Free Toad in the Hole by Paisley Ray Page B

New Bern, North Carolina, and repeated what I’d seen at the bow and the stern.
    Travis leapt onto the dock. “Where’d you learn that?”
    “Katie Lee.”
    “Who knew she’d actually provide useful knowledge that didn’t land us in trouble.”
    “That’s not a fair statement to make when she’s not here to defend herself.”
    “Thank God. I can’t even imagine what predicament we’d be in if she was here.”
    I didn’t comment. I had enough to sort out without getting into it about the effect my roommate might have on our well-being.
    Inside the pub, Travis and I settled into a corner booth and sat on navy cushions with screen-printed red anchors. I spread a laminated map of the River Thames on the table and handed him a notebook.
    “Have you decided?” I asked.
    “English breakfast.”
    I raised a finger. “Two.”
    He looked up. “Where’s the server?”
    “Self-service,” I said and stood up. “I’ll order for us. Tea?”
    Opening the notebook, he nodded.
    Tea in England was better than coffee in England which tended to be on the weak side. We both needed large doses of caffeine to figure out a plan. When I returned to the table I began to study the nautical map. “This charts the water elevations and canals. Distance is in meters. Crap, we have to convert to miles. Do you remember the conversion?”
    “1,609 meters to a mile,” he mouthed as he turned a page.
    “So based on an average speed. Shit!”
    “What,” he asked looking around the deserted pub.
    “The boat’s odometer thingie probably measures in knots.”
    “One mile is equal to 1.05 knots.”
    “Well, aren’t you a wealth of conversion information.”
    A server placed two hot teapots on the table and put quilted oven mitts on top of them along with cups, milk, and sugar.
    “Do those catch the drips?” I asked pointing to the pot covers.
    She gave me a stare that I translated as what planet are you from ? “It’s a tea cozy? Keeps the pot warm.”
    Travis closed the notebook and set it aside.
    “Breakfast will be up shortly,” she said and disappeared.
    Pouring a cup, and adding a drop of milk, Travis stretched an arm across the back of the booth. He downed a scalding mouthful without flinching, then watched as I added two sugars and a generous dollop of milk to my cup.
    “What?”
    “You’re turning your tea into a dessert.”
    “I like sweet things.”
    The pub door opened and a blast of chilled wind coughed inside. Raindrops began splatting against the paned windows. “Great, now we’re going to have to factor in weather conditions when we devise our route.”
    Travis took another sip of his tea and watched as our plates arrived—fried eggs, sunny side up, toast, bacon and sausage, broiled tomato, and something circular that looked like a burnt shriveled hockey puck.
    My eye traveled from Travis’s smug face to the steam that rose off my plate. Food swung his happy meter. Pointing to the kitchen-catastrophe-blackened-unidentifiable blob that shouldn’t have made it onto a plate, I asked the server, “Mystery eggs?”
    “It’s black pudding. Made from pig’s blood,” she said and left.
    Travis leaned in. “Want mine?”
    He knew I didn’t .
    Rubbing his hands together, he said, “We don’t have to plot anything.”
    “I don’t think this is the kind of trip where we should wing it. Neither of us has experience navigating a boat on a river.”
    He patted the notebook. “The entire trip’s itinerary has been mapped out for us.”
    “Ha ha,” I chirped.
    Sliding the bound pages toward me, he drummed his fingers on the blue cover.
    I flipped it open. There was a journal entry. The handwriting I’d seen before. It had fancy loops that trailed off. My grandmother’s script was artistry, something a devoted monk could spend a lifetime striving to master. It listed the kilometers to London, the docks to moor at, pubs and restaurants, even hotel reservations, and a day trip that included options: