Wish Upon a Star

by Olivia Goldsmith

  ‘I’ll be right with you,’ Claire said. She allowed herself to be pushed and pulled by the children out the back door and into the transformed space behind the house. The border of green looked lovely and Claire thought how very pretty the addition of a trellis and some climbing roses would be. She wondered if Mrs Patel would consider the expense. And whitewashing the other brick wall might also be a good idea to set off the little square of grass in the center.

  ‘Devi was naughty and picked some flowers,’ Fala said. Devi picked up a bit of gravel and flung it at her, luckily going wide of the mark.

  ‘No, Devi, you don’t throw stones.’ Claire turned to Fala. ‘And you don’t snitch, either.’

  ‘What’s “snitch”?’ Safta asked.

  Before she could explain, Mrs Patel spoke from the doorway. ‘It’s so very pretty, Claire,’ she said. ‘It’s like the telly show. You know, the one where they come and fix up a back garden in one weekend.’ Claire didn’t have a telly but Safta had told her all about the show, so she nodded.

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘I sit out here early in the morning. There’s sun in the corner and I have my tea there.’ She smiled at the three children. ‘We must all thank Claire for making it so very, very nice.’

  ‘Thank you, Claire,’ the children chorused, though Devi’s lisp came a bit after the other two.

  Claire smiled, but instead of feeling the happiness she ought to she was swept by a feeling of discomfort. How could she possibly tell them that she could no longer work here?

  ‘See the clematis? It’s got two new buds and over here, look how much this has grown,’ Safta said.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Claire said. ‘You’ve been doing a very good job.’ She turned and smiled at Mrs Patel. ‘Maybe later we can get a climbing rose,’ she said. ‘It would look lovely on that wall.’ She stopped and had a thought. ‘It would be my present to you,’ she added.

  ‘A rose. Climbing rose tree?’ Safta asked.

  ‘I want red,’ Fala said.

  ‘No, I want red.’ Devi put in his two-pence.

  But it was Safta whose eyes glistened. ‘White,’ she said. ‘Like moonlight.’

  ‘White it shall be,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘Now, all three of you leave Claire alone. I need her help.’

  They went back to the front of the shop. ‘I am sorry,’ Mrs Patel told Claire. ‘These boxes are becoming more and more difficult.’ She looked down at her belly.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t be doing heavy work. Surely the doctor told you that.’ Claire began to open the top of the first carton.

  ‘Oh, I haven’t been to a doctor,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘This is my fourth. I don’t need someone jabbing at me.’

  Claire was shocked, but refrained from speaking. ‘When is the baby due?’ she asked. She had never been brave enough to refer to the pregnancy before.

  ‘I think I must be seven months,’ Mrs Patel told her. She shook her head. ‘I’ll have to do this one alone,’ she said.

  Claire looked at Mrs Patel’s face and for the first time she saw something that looked like fear. ‘I can help,’ she said.

  Mrs Patel looked up. ‘I believe you will,’ she said and smiled.

  A customer came in and Claire got back to unpacking the cartons. When she was done she put the washing powder neatly on the shelves. She looked around. The shop had really changed. Not only was it more orderly but there was more stock and more variety. Mrs Patel was buying three brands of dishwasher detergent, several different kinds of baked beans – standard, pork, and low salt and sugar. There were more and different jellies and jams, a real selection of salad dressings, and a host of other products that Claire didn’t remember from her first visit.

  The evening got busy with the usual quick-what’s-for-dinner crowd. Maudie came in, pushing the rickety stroller. Mrs Patel greeted her with a smile and the children shyly waved to Claire. They spoke for a little while until Claire thought she should get back to work. ‘Give my love to Mrs Watson,’ she said as a joke.

  ‘Oh, Lord! I almost forgot,’ Maudie said. ‘You got another letter. If I hadn’t seen it first I’m sure the old witch would have torn it to bits. I have it here somewhere.’ She went through her pockets, then the pockets at the back of the stroller, then began scrabbling inside the canvas sack she used as a purse. Meanwhile, Claire tried to think of who a letter could be from. Probably Tina she thought and hoped it wasn’t going to be unkind.

  But when Maudie took out the envelope, now rather soiled and wrinkled, Claire recognized her mother’s handwriting. For a moment she felt guilty. She should have written again, given her new address and told her mother something of her plans. But she really didn’t have any plans; not permanent ones. And somehow writing back to her mother, Tottenville, Jerry, and knowing that any news would be spread among the disapproving neighbors and to angry Tina had stopped her. She took the letter and stuffed it into her pocket. ‘Thanks, Maudie,’ she said. Maudie made her usual rounds, talking to the children and herself, then returned to the counter with her usual purchases. When she left both Claire and Mrs Patel waved her off.

  ‘A nice woman,’ Mrs Patel said, ‘a little strange, but very sweet with her children. They need a bath, though.’

  Claire remembered Mrs Watson and the bath water. ‘What they could use is a decent place to live,’ Claire told her. ‘My old landlady watches every liter of water and begrudges toilet paper.’

  Mrs Patel shook her head. ‘You know, my father came to this country with nothing. My uncle was here and he helped my father find work. Then after many years my father was able to buy this shop for me. If that hadn’t happened … well, we’ve been very lucky.’

  Claire wondered how a single mother with three children and one on the way, a woman who lived on a rough street in tiny rooms, could consider herself lucky. Mrs Patel looked up at Claire. ‘And it was lucky that you came along,’ she said. ‘Safta just got her school report and she’s doing very, very well.’ Mrs Patel looked around the shop. ‘Each week we have more customers. And each week I buy a little more. It keeps selling.’ She smiled at Claire. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Instead of going to the till and taking out the twenty pounds in the usual way, Mrs Patel held up an envelope. She put it in a bag that she had under the counter. ‘It’s a little present for you,’ she said and handed the bulgy bag to Claire.

  She peered into it, but it wasn’t the usual mixture of groceries and cleaning products. Instead there was something wrapped with tape and newspaper and plastic bubble wrap. ‘Don’t you open it until you get home,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘I don’t want you to break it or scratch it.’

  Claire took a deep breath. There was no way she could tell Mrs Patel the news tonight.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Claire slept late on Sunday morning. The day before had been so filled with anticipation, excitement, achievement and guilt that she’d exhausted herself, and she’d been too tired the previous evening to open Mrs Patel’s gift. However, when she opened her eyes she felt well rested. The clean and cheerful little room was filled with watery sunlight, her knitting was spread across the little armchair, and the stand held not only the Battersea box from Michael but also the program from Lucia, Toby had given her.

  The thought of him made her smile. She so enjoyed his company, and she had to thank him once again for so many things and report on the success of her classes. She was free all morning and afternoon and decided that she would buy him a present; not just chocolates like before, but something more substantial, to show her appreciation. It couldn’t be too personal, partly because she didn’t know him well enough and partly because she didn’t want to seem, well, as interested in him as she was. But if it was too impersonal it would hardly be worth giving.

  Thinking of the gift for Toby, she remembered the bulging bag from Mrs Patel. That reminded her of the letter from her mother which Maudie had given her and which Claire had completely forgotten. She jumped out of bed, put on her robe, filled the kettle
and then went out to wash her face, getting back into her bedroom without disturbing Imogen or Malcolm. If they were there. It was a shame she couldn’t have gone for a drink with them. Perhaps she could make dinner for the three of them sometime.

  Thinking about these pleasant plans, she took out the envelope and the crudely-wrapped package. She had to go back out to the kitchen for a knife because the tape and the layers of plastic and paper proved difficult to remove. But when she finally got the top of the paper unwrapped the rest of it slipped off easily.

  Claire caught her breath. Revealed before her was the most perfect little vase. It was made of some kind of metal, but the tiniest pieces of mosaic had been laid into it in a delicate pattern of vines, flowers and birds. Claire picked the vase up and slowly turned it in her hands. The light picked up the pink of the mounded petal pieces and gave the lapis blue more depth. Perhaps the mosaic pieces were ceramic but they might have been semi-precious stones, Claire couldn’t tell. She just looked at the fine tracery of the leaves and the incredible detail of the birds that perched on tiny branches and wondered at it. Where had it come from? Was it something from Mrs Patel’s family? How old was it? And how marvelous of Mrs Patel to give it to Claire.

  Claire turned the vase over and over in her hands, each time seeing a new detail, a new bit of workmanship. She thought about how lovely it would look filled with flowers. It was smooth and cool in her hands as she put it up against her cheek. If one was ill, surely the touch of this on the forehead would end a headache, stop a migraine. When she could bear to stop touching it she placed it on the bureau and had the pleasure of looking at it from a distance, the back of the vase reflected in the mirror behind it. Oh, how could Claire keep such a valuable gift at a time when she had to stop working for Mrs Patel, but how could she consider giving it back?

  Next she opened the envelope. It contained a page obviously ripped from Safta’s exercise book and taped into an untidy pouch. For you because of help and the garden. Safta, Devi, Fala. And for the store. Mrs Patel hadn’t even signed her name. Carefully Claire tore at the tape and, to her complete surprise, a bundle of grubby five-pound notes fell into her lap. Claire looked at them astounded. A hundred pounds! And then there was the fifty pounds that she had from Mrs Venables. Half a month’s rent! Or enough to take Toby out for a very nice dinner and have plenty to spare. Or perhaps money to buy her own teapot and cups and saucers. Or …

  She took the money and put it in her bureau drawer. She picked up the wrapping paper and envelope, thrusting them into the plastic bag, but Mrs Patel’s homely note had to be saved and she placed it, tape and all, inside the cover of Hons and Rebels. She poured herself a cup of tea, sat down near the window and took up her mother’s letter.

  She sipped the tea and looked out the window at the soft sunshine and the gardens below. A cat crept along the top of a fence, and a laburnum tree waved its fronds, so that the cat lifted its paw and batted at one. Claire felt pure happiness. It was odd that in less than two months she had created a little home for herself here in this strange city she loved, a home that was far more comfortable, far prettier, and far more ‘her’ than Staten Island had been. She had certainly been astonishingly lucky with this flat, but part of the charm of her new life was that she had so little, but that each thing she had was necessary or beautiful or both. From her kettle to her raincoat she liked and used each one of her belongings. The thought of her bedroom in Tottenville with the old knick-knacks, the dreary prints on the wall, the unwearable clothes in the closet, was utterly distasteful.

  But Tottenville waited for her. She sighed, finished her tea and then opened her mother’s letter.

  Occasionally life juxtaposes events so diametrically opposed, in such a short space of time, that it seems as if there must be some cosmic intelligence – not necessarily a pleasant one – at work.

  Dear Claire,

  I don’t know what you are thinking. You just picked up and left. Tina says you are having an affair with some guy at the office. Is that true? Jerry says he was probably married. I don’t want to believe that. Why haven’t you come home? Tina says you quit work. Are you pregnant?

  I went to church and lit a candle for you. Father Frank told me I should pray for your well-being but I said you sounded well enough in your card. Taking in the sights and living the life of Riley. Other people have to work.

  Frankly, Claire, I’m surprised at you. You’ve always been quiet but you’ve never been sneaky. When I go to church I can’t even look at the other women. Just don’t come back with a baby.

  I got the bill from Saks and Jerry nearly hit the roof. We were talking about a timeshare in Sugarbush, Vermont. We can forget that now. Thanks a lot. Jerry says we should turn your room and Fred’s into an apartment the way the O’Connors across the street did. I haven’t heard from Fred lately so I don’t know when he comes back from Germany, but I sure know we can use the money. Especially with that Saks bill. I don’t know what you were thinking of. Two hundred and ten dollars for shoes? If you want to buy jewelry and shoes, why don’t you let your married boyfriend pay for them?

  So I don’t know what we’re going to do upstairs. Property taxes are probably going up – school taxes surely are. I’d like to hear from you and know if you’re coming back soon and when you plan to pay the bill. Right now I’m just paying the interest but Jerry says it’s a lot of money to throw away every month. Father Frank said he might be able to get us a tenant, but I’m not sure if I like the idea.

  Claire crushed the letter in her hand and, on impulse, opened the window and tossed the paper ball as far as she could. She couldn’t sit back down so she paced up and down the small room. What was the matter with people? Perhaps she should have told her mother she was going to London, but would it have changed anything or produced a softer response when she told her she was staying on? Why in the world would her mother think she would become involved with a married man? Or that she was pregnant? Surely Tina wouldn’t tell her that. They might no longer be friends, but Tina was never a snitch.

  She went to her bureau, took out all of the cash she had, including the money from Mrs Patel and Mrs Venables, and counted it. It was nowhere near enough to pay her mother back, and if Claire did give it to her, it would be more difficult, maybe even impossible, for her to stay on.

  And the moment after she had that thought, she knew she was staying on. She was never going to return to Tottenville, her mother, Tina, Jerry, Crayden Smithers or any of her previous life. She had no idea how unhappy she had been until she had experienced the happiness she felt here almost daily.

  And then the thought of her father and his early death came to her. He’d spent so much time talking about the things he was going to do, but he never got a chance to do them. And – if she was honest with herself – she would admit that he might never have done them, no matter how long he lived. She decided to try and live every day as if it was her last.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The next morning Claire had an important errand and though she was nervous about undertaking it she was also very determined. She had spent a lot of time – it felt like hours and hours – awake in the middle of the night thinking about her mother’s letter, her life at home, her new life in London and her future. Her daring plan – to cash in the return ticket, pay her mother back and live in London permanently – gave Claire the determination she needed to make a bold move and, as she opened the door to the airline office in Regent Street she told herself to be brave.

  The long queue moved slowly. Claire tried to counteract the butterflies in her stomach by looking at the posters on the wall and imagining herself in Crete, Amsterdam, Lucerne, or Milan. Perhaps she’d manage to visit these other places someday. The most attractive poster was for Nice, and the price seemed very cheap – it was a four-day ‘excursion’ which included the flight, hotels, transfers and ‘two Continental dinners’ (whatever those were). The picture of the water and the hills behind it seemed, Claire thought, the per
fect combination of beach and town. She wondered if Fred had ever taken vacations away from his base in Germany. He was far more adventurous than she was and had probably been all over.

  The line had cleared and she was next. An older woman nodded to her and Claire smiled as she walked up to the counter. Perhaps a smile would help. She laid down the ticket and her passport. ‘I’d like to return this ticket please,’ she said. Her heart seemed to thump almost audibly.

  The woman, who wore a name tag that identified her as ‘Sara Brackett’ picked up the ticket and looked at it. Then she looked at Claire. ‘Oh. You didn’t have to wait,’ she said. Claire felt her face pale and hoped her heart wouldn’t stop beating. She clutched the counter with her right hand. ‘This is a first class ticket. You could have been served over there.’

  Confused, Claire looked in the direction Mrs Brackett was indicating. Another agent sat at a low desk with two comfortable chairs in front of it. A discreet sign indicated the area was for first class tickets only. Relief flooded her. ‘Should I go …’

  ‘Oh, I can take care of it,’ Mrs Brackett said. She examined the ticket more closely. ‘Do you want to change the date and reschedule?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘Just a refund, please.’

  Once again Mrs Brackett examined the ticket. ‘Well, you see, this was bought through your travel agency in New York. So normally the refund would go through them.’

  ‘But I’m not returning to New York,’ Claire said. ‘You see, that’s the point. I came here for company business but … I stayed on. And I’ve had this ticket since then. And I …’ She could feel tears tremble on her lower lids. Oh, how could she explain what she’d done and how she’d changed since she first got into the limo on her way to JFK airport?

  Mrs Brackett looked over her reading glasses and then back at the ticket. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘what we could do is exchange this for a much cheaper flight elsewhere and refund the rest to you now.’ She looked back at Claire. ‘Is there another destination you want to book in the near future?’