Ginny," Mom's voice says from the seat in front of me. "Don't look so grim. You know, living in another country could give you a whole new perspective."
"If I don't die of boredom first," I say.
I turn my attention back to the letter I'm writing.
All my friends are back home in America. They're probably just getting back into school after their summer vacation. We were supposed to start our junior year of high school together, but it's too late for that now, and this trip has no end in sight. None of us know how long Dad will want to stay in England. It's so unfair. It's almost the twenty-first century! I am certainly old enough to make my own choices and go where I want.
And it's clear that I won't be home in time for homecoming.
I look out at the rolling green hills of the countryside. I can't tell if it's morning or afternoon with all of the mist. I miss Indiana. I miss the sun. The temperature dropped at least twenty degrees when we left the airport a few hours ago. I had to bundle up in my giant, fur-lined coat bought especially for this trip. Don't these trains have heaters?
"Canterville, next station," declares a voice coming up the aisle of our car. It's the conductor. "Next stop, Canterville!"
He announces Canterville as if it's New York City. England has strange old names for everything though, and I'd bet a lot of pounds that this town was going to be about as lively as a graveyard.
My littlest brother, Adam, jumps out of his seat and runs across the aisle. He shakes my other brother out of his sleep.
"Washington, wake up! We're here!" he says. I can't help but feel a twinge of annoyance.
We hear squeaking of train brakes. Adam stares out the window with his nose pressed against the rain-spattered glass.
"Oh, I can see Dad!" Washington says as the train screeches to a halt. He and Adam race out of the compartment. Mom gets up, hefting her large bag, and follows swiftly after them. I resist the temptation to stay on the train and I slowly follow after them.
The station is completely deserted. No surprise there. There were probably seven people total on our train, four of them members of my family.
Dad stands beside the station master's office, a big grin on his face.
"Sorry about this crazy weather," he's telling Mom. "You know they get four seasons in a day here. This will blow over quickly. Hi," he taps my arm and then turns to my brothers.
"Guys, how was the trip?"
"The plane was bumpy, and Washington threw up in one of those little bags!" Adam says dramatically.
"Adam, spare the details," says Mom.
"And how about London?" asks Dad.
"We went to Madame Tussauds—" Washington starts.
"—and they had this scary part with Jack the Ripper and everybody!" Adam cries.
The wax figures may have been interesting enough for my brothers, but I had kept glancing at my watch all the way through our visit. As for the wax figures being scary, the idea was laughable.
"Guys, this is Mr. Umney," Dad says, and I suddenly realize I hadn't seen the old man approach. Portly Mr. Umney has white sideburns long enough to reach the collar of his station uniform. He gives a salute.
"Mr. and Mrs. Umney will be taking care of us," Dad tells us, then turns to Mr. Umney. "My family—my wife Lucille, my daughter Virginia, and these are my sons, Washington and Adam."
The boys thrust out their hands, eager to show their oh-so-grown-up manners. Mr. Umney looks startled, but I'm just grateful he didn't say anything about Mom and Dad's choice in baby names. Clearly they had turned to some Revolutionary War documentary for inspiration each time Mom got pregnant.
"Help Mr. Umney with the baggage, guys," says Dad.
The train behind us begins to depart. I watch it leave the station.
There goes my last hope of returning home.
"Ginny," Dad says. "You're gonna love this place."
"I can hardly wait," I say quietly.
Dad leads us through the station and out to the other side. An ancient-looking car is parked out front, with an open driver's seat and enormous headlights.
"Oh wow!" Mom exclaims. "Is this for us?"
We approach the car and I climb into the left hand passenger's seat. I shut the door right as Washington and Adam rush up.
"Ha ha," I say mirthlessly, smirking at their dejected faces.
"Come boys, climb in the back here," says Dad enthusiastically.
Mr. Umney climbs into the driver's seat beside me and we pull away from the station. I glance at the clouds, hoping against hope that it won't start pouring while I'm in the uncovered front seat.
For a while we drive in silence. Mr. Umney doesn't engage me in small talk, which I can't decide is a good or a bad thing. Why do we need a caretaker, anyway? It's not like we're going to be living in an old English castle or something.
I suddenly realize I don't actually know where we'll be staying. I hope it's small and out of the way. I don't want to get attached to it before we leave again. Whenever that is.
Soon enough, we enter the town of Canterville.
It's nothing special, with its white picket fences, tall hedges, and brown-bricked houses. People are out in their yards sweeping walkways or trimming bushes. I'm just starting to think about my friends back home when I spot a dodgy, grey-haired lady and a younger couple staring at our car.
"Ooh, that must be the new ones," the grey-haired lady says to the couple as we drive past.
Great. Canterville is apparently so small that the newcomers are the biggest subject of gossip.
That wasn't the last time someone noticed our arrival, however.
Two gentlemen outside a pub tip their hats to us with a cordial "morning," but they continue to stare at us as we drive on. Another woman spots us while cleaning her upstairs window and promptly shuts it.
I suddenly realize Mr. Umney is looking at me. His expression is scrutinizing, and I look away, feeling uneasy.
A couple minutes later we enter the countryside again. The road is lined with a wire fence and tall, brown weeds. The grass turns a cold green and trees seem to get taller as we drive along. Soon we turn a corner and head down a long, narrow path lined with enormous oaks.
Then I hear a pounding of hooves on my side of the car.
"Good morning!" a voice shouts.
A young man in a high-collared overcoat and floppy brown hair rides along beside us. He smiles at me and I look down at my hands. The car rounds a bend and the young man on the horse is soon out of sight.
A hedge appears on our left and we pass through a stone archway, right up to place we must be staying. It's the color of red sandstone. Three stories high, there's only one word I can think of that effectively describes the place.
"It's a castle!"
"It's a real castle!"
"Awesome!"
Washington and Adam waste no time in jumping out as soon as the car stops.
"Welcome to Canterville Hall—home for the next four months," Dad says. "What do you think, Ginny?"
"It's old," I sigh.
It's bad enough that I had to endure Hamlet back in London. This looks as if I'll be living on the set.
"May I present Mrs. Umney!" Mr. Umney announces. At his side stands a plump woman, clearly the resident grandma.
"I bid you welcome to Canterville Hall, sir, madam," she says, then gives me a nod. "And to the young mistress, welcome!"
"Mistress?" Washington sniggers. "Ginny's a mistress?"
"What are we?" Adam demands.
"You are the young masters," Mrs. Umney says in a longsuffering sort of tone.
"Masters? We're masters?" the boys yell. "Lookout!" They take off into the manor. Mom runs after them, followed closely by Dad and Mrs. Umney.
I have no desire to go inside. Canterville Hall may be large, but it certainly wouldn't be featured in New Homes and Accommodations magazine.
I look back at Mr. Umney, who is climbing into the driver's seat of the car again, probably to go park it. Rather than hang around, I hurry inside the manor.
The entrance hall is dark and heavily curtained, with patterned carpets and several containers for umbrellas and walking sticks. Mom, Dad, and Mrs. Umney are staring at something off to our right.
"Awesome!"
"Terrific!" I hear the boys exclaim. They're running around a large dining room, which has a ceiling taller than our entire house back home. A gold-plated chandelier hangs in the middle of the ceiling, right above a long, dark table set with ten chairs. Suits of armor flank the walls, and a fire blazes in an enormous fireplace.
"Guys, get over here," Dad says, and my brothers come running out of the dining room. They rush down another long hall, followed closely by my parents and Mrs. Umney, but I take a step into the dining room for a closer look. This is no home for a family like mine. This is the home for a king.
"After you've had a chance to get settled," Mrs. Umney's voice is growing softer, "we'll be serving an early supper."
I turn into the long hall they disappeared down. Paintings line the right hand wall, hanging above unused fireplaces, wooden bookshelves, long couches, and tables with lamps.
"These are the lords of Canterville Hall," Dad is saying. "That's Lord Henry, you'll meet him tomorrow when he comes down to sign the lease."
"Hiram!" I hear Mom whisper to Dad. "I don't see how we can afford this. And the servants?"
"Well, it's dirt cheap," Dad explains. "These aristocratic families are all going broke and they have to rent these places out. And then there's the silly stories."
He goes into the room at the end of the hall.
"Stories? What kind of stories?" Mom follows after him.
I stop to take a look at primeval piano when a painting on the wall catches my eye. Its model is a middle-aged man in Shakespearean-era getup, a sword hanging from his belt. It isn't his costume, however, or his position that makes me pause. It's his face. I've never seen a face so confusing. His mouth is turned down in a frown, and his eyebrows are furrowed, but his eyes don't match what appears to be an angry expression. They're softer, less severe.
"What was that?" Adam's voice cries out from the next room.
"Oh, uh, pay no attention to that," Mrs. Umney answers him.
"Just the wind, these old places make a lot of noise," Dad says. "Come on!"
It sounds like they're going up a flight of stairs. I tear my eyes away from the strange painting and hurry after them.