‘That’s one way to look at it,’ Claire agreed. ‘But the official definition is a whole number that has itself and unity as its only factor. It isn’t like other numbers that aren’t prime, and it also isn’t like other prime numbers. Because they have their own unity.’
Safta looked down at the textbook and then up at Claire. ‘I’m so stupid,’ she said. It wasn’t true, but Claire had already noticed that Safta didn’t feel good about herself. She hated her glasses, her school uniform, the practical shoes her mother bought her, the traditional way she was forced to wear her hair, living in the back of a grocery store, and the foolish programs her sister liked to watch on the telly. She was a serious girl who had already confided to Claire that she never wanted ‘to marry and have all those bloody babies’, but wanted instead to be a botanist. ‘So prime numbers have one quality that they share, but that is their uniqueness,’ she said.
Claire nodded.
‘That’s rather like me,’ Safta said. ‘I have uniqueness and unity.’
Claire sat back from the table and glanced over at Mrs Patel who was busy at the stove stirring something, while she held Devi on one hip and scolded Fala. Aside from dining regularly with the Patels, Claire had begun tutoring Safta, a job that she was enjoying very much. In addition, she was learning about real Indian – or Pakistani – cuisine, very different from the birianis and kormas Claire had had before in restaurants. ‘Garbage,’ Mrs Patel had sniffed. ‘They don’t bother to do anything right.’ Claire had to admit that tonight’s dinner was more extravagant than the previous meals she had eaten at the Patels’. The beautifully spiced vegetables, the lamb and chicken served in small pieces amidst healthy greens, and the dressings of dhal and homemade relishes were not only healthful and fresh but they also seemed to help her effortlessly continue to slim down. She had actually had to borrow sewing things from Mrs Patel and, with her help, had taken in the waist and the back seam of her two pairs of slacks as well as her skirt. How odd, she thought, that she was losing weight now without trying when she had failed to in New York, trying so hard.
Claire looked back at Safta and nodded. Safta was one of those children with gifts that did not help them to ‘fit in’. She was too intelligent and mature in school, she was too fastidious at home and, unlike Claire, she didn’t escape from her reality with novels but, rather, observed everything with a scientific detachment and the slightly puckered brow. Claire might have felt sorry for her if she wasn’t so very formidable.
‘Is the table clear?’ Mrs Patel called out. ‘Safta, get Devi his feeder.’ That turned out to be a bib, and Claire helped fasten it around Devi’s neck. All of the pots were steaming, Devi had stopped fussing and Fala was carrying a tin cup to the table.
‘We’d better put these books away,’ Claire said and in a moment Safta had jumped up, neatly replaced the books on her shelf, wiped down the plastic tablecloth and put out strange round trays that held smaller metal cups and bowls. There were no china dishes, knives or forks. The children took their places and Mrs Patel began spooning out fragrant vari-colored messes into all of the bowls on each tray.
‘These are lentils,’ she said. ‘They are mixed with a kind of onion. And this is sahg. Spinach, you know. We mix it with cheese.’ Claire’s face must have shown some of her dubiousness because Mrs Patel continued. ‘I know if you just look at it, it might be enough to put you off your feed. But try some.’
Claire tried not to show any more dismay at the idea of spinach and cheese. It certainly didn’t look like either one. ‘And this is korma which has yogurt and almonds and raisins.’
‘Korma! Hooray!’ said Devi. ‘And rice. And peas. And …’
All the little bowls were filled. Devi, Mrs Patel and Fala ate with their hands, delicately mixing the various dishes with the rice. Safta fetched two teaspoons, handed one to Claire and began eating with the other. Tentatively at first, then with greater pleasure Claire tasted dish after dish and found they were all very good.
‘Dish up some dhal for Claire,’ Mrs Patel chided Safta. ‘You put it on your rice, Claire.’
Claire did, and it was delicious. So were the sweet chutney and even the spinach and cheese. The stainless steel plates and the cups from which they drank water seemed strange, but as the family ate and talked and teased one another it all began to seem not only natural but sensible. As she continued eating, Claire felt the back of her tongue and the top of her throat react to the flavors. It wasn’t just spicy. It was subtle and most things had an aftertaste and mixed with whatever new flavor she spooned into her mouth. ‘Do you often eat like this?’ Claire asked.
‘No,’ Safta said disapprovingly. ‘Sometimes we eat in front of the telly.’
‘Not if I am here,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘Devi, put the bowl down. You’ll spill.’ But Claire noticed that, even if some of the contents spilled, they were caught by the metal tray the bowls sat on.
‘What I meant was, do you eat this way, and I mean all this food, often?’
‘Oh, yes. This isn’t much. If I had time I would have baked roti and made some mutton. When my sister comes to visit we have big meals.’
‘Auntie! Auntie! I want Auntie!’ Devi yelled.
‘I want you to sit down and to be a good boy or there will be no Auntie,’ Mrs Patel told him. He did as he was told.
Claire looked across the table as Mrs Patel supervised Fala eating and then wiped Devi’s hands. She refilled the water cups and managed to finish her own dinner as well. Claire wondered at it all. Her mother had sometimes only managed bologna sandwiches, and complained about that. Mrs Patel was raising three children, bearing a fourth, stocking, staffing and managing a shop, keeping house, and seemed to think that none of it was too much. Her slim arms moved over the table, her wedding bracelets flashing and tinkling, adding to the clatter as she collected the empty dinner plates.
‘Safta, you do the washing up, Fala, help your sister.’ She looked at her youngest. ‘Devi, you keep out of the Fairy liquid.’ She gave his hair a loving pat then, as if to make up for it, she added, ‘Sometimes you’re enough to make me go spare.’ Mrs Patel turned to Claire. ‘I’m going back to reopen the shop,’ she said. ‘Thank you for joining us for dinner.’
‘Thank you,’ Claire said. ‘It was delicious.’
‘Mummy, can I show Claire my room?’ Safta asked.
‘Mummy, can I show Claire my room?’ Fala echoed.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘Safta, put on the kettle and bring me some tea. Claire, would you like a cup as well?’ Claire nodded. She couldn’t get over how many cups of tea everybody drank at all times. Even the children had milk and tea morning and night.
Claire helped Safta clear the table, put the dishes in a pan of hot water to soak and then watched as she filled a kettle which, like Toby’s, instead of putting on the cooker you plugged into an outlet. Claire thought what a convenience it would be to have one like it for herself but before she got any further with the thought Safta turned and pointed down the little hallway.
‘Would you like to see my room?’ she asked shyly. Claire nodded.
With Devi and Fala on their heels they made their way down the dark narrow hall and into the overcrowded room the two sisters shared. There, Claire was met by another surprise. Along the windowsill, on a shelf, arranged on the desk and even under the bed Safta had grouped small pots of plants. African violets, sansevieria, Irish moss, and a host of other plants that were unfamiliar to Claire were arranged on trays of pebbles or in open plastic boxes. There was also a terrarium filled with ferns and mosses. On Safta’s desk a notebook lay open with a drawing of a plant. But it wasn’t a sentimental little flower, it was a botanically accurate rendering of a carnation. Complete with leaves, flower and roots.
‘Safta! This is wonderful! Did you do this yourself?’ Safta nodded. ‘It’s a perfect carnation,’ Claire told her.
‘I have to keep moving plants,’ Safta explained. ‘There’s only the one window and they don’t get en
ough light. I have a rotation system.’
Claire looked at the windowsill and beyond to the desolate little plot behind the shop. A thought began to form but just then the kettle began to whistle.
‘I better make the tea,’ Safta said.
‘Biscuit! Biscuit!’ Devi cried.
‘And I better bring some to your mom,’ Claire said. But the two of them exchanged a look of understanding.
But the friendship with Mrs Patel was about to be damaged. ‘I’ve had a stroke of luck,’ Claire told Mrs Patel. ‘I found a new place.’
Mrs Patel smiled. ‘That must be a pleasure. If you’re living in the same spot as that Maudie it must be tatty. Did someone see the note we posted?’
Claire shook her head. ‘It was another friend. He helped me get a room. It’s really lovely. Small, but clean and sunny and I only have to share the bathroom with the woman who lives in the flat.’
‘How close is it?’ Mrs Patel asked as she sipped her tea, her hand on her belly.
‘Oh. Quite far away from here.’
‘That’s too bad. I hope it isn’t inconvenient.’
‘Oh, I can manage the underground,’ Claire said airily. ‘I’m hoping to move right in.’
‘Move right out, more likely,’ Mrs Patel murmured, but Claire didn’t hear her.
FORTY-ONE
Claire didn’t have much to pack and certainly wouldn’t mind telling Mrs Watson that she was leaving. Her only problems were her lack of money and the question of traveling from Kensington to Mrs Patel’s. If she did, it would eat up more than four pounds of her ‘salary’ each day. If she didn’t she was without any income at all.
Sitting on the bed the next morning, she counted out her cash. She would have to give Imogen three hundred pounds in advance, and although that was a lot of money she counted herself lucky. It was a cheap rent, a lovely room, a chance to make a new friend and apparently she didn’t have to give a month’s security.
She’d also have to buy curtains, blankets, sheets and towels. Though it was an extra expense, the idea actually thrilled her. She’d never done it before. She didn’t suppose they had Bed, Bath and Beyond in London. She wondered where she would go and she decided that she’d also buy herself an electric kettle, a teapot and cups to match. Of course, all this wouldn’t leave much of her fund. She wondered if there was someplace else she could get work and it occurred to her again that the old woman at the knitting store might need part-time help, even just to dust, though she wouldn’t make much at that either. She sighed. Writing to her mother and asking for money would be useless at any time and especially so now when she had actually charged things on her mother’s card. Claire sat for a while, trying to think of what else she could do. Just then there was a tiny noise at the door. Claire turned in time to see the edges of two envelopes being pushed through. She got up and almost ran to them.
Both had the return address of Crayden Smithers. She recognized Tina’s handwriting immediately, but the address was typed on the other. She tore Tina’s open.
Claire. I don’t know who you think you are. Ever since Michael Wainwright asked you out you’ve been acting snootier than usual. What’s the matter? Couldn’t you come back and face me once he dumped you? Who do you know in London? Like you might know somebody.
Everybody is asking me where you are. And I tell them I’m not your mother. Marie Two said she thought you were pregnant, but I know you weren’t when you left. Ha, ha.
I think it takes a lot of nerve to take other people’s money and just disappear like you were the Who Deanie or something. You couldn’t even afford to go to Atlantic City.
For your information, Mr Wonderful is back to his old tricks. Now he’s not just going out with Ms Rensselaer but he started up with some new one who owns a fancy art gallery. I’m making reservations for them all over town. Are you dating anyone yet? Yeah, right.
Your mother called me twice. She says you wrote her too. Fine. Like she’s your best friend too. Anthony says I shouldn’t care because you’re just selfish but I guess I have too much heart to be like that. Too bad you don’t.
Your ex-friend Tina
Claire stood with the letter in her hand. She had to read it through a second time before she began to understand what she was looking at. For a little while she couldn’t understand it – not at all. What had she done to make Tina so angry? Had there been any slight before she left? Had Michael said something to Tina? She tried to think, but she knew she had left on good terms and couldn’t think of a single thing that Michael might say that would affect Tina in any way. That was when she had realized what she had done wrong: she’d done something adventurous.
She read the letter again and became more sure with every line she went through. People in families, and even in friendships, played certain roles. Her role with Tina was that of a sidekick; someone played by Joan Cusack in a movie. Tina played the lead, of course. Tina had a flamboyant family, an active social life, a fiancé, and marriage plans. Claire had to listen. She couldn’t remember any movie where, halfway through, the second banana runs off to Europe. Tina was outraged. Claire had deviated from the script. It left Tina with no part. So, if she couldn’t be the sidekick, so Tina could stay the heroine, she would have to be a victim. The fact was that Tina loved movies about victims – beaten wives, abused children, raped teenagers, all of it played well. Claire couldn’t bear to read the letter again. She folded it, put it back in the envelope and hid it in her pocket.
She looked at the other envelope with misgivings. Had Joan gotten her address and decided to send her an insulting note that fired her? Whatever. Claire shrugged and tore the envelope open.
Dear Claire,
Thank you for your card. I’ve needed a photo of the Queen Mother for some time. How exciting! You are having what sounds like the beginning of a lovely adventure. How I envy you.
Good for you. My suggestion (not advice, I never give advice) would be to resign and stay on as long as you can. I took the liberty of checking in with personnel and found that you are owed quite a lot of overtime. Over eleven hundred dollars’ worth, it appears. I thought it might come in handy, and I enclose it. If you have any trouble cashing this check, please call collect. All banks should honor it, and if they don’t Mr Crayden will want to know why.
As they say in London, ‘Jobs are thick on the ground.’ You are resourceful and can always pick one up if you have to. And we are moving ahead with some plans to open a branch in London. Who knows? Perhaps there’s a job for both of us there. With hopes I don’t see you too soon,
Abigail Samuels
As Claire picked the note up in disbelief, a check fluttered out onto the floor. She picked it up and found it was very close to twelve hundred dollars. Claire was certain that she’d been paid for any overtime she’d ever done. She didn’t know what Abigail had done and didn’t really want to think about it in detail. She just looked at the Crayden Smithers check in front of her and hoped that Abigail hadn’t embezzled the money, though she supposed that embezzlers didn’t bother with such small amounts – small amounts, that is, to people like Michael Wainwright. Claire stared at the check and saw her own future in it: a lovely room, soft sheets, fluffy towels and new friends.
FORTY-TWO
By late morning Claire had said goodbye to Maudie, who promised to bring any mail that came in to Mrs Watson to her at Mrs Patel’s, and had been to thank Toby for introducing her to Imogen. Her reward, aside from the visit itself, was his promise to visit her as soon as she was settled. She consulted her list. The next items were cashing her check and shopping for the sheets and towels. Toby had advised her to stay out of Harrods and Selfridges and to go to ‘Marks and Sparks’ or BHS.
Claire walked up Regent Street and took the time to wonder at Liberty’s lovely Tudor-style building. When she got to Oxford Street she turned left at the busy intersection and enjoyed the sophisticated feeling of not being a tourist and instead being a shopper for her ‘flat in South Ken�
��. First she cashed the check at a branch of Barclays Bank, then turned back to cross Regent Street again.
When she got to Marks and Spencer she was at first overwhelmed. She found the linen department and spent a long time looking. In the end she decided on a lilac and gray pattern of flowers set on a white ground. It would, she thought, go with the room as well as with the rug and there were matching curtains! She bought two fitted sheets, two top sheets and four pillowcases – quite a splurge when she saw the cost of them. Then, of course, she realized she would need pillows and bought two of the cheapest she could find. She also bought a white cotton blanket and then went for a late lunch in the café. That was when she remembered about the kettle.
A shop assistant directed her to John Lewis where she saw one that, compared to some of the others, looked like a miniature. It was white with a pattern of green vines in a celery color. Small lavender flowers were dotted among the vines. Thrilled, she knew it was meant for her.
At the very last, she went to John Lewis’s china department. She looked and looked, falling in love with a pattern and switching her affection to another. But her bags were already bulky and tedious to carry, and when she realized that all of the cups, saucers and teapots that she liked were not inexpensive she looked at all her purchases and began to be concerned about the amount of money she had spent. So, instead of buying china she allowed herself a final splurge on a taxi.
She gave her destination to the driver. ‘A Yank are you?’ he asked in a friendly way. She nodded. ‘Where are you from then?’ When she told him New York he became very chatty indeed. ‘Love the place,’ he said. ‘Went with me wife two years ago. Couldn’t believe the pace. It wasn’t like Orlando.’
‘Have you been to Florida?’ she asked.
‘Oh, sure. Made that trip twice with the kids. So, what are you doing in Camden? The market isn’t really at its best today, you know. And it looks like you’ve done plenty of shopping already.’ He laughed.
Wish Upon a Star Page 26
