Wish Upon a Star (15 page)

She consulted her
A to Z
map and saw that the Angel was in Islington and was, in fact, named after a local pub. There was a main street, called Upper Street, and several small squares to the east of it. There was also a section marked Camden Passage. It sounded interesting and when she got out of the station she carefully followed the map.

Upper Street was busy with buses, shoppers and deliveries, but it seemed more like normal life, not the tourist life of Knightsbridge. Claire turned off the main road and came upon a tiny lane running parallel which was called, confusingly, Islington High Street. On it were a dozen antique stores—the city seemed crammed with antiques—and two pubs. As she walked by the first one she saw a signboard advertising ‘Pub lunches’. Under that there were a few dishes listed including ‘The Ploughman’s Special’. She wondered what it could be, and decided she would lunch there and find out.

Then she began to wander up one street and across another. Everything seemed different from anything Claire had known before. Even the light had a special quality, a paleness that made even bright colors softer and more luminous.

She came to a square—not as manicured and perfect as the ones south of the hotel—but a little square with a church and an open common in the middle. There were some old trees and the grass was very green. Around it small houses, each attached to the one beside it, looked out to the shared park. An old woman carrying a heavy canvas bag made her way slowly along the sidewalk and a woman with two children crossed the street to the small playground beside the church. At that moment the sun broke through the clouds and a stream of watery sunshine played across the scene in front of her. Along with the light came a flood of joy. I’m here, Claire thought. I am part of this scene, the old woman, the children, the young mother, and me. We are all here. She smiled.

She walked until she was tired, and then made her way back toward the pub she had selected. But once there she felt shy. She pushed open the door timidly. Though it was one o’clock the place was almost empty. Two or three bar stools were occupied by older men. There were no other customers, though a few tables on the dark red carpet had empty glasses on them.

Claire picked a clean table in the corner. It was good to sit down. But after five minutes or so she wondered when—or if—the waitress would arrive. Leaving her bag on the seat she walked to the bar. ‘Are you serving lunch?’ she asked.

The drinkers turned to look at her. But the young man behind the bar didn’t. ‘You’ll have to order it here. No table service on weekdays,’ he said, his eyes on the mugs he was washing in a sink of gray water. Claire felt her courage draining as the water drained out of the sink, but she managed to stay in her place, though she couldn’t bring herself to speak in front of these four men. ‘So, what’ll it be?’ he asked.

‘The ploughman,’ she forced herself to say, as if she knew what she was ordering. If it were terrible—some nasty meat in brown sauce—she just wouldn’t eat it.

‘To drink?’

Claire hadn’t a clue. ‘Beer,’ she said.

‘Which one?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. They must have different brands here. She wasn’t much of a beer drinker anyway but it seemed that one should have a beer in a pub.

Her ignorance worked in her favor. Two of the men at the bar smiled. ‘’Ave the bitter,’ said the balding one with glasses.

‘Bollocks,’ said the older man wearing a cap. ‘She’s from the States. She won’t like bitter.’ He smiled more broadly. His eyes, under brows that were like furry caterpillars, were brilliant blue. ‘Have a light ale.’ He turned to the bartender. ‘Give her a Courage, Mick. Half pint on me.’

‘Oh, that’s on you all right,’ the first man said. ‘A half pint. You’re half measure all the way.’

‘You’re talkin’ rubbish again,’ Mick the bartender told the both of them. ‘One more argument and both of you will be out of ’ere.’

The third man spoke for the first time. ‘The lady is waiting for her lunch,’ he said. ‘Mick, I’m sure you’re gentlemanly enough to take it over to her along with a half pint of Courage.’

The other two men laughed. Claire knew she was part of some long-standing drama, although it was certainly of the everyday variety. She looked at the third man, who looked pretty much like the other two. ‘Thank you,’ she said and was grateful to retire to her corner.

When the ploughman’s came, handed to her along with a beer by the bored Mick, Claire was delighted by the plate. It was a strange lunch but one that suited her. Two large hunks—they were far bigger than slices—of bread, a lump of butter, a block of cheese, and some brown relish were arrayed with some lettuce and cucumber rather like a landscape on the plate. Claire broke off a piece of the bread, sliced some cheese, added some relish and took a bite. The flavors exploded in her mouth. The cheese was a cheddar, but much more savory than Tottenville cheddar. The bread had a chewy, yeasty consistency and the relish was wonderful—sweet and tart at the same time—and perfect with the cheese and bread. It was only the beer that Claire found unpleasant. It was warm and much stronger, at least in taste, than American beers. But she drank most of it out of courtesy and thanked the men at the bar profusely before she left. Why was it, she wondered, that everything here—even the simple things—seemed to have more flavor, more depth, more tang?

It was only then that she remembered the mysterious signs she had seen on the sides of buildings. ‘TAKE COURAGE.’ She had thought they were religious, or left over from the war. Now she realized they were beer advertisements! She smiled. Sometimes she felt like Dorothy wandering on the yellow brick road.

Michael took Claire’s arm as they walked out of the hotel that evening. She instinctively started to move to the right and onto Knightsbridge, but he steered her in the other direction. ‘I’m taking you someplace special for dinner,’ he said, as if every place that she had been to already wasn’t special enough.

‘What kind of place?’ she asked.

‘You’ll see. It’s just two streets and two centuries away.’

They made another left and then another. Claire found herself in a little lane that looked like a movie set. On the right was a wall of ivy and two small cottages. Beside them was the most adorable pub yet. A sign in the front declared it to be ‘The Grenadier’ and the charm of the small Tudor windows, the old brick stairs, the vines creeping up the side and the soft glow and noise that spilled out through the open door onto Wilton Row was indescribably inviting.

Michael stopped. Looked from it to her. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked. ‘It’s got better than usual pub food. No Cornish pasties or Ploughman’s Specials here.’

‘Great,’ Claire said, and realized it sounded both too enthusiastic and too brief a response. ‘It looks absolutely perfect,’ she added.

Michael’s face became more serious. He lifted her chin then kissed her very gently on the forehead, an exquisitely tender gesture. ‘So are you,’ Michael whispered and Claire had a moment of perfect happiness.

There were a few people standing outside, tall drinks in their hands. Michael led her through them and they entered the small, low-ceilinged foyer that opened to a dark bar on one side and a small dining room on the other. ‘Table for two,’ Michael told the tall young man at the dining room door.

‘Have you booked?’ the young man asked. Michael nodded. ‘The name?’

‘Wainwright.’ Michael turned to smile at Claire and she smiled back, trying meanwhile to figure out the meaning of the conversation.

‘Oh. Here. Booking for half-eight?’ Claire quickly translated this into ‘reservation for eight-thirty’. The young man looked up and smiled at the two of them. ‘We’ve kept the table you requested.’

As they walked through the little dining room Claire wondered at the idea of asking for a particular table. Here, at the Grenadier, that would be especially complicated since it seemed as if none of the tables—or for that matter the chairs—matched. They were a collection of varied antiques, and so were some of the diners sitting at them. Beefy English faces along with younger refined ones were bent over their plates. The room wasn’t large enough for more than six tables, but through a small door at the back there was another dining room, also small. Perhaps, she thought, there was an endless string of tiny dining rooms.

Once they were seated in the corner Claire had a chance to look around. Oddly, the first thing she noticed was the ceiling where it appeared that money—paper bank notes—from all over the world were glued along with greetings from the donators. The walls were painted a deep color somewhere between rose and rust. Dark oil paintings hung on the walls and the smell of cooking was delicious.

Michael, handing her the menu, smiled. ‘They used to call these rooms “snugs”,’ he told her.

‘Well, it is very small and cozy.’

‘Actually, they weren’t used so much for dining. They were the part of the pub that women were allowed into. No women at the bar.’

‘There don’t seem to be many there now,’ she commented.

‘They’re famous for their game,’ Michael told her.

As she looked at the menu she quickly realized he was talking about the meat. Because it wasn’t just steaks and chicken on offer, there was venison and hare and boar and pheasant and grouse. Claire wasn’t sure what kind of animal a grouse was but decided to avoid any of the game.

‘The house pâté is very nice,’ Michael said. Claire was sure it would be, but she would have asparagus and the chicken cooked in lemon and fennel. With chicken you were sure of what you were eating, and everyone always said that everything else ‘tasted just like chicken’, so she might as well. ‘Shall I order the wine?’ Michael asked. And Claire couldn’t help it—she was so happy and excited that she laughed out loud.

‘You’d better,’ she said. ‘Or else we might end up drinking Romanian red.’

‘Not as bad as Wales white,’ he told her.

‘Is that like white Whales?’ she asked.

‘We will have no discussions of dicks here, not Moby ones or spotted ones,’ Michael told her sternly.

‘Spotted?’

He nodded. ‘Take a look at the desserts.’

She ran her eye down the list and right after bread and butter pudding she saw spotted dick listed. ‘Are they kidding?’ she asked.

‘Afraid not.’ He leaned across the table to her and she thought he might tell her something risqué. ‘It’s just a pudding with raisins in it,’ he explained. ‘They’re the spots.’

‘Well, I’m not having it anyway,’ she said.

‘A wise idea. I have another suggestion for dessert.’ He grinned at her and Claire felt her face as well as her chest redden at the thought of making love to him again. She told herself that she was getting greedy, and reminded herself that she had only a day and a half more of this before it was back to Crayden Smithers.

But even that couldn’t dampen her spirits. Right now, right there, everything was perfect. She had an entire day tomorrow with Michael, another night, Sunday morning, a trip to the airport and the flight back. So many hours. So much time. It stretched out before her like one of Monet’s beautiful meadows—endless, and dappled with sunlight and joyous poppies. When Michael ordered the rabbit she just decided not to think about it. The meal, with the Beaujolais he chose, was delicious.

During it they talked mostly about work and a little about their backgrounds. ‘How long have you been at Crayden?’ Michael asked.

‘Just over a year. How about you?’ She was becoming more clever and had realized it was best to ask him a question after she answered one.

‘Oh, since college. I was a legacy at Yale and my dad went there with Jem Junior, so after Wharton it seemed like a fit.’

Sometimes Claire felt it wasn’t only the English who spoke a different language. Claire, of course, knew what Yale was but she had no idea what a legacy would be and wasn’t sure about Wharton except for Edith.

‘I didn’t expect to spend so long there. I figured it would just be my first job, you know, a stepping-stone. But they liked me.’

Claire nodded. ‘Do you like them?’ she asked.

‘Oh, Jem Junior has been great.’ Claire realized Jem Junior must be young Mr. Crayden. His first name, like his father’s was Jeremy. ‘Pretty predictable, actually,’ Michael said. ‘The only unpredictable part is how well I’ve done. My father never expected that.’ Michael laughed though the laughter sounded a little bitter. ‘What brought you to Crayden?’

‘Tina. We’ve been friends since grade school.’ Tina had gone to the Catholic school but after eighth grade had joined Claire at the high school. Claire’s father had said, ‘No member of the Bilsop family goes to a Catholic school.’

‘Oh, you and your Bilsops,’ Claire’s mother had said. ‘Get ovah it.’

Claire was brought out of her reverie by the sound of plates rattling next to her as a waiter struggled with a huge tray. ‘I was studying library science but there are no jobs for librarians now. I got my associate’s degree and before I went on Tina told me about the opening.’ Claire put down her fork. ‘After my father died there wasn’t much money.’ She laughed. ‘Not that there was much before he died.’

Michael nodded his head. ‘Yeah, my family was broke as well. We lived in Stamford but my mother always lied and told people it was in Darien. They could barely pay the country club bills each month. I worked as a caddy and she used to tell us, me and my brother, never to charge anything to the account.’

Claire finished her second glass of wine and nodded. She knew there was a big difference between her kind of money shortage and Michael’s. With all her father’s talk about the Bilsop family she was sure he never even dreamed of being a member of a country club. ‘What’s your brother doing now?’ she asked.

Michael wiped his mouth carefully with the napkin. ‘He’s very busy being schizophrenic,’ he told her. For a moment Claire thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. ‘He’s living on the streets. He won’t take his medication. The usual story.’ Michael shrugged.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Claire told him. ‘It must be awful for you and your parents.’

‘We don’t talk about it,’ Michael said. ‘It’s more awful for Leigh, but he doesn’t seem to want help.’