‘Good girl,’ he said, smiling at her warmly. ‘You look tremendously presentable. Just tell yourself you belong in those places. And after you get your legs, I’ll take you to the Ritz. But perhaps not for tea. We could have a drink.’
Claire was charmed. Toby had asked her out! She didn’t know when, and she didn’t know if he would actually ever get around to it, but she was thrilled. ‘I’d love that,’ she said. She tried to keep the wild enthusiasm out of her voice.
‘Well, good luck and good flat hunting. Rubbishy paper, really, the Standard but it’s a start.’
She nodded, thanked him and walked out of the bookshop with a new book under her arm and a lightness in her step.
THIRTY-FIVE
Claire spent the remainder of her day before work strolling up and down the streets in the hope that, by a happy coincidence, she would see a flat for rent. After seeing Toby, Claire was hopeful that something could be found in the papers. Now she just needed to find a Standard – as Toby had referred to it – left at Mrs Patel’s shop by the time Claire got there.
It was hard to be alone – or lonely for that matter – at Mrs Patel’s. After only a little less than a week Claire had become familiar with the shop regime. She’d almost finished dusting and rearranging all the stock and had begun a list of items that customers requested. Because she arrived a little bit earlier each night she was now able to cover the store while Mrs Patel ate dinner with her children. It also helped that the shop was quiet since Claire wasn’t trusted enough to take the money, but she did sit at the counter, help customers and call Mrs Patel only when it was time to ring up sales.
She had a tidy mind and, to her great satisfaction, you no longer found Fairy liquid next to Heinz Baked Beans. Occasionally, Mrs Patel grumbled – ‘I can find nothing.’ But sales seemed to have increased and so, when asked, she would fan her hand and say, ‘Move it! Move it as you like.’
Claire was also beginning to know the regular shoppers, though not always by name. There was Mrs Caudrey, an elderly woman who always wore a dusty raincoat and bought a sliced loaf, a pint of milk and dozens of tins of cat food. There was fat Mr Robinson, with a once-rakish mustache who each evening bought enough sweets and ice cream for an entire kindergarten. There were a few younger people who seemed to dash in almost every night for milk or juice or bread. Claire would have liked to speak with them, but they seemed busy and distracted. Unlike her, they had lives and homes waiting for them. Then there was Maudie, the woman from Mrs Watson’s, who dropped by two or even three times an evening with her two fractious little boys. ‘Watch her, I think she steals,’ Mrs Patel said.
‘No!’ Claire exclaimed. ‘Have you seen her?’
Mrs Patel shook her head. ‘Why else would she come in so often? She doesn’t have any money. If she could she’d buy milk on hire-purchase.’
But Claire knew why. Maudie had nowhere else to go except the grim room at Mrs Watson’s. Dealing with the children, their noise, as well as Mrs Watson’s disapproval must be murder. Far better to be out and about, as Claire herself had already discovered. Maudie might not be the most reputable of women – she had told Claire that her boys were only half-brothers, though both looked exactly like little Maudies, and that she’d been abandoned by both fathers – but she was no thief.
Claire tried to imagine what it would be like to raise two children and know that for the next fifteen or twenty years you, all alone, were responsible for them. Claire, alone and unencumbered, wasn’t finding it easy to fit in or find a home. What was it like for Maudie? The poor woman wasn’t shoplifting, she was just lonely and the way she started conversations with Claire every evening seemed to prove it. Claire was too new to London to realize that Maudie wasn’t from London, or even from Britain. She was, like Claire, an immigrant.
After dinner that night Safta Patel stood for a long while beside the frozen foods watching Claire. At first Claire thought her mother might have told her to do it, to check to see if Claire herself was shoplifting – Mrs Patel, out of sight at the till, was far from trusting – but soon she realized that Safta’s awkwardness was really shyness.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Have you finished your lessons?’
‘Almost,’ Safta admitted guiltily. ‘It’s just the telly. My sister is watching it and I can’t study.’
Claire thought of the hours she had spent upstairs at home, constantly distracted from her homework by Fred’s blaring stereo. ‘It’s hard,’ she said. ‘What are you working on?’
‘Maths,’ Safta told her. ‘I’m no bloody good at it.’
Claire put down her duster and shrugged. ‘I think math is the same on both sides of the Atlantic,’ she said. ‘Very challenging.’
Safta smiled, and her narrow face lit up. Claire couldn’t help but notice the girl’s eyelashes, which brushed her cheeks and pushed against her glasses. They must have been the longest ones that Claire had ever seen. Claire, being fair, had always longed for dark, luxurious lashes.
But Safta must have been thinking in a similar vein. ‘You have such pretty hair,’ she said. ‘It flutters when you move.’
Claire recognized the longing in Safta’s voice. ‘Yours is nicer. So straight and shiny.’
Safta shrugged off the compliment.
‘So I think you’d better go back to your homework.’
Safta sighed and nodded. ‘I’m studying for my GCSEs. They’re very important. Did you take them?’
Before Claire could answer that she didn’t know what they were, Mrs Patel called out from the front. ‘What are you doing, Safta? Do you need me to tell you how to keep busy?’
‘No,’ Safta answered, then looked at Claire. ‘I wish I could cut my hair,’ she said, and as she turned and disappeared into the back her long dark braid flapped behind her. Claire would have paid cash to have hair like that.
Mrs Patel joined her. ‘Those children and the telly,’ she said and shook her head. ‘Well, they’re off to bed now and Safta can have some peace.’
As Claire had begun working longer hours, without commenting or changing the twenty pounds, Mrs Patel increased the groceries. After less than a week Claire had a stash of strange tins and jars – English things – including a dark brown spread called ‘Marmite’ which tasted like stove grease and was, as Toby might say, very nasty indeed. Claire had noticed they were usually dented cans, or odd things no one seemed to buy, but she had said nothing and eaten little. In fact, though she had no scale, she seemed to be losing weight. Both pairs of trousers seemed looser than they had been.
Tonight, though, when Mrs Patel gave her two bags at closing time Claire demurred. ‘No thank you,’ she said. ‘I really have more than enough.’
Mrs Patel narrowed her eyes. ‘What is it then? Do you want more money? Because I haven’t got it!’
Claire shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s fine really. It’s just more than I need.’ She went to close the gate.
When she came back in Mrs Patel was on the other side of the counter, her hand on the small of her back. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you might come to dinner.’
‘But who would watch the shop while we eat?’
‘Occasionally, to be with the children, I put the “Back in thirty minutes” sign in the window. My regulars come back when I’m open or if it’s an emergency they ring a buzzer on the side of the entrance. I let them in and lock up behind them. But if you come to dinner you’ll miss the extra money I usually give you for the longer hours, won’t you?’
Claire almost smiled but thought that the touchy Mrs Patel might take offense so she nodded in consent. It was kind of her to offer dinner, especially when it would mean Claire got to be more involved with the children. ‘I would like that very much,’ Claire said. She thought, perhaps, that Mrs Patel might need a little adult company, too.
As if to dispel any idea of that Mrs Patel added, ‘And you can help with the washing up as well.’ Her brusqueness seemed an automatic reaction to her own hospitality.
‘Fine,’ Claire told her. ‘May I look at a newspaper now before I go?’
But with the Evening Standard spread out before her she was dismayed to find that most of the furnished flats advertised were more than three hundred pounds a week, while she was paying just over a hundred. The flats to share seemed a mixed batch, and the advertisements were difficult to decipher. She circled any that asked for less than a hundred and fifty pounds, but there were few enough of those.
‘What does “mod cons” mean?’ she asked Mrs Patel.
‘Modern conveniences.’ Mrs Patel looked up from tidying behind the counter. ‘You know, fridges and washing machines. Why? Are you buying a flat?’
Claire laughed out loud. ‘Buying? I can’t even afford to rent one.’
Mrs Patel stared searchingly at Claire. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t have a rich family back in America.’
‘My father died five years ago and I have left home.’
‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’ Mrs Patel actually seemed to be. For a moment her strict façade crumbled and she patted Claire’s hand. ‘I know what it’s like to be without a family. Very bloody difficult for a woman alone.’ She was silent a moment. Then she became brisk again. ‘Well, I thought you were looking for something grand. If you haven’t any money you won’t find anything in the papers. To find a cheap flat to share you must ask around.’ She paused. ‘We could put up a notice. Perhaps someone here will know.’ Claire was touched at the ‘we’. She watched Mrs Patel’s dark head as it bent over the paper. The woman looked up distastefully. ‘You don’t want to go knocking on doors of people you haven’t even seen. Something terrible might happen to you.’
Claire was pleased to hear the concern in Mrs Patel’s voice but she figured it wouldn’t last long. ‘I’m just going to sweep up now.’
For some reason the clean-up that night was dustier than ever and, though she had had a bath in the morning, Claire felt she couldn’t get between the sheets without bathing again.
She unlocked the door to her room, gathered her toiletries, and walked down the hall with her robe over her arm. But when she got to the bathroom it was in use, steam escaping from the wide gaps of the ill-fitting door. She was torn between waiting in the hallway and creeping back to wait in her room. As she stood there, undecided, Mrs Watson came down the stairs.
She looked Claire over head to toe. ‘Not planning a bath are you?’
Claire shook her head. ‘Just a wash up,’ she lied, but felt humiliated both by the question and her cheesy denial. Especially when she had already paid extra for the privilege of keeping clean.
‘You can wash up in there,’ Mrs Watson said, indicating the toilet, which also had a sink.
‘Thank you,’ Claire said, ‘but it’s a bit dirty in there.’
‘Well, then you can clean it,’ Mrs Watson snapped. ‘Partly your dirt, isn’t it?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Claire snapped back and walked down the hall, back to her room.
She was very upset. She was paying for this room, just like she paid for her room at home. Why didn’t she feel as if either belonged to her? She never belonged anywhere, not at home, not in Tottenville, not at Crayden Smithers, nor here. Claire sat down at the edge of the bed, put her face in her hands and couldn’t stop the hot tears.
She cried for a long time. Each time the sobs seemed about to diminish, she would think of Joan’s insults, her mother’s snubs, Tina’s careless smugness, Michael’s betrayal or the expression on Mrs Watson’s face and they would begin again. The worst was the memory of Michael with Katherine. How wonderful it had been, those few days before when she felt he wanted her beside him. Better than his attention, than his love-making or the luxury that surrounded him was the feeling that with him she belonged: she was a member of the club of people welcomed wherever they went. Here in this nasty room she knew the truth. She was from the world of people welcomed nowhere and she probably always would be.
The crying ended and Claire, exhausted, managed to strip off her clothes. Without even washing her dusty face or hands she crawled into bed. What she needed was sleep and the dawning of a new day when everything might look brighter.
Then Claire noticed the envelope addressed to her lying on the chair beside her bed, her name and Mrs Watson’s address carefully written out in Abigail Samuels’s neat and beautiful handwriting. Claire picked the letter up as if it were a winning lottery ticket. Someone had thought of her, was thinking of her enough to write, and she felt, at least at that moment, closer to Abigail than to anyone else. She opened the flap carefully and took out the notepaper with Abigail’s initials engraved at the top.
Dear Claire,
I was quite delighted to hear from you and so glad you phoned. Needless to say, I have arranged for your vacation days and you need not worry at all about them. Right now I have informed Human Resources that you will be gone for two weeks. If you come back before then it won’t matter but do let me know if you extend your stay beyond it.
Not to worry if you do. The job will wait for you. Incidentally, I never realized quite how bullying Joan Murphy is. Since we are not lilies of the field we all must work. But is it necessary to make that so very unpleasant? I think not. Nothing worse than a tin-pot tyrant. How have you managed?
The young Mr Wainwright returned from his travels to find a bit of a mess waiting for him. Nothing to do with his apparently equally messy social life, but it would appear that some of his business judgments are being questioned. I’m sure you will trust me when I tell you that it is never pleasant to have Mr Crayden himself questioning you. The pup has been skulking about looking very hang-dog. Not that you would care, of course. Just a bit of office gossip.
And speaking of same, you are quite the subject of the day, or to be more correct, the week. Before the hush falls when I walk by the lunch table in the lounge, your name is always the main topic. One would think that with the current political situation, the new child molestation case, the recent fratricide and the dip in the Dow there would be more than that to cover. Apparently not. This seems to uphold the recent theory that humans develop speech not to exchange practical information but to gossip.
But never mind the dull happenings here. I hope you have already been received by the Queen, had a spree at Harrods and have begun a dalliance with either an MP or a notable footballer. I myself have found English men sorely lacking in passion, but that may just have been my unlucky choices. Hope you fare better.
Do be sure to enjoy yourself every legal way you can. After a fairly long and varied life, I find I most regret the things I didn’t do, not the things I did. By the way, try to get yourself to Hampton Court. It’s truly lovely this time of year. Have fun and (as they almost never say in London)
Cheerio.
Claire almost laughed aloud with surprise and enjoyment. Miss Samuels had written to her and advised her sexually as well as philosophically. Claire read through the letter again. It wasn’t nice of her, but she took pleasure in the part about Michael being in some type of trouble, and almost as much satisfaction in thinking about Joan. It wasn’t a good idea at Crayden Smithers to be disliked by Abigail Samuels. Poor Joan. That led her to wonder why she had been noticed and, clearly, liked by Abigail. It was a mystery, but Claire would save that for another day. Now however she did think about Toby and Adam Tucker. Perhaps, following Abigail’s advice, she should ‘have a dalliance’ with one – or perhaps both. What a thought! Tina would be shocked. But Tina would never have to know, would she? Claire much preferred Toby but wondered if Abigail’s critique of British lovers was accurate. After Michael she had high standards.
Now she put down the letter and realized that she was too stimulated by it to sleep. Though it made her grateful she was away from all that she had read about, she was grateful to have been told. It made her feel simultaneously connected and above the place where she had spent her days. And that, if you have never experienced it, is a very pleasant feeling.
Too excite
d to read, she picked up her knitting and began the first glove. The old lady in Knitting Kitting was right. She was amazed to see the way the yarn worked up. It seemed to magically make patterns without any assistance from her. It was so fascinating that Claire kept at it for a long time into the night. When she had finished the third finger of the glove, Claire set the work down on the chair by her bed, shut off the light and slid further down under the covers and fell asleep.
THIRTY-SIX
Despite the feelers she had put out and her continued search through the Evening Standard, Claire had found no alternative. She had ducked into a few down-and-out B & Bs but they looked as bad as, and cost more than, Mrs Watson’s. She kept hoping that something would happen.
But what happened was simple: nothing. Claire telephoned a few ads and rarely got an answer. When she did get an answer she sometimes couldn’t understand the accent or the diction of the people at the other end of the phone. And then sometimes, as Toby had implied, the places were so far away that she would have had to go to a train station rather than the underground to get there. The names were quaint: Headstone Lane, Barking, Isle of Dogs. But very few of them were a manageable price or an accessible location.
Despite Mrs Patel’s warnings about strangers, she did go to one flat in Maida Vale but the young woman who answered the door seemed filthy, her hair matted and old make-up spread in layers on her face and neck. The place was as unclean as she, and Claire made up some excuse and scurried away. Another place in a desirable part of Putney was too good to be true. She would share the flat with a husband and wife, but unless she was reading the signs incorrectly, they expected to share not only a flat but a bed. Whatever, they gave her the creeps. One very nice room in Balham was already taken by the time she got there, and the last one she tried, in Crouch End, was a big rambling place shared among five students, male and female. They interviewed her, but it was clear they were all politically opposed to the US, and though Claire tried to explain that she neither approved of nor had voted for the President, she wasn’t called back.
Wish Upon a Star Page 23
