‘Not tonight,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘It’s too late.’
Once again, Claire felt flooded with guilt as well as the sadness of a missed opportunity. ‘Where shall I put the broom?’ she asked humbly.
‘In the wardrobe in the back. When you come back tomorrow night you can use it again and give the floor a wash.’ Mrs Patel raised her eyebrows. ‘If you get here in good time.’
Claire smiled. She didn’t know that when she did her pale radiance was almost irresistible to Mrs Patel. She also didn’t know about the prejudice against ‘Pakis’, or the pain Mrs Patel felt when her children were harassed. The idea of an American kissing up to her gave Mrs Patel a little surge of pleasure.
‘I’ll be here,’ Claire said. ‘I’m actually quite responsible.’
‘We’ll see,’ Mrs Patel said.
Claire washed her hands in the slop sink and made her way to the front of the store. The librarian in her felt frustrated as she walked by the cans and boxes arranged almost willy-nilly. She remembered a character in an Anne Tyler novel who arranged all of her canned goods alphabetically. The idea made her smile, and that’s how Mrs Patel saw her as she emerged from the back. She must be simple, Mrs Patel thought, and Claire would have been hurt to know it. That or round the bend, Mrs Patel continued to herself. Why would an American girl be smiling over work that even an Untouchable didn’t enjoy? ‘Here,’ she said and handed Claire a bag. Claire did not want to appear rude but she glanced into it. There was bread, some potato chips, cheese, two cans of Coca-Cola, and a box labeled biscuits. She started to thank Mrs Patel who waved her hand dismissively. ‘Have you a fridge? Or a cooker?’ Claire shook her head. ‘Well, I was going to give you a packet of tea and a tin of fish but I wasn’t sure if it would serve.’ Mrs Patel pressed a button and looked at the till. She took a ten-pound note from the drawer and tried to hand it to Claire.
‘No, no,’ Claire said. ‘I was late. I’m very sorry. I said I would work for nothing.’
‘Nobody works for nothing,’ Mrs Patel said.
‘Well, I worked for this.’ Claire patted the bag and before Mrs Patel could argue anymore she walked toward the door. ‘Nothing else to do?’ she asked.
‘Well, you could chuck that into the dustbin. It’s just outside.’
Claire picked up the heavy rubbish bag – now she knew not to call it garbage – ducked under the half-drawn security gate and managed to hold the groceries in one arm while she dumped the rubbish with the other.
When she got back to Mrs Watson’s her landlady was waiting there. ‘I’ll need the money in advance,’ she said, looking Claire over and seeming more and more witch-like. Claire blushed. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to bring food up to the rooms and she didn’t want to be caught offending.
Now she put the grocery bag down between her feet and rummaged in her purse. She took out one of the twenty-pound notes and handed it to Mrs Watson who gave her two coins in return. ‘So, then, how long will you be staying on?’
Claire smiled at her. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But I think for quite a while.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
When Claire woke up the next morning she felt as happy as a child on the first day of vacation – actually it was her seventh day. She jumped out of bed and saw the sun was actually shining through the window – it was the first sunny day she’d had. She bathed then dressed in her black slacks and the new T-shirt. She decided against the pearl necklace but she put the earrings on.
Then she sat at the side of her bed and took out her notebook. Mrs Patel had tried to give her ten pounds last night. If she gave her ten pounds every night, what did that mean? She did some calculations, and figured that if she was given groceries as well as ten pounds, she could almost double the length of her stay in this city. But one luxury she decided she couldn’t do without was the cooked breakfast. That, with a hot cup of tea in the afternoon and then a high-carb-high-fat snack at night was enough to keep her going.
Today, however, she would make herself a sandwich and bring the potato chips for lunch. She packed the food with her knitting and noticed, for the first time that there was also the little ‘packet’ of cookies – labeled ‘biscuits’ – and put those in her bag as well. She thought she would take the underground to Piccadilly, walk up Regent Street, and through Mayfair. Abigail had underlined tea at Claridge’s and written ‘A Must!’ in the margin. Claire wasn’t sure what it would cost, but if she had time that would be her splurge of the day.
As she walked to the tube she thought about Toby. She hadn’t even looked at the book that he had given her! Luckily, she had it in her purse and she would read some of it today. Of course, she felt drawn to the bookstore, but she told herself firmly that she might be unwelcome if she visited too often.
At Piccadilly she was amazed by the impossibility of getting across the streets because of all the fences, and at how insignificant the statue of Eros looked. The area was almost like a sideshow. She had never seen so many tourists. The Americans seemed underdressed, the Germans seemed overdressed, the Japanese were either too stylish or boring, and all the young people, whatever their nationality, were outfitted by Nike, Benetton, or The Gap.
Catching her own reflection in a Regent Street shop window, she realized that she looked more formal – or perhaps a little less flamboyant – than other people her age, but she also thought she seemed to fit in better with the people who lived here, and her haircut definitely looked stylish. For a moment she wondered if she herself could live here long term. That caused her to remember Tina, the office and her mother. She should call them, but she dreaded the experience and the expense. Just then, she passed a newsstand and saw bright racks of postcards. She had never sent a postcard in her life, perhaps because she had never been anywhere to send a postcard from. But now she was somewhere. She looked at the racks. She immediately picked out a picture of a red double-decker bus, another of Trafalgar Square and a third showing Parliament and Big Ben with the London Eye looming behind. Despite her best intentions, Claire had to think of Michael and the wonderful trip up into the air. Although it had only happened a few days before, it already seemed a dream, or a fairy tale she had been told about a prince and a beggar girl.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. She was here and having an adventure and that was enough of a fairy tale. She looked back at the cards. She would send one to her mother, one to Tina at home, and one to Abigail at work.
She sighed. Abigail would keep their communication private but she had no doubt that whatever she wrote to Tina would be brought into the office and discussed. It made her think about the hours she had spent sitting at that table and listening to the gossip as it swirled around. It wasn’t that any of them (except perhaps Joan) were really mean-spirited, but it seemed as if it had all been such a waste of her time. And now, since she’d gotten here to London, her time seemed incredibly valuable, though she didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if anybody else valued her more. She wasn’t sure that her mother would care about her absence – after all, it gave her more time alone with Jerry. And certainly, while they might talk about her at Crayden Smithers she doubted any of them would miss her, not even Tina, though she might be wrong about that. And Mr Wonderful would get back to his busy life of work and his host of women and not think of her, most probably, ever again. She remembered the parting shrug he had made when he couldn’t convince her to go back to the airport with him. No, she would not be missed. She wondered if she could live here as long as she had lived in New York without making the smallest impression on anyone.
Claire walked through Mayfair, a bustling business section with lots of fancy shops, and was surprised once again. With a name like that she had expected parks and trees and beautiful quiet streets. While the streets were beautiful most of the lovely houses had been turned into offices and the traffic everywhere was noisy. But perhaps, hundreds of years ago, there had been a fair here each May. Now it was Vanity Fair. The shops were astonishing: beautiful c
ashmere, gorgeous antiques, and men’s clothes stores that were ‘bespoke’. Though Claire did not know what, exactly, that was, she knew it was expensive and good.
She made her way through street after street until she came to Grosvenor Square. It was a lovely, tailored green space but one side was spoiled by a shockingly ugly concrete building. Claire walked that way, simply because she had to know what this dreadful place was. She was surprised to see a statue of President Eisenhower outside, an American president but as she crossed the square she read how he had helped win World War II. It was nice, she thought, for the British to put up a statue to him.
But then she got close to the ugly structure and had a shock. The building, of all things, was the American Embassy. Claire couldn’t believe her eyes. How had this happened? It had to be the most hideous building in London. She took the time to walk around the building, though it was almost a whole block long. It did not get any better. She looked around to see if other people were staring at it in horror, but they didn’t seem to be. Perhaps, she thought, they are averting their eyes. She felt personally responsible and, ridiculously, wanted to go up to any Londoner walking by to apologize. Of course, she didn’t, but she had to do something. She was a citizen. It was her embassy. How had this architectural tragedy happened? She walked purposefully up the shallow stairs leading to the entrance.
But before she got even halfway up the stairs she was stopped by a young man in uniform. ‘Ma’am, may I ask your name, your citizenship and the purpose of this visit?’
Claire was amazed, and even more angry. ‘I’m an American,’ she said. ‘And I’d like to speak to someone at the embassy.’
‘And what would be your business?’
How could she explain? She looked at the pleasant, square-jawed face of the soldier and thought of Fred. Fred would laugh at her. But she wouldn’t let this man or anyone make her feel ridiculous or lose her sense of outrage. ‘That’s my business,’ she told him. She thought she saw a glimmer of a smile.
‘Well, that may be. But I will have to ask you for your passport.’
‘But I’ve left it at home. I mean at my hotel,’ she told him.
‘I’m sorry. You can’t enter without it, ma’am. You’ll have to come back with it later.’ He paused. ‘I really am sorry. It’s just security procedures. Are you in some kind of trouble?’
She shook her head then took a deep breath. He seemed like a nice guy and she would have been amused by his Texas twang if she wasn’t so annoyed. ‘Look, I just want to know who built this and when?’
‘Who built what, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘This building,’ she said, her irritation showing. ‘This terrible building.’
He looked up and behind him as if he was seeing it for the first time. ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘We did, I guess.’
‘I didn’t,’ Claire told him. ‘And if my tax money went into it, I want a refund. It’s an embarrassment.’
He laughed, but not in a nasty way, not the way Fred would. ‘Well, I never really thought of it that way,’ he said looking around. ‘But it’s no Buckingham Palace.’
Claire relaxed. Perhaps she was overreacting. She blushed and had no idea how attractive a little color in her cheeks made her, or how lonely a young Texan far from home could be. ‘Have you been here long? On a vacation?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said and saw him look at her a little harder, as if she might actually be some kind of security risk. ‘What I mean to say is, I’d like to stay on for as long as I can. At least till my money runs out.’
He smiled again. ‘I can’t wait to get back,’ he said. ‘Where you from?’
‘New York, but not the city.’ She told him about Staten Island.
‘Sounds like a nice small town. Maybe that’s why you remind me of home.’ He paused and glanced around him to see if they were being overheard. Then he turned back to her. ‘Say, why don’t you and I get together and have a beer or somethin’? I know a place where we can get American Budweiser. And cold, too.’
Claire looked at him. He was attractive in a fresh-faced, All American way. But the last thing she was interested in was swilling beer with a good ole boy who wasn’t aware of the very building where he worked. Of course, she told herself, she hadn’t looked at much of the architecture in New York, but in New York there were no perfect squares with unbroken limestone and brick fronts. She hesitated.
He added coaxingly, ‘We could go to a movie. And I might be able to get you invites to embassy parties.’
She didn’t allow herself to snort. That was just about the last thing she wanted. But he seemed kind, and he had a nice smile. And – though she would never admit it, not even to herself – being asked out by a stranger made Claire feel good. ‘I’m not interested in the parties,’ she said. ‘But a meal might be nice.’
‘How can I get in touch with you?’
‘Well, I don’t have a phone but you could give me your number.’
‘Will you call it?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ And as he scribbled it down and his name – Corporal Adam Tucker – she decided she would.
TWENTY-NINE
The day was so lovely that at one o’clock, as she passed the enormous black wrought-iron fence of Green Park, she decided to sit down. She’d read some of Toby’s book and have her lunch. The day was warm and people seemed to be both strolling and sitting, some on the ground and some in lovely canvas chairs. At first she was struck by the fact that all of them seemed to have brought the same lovely but unwieldy chair. Was it the only one available in London? Then she realized that the chairs were provided by the park. She sat down in one and simply couldn’t get over it. It was very comfortable and with her face to the sun she felt as if she could almost take a nap. How did London manage this? In New York benches were nailed to cement. They were uncomfortable but no one could steal them. What luxury, and what a wonderful place this must be, where nobody stole things and graffiti didn’t cover every inch. She took out her knitting and worked on it for a while. Then, with the sun on her face and hands her stitches slowed and …
The next thing she knew, a man in an official hat was tapping her shoulder. ‘I don’t believe you’ve paid,’ he said. If it wasn’t for his uniform Claire would have been sure he was a madman. They certainly had enough nuts wandering through New York parks and they must have them here, too. But she was becoming wise enough to look around her and try to figure out the customs of these people she was visiting. Clearly, the chairs belonged to the park and one paid rental. Rather than being disappointed, Claire was impressed with the sensible and comfortable system. So much better than lugging the chair to the park.
‘How much?’ she asked
‘A pound for an hour,’ he said and, though she hated spending any extra money, she felt it was well worth it.
People strolled by her and she wondered about their lives. Did they work? What were they doing in this park in the middle of central London, in the middle of the day? Did they live nearby? But then, at about two o’clock, the park seemed to quickly empty out. They must all work she thought and was grateful that she didn’t have to abandon her chair or the pleasant weather.
She reached into her bag, took out Toby’s book and opened it in a desultory way. It was written in nineteenth-century English, a little brisker than Dickens, but a bit of a stretch nonetheless. Claire wasn’t sure that she wanted to read some dead old Brit’s essays, but her eye fell on a title, ‘The Superannuated Man’, and she began to read. She was pleased to see Lamb’s style was open and there was actually some humor in his tone. After only a paragraph she felt as if he was talking to her from the page. But the sun on her face and the comfortable deck chair overcame the power of Mr Lamb’s words and Claire fell asleep.
Anyone walking by her sleeping form, and several did, would have seen a young woman, just slightly heavier than she ought to be, with a face quite beautiful in repose. There was something about it reminiscent of a French Mado
nna carved and painted in the fourteenth century: the tilt of the head, the downcast eyes, the slightly elongated face and nose. When her eyes fluttered open, the pink that suffused her face only made the likeness greater.
Claire, of course, was embarrassed and rather flustered by her unexpected nap. The park, despite the traffic noise of the street, was fairly quiet and there was no reason why she shouldn’t take a little siesta in the middle of the day. She thought of the times that she had been so tired or bored at work that she had longed to close her eyes but couldn’t.
She felt grim at the thought of returning to that life. Had it only been a week since she had come to London? She counted it out on her fingers. She’d arrived on Thursday morning – just under a week ago. She had seen so much and there was so much to look forward to. She simply couldn’t go back. Not in a week or even a month. She wasn’t sure how she could manage it, but this wasn’t going to be a two-week vacation.
Now, cheered by that momentous decision, and refreshed after putting her chair to such good use, she reached into her bag and pulled out the three postcards. Thinking of Tina, she had to decide whether her friend would bring the card into work, even if she addressed it to her at home. Knowing her, she figured she would, even if she asked her not to. Well, it was a small piece of paper and she didn’t have to explain anything. It was only a postcard.
London is lovely. I am enjoying it so much that I couldn’t come home yet. I’m seeing all the sights and making new friends.
Love, Claire
She read it over. It seemed friendly enough, but distant. She couldn’t, however, explain to Tina how delicious it felt to be away from the life that Tina embraced. Claire sighed. She’d probably be back soon enough, though she knew she’d have lost her job. She shrugged and picked up the next card. She would have to address Abigail Samuels at the office, and though there was a danger that the mailroom would read it, she doubted Abigail would mention or show it to anyone. Still, she’d be discreet.
Wish Upon a Star Page 19
