Mint Humbugs
Rating: U
Spoilers: None
Author's Note: I apologise profusely for this story. It came to me in a moment of, uh, inspiration making the long trek to the Philosophy department. It's quite unlike anything I've ever written before, and yes, I know this meeting could never happen, but still . . . I can dream, can't I? (Wait till my next creation. I'm thinking of calling it 'Little Grey Cells).
Americans, Miss Marple noted, as she stood in the middle of the busy Chicago airport surrounded by hundreds of people, were simply too loud for good taste.
There had been American's in St. Mary Mead, of course, at one time or another. They came up with the city folk, buying one of those 'quaint little ol' cottages' at the far end of the village. They rarely lasted long, finding that the place had a cosiness that wasn't quite compatable with the busy and rather hectic lifestyle they were used to. Claustrophobic, Mrs Johnson had called it, and she coming from Connecticut! No, Miss Marple did not like Americans. Oh, she was quite sure they had their place, but not in St. Mary Mead.
The airport was, if anything, getting busier. "Oh dear," she said, to herself, one hand clutched around her small handbag in which she carried all her most valuable belongings. Not that they were worth anything - Miss Marple may not have been familiar with city life but she was not ignorant either. No, all she held in her purse were the necessities for a comfortable flight home. A small amount of money, of course, because her nephew Raymond did so desire some sort of souvenir from America, despite his wife's protestations that he had so many useless belongings from around the world. Then there was a small bottle of smelling salts, because of course one never knew when they would prove to be handy, and the young people never seemed to believe in such old fashioned remedies until they came to use them! Of course, Miss Marple privately believed that old fashioned was a phrase used far too often to describe something with perfectly good and respectable credentials, and of course a history of fulfilling the task they were created for. There was her handkerchief, folded neatly, and a small, opened bag of mint humbugs. And her knitting. Mr Bantry had laughed when her neighbour had replied to that question, but his wife had assured him that one did require something on the long flight home.
No, Miss Marple did not like America. It was true that she had rarely stepped out of St. Mary Mead for anything other than the greatest of emergencies, family troubles, as Raymond like to phrase it. And as for travelling abroad, well, she was quite happy with observing human nature from within the familiar surroundings of home. Safe wasn't a word she was likely to use, but familiar. But then, she had known Jane Helier for several years, and Raymond had asked her ever so nicely if she could go and help Jane with her problem, and of course how often did she get to see her godchildren now they were so far away? She was quite sure she would not be seeing them again, either, although Jane had assured her otherwise. Of course she would see them again, you shouldn't think like that! The young, Miss Marple reflected, could be so terribly naive. Such spoilt little children, she had thought to herself, bickering almost constantly and lacking the proper discipline from their mother - who, of course, thought they were both darlings.
With a small sigh, she looked back up at the departure board, and once more failed completely to find her flight number in the rows of small yellow figures. Really, she mused, if anyone was to find the flight they desired then surely it made sense to make the board a little larger. Adjusting her glasses, she completely failed to notice the splash of red in the centre of the crowd.
*
Constable Benton Fraser was having equal trouble finding his flight. Whilst Kowalski had assured him that they had plenty of time before the gate opened, and the next flight to Florida was called, he lacked the faith of his partner in the airport tannoy system, especially when everything the nice American woman explained through it came out like garbled German. With a small sigh, he started to make his way through the crowd to the departure board, apologising to the people he bumped into. Without realising, he came to stand next to a small, somewhat frail looking, fluffy white haired old lady who was looking decidedly lost in the mass of people.
"Can I help you ma'am?" Though privately wondering how he hoped to do that if he couldn't find his own flight.
"Could you?" She looked up at him, took in his uniform with strangely piercing china blue eyes. "You're Canadian?"
"Yes Ma'am. My name is Constable Fraser, of the RCMP. I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, and for reasons which don't need exploring at this juncture I have remained, attached as liaison to the Canadian Consulate."
She nodded, her gaze drifting back to the board. "I do hate these new things. My nephew assures me that the modern era means so many advantages but to be honest, I really can't agree. The numbers are so small, and there are so many, and I'm quite sure if I found the gate I was looking for I wouldn't know where to begin when it came to directions."
Fraser nodded in sympathetic understanding. "Which flight are you looking for?"
"To Heathrow." She removed a small, neatly folded piece of paper from her bag, opened it carefully with gloved hands. "Number 1347J. Now where could that be?"
Fraser searched the board. There was something familiar about the old lady that he couldn't quite place, as though he had met her before, but couldn't remember from where. And normally he was good with names.
"Gate Number Seven," he said, finally finding the correct number. "Departing in fifteen minutes."
"Oh dear. I'm quite sure I shall never find it in time."
He glanced in the direction of his partner, who had scurried off in the direction of McDonalds, promising to locate some 'proper food' before their flight. Missing him completely, he turned back to the woman beside him.
"If you would like me to show you . . ."
"If you could I would be so grateful."
They started to walk, the crowd mysteriously parting before them, as though the old lady exuded some strange aura Fraser couldn't quite place. Wiggy, Stan would have put it. "Are you here on your own?" he asked, politely. She shook her head, not one hair from beneath the small black cap falling out of place.
"No. Well . . . My niece, although really she isn't my niece, but I am godmother to her children so I suppose one should call her something . . . Her husband was kind enough to show me though to departures. But really, it does get so complicated from then on!"
"I understand completely, ma'am," he confessed. "When I first arrived in Chicago I admit I was a little . . ."
"Flummoxed," she suggested, mildly, her blue eyes twinkling.
"Yes. I knew no one in the city, and Diefenbaker - he's my wolf - was still in transit, and I admit that the system here is very different to the one I'm used to."
She gave him a deep look. "The Territories," she guessed. "That is what they call them?"
"Yes Ma'am."
"I once met a very nice young doctor from there. Of course, you can never be sure about doctors these days, they are so full of medical knowledge but do they have the experience? Although Dr. Prescott was so helpful, and of course he had a wonderful manner about him. But I do think he missed home rather too much."
He nodded, unsure as to quite what to say to the Canadian doctor and his wonderful manner. "Do you have all your luggage' ma'am?"
Another eye twinkle. "Yes, thank you," she said, gravely. "Mr Helier - that's the father of my godchildren - he was kind enough to check my bags in for me." Glanced at him. "And you're travelling today? To Canada?"
"No ma'am, to Florida. I have a friend there."
"A close friend?"
He allowed a small smile to settle on his face. "Yes."
"That's always so nice, of course, it makes the travelling so much easier, knowing you have someone to greet you on the other side. My nephew Raymond will be in England, of course, but quite frankly I will be glad to get back to St. Mary Mead. Life is so . . ."
"Predictable?" he offered.
She looked slightly surprised. "No, not predictable. But . . . familiar. Some things never change, no matter how many people move on."
Fraser stopped, noticing the sign ahead. "This is your gate."
"Oh!" She smiled, turned towards him. "Thank you ever so much. I'm quite sure I would never have found it otherwise."
"My pleasure, ma'am." He was about to walk away when he felt her hand on his arm.
"Would you like one?"
Offering him something black and white striped, and sticky. He took one politely. "Thank you kindly."
"Goodbye, Constable." She gave another smile, those blue eyes looking straight at him. "I hope your visit to your friend goes well." And then she was lost in the crowd.
"Fraser! Yo, Frase!"
He turned. The blonde, spiky haired detective was shoving his way through the crowd, ignoring their protests. "Hey, out of the way, buddy! Chicago PD!"
Fraser shook his head a little despairingly. "Stan," he said, as soon as his friend caught up with him, "Do you really think that using your badge to get through queues -"
"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Kowalski squinted at the crowd. "What were you doing down here anyway? Our gate number's been called."
"I was . . ." He paused. Turned back to the gate, and caught a glimpse of fluffy white hair stood next to a stewardess, handing over her ticket. "I was trying to find our flight."
"Yeah, well, too late, I told you not to bother looking, they'd call it through. Hey," he added, noticing the sweet in his friend's palm. "Where'd you get that? What the hell is it, anyway?"
"I believe it's a mint humbug, Stan. Would you like it?"
He looked at the Mountie suspiciously. "You haven't been licking it or picked it up from anywhere?"
A small smile. "No."
"'Kay." He took the sweet, popped it in his mouth. "You all ready?" he asked, mouth full. "Vecchio is probably waiting on the other side already."
"I'm ready." The two friends set off through the crowd, the gate behind them closed. Fraser frowned, trying to remember something about the little old lady who had so managed to capture him so completely.
"Stan, have you ever heard of a place in England called St. Mary Mead?"
Disclaimer: no, I don't own these characters, some other lucky bugger does. Except in my dreams, where I can do what I want, mwh-wah-ha-hah!
