"Why are they taking so long?" asked Robin Bridge.

Joanna, her younger sister, shifted from one foot to another in the long line snaking in front of the airline check-in counter.

"Don't ask me," she said. She looked at the guard who was standing near them, and smiled.

"They're looking for the Ripper," the guard said.

"Oh, that terrible killer, the one with the knives," said their mother. She pushed back her thick red hair, something she did whenever she was worried.

"Yes, he never goes anywhere without them," the guard said. "He's proud that no one's ever caught him with the knives."

"Let's hope he's not on this flight," said Mr. Bridge, dragging their heavy bags along. "It would be a shame if it were delayed or canceled."

"Don't even say something like that, Bob," said Mrs. Bridge. "We've looked forward to this trip to London for so long."

Soon the Bridges reached the front of the line. Mr. Bridge swung the bags onto the metal platform. Then he looked around at his daughters.

"Girls, you're going to have to check those bags," their mother said. "There just isn't that much room on the plane."

Robin really didn't mind. All she had in there was a few books. She had left the rest of the bag empty for the shopping she hoped to do. She took out a mystery book. Joanna grabbed some magazines from her own bag. Then they watched the matching gray cases glide away on the conveyor belt with the rest of their luggage.

On the plane, although it was late at night, Robin was too excited to sleep. She took out the letter she was carrying from her pen pal, Vivian.

15 June

Dear Robin,

Thanks for writing me for the pen pal project. I'm 14 and live in Alton, about an hour and a half by train from London. Does being in ninth grade mean that you're 14, too? What is Westbrook, New Jersey, like? What do you like to do? I like to go into London to visit my Uncle Peter. He owns a Japanese restaurant and speaks Japanese but he's British. He's jolly good fun. I'm glad you're coming to London. I'll meet you at your bed and breakfast. Cheers.

Vivian (Mountjoy)
>

Robin wondered about Vivian. She was curious about what her pen pal looked like. They had only exchanged one letter each. Robin's social studies teacher had assigned the project for the summer. In the fall, everybody would write reports about what they had learned from their pen pals. All of Robin's friends were envious that she would actually get to meet hers.

"You'll get an A for sure," they had said.

"Never mind that," Robin had replied. "I just hope she'll take me shopping. I heard they have all these cool stores in London, and I want to buy some British clothes." Robin had visions of coming back to school looking totally different, older, more sophisticated, less American, more British. She slid into a daydream. . . . Her red hair was piled on top of her head and she wore gobs of make-up. Everyone turned to stare at her. Her ears were pierced and she wore long, dangly green earrings. Just then, she heard a strange snorting sound. Her father was snoring. Her daydream shattered.

She looked at her mother and father dozing in the seats next to hers. Her father was going to Bath for a library conference almost as soon as they got to London. He'd be at the conference for a week and then would spend a few days with some old friends. But her mother would be around, doing research for her book on England in the 1600s. "I'll be lucky if she ever lets me out of the British Museum," Robin thought. "As for ear piercing, how often have I been told `It's out of the question, Robin. No ear piercing, and that's final.'" Just then, as if echoing her thoughts, Joanna nudged her and said, "How are we going to escape once we get to London?"

"I'm thinking about it, Jo," said Robin. "Maybe Vivian can help. After all, if her parents let her go around London alone it must be safe."

Jo bounced up and down in her seat and clapped her hands.

"Was I ever that childish at twelve?" Robin wondered. Then she thought better of it. After all, the two of them were in this together.

"What do you think our hotel will be like?" she asked.

"I saw some pictures in a magazine the other day," Jo said dreamily. "I think it will have pink flowered bedspreads, and a dressing table with pink frills, and a separate bathroom with a big tub and fluffy pink towels. They'll bring us breakfast in bed and pick up all our clothes."

"I don't know about that," Robin said. "But one good thing, we won't have to make our own beds."

Jo smiled. She hated making her bed.

"Let's plan to do some special things," she said.

"And no British Museum," Robin whispered.
"What's that?" her mother asked, sitting upright.

"Nothing, Mom," said Robin.

"Try and get some sleep, girls. We may be landing in London at nine-thirty in the morning British time, but it will really be the middle of the night by our time. I hope you won't be too tired. You can always take a nap when we get to the B&B."

"Tell us about the B&B," said Jo.

"You know that B&B is short for bed and breakfast, which is what you get. Your father and I stayed there on our honeymoon. It's called the St. Catherine, and it's in Russell Square, right near--"

"The British Museum," the two girls groaned.
"Never mind," said their father. "You girls could do with a little culture. Life isn't just shopping and reading magazines."

"I just hope the St. Catherine is the way we remember it," Mrs. Bridge said. "It was so romantic--a charming little room with a wash basin."

Alarms went off in Robin's head.

"Where's the bathroom?" she asked.

"They call it the loo in England," her father said. "It's down the hall. You'll be sharing it with other people in the B&B."

"How will I take a shower?" Robin asked. "I can't wear my bathrobe in the hall."

"I used to wear my raincoat as a bathrobe and take my clothes in with me."

Both Robin and Jo made faces at the idea, but their parents didn't see them. They had fallen asleep again. Soon the girls joined them.

They were wakened by the flight attendants coming around with hot towels, orange juice, and rolls. Then there were some customs forms that her father filled out for the family. Soon the plane was dipping low, flying over fields that were as green as Robin's birthstone ring. Robin's seat shook as the plane touched ground and rumbled down the runway. After they passed through Passport Control at Gatwick, they scrambled to get their luggage. Two other flights had come in at the same time. Bags were being tossed onto the carousel as fast as the crew could unload them.

"There!" Robin yelled and picked up her gray case. A minute later, Jo's case followed it. They pushed their bags past the green "nothing to declare" sign in the customs area.

"If you hurry, girls, we can make the next train to Victoria Station," their father said. He paid for the tickets. They ran down the platform, stumbling into a car just as the doors were closing. Looking out the window as the train pulled out of the station, they could see other travelers who hadn't made the train in time.

"Some of them look really upset," Robin said.

"Another train will come along soon, but I'm glad we didn't have to wait," said their mother. "It's a long enough ride as it is."

When they got to Victoria, Robin stared in amazement. There was the longest escalator she had ever seen. It looked like a mountain to her.

"Now you see why they call it the Underground," her father said. "During World War II, people stayed here overnight during the bombing. Because some of these stations were so deep, they were the safest places in London."

As they rode up the escalator, Robin was bumped.

"Stand on the right," her father said.

When Robin moved over, she saw men and women race past her on the left. Then she noticed that there was a clear path on the left for those who wanted to run up the escalator. The people who stood on the right let the escalator carry them up. Bursts of song from men playing guitars followed them. As Robin looked back, she saw people throw coins in their guitar cases.

"They're called buskers," her mother said. "They're not supposed to beg in the tube station, but it's an old, old custom."
"The tube station?" asked Joanna.

"Just another way of saying `the Underground,'" Mr. Bridge explained.

They rode on the Victoria line and changed at Green Park for the Picadilly line to Russell Square. When they staggered out of the Underground, they saw a square filled with leafy, green trees, surrounded by small, white houses.

Mrs. Bridge pointed to one of them.
"There's our B&B."

They opened the iron gate and walked up the narrow, white stone steps. Inside, they waited in a small room with a television set and a couch covered in cracked brown leather until a woman came out to greet them.

"I'm Mrs. Bellaqua," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

"My husband and I stayed here a long time ago," Mrs. Bridge said. "I'm talking about seventeen years ago. You weren't the owner then, were you?"

"No," said the woman, "that was my father-in-law. We took it over when he passed on. My husband died eight years ago. Now it's just me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Bridge. Behind her, the girls yawned.

"Keeping you awake, am I?" said Mrs. Bellaqua with a smile.

"Sorry. I'm just tired from the plane ride," Robin said.

"Then let's get you in your rooms." Mrs. Bellaqua went behind a counter and opened a notebook. Keys hung on hooks behind her.

"Your name, luv?" she asked.

"We're the Bridges," said Mr. Bridge. Mrs. Bridge was busy looking around the room.

"It hasn't changed a bit," she said with a sigh.

"You're in Room Twenty and the girls are in Twenty-two," she said.

"Right near each other," Mrs. Bridge said.

"Well, that's a bit of a problem, that is. You see, there's a little staircase separating Twenty-two from Twenty. Room Twenty is really on the other side of the building. I'll show you," said Mrs. Bellaqua. She led them up a set of crooked, winding stairs and threw open the door to Room 20. The girls peeked in and saw a double bed, a chair, and a wash basin.

"Where is Room Twenty-two?" asked their father.

Mrs. Bellaqua showed them a tiny staircase. First, they went down. After five steps, they reached a landing.

"Now you turn over here and take the steps again," she said, climbing up another tiny staircase. "And here's your room."

Robin and Jo walked in and looked around. The room was very small. It was painted brown, not pink. There were two beds, but they were covered in dark green bedspreads. The same dark green material covered the windows. There wasn't a dressing table or a ruffle in sight.

"Will you girls be all right here on your own?"

"We're not babies, Mom," said Jo.

"We'll be fine," said Robin.

"After all, they're not that far away," their father said.

"Then it's settled?" asked Mrs. Bellaqua.

Mr. and Mrs. Bridge looked at each other. They both nodded.

"Yes," said Mrs. Bridge.

"I'll just show you the loo," Mrs. Bellaqua said.

The girls followed her into a small bathroom with a tub.

"Is there a shower?" Robin asked.

"Of course, luv," Mrs. Bellaqua said. She pointed to a metal contraption with a long cord that hung suspended from the wall.

Mrs. Bridge said, "I'll show you how to use it."

They clattered downstairs again. A tall, thin boy with shaggy brown hair and a torn green sweater was sitting on the couch.

"I'll be with you in a minute, luv," Mrs. Bellaqua said. She turned back to the Bridges and began telling them the hours for breakfast. Finally, they got their keys and were ready to haul their bags upstairs.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bellaqua," their father said.

"Ta, Mr. Bridge," she answered.

The boy on the couch got up. He looked at them as if they were strange animals from an unknown zoo.

"Excuse me," he said, "are you the Bridges from America?"

"Well, we're the London Bridges now," said Mr. Bridge.

The boy looked at Robin and Jo.

"Is one of you Robin?" he asked.

"I'm Robin."

The boy looked more surprised than ever.

"I thought you were a boy," he said.

"A boy," said Robin. "What do you mean?"
"Here, Robin is a boy's name. It's another name for Robert, what you call a nickname. Imagine that. I thought you were a boy all this time."

The idea seemed to tickle him, and he laughed.

Robin gave him her best snobby stare, the kind she used when someone played a joke on her or did something she didn't like.

"Excuse me, but who are you?"

The boy smiled and stuck out his hand.

"Hello, Robin. It's nice to meet you. I'm Vivian, Vivian Mountjoy, your pen pal."