Wish Upon a Star

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Meanwhile, the little sign she put up in Mrs Patel’s window had produced nothing. Claire would just have to decide whether she would bathe in the morning and feel fresh or save her bath for the evening to get clean and warm. She husbanded her dwindling cash and spent the days walking, seeing sights, looking in windows for rental signs and enjoying her freedom.

  Claire had also accepted the dinner invitation to the Patels’. It had been nice to help Mrs Patel out without being compensated. She was a difficult woman to understand, but underneath her hard exterior she had a soft spot for her children. When Claire herself was alone and occasionally feeling lonely, the thought of going back to her job at Crayden Smithers and her mother’s house filled her with such dread that it overcame her anxiety about money.

  What she realized on her walks was that while she had rarely been alone back in Staten Island she had almost always been lonely. So nothing had changed. She was simply noticing it. She told herself she was all right, but as she walked past a phone box one morning she was weak enough to call Adam Tucker because she simply needed some social contact. He seemed happy to hear from her again and his accent, though strange, was strange in a comforting way. ‘Come on. Dinner,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t. I work late.’

  ‘So, your visa came through! Let’s celebrate.’ Claire flushed. She was a poor stupid liar. But she agreed to meet Adam at half-past ten the next evening.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be hard for me to find someone who wanted to share their apartment,’ Adam told her over the first course of their dinner. She had suggested an Indian restaurant in Soho, not far from Covent Garden, and Adam had somewhat hesitantly agreed.

  ‘Flat,’ Claire said now. ‘Not apartment. They call them flats.’

  ‘Yeah. And they say “gay-rodge” instead of garage and “leftenant” instead of lieutenant but that doesn’t mean we should.’

  Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘When in Rome,’ she said.

  ‘So,’ Adam went on, ‘where have you been?’

  Just then the waiter brought their main course – chicken tikka, vegetable korma and dhal. Adam looked down at it suspiciously. ‘Is there curry in any of this?’ he asked. ‘I don’t mind chili but that curry taste makes me sick.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘You told me that,’ she reminded him. ‘The chicken is plain, just baked slowly and the korma vegetables are in a yogurt sauce.’

  ‘Yogurt?’ he asked. He made a face. Even with his nose wrinkled he was very attractive – at least as far as looks went. ‘Are you one of those health nuts? No offense meant.’

  Claire shook her head over more than the question. She spooned out rice, chicken and a little of the korma on his plate. Though he looked at it for a moment he did pick up his fork. ‘So, have you traveled while you were here?’ Claire said.

  ‘I went down to Spain with a friend. I just did it because he was going. He said Barcelona was a real cool city. And I speak a little Spanish but it was like they didn’t understand what I said and they don’t eat dinner there until about midnight.’

  ‘Was it a pretty city?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like cities much. I’m from a small town near Corpus Christi. I like the Gulf, and shrimp, and Tex-Mex. Not that this isn’t good,’ he added. ‘I like the chicken just fine.’ He looked across the table at her and smiled. His teeth were the whitest she had ever seen. ‘You ought to come down to Texas sometime,’ he said. ‘You’d like it.’

  Claire wasn’t sure that was true. The more she saw of handsome Corporal Tucker the less she liked him. Well, she couldn’t say that she didn’t like him. He was pleasant and amenable. It was just she didn’t like him for her. And, unfortunately, it was clear that he liked her for himself.

  ‘Where you been in London?’ he asked as he helped himself to more chicken.

  ‘Oh, as many places as I’ve been able to fit in. The National Gallery, St Paul’s, Claridge’s. I’ve walked through most of Mayfair and I’m getting to know Camden and Kensington pretty well.’

  ‘Is all of that in London?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I’m going to try Hampton Court. That is outside of the city limits. You have to take a boat or a train there.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll show me sometime.’

  Claire was touched by his eagerness, but not interested. She thought of herself being led around by Michael Wainwright. Had he thought she was so dull and ignorant? But she had had a lot of curiosity and excitement. Adam seemed to have none. Sadly, Claire realized she couldn’t see him again. There was simply no point. More sadly, she wondered if that was what Mr Wonderful had felt about her when he left her for the rendezvous with Katherine Rensselaer. Claire couldn’t suppress a sigh and changed the subject.

  After dinner, when Adam asked if she had a phone yet, she wrote down a false number and gave it to him. She felt guilty doing it, but she didn’t know how to tell him that she simply didn’t want to see a person with so few interests and so little desire to explore the opportunities that came his way. When she left him at the tube stop she felt twenty pounds lighter.

  On impulse she bought another postcard at a late-night store – a very unflattering picture of the late Queen Mum – and addressed it to Abigail.

  Thank you so much for your note. I’m taking your advice and leave of absence if you can arrange it. Don’t know where I’ll be living or how but I’m very glad I’m here.

  She paused, smiled and continued to write.

  So sorry to hear about Mr Wainwright’s problems. Give my love to Joan but be sure to keep some for yourself.

  She bought a stamp and dropped the card in the red ‘pillar box’ – the mailboxes so attractively dotting the city.

  Her card was mailed. Her die was cast. The next day Claire would make one last attempt to find accommodation and then she’d have to go to Mrs Watson and apologize for her hastiness.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The next morning Claire finished the glove. Today she’d go to the knitting shop. Since neither Toby nor Adam had turned up a flat or a job, perhaps she might ask about either at Knitting Kitting. And, as a treat for herself, she’d take Abigail’s advice and go to Hampton Court. As she did every morning, she took out the bag from under her bed, checked to see that she had her passport and her ticket and then counted her money. She had five hundred and fifty-five pounds. And she took fifty of them and put them in her bag.

  She set out in good spirits, and her breakfast made her feel better. The waitress at the café, who Claire had found from listening during her previous visits was called Marianne, already knew her by sight if not name and cheerfully asked her if she wanted ‘the usual’.

  Then it was a quick tube ride to South Ken and a brisk walk to Knitting Kitting. She had asked Mrs Patel about the peculiar name and Mrs Patel had explained that ‘kitting’ someone out was to supply them. It took her a little while to find the right street – she hadn’t marked it down as she did with most things. But after a few panicked minutes, she rounded a corner and she was there.

  It was, however, only to meet with disappointment. A handwritten sign on the door announced Shop Closed Back In A Little While. Claire had no idea what ‘a little while’ might mean to a woman in her seventies. She could, of course, leave, but the money in her purse was begging to be spent and her fingers itched for a new project.

  She took a walk around the corner. She could go into a café to pass the time but wasn’t hungry and certainly didn’t want to spend any money she didn’t have to. So she walked and walked some more. Her patience paid off because when she returned the sign was down and she could enter the store. Nothing had changed and Claire got the feeling that nothing had for the last decade or two.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ the old woman behind the counter said. ‘I’ve just been upstairs. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting. I have no one to watch the shop when I need to get the phone or use the loo.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve been in before,’ she said.

  Claire nodded. ‘We talked ab
out your throw.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How is it coming?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Quite well. Have you started on the gloves?’

  Claire was delighted she remembered and took the finished one out of her bag. She laid it on the counter. Perhaps if the woman saw her work she might … well, it was possible she might give Claire a bit of a job or a lead on a room to rent. Of course the neighborhood was what Claire had learned was called ‘up-market’. She doubted she could afford anything nearby, but if she got a job at the shop it was possible that she could afford …

  ‘Oh, my dear! But this is quite wonderful!’

  Claire shrugged. ‘It was the yarn,’ she said. ‘I’ve never worked with anything like it.’

  ‘Nor I, but it isn’t just the yarn.’ She picked up the glove, turning it over and examining the cuff, the thumb and the fingers. ‘Well, it isn’t a lost art,’ she said with a smile. ‘You certainly have all the knowledge in your fingers that anyone would need.’ To Claire’s delight, she then looked at her scarf. ‘Is that your work as well?’ she asked. Claire nodded again and unwound it. She put it beside the glove on the counter. ‘What a wonderful color! Oh, I used to stock so many different colors. It’s like working in a rainbow.’ She lifted the scarf and fingered it. ‘Such even stitching. What do you call this pattern?’

  Claire shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen it anywhere. My grandmother taught it to me.’

  ‘Well, it’s lovely. I’m quite ashamed to show you my work. And you made such a fuss about it.’

  ‘No. No, I really meant it. May I see the throw?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She reached below the counter and took it out. It really was marvelous, though you had to be a good knitter to appreciate it. Claire supposed it was like anything else – only a real craftsman could truly measure the skill of another. She thought of how cold she was back at Mrs Watson’s. How nice to have a throw like this to drape over her. Well, tomorrow was the last day she had paid for at Mrs Watson’s. If she found another place she hoped it wouldn’t be as chilly. She took a deep breath.

  ‘You know, I wonder if you might know of a flat, one to share, that might be available. This is a nice neighborhood and I wonder …’

  ‘Oh, I’m no good on things like that, dear. My son would be the one to help you with that. He’s a barrister but he’s been buying and selling buildings for ever so long. And he’s quite friendly with the estate agents across the way. I believe he does business with them.’

  Claire doubted that estate agents would be able to help her. She looked at the old lady and her courage failed. After all, Tina had hustled her into her job at Crayden Smithers and on her own she’d never gotten any work except her inconsequential job at Mrs Patel’s.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ The lady looked concerned, but also a bit flustered.

  Claire forced herself to smile. It was so very hard to make a place for yourself in the world. A home, a job, friends. Wanting good ones but so often settling for poor ones, or none at all. ‘No thank you. I’ll wait until I finish this up. You know how it is.’

  ‘Oh, I certainly do. I can’t tell you the number of projects I’ve started because of the lure of a wool. And then you have to slog on and finish them, don’t you?’

  ‘I look forward to finishing the other glove,’ Claire told her. ‘It’s so much fun to watch the pattern emerge.’

  ‘Well, enjoy it. And do come back.’

  Claire felt dismissed. The older woman sat back down and Claire put on her scarf and put the glove into her pocket. She would go. Her visit to the shop had accomplished nothing. When Claire stepped out into the crisp air she sighed deeply. She had just lost her ace in the hole and would be forced to apologize to Mrs Watson. She adjusted her scarf and decided that she’d had enough self-pity. She would manage somehow but at this moment she had to enjoy her freedom.

  Claire decided to follow Abigail’s advice and made her way to Paddington. The railway station was almost overwhelming. The ceiling high and glassed, people scurrying across the terrazzo floor from train platform to newsstand to coffee shop to underground in a crazy pattern. Still, it was all so much calmer and more pleasant than Grand Central Station, a phrase that people in Tottenville used to indicate chaos. Claire bought a ticket to Hampton Court, but only for one-way. In Abigail’s book she had learned you could take a boat back along the Thames and she decided that, weather permitting, she would enjoy the outdoors and the views of London from the water.

  The train ride was uneventful to everyone but Claire. She stared out the window at the passing back gardens and the few open parks. It seemed as if every inch of ground was gardened, groomed and planted. There was little of the New Jersey view-from-the-train ugliness she was used to. She didn’t know if all of England was as pretty and cared for, but this bit was lovely.

  She felt quite proud of herself, going out on this adventure, but when she got off the train she nearly lost her bright mood. At the end of the platform a uniformed man requested her ticket. She had no idea what she had done with it. The man stood calmly, his uniform looking very official, while Claire patted the pockets of her raincoat, went through her purse and emptied her knitting bag. Finally, panicked and about to give up, she found the ticket inserted in the Mitford book. Relieved, she handed it over, too ruffled to ask directions to the palace. But the signs were everywhere and even if they weren’t the people from the train all seemed to be going in the same direction.

  Claire had already seen Buckingham Palace and Kensington Palace from the outside. But neither one prepared her for the sight of Hampton Court. The red brick building had the crenellated top and towers that she thought of when Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty were mentioned. It was set in a park so lush yet perfectly manicured that it took her breath away. Other people were scattered about taking photographs but Claire stared and knew she wouldn’t need a picture to remind her of the beauty in front of her.

  She walked up, passed the incredible gates and purchased a ticket without the slightest pang at parting with the money. The thought made her smile. Back in the sixteenth century Cardinal Wolsey had owned the palace. When Henry VIII came for a royal visit he had looked covetously around. ‘It’s a palace fit only for a king,’ he told Wolsey, who was wise enough to give it up immediately to Henry. A higher price to pay than Claire’s. Sometimes, she thought, it was good to have very little. You had less to lose and less to worry about.

  In this mood, she wandered through the palace and found the gardens behind. The maze, the formal knot garden, the hothouse vines, and the indoor tennis court were impressive but, as Tina might say, ‘A nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there.’ Just thinking of the responsibility gave Claire the willies. How many servants did Henry employ? How many gardeners? How many cooks?

  The sun came out and she looked across the wide park to the river. The gray Thames sparkled in the light and she thought with pleasure of her boat ride to come. She made her way to the gate and asked directions. She found the dock easily and a boat was just departing.

  Since the sunshine was intermittent, Claire turned up her collar and tucked in her scarf before making her way to the upper deck. The views were lovely, and it was worth the chill to get to see the green banks make way for the houses and then for the larger buildings of the outer city and then for London itself.

  She felt an exhilarated sense of freedom and it was only when they passed the Houses of Parliament and Claire saw the terrace where she had had tea with Michael and his friend that she felt a stab of loss. For a moment the low sky seemed to recede and Claire, alone on the top of the vessel, felt as if she might be sucked up into the air, past the wheeling gulls and terns and right off the planet. Once again the thought that she was completely free had turned with frightening speed into the realization that she was completely alone. Here in this vast space there was no place for her. Shaky, Claire made her way into the cabin and
was grateful when the boat docked and she could be surrounded by people again.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  On Friday morning Claire realized she had been in London for just over two weeks. She had run into the lurking Mrs Watson and had to tell her she was extending her stay. It was humiliating, but her growing pleasure in the city made it tolerable. And perhaps something would turn up soon.

  She had finished Hons and Rebels and had delighted in it. She hadn’t seen Toby for a week and wanted to go back, discuss the book and buy another. The three that she had sitting beside her bed made her crave more worn, well-read volumes with the delicious smell of old paper and London dust. Perhaps she could create her own library. She definitely wanted to read another Mitford book and perhaps a biography about the mad family.

  Toby’s bookstore drew her like a magnet. It wasn’t just Toby, although she found him handsome, charming, and amusing. It was also her need to be recognized, to be welcomed and to be snug, the way she felt in the back of the bookstore in the big, enveloping chair – never mind the books. Despite the advice from Abigail, she didn’t want to throw herself at Toby or make herself a nuisance. Still, if she bought books she had a legitimate reason for being there. At least that was what she reminded herself as she walked to his shop.

  When she reached the store she steeled herself to go in, and she was rewarded when she did. ‘Hello,’ Toby sang out a second time when he actually saw that it was she who had come in. ‘Good to see you. Or anyone actually.’ He gave himself a little shake, his fine hair swayed and then settled into place. ‘If I sit here too long with nothing to do I start doubting I can make a go of it.’

  ‘Haven’t you already?’