For the first time in her life, Meg found herself sitting at the kitchen table not with a cup of black coffee and a pile of unopened mail, but with an "English to English" dictionary, a notebook, and a cup of Earl Grey. Across from her sat Susan, peering over her teacup in a self-satisfied way, as though presiding over a royal court.
"Repeat after me, Meg," Susan said with the calm authority of someone who knew they were right. "There is no such thing as 'American English. There is English, and then there are mistakes."
Meg sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Okay, okay. There is no such thing as American English," she mimicked, her strong Boston accent still clinging to every syllable.
Susan winced. "That's not even remotely close! Where's the refinement? The grace? You sound like you're about to announce the starting lineup at Fenway Park!"
Meg grinned. "I like the way I talk. It's got character."
"It's got something," Susan muttered, before straightening herself. "But for this plan to work, you must become me. And that means you must speak properly. None of this... 'wicked awesome' nonsense."
Meg set her shoulders and cleared her throat, suddenly more serious. "Fine. Let's try again."
The next few days were a whirlwind of linguistic and behavioral training. Susan worked tirelessly to strip Meg of her beloved Boston accent, determined to turn her into the perfect imitation of a posh British lady.
"First, you need to elongate your vowels," Susan instructed one morning, pacing the kitchen. "Say, 'I would like a cup of tea.'"
"I would like a cup of tea," Meg repeated, dragging the words out until they felt unfamiliar.
"Better," Susan nodded, "but you're still using that aggressive Boston tone. Try to sound more detached. Aloof. Like everything in the world mildly disappoints you."
Meg frowned, attempting to summon the feeling of mild disappointment Susan seemed to live in. "I would like... a cup of tea," she tried again, her voice flat and listless, like she'd spent the whole day sucking a lemon.
Susan beamed. "Yes! That's the spirit. Now, let's review what we've learned in your new dictionary."
Meg opened the English-to-English dictionary with a dramatic sigh, flipping through its pages. The dictionary contained British terms and their American translations—basically a long list of words Meg hadn't realized existed. "Chips are fries, crisps are chips, trousers are pants... How do you people survive over there? It's like a puzzle!"
"This is survival, Meg," Susan responded sternly. "They'll catch you in a second if you slip up and say 'pants.'"
"Yeah, because nothing's more embarrassing than calling your trousers pants," Meg muttered sarcastically, but she continued studying.
As the days passed, Meg's Boston twang faded, and she began to speak more like her third cousin. Her attempts to complain about the weather, grumble about the poor service in shops, and feign interest in sheep grew more convincing. Susan even took Meg out to the local farmer's market to practice being British, much to the amusement of those selling their products. Meg learned how to engage in the usual Toadclack conversations, the ones Susan had dreaded her entire life—endless debates about the best way to shovel mud, whose chickens laid the most watery eggs, and, of course, which villager's sheep had produced the finest wool. By doing this, Meg began to understand why burping became such an important source of entertainment in Toadclack.
"Why does everyone talk about the mud so much?" Meg asked one evening after a particularly exhausting day of practicing her new Toadclack persona.
"It's all there is in Toadclack," Susan replied with a sigh. "Mud and sheep. And endless, dreary weather."
"Sounds like a real party," Meg deadpanned.
But Meg was determined to master her role, if only for the sake of saving her cousin from what she suspected was a fate worse than death: being dragged back to the muddy, sheep-infested village she'd escaped.
By the time the last two days rolled around, Meg had a passable British accent and could maintain a stiff upper lip in even the most tedious conversations about wool. However, one final task was to prepare a proper British feast for Susan's family.
Susan, who had been unusually jittery, spent hours in the kitchen, whipping up dish after dish of traditional British cuisine. Meg, who had been sent to the living room to stay out of the way, peeked in every now and then, only to recoil in horror at the sight and smell of what Susan was preparing.
"That… that thing," Meg pointed at a pie with whole fish heads sticking out of it, "is what you're serving to your family?"
Susan didn't even look up from her work. "That's Stargazy pie, dearie. A Cornish classic. Perfect for making a good impression."
Meg wrinkled her nose. "If you served that to the Donner Party, they'd still eat each other."
Susan frowned but carried on with her list: lardy cake, toad-in-the-hole, black pudding, mushy peas, and something that looked suspiciously like an ice cream tub, but with an off-putting grayish hue.
"What's that supposed to be?" Meg asked, eyeing the tub.
"Tripe-flavored ice cream," Susan answered casually. "It's for dessert."
Meg recoiled. "Are you trying to scare them away?"
"It's traditional," Susan replied.
"Don't you have some desserts with a less acquired taste?"
"Of course, dear, why don't you try that lemon jelly?" said Susan as she pointed at the transparent yellow dessert.
Meg was surprised; it actually looked edible and smelled like it might even be pleasant. She grabbed a spoon and was shocked. "This actually tastes good, and the texture is almost silky while being jelly-like."
"Of course it is, dear. I didn't use gelatine for it. Isinglass is what made it set."
"I've never heard of that. What's it made from?" asked Meg.
"Uhm, it's a herb," said Susan quickly, turning away from Meg.
Meg knew something was up, so she looked up the answer to her question on her smartphone. The result of the search made her face turn white. She dropped the spoon and yelled, "You made me eat fish bladders!"
"But gelatine made out of calf feet is fine? Do you realize how much trouble I had finding, hunting down, and cutting open a critically endangered sturgeon?"
"At least put a bowl of grapes or something like that on the table if you expect me to sit there," muttered Meg.
"Grapes? The ones I had in Britain were tasteless; they're only good for wine. Also, I have a weird feeling that something odd might happen if I tried them."
Susan spent the remaining day preparing more food. She made sure everything would be perfect, constantly checking and double-checking everything. Her anxiety was palpable, and Meg, despite the bizarre circumstances, felt bad for her cousin. Susan's fear of being the laughingstock of Toadclack was overwhelming. A single bad impression could mean years of mockery in a village where news—and shame—traveled fast and stuck around even longer.
"Is everything ready?" Meg asked cautiously, watching Susan triple-check her long list.
Susan frowned, scanning the table with growing agitation. "No! We're missing something vital!" Her eyes darted around wildly. "Where are the faggots?"
Meg froze, her eyes widening. "The what now?"
Susan shot her a look of exasperation. "The faggots! Where are they?!"
Meg, still horrified, leaned back in her chair. "Susan, that kind of language is not welcome in this house."
Susan stared at her for a moment, then realization dawned, and she snorted, shaking her head. "Oh, no, Meg. I'm not talking about the slang word! I mean the British dish. Do I look like I was planning to serve Elton John on the table?"
"You call a dish the F word?" wondered Meg.
"Why not? How do you Americans call those balls made of meat?"
"You mean... meatballs?"
Susan wasn't impressed. "You Americans have no creativity when it comes to naming dishes!"
Susan then noticed the plate she was looking for. "Oh, there they are, the faggots were right behind the spotted dick!"
"That's also a dish?"
"Of course, you can also call it spotted Richard."
"Is there anything else you need to inform me?" asked Meg, visibly out of her comfort zone.
"Remember how you complained about those pigeons nesting above your room and waking you up too early every morning?"
Meg's eyes widened.
"Well, that problem has been resolved—Miss Crocombe style!" said Susan as she tapped on a pie that had strange little twig-like things sticking out of it.
Meg was mortified and walked away to practice her Susan impersonation, hoping Susan would go back to her less crazy self once this was over.
The next day arrived, and the house was buzzing with nervous energy. Meg, now fully transformed into a passable version of Susan, was dressed in the most proper British attire they could muster—an outfit that somehow managed to make her feel both overdressed and underwhelming at the same time. Susan paced the hallway, her hands trembling as she peeked out of the window every few seconds.
Meg had her own worries, unsure if she could truly pull this off. Sure, tricking strangers might not be too hard, but this was Susan's family.
"Are you sure they won't notice? We look identical, but they're still your parents and siblings," asked Meg.
"They haven't seen me in a decade since they disowned me. As long as you get your accent right and act like me, they shouldn't be able to tell. They're too proud of being British and act like daft idiots because of it, so they'll focus on that, not details."
"If I botch this, I'll be the talk of Toadclack for the next century," Susan muttered under her breath, her eyes wild with panic. "They'll never let me live it down. Not ever. The last thing I want is for my name to be dragged through the mud—again."
Meg gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Relax, Su. I've got this. Just hide in the next room and listen. I'll handle your sheep-obsessed family. Granted, they never sent you a Christmas card, but they can't be that bad?"
"My family isn't nice," Susan replied, her voice suddenly trembling. "My father showers once every few months, is stingy, and treats everyone like dirt. My mother, that mean-spirited old trout, is worse than Hitler. She'd ground me and belittle me for meaningless things. For my seventh birthday, she made me sit outside in the rain because I refused to comb the sheep."
Susan sighed, visibly stressed from those memories. She continued, "And then there are my brothers. They're... impossible. They refuse to tip minimum-wage workers, go out of their way to jaywalk, and deliberately piss next to the toilet. And on several occasions, they've given the villagers' sheep mohawks. Horace and Rupert are a total pain in the... you know what!"
Meg comforted Susan, telling her to take deep breaths, assuring her she'd handle it.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
Susan's face went pale as a sheet. She scurried to the next room, leaving Meg alone to face the family of burping royalty.
Meg took a deep breath, straightened her posture, and strode toward the door, reminding herself of all the lessons Susan had drilled into her. Stiff upper lip, elongated vowels, complaints about mud, and—above all—no slipping into her Boston accent. The moment of truth had arrived. Under no circumstance could the proper English host be exposed as an American in disguise.