Beginnings & Endings |h.s.|

one

Margaret found herself standing at the edge of a dock in the town of Suffolk, Great Britain.

The air was biting and Margaret pulled her chocolate colored polar fleece coat closer to her body, the tattered scarf around her neck doing very little to shelter her from the winter's winds. A small rucksack at her feet, carrying the only belongings she was able to easily travel with.

As she stood still, the world was bustling around her. Men and women made their way off the boat and through the harbor, finding their loved ones with kisses and squeals of excitement or making their way out into the town accompanied by businessmen on orders of collection. Water splashed behind Margaret as the fisherman began emptying the stock of fish they had collected on their journey over from France. The sound of children scuffing their shoes on the bricks below could be heard from all directions, whilst they played with their siblings, as their mothers ushered them through the rowdy crowd.

Margaret stumbled forward after being briefly knocked into by a rather plump middle-aged lady, heaving two large suitcases in each of her hands. Margaret managed to catch herself by her feet, turning to face the woman as she heard the words, "Oh my, I'm so sorry deary, you'll have to excuse my terrible manners. Rushing 'bout, you know?"

Before Margaret could even react or respond to the plump middle-aged lady, she had rushed off, her two suitcases dragging a step behind her as she continued to make her way towards a dark green Ford.

It was at that very moment that Margaret was grateful to her parents for sending her and her siblings to an international school to receive an English education. Her mother had always wanted the world to be open to her children, with endless possibilities, and knowing that outside of France one needed English to find work in this day and age, she pushed the topic until her father had willingly agreed.

Although she had understood the plump middle-aged lady's words, boy, did these English folk speak fast, she thought to herself, with their thick accents masking the meaning of their words.

Margaret turned around once again, scanning the harbor for a fairly friendly face, someone who looked like they may be able to direct her out into the town and to where she needed to go. Once she had spotted a man, whom she believed to be in his late years, standing on the road besides a Cadillac convertible, holding a sign stating taxi service, Margaret made her own way forward through the now dispersing crowd.

With a gentle smile, and a French accent clear as day, Margaret asked the old man a question. "Good day Sir, I need to make my way through to London. Could you please tell me how I could get there?"

"Right one lovey, you're to make your way down to Suffolk Station and catch the train o'er to London Central," the old man answered, a stench of tobacco leaving his lips with every breath he took in Margaret's direction.

With some clarity and yet still some confusion, Margaret spoke once again. "Thank you, Sir. Do you know how to get to Suffolk Station from here?"

"You got a shilling or two? I'll take you on o'er myself if you'd like."

Margaret opened her polar fleece coat and dug her hand into the top left hand pocket, her fingertips coming into contact with ice cold metal, before she pulled out a collection of small coins. "I only have these I'm afraid. I am from France," Margaret stated with a worried expression overtaking her features. Her parents' eagerness for Margaret to escape the war before it was too late left her short for money, and with no time to exchange the French currency into that of Great Britain.

The old man stared down at the coins in Margaret's small hand. He looked to be debating to himself internally, before he spoke aloud moments later. "Oh alright lovey, in ya get then. Gimme what you got, it'll do."

Margaret handed over the few coins in her hand, letting each fall to the old man's rough palm, before she stood backwards and awaited instruction from the old man.

"Climb in then lovey," he stated. "The name's Franklin, you got yourself a name?"

Margaret stifled a laugh at the man's accent and use of colloquial language. She knew it was going to take time to get used to the British way of speaking, she thought about how her French accent would surely fade with time and how she needed to learn this new slang if she was going to fit in here, in Great Britain, as she stepped into the car beside her.

"Margaret," she responded shyly, hesitant to give her name away so freely, in fear of the old man hearing the strong French accent seeping through the word. Margaret was not stupid, she was in the early stages of a world war and was well aware that her being a French citizen may not come across as pleasing to those in this new town desperate to protect themselves from danger.

"You got yourself an accent I hear. What's that? French?" the old man questioned, making Margaret's heart do a tumble in her chest.

After a small deliberation and some hesitation on her part, Margaret decided that the old man driving her to her destination seemed harmless and that sharing the simple facts of her life with him would be just as harmless.
"Yes Sir, it is French."

"What's brought you o'er to this side o' the ocean, then?" the old man continued questioning.

"The war is beginning to get rife in France now. My parents thought it best I leave before it worsens."

"Got yourself some smart parents, lovey. Welcome to Great Britain, the land of opportunity," excitement oozing from the words he spoke, his head turned to the side, his eyes catching a hold of Margaret's as he welcomed her. "You'll be safer here from them German soldiers, I bet."

"I sure do hope so, Sir," Margaret responded quietly, although her eyes were filled with glistening hope.

"Please lovey, do call me Franklin will ya?" said the old man. "Have you decided to move o'er the ocean for good?"

Margaret giggled, answering the man. "Thank you, Franklin. I think so, yes. Life in France is no good for me now. I'm here to start over, build something good for myself."

"Good on ya, lovey. Good on ya," finished the old man.

As the old man began humming a tune to himself, Margaret took in her surroundings through the glass of the window to her left. The buildings blending into one another created a mirage of lights as the car she sat in sped down the bricked road.

Despite her fear, Margaret was ready. She was ready to start afresh, and create the life she had always been looking for.

-

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All my love,
K