‘I’m fine,’ Claire said and, at that moment she was. ‘I just thought I’d stay on for a bit. London is wonderful.’
‘Oh, good. I’m glad you can enjoy it.’
‘Yes. I can. Tomorrow I’m going to tour and go to St Patrick’s.’
‘St Patrick’s?’
‘Oh, I mean St Paul’s. Anyway, could you please put in for my vacation days? I know I should have called yesterday but –’
‘Don’t worry about a thing. You might enjoy that you’re the talk of the office and take your time.’
‘I’ll probably be back next week. My money won’t hold out too long but I have found a little place to stay.’
‘Really? Give me the address, just in case.’ Claire did and then Abigail Samuels said something very peculiar. ‘I’m proud of you. Venture forth.’
Not knowing what else to say Claire simply said, ‘Thank you. I will.’ And they hung up. She tiptoed back to her room, carefully closed the door and got back into bed.
It was very hard to believe, but when Claire turned the light off and put her head down on the scratchy polyester pillowcase she smiled to herself in the dark. Tomorrow she looked forward to breakfast at the café, a long walk, a visit to the bookstore, and perhaps a way to earn money. She began to hum a song her father used to play on the piano that she had learned on the flute. And with that she fell asleep.
The next morning Claire woke up knowing that she had dreamed long and complicated dreams. But she couldn’t remember them. It seemed to be cold and damp out, so she began her day with another hot bath, dressed in her black slacks, her new T-shirt and the sweater she had made. She looked at her knitting, decided to take it with her and – once she was out of doors – wished she had already finished the scarf. She buttoned her raincoat up to the neck and made her way toward the café and the tube station.
A soft protective grayness had settled on and around everything. She had read, of course, about London fog, but had always imagined it as dark. Wasn’t it described as ‘pea soup’? This was far more ephemeral. It was damp and wispy; it seemed to put a sheltering scrim over everything. With the gray of the stone buildings and the gray of the bark of the trees and the gray of the sidewalk Claire felt as if she might have walked into a Whistler painting.
By the time she got to the café all of the warmth from her bath had evaporated into the mist and she was chilled to the bone. A cup of tea and a big meal was exactly what she needed. Outside the café the window was obscured by steam. Claire entered and once again was in a world populated by working men. This time she waved to the waitress and wasn’t afraid to take a seat without permission. When she ordered her breakfast she was careful to remember to ask them to hold the beans, but she ate her eggs and chips and the bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes. She sopped up whatever was left with brown bread and had three cups of tea before she was done.
‘For a tiny thing like you, you can put it away, can’t you?’ the waitress said. Claire wiped her mouth and nodded. ‘Did you find a place to stay?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Hope it’s not too bad.’
Claire shook her head. ‘My name is Claire.’ She held her hand out and the older woman shook it briefly.
‘Well, good to see you again,’ she said and turned back to her work.
Claire was a little disappointed that the waitress hadn’t offered her name, but she paid her bill and went back out into the damp, feeling warm again.
The walk along Camden High Street was completely different today. It wasn’t just the weather; most of the shops were closed and, aside from the car traffic, there was no one on the street. It seemed as if shopping days were only on the weekend. Claire tried to imagine the shops on Duane and Water Street shut down five days a week and simply couldn’t.
She bought a ticket and took the underground, getting out a stop before St Paul’s and walking the rest of the way. She was glad she did this because, although at first she found herself in a narrow street with large gray buildings closing in on each side, at the end, after a slight curve, the view of the rise of the hill with the dome of St Paul’s above it was … well, it was stunning.
The mist was just beginning to evaporate, and the watery sunshine on the gold of the dome seemed to make it emerge from smoke the way a sun might dawn in a fairy tale. The cathedral was up a long set of stairs and Claire remembered that royal wedding processions had walked up these very steps. Now she, too, put her feet there and entered the cathedral.
To her surprise, it was very busy. In the center nave a service was being conducted. Though there were very few people in the congregation, there were large groups being guided through the sides of the church. Claire did not know if you had to pay to get a guide but by stealth she managed to go from one to another and hear bits and pieces about the building.
More important than the history though was standing under the vastness of the dome which arched over the very center of the church. She had read about the whispering gallery where the strange acoustics allowed a murmur to be heard two hundred feet away. For a moment she was sad as she watched other tourists try the trick. She had no one to whisper to her, but she watched as others delighted in the experience. The building was breathtaking. She had never seen anything remotely like it. She had, of course, been to St Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue in New York but it had none of the grandeur, none of the spectacular originality of this building.
The service ended, and Claire felt freer to walk around the center of the cathedral. The walls were dappled with memorial plaques, many with carved busts, or garlands of flowers, or what looked like Grecian ruins. Some of them were in Latin and many in an old English that was both charming and strange.
As she walked around the left side of the church she saw an inconspicuous modern sign that directed visitors To the Crypt. It sounded spooky but, nonetheless, she decided to descend the stairs. The crypt was only a basement, though a large and well-lit one. Here there were more memorials and she wandered around looking at names, dates and the sculpture. Then she turned a corner, past a pillar and fell in love.
A man was standing there. He was, without question, the most beautiful she had ever seen. His profile was breathtaking: a wide brow, a perfectly straight thin nose, rounded but still masculine lips and the most perfect jaw-line she had ever seen. His hair was pulled back into a small ponytail. She walked around to the front of the statue and looked him full in the face. He seemed to be staring off into some vast distance. Though he was carved of marble, the sculptor had managed to breathe life and tension into his creation, and the eighteenth-century uniform molded to his body did not conceal the muscles and sinews underneath that made him strain toward her.
Claire thought of the Pygmalion story. She had not created this statue, but she was in love with it nonetheless. He was standing on a platform, some sort of ship, and clearly about to sink and die. She looked at the name inscribed along the base – Captain Wentworth – and the date of his death. Tears filled her eyes. This beautiful man had died two hundred and sixteen years ago, in some unimaginable sea battle. What had his eyes seen before he died? His family, his wife or lover, even his dogs and horses – for he must have had them – would have been inconsolable. Claire stared at his lips and wished she could kiss them. If only that could breathe life back into him.
She thought of Michael, then, and his mouth. Michael, good-looking as he was, had never made a sacrifice for anyone, much less his country or his beliefs. Not only had he betrayed her with Katherine Rensselaer but he had betrayed Katherine Rensselaer by going up to the suite and lying beside Claire. It occurred to her that Katherine Rensselaer would have had to know that. She looked into the face of Captain Wentworth. Perhaps she was wrong, but she couldn’t imagine that he would behave without standards or decency.
She didn’t know how long she had been standing there transfixed by the statue and her thoughts, when a tour group came around the corner. Claire scurried away as quickly as she cou
ld. She knew she did not want to hear anything that would disturb her reverie.
She left the cathedral then, descended the stairs, gazed briefly at the stolid statue of Queen Anne and quickly walked down Ludgate Hill and on up Fleet Street. She knew this had been the home of many newspapers and that the press was still known by that name, though the newspapers had all relocated. But the thought of Captain Wentworth and the distressing feelings the memorial had brought up about Michael closed in on her, just as the narrow gray street did.
She walked on for a little while with her shoulders hunched. What was she doing here? she asked herself. This was madness. She was alone, friendless – and probably always would be. If she dropped down onto Fleet Street and died, how long would it take for anyone to know who she was? And who would mourn her? There certainly wouldn’t be any statue put up by grieving relatives.
Fleet Street seemed to go on forever and suddenly Claire felt so tired that she would have liked to lie down. After what seemed like an endless trudge, the street opened and changed. She made a left, past a church that sat on its own little island in the middle of the road, and then she was on a much wider but less grim avenue. Eventually she found herself in a great open space. Pigeons rose and descended and lions – not real ones but huge statues – crouched at the foot of a tall monument with another statue at the very top of it. She recognized Nelson’s column, and realized she was at Trafalgar Square, which she had seen in passing on her first Saturday in London. It looked exactly like a movie set. The difference was that she was in the picture. She was, suddenly, tremendously happy and filled with a spirit of adventure.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Claire found a bench at last and sat looking across at the pediment of the National Gallery and the front of the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields. She looked up at Admiral Nelson. For a moment she remembered how she and Michael had looked down on him from the National Portrait Gallery. Now, instead, she like everyone else could only look up at him. She would not allow herself to think about Michael. It was enough that she was here, even if she was alone. Back home it was – she looked at her watch – so early that right now Tina would just be stepping out of the shower and beginning the long process of getting her hair and face ready for the commute to work. Would she be wondering at Claire’s absence? Had she asked Michael Wainwright anything? Soon she would be in the office and all of them, Tina, the Maries, Joan and even Abigail would discuss her absence. Tina would have called her house. Would Tina tell Claire’s mother where she had really gone? She doubted it. Would her mother be concerned? Claire doubted that as well. Perhaps in another few days.
The idea that when she was back at Mrs Watson’s after this day of astonishing sights and encounters the women at Crayden Smithers would be sitting down for another boring lunch gave her a chill despite the warming sunshine. The only difference her absence would make was that they would have a new subject to discuss – her. She smiled as her eyes followed a drift of pigeons that flew like a gray smear across the sky. She had never been the source of much entertainment before. Now even American Idol wouldn’t push her off the lunch-table agenda as the most interesting event.
She stopped smiling when she thought of Mr Wonderful. He would be putting on his perfect suit jacket and reading the Wall Street Journal. When he showed up in the office Tina might give him a look, or even a wisecrack, but Claire doubted that he would otherwise give her a thought, except perhaps one of mild annoyance. She pushed Michael Wainwright out of her mind.
She stood up. She would go into the National Gallery, walk around and have another cup of tea. She was getting hungry, but she told herself sternly that she would neither eat lunch nor spend money on a bus. She would look around the museum, have a cup of tea and then walk ‘home’. She’d been in London for less than a week and she’d already walked more than she did in a year in Tottenville. But somehow here the walking didn’t feel like exercise. It felt like exploration.
And since she had left Michael in the hotel she had eaten less. There was no bagel from Sy, no Danish at her coffee break at eleven, no lunch after her big breakfast and very little for dinner. She thought of the loaf of bread and the cheese waiting for her in her room. She should have made a sandwich to take with her. Well, too late now. She would eat when she got home and then at eight she would go to Mrs Patel’s little shop to see about a job. That would be her day.
The gallery was surprisingly crowded. Claire hadn’t been to one in a long time and, standing amid the moving crowd, she realized that she didn’t know how to look at a painting. She could see the Virgin Mary in the painting in front of her and the tiny ray of light with an angel floating in it but aside from the pretty colors, what did it mean? She decided to try and find out, so she sat down on a bench opposite The Annunciation. She waited patiently, staring at the picture, until a guide with a group of white-haired women stopped in front of it.
‘This painting, executed in the fifteenth century, is a classic Annunciation. The Virgin is kneeling, hearing the news from the angel of the impending birth of Jesus. Now, what we see here is the iconography of the painters of the period. Because their audience was illiterate, they needed a way to tell them that this was the Virgin and not, say, Saint Anne or Saint Katherine. So they gave clues. Because she was going to bear the Christ – she was a vessel – we have the vase on the right. The lily is another symbol for the Virgin because she was without original sin, she was, like the lily, spotless in the eyes of god and man. Saint Katherine of Alexandria would be represented by the wheel on which she was martyred.’ The woman smiled and looked at the group in front of her. ‘They didn’t have guides in those days, so explanations of the painting had to be right in the picture. Fra Filippo has done a far better job than I ever could,’ she said and there was a small, polite murmur of dissent before the group moved on.
Claire continued to sit on the bench. She stared at the painting. There had been all of those clues and she hadn’t known anything about them. The picture was still beautiful, but in her eyes it had completely changed. The gold vase now stood out, though she had not noticed it a few moments before. The lily, perfectly depicted, glowed. After a while she went through the whole medieval section looking at all the Annunciation paintings and noticing for the first time that there were, indeed, lilies and vases in almost every one. It wasn’t so much that they were puzzles, Claire thought. It was more as if they were a different language. Next time she went to Toby’s store she would buy a book about medieval art. She would learn the language. She left the museum determined to see the symbols not just in paintings but also those hidden away in everyday life.
It was an interesting but very long walk back to Mrs Watson’s. Claire was so tired – both with the walk and perhaps lingering jet-lag – that when she got back to her room she had to lie down. She ate the rest of the bread and cheese, drank some water and then, despite her best intentions, fell asleep.
It was almost ten when she opened her eyes. For a moment she didn’t know where she was and then, with a start she realized she was two hours late for Mrs Patel. She jumped up and didn’t bother to change out of her wrinkled clothes. She nearly forgot to take her key she was so flustered. She ran down the stairs and out onto the street. She was in front of the little grocery store just as Mrs Patel came to the door.
‘Well, there you are,’ Mrs Patel said. Claire nodded, breathless from the run.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I am …’
‘You are late. Very, very late. I don’t need any help now.’
Claire hung her head. It was probably useless to offer excuses. She was embarrassed and, surprisingly, tears rose to her eyes. It was silly, she told herself. It wasn’t as if this was a good job, or even a certain one. She was about to turn away when, feeling stupid and guilty, she lifted her head. ‘Could I just help you in any way at all – not for money,’ she said and looked down at Mrs Patel’s bulging belly.
‘Well, you could pull down the grille,’ Mrs Patel s
aid and pointed to the iron gate rolled high above her head. ‘But I’m not going to pay you.’ Claire nodded and meekly did as she was told. ‘Just half way,’ Mrs Patel said sharply. ‘And then you can follow me in.’ Mrs Patel awkwardly ducked under the gate after she stabilized it and, once they were both inside, handed her a broom. ‘Start at the back,’ she said. ‘And don’t be hiding the dust under the shelves,’ she added.
Claire took the broom, walked to the end of the first aisle and began. Within minutes she was sneezing and her eyes were watering. The floor clearly had not been swept in some time. Mrs Patel was at the front, doing something at the counter. Claire focused again on the sweeping but by the time she had gotten to the middle of the first aisle – and there were four to go – she had to go to ask, ‘Do you have any water?’
‘You are thirsty already?’
‘No, no, not for me. I just need to sprinkle down the dust.’
Mrs Patel paused for a moment. ‘All right then,’ she said. She took a bucket out from under the counter. ‘There’s a slop sink in the back, next to the rubbish bin.’ She looked at Claire who could feel her eyes watering and she became a little less starchy. ‘The place is a bit of a tip,’ she admitted, and though Claire wasn’t sure what a tip was, she nodded.
As she worked she passed the refrigerated case and smiled at the sign, ‘FROSTED FOOD’, that hung over it. It took her almost forty minutes to finish the sweeping, and when she was done it took another ten minutes to pick up the dirt and wipe the floor. Claire was careful to put all the dirt in the bag Mrs Patel gave her.
‘I suppose it could do with a wash,’ Mrs Patel said, looking at the floor. Claire nodded, hoping it meant a little more work for the night.
‘I’d be happy to,’ she said. Perhaps she could win the woman over.
Wish Upon a Star Page 18
