chapter 8

I had to invent a whole new identity for myself to return to my native land. I had to pay out a lot of money for forged documents just to make sure I could travel. At one time all you needed was the ticket for your passage.
I was reluctant to take to the skies. Everything in my being told me how unnatural it was to have a metal bird flying. There was but one passenger ship sailing from New York to Europe in over a month. It was a holiday cruise ship with leisurely stopovers in Boston, Newfoundland, Iceland and Ireland before it reached it's destination in Southampton. The voyage would take the best part of three weeks.
For the same amount of money, I could fly first class to London, there were several flights a day and I could be there in less than a day!
I decided to brave the skies.
I needed much help because I simply did not understand what expected of me.
Eventually I employed the use of an assistant and traveling companion.
Dixon was a typical New Yorker. Bold, brash and streetwise. He asked no obtrusive questions as he arranged my documents. I had to admire his tenacity as he planned and booked our entire trip from his folding traveling 'computer'. It took only a matter of hours for everything to be arranged.
Without Dixon beside me I would not have managed to negotiate gates and check-ins. He had so many pieces of paper, I would have been quite lost without him!

I could not believe the number of checks we had to go through, both on departure and arrival. We even had to remove our footwear at one stage, with the threat of arrest if we refused to comply!
Dixon informed me, we simply had not choice. We had to do what we were told otherwise we would not be allowed on the plane.
The flight itself was most uneventful. The take off and landing were so smooth I could scarcely believe we were actually flying!

The first thing I noticed from when the doors opened was the change in accents. English accents sounded so pleasant to my ears after so many years away... even if they had the softer rounded vowels of southern speech.
There was no time to ponder. Dixon had us travel on a train from the airport into London. Then we changed to and underground train, something like the new York subway. That took us to king's cross. We had a long wait there. Dixon took me into a cafe for coffee and a sandwich.
He was worried about me because I had not eaten on the plane and we still had several hours of traveling ahead of us.
I tried to assure him I was fine, without food, but there was no point in getting into a long debate. I simply ate what he gave him, then made a discreet trip to the lavatory to dispose of the meal.
From king's cross, we caught a train to York, where we changed to catch a train to Middlesbrough. Then finally we could get on the Whitby train from there.
I heard my first Yorkshire accent in years on the king's cross train. The tones sounded harsh and clipped, but it was music to my ears.
I could not understand why we had to travel further north before we headed south and across the moors. Dixon showed me on his folding computer thing how many of the rail lines were now closed. He said we could have hired an automobile in York, but he was unsure of driving in a different country, on 'the wrong side of the road'.
I assured him it was the correct side of the road to keep one's sword arm free!
The road route may not have been the quickest either, despite our diversion to Middlesbrough. We would have had to find somewhere to spend the night in York to avoid traveling in the dark. The route across the moors had always been narrow, steep and treacherous. Not the best for a novice on English roads!
The train to Whitby from Middlesbrough was considerably slower and older, but it brought us into town just after dark. It was only five of the clock in the afternoon, but I had forgotten how early nightfall came in these northern latitudes in midwinter. It may have been late afternoon, early evening, but there was still a bustle around the town as the unfamiliar shops closed.
Dixon bundled me into a taxi outside the station. He was tired and impatient to get to our lodgings.
The taxi drove almost out of town then took a sharp right back in again. I was unfamiliar with the rows of modern family homes. The taxi stopped at a much more familiar setting. Dixon said he had found us the best available apartment in town. My jaw dropped when the taxi pulled up in the royal crescent on the top of the west cliffs (which are confusingly, on the northern shore of the harbour.)
I left Dixon to unload and take our luggage indoors, while I took time to admire the view.
Across from the Georgian royal crescent was a large patch of lawn with a massive archway made from two whalebones. It was a new addition, but a very welcome one. Acknowledging the part that the whaling industry had played in the town's history.
I stood under the arch, with one hand on the whalebone. The lawn overlooked the cliff, which overlooked the harbour. The rain could lash down, the wind could whip my clothing and the waves crash beneath me, but I was home.
I raised my eyes to the cliffs on the opposite side of the harbour the ruined abbey was silhouetted in the night's sky. There has never been such a magnificent landmark as that!
I blinked and looked again. It was difficult to see I'm the wind and rain, but I was sure I saw a cloaked figure amongst the gravestones. Surely Alucard had not returned as well!

Dixon called my new name from the shelter of the crescent. I still was not used to it, and the wind whipped it away from his lips, almost as soon as he had called out. He cursed me as he had to brave the wet rain to rescue me from my reminiscence and bring me into the dry warmth of the Georgian apartment.

The apartment could not have been any better. It was situated on the first floor (above ground floor for the Americans). My sitting room had a large bay window with a view of the whale arch, the harbour and the southern cliffs and abbey. Why would I want to watch any of Dixon's fancy technology when I could look out at that?
All the rooms had ornately decorated high ceilings. The large fireplaces were made from marble and were so welcoming.
Dixon complained about them he found them ugly and dirty. I suspect it was because he had no idea how to go about lighting one. He much preferred to sweat in the dry heat of the central heating. I showed him how to lay the fire, how to stoke it to keep it going once it was lit, but he was not interested in my old fashioned ideas.
Over the next few days he made several forays to stock up at the local shops. He complained about having to make several trips and carry his bags up over a hundred steps because he begrudged paying a taxi to go the long way round.
Nevertheless, I was glad to learn that he had discovered the best local delicacy. Crispy battered fish and chips... or thick French fries, not a packet of flavoured chips. In England, we called those crisps. The fish was super fresh and fell apart into flakes as you cut into it.
Dixon brought me a portion back one day, wrapped up in paper. It was difficult to resist, but I enjoyed the meal sprinkled with plenty of salt and vinegar. (Nevertheless, I still had to make a discreet exit soon after and get rid of it all).
Dixon told me he liked the town, it was small, but very lively. The shops were numerous and busy. However, he had noticed that there was a plethora of strangely dressed young man and women about town.
He did some raking around on his ternet on his folding computer. He said they were known as Whitby goths.
I had never heard of such a thing.
He said they were a punkish subgroup, attracted to Whitby by the legend of Dracula. They dyed their hair black, had very pale skin and wore black Victorian inspired clothing, with Whitby jet jewellery. He thought they all looked like they were all going to a funeral.
After further digging, he said there was a special weekend, twice a year especially for them. Goth weekend it was called. People came from all over the country to take part, or just to watch.
The goths were not the only ones to get dressed up. There was another group called the steampunks. They wore a strange mix of Victorian inspired industrial clothing in a colour palette of brown.
It all seemed most peculiar! I had to go out and explore on one of these evenings.
In the mean time, I urged Dixon to advertise for a maid. She could clean and do our laundry. She might even do some of dixon's shopping for him.