Wish Upon a Star (21 page)

‘Ah. Well, that may change. But certainly you won’t be bored.’

‘Certainly not,’ Claire agreed and told him some of the things she had already done and seen.

Toby nodded and smiled. ‘Ah, well, at the risk of being too clichéd I quote Johnson, “When a man is tired of London, he’s tired of life.” Recently in
The Times
I saw it attributed to Oscar Wilde. Can you imagine? God knows he did say an awful lot of clever things, but he didn’t say everything. Whenever anything clever is quoted people just assume Wilde said it. Drives me wild. More tea?’ Claire wasn’t thirsty but she was delighted with this man so she nodded her head. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘The Quiet American?’

Claire had read the book and seen the movie and got the joke. She just shook her head. ‘No,’ she added. ‘And the cat doesn’t have my tongue either. Although it was your cat that brought me in here.’

‘Ah, yes. Therein lies my entire marketing budget. The cat. Do you fancy cats?’

Claire shook her head again then remembered she had better speak. ‘It’s not that I don’t like them,’ she told him, ‘I simply don’t feel, well, you know…’

‘You don’t feel articulate?’

It would have been insulting, but there was something rather delightful in the way he said it. ‘Actually, I’m articulate enough; I just didn’t want to offend you, since you obviously are a cat…’ she paused. ‘Fancier.’ It was a funny term.

‘Me? Oh, not at all. I mean there’s nothing wrong with George, but it’s not my cat—just wandered in one day and hasn’t left.’ As if responding to the sound of the name, George appeared and pressed first one cheek and then another against the side of Toby’s leg. ‘People think they do that in affection but they’re actually only marking their territory. She thinks I belong to her.’

‘She?’ Then, very quickly it came to her. ‘Oh. Named for George Eliot.’

‘Oh, rather too perspicuous of me.’ He filled her teacup. ‘I try to be enigmatic whenever possible, which isn’t easy when you come from Dorset.’

Claire wasn’t exactly sure where Dorset was, but she couldn’t remember ever being as charmed by a man as she was by this one. Of course, he wasn’t Michael Wainwright and she wasn’t sure she’d want to get physical—although there was something a little bit sexy about Toby’s gangly arms and legs—but for charm, he probably couldn’t be beat.

‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘Let’s play my little divination game, if you’ll indulge me.’

‘I feel quite indulgent,’ she told him.

‘Okay, here’s how it works. I catch your vibe, or see your aura, or touch your soul or any of that sort of mumbo jumbo. And then I pick out a book for you—not to worry, cost less than two pounds—and then you read it and see if it doesn’t have a special meaning for you.’

Claire actually laughed. ‘Will it tell my fortune?’

‘No, no. Nothing as naff as that. Shall we?’

Claire nodded. She just wanted to be able to remain in this comfortable, warm spot, drink tea and look at and listen to this English Ichabod Crane.

He approached her, put his hands up about a foot away from her head and waved them around making himself look even more ridiculous. ‘Got it, my little lamb.’ He walked to the aisle on the far right, pulled a hanging string and the light went on down the aisle. He went galloping away.

She heard him humming and decided to simply sit and enjoy this delightful little adventure. But he was back in just a moment and extended a book in her direction. ‘Ta da! A good book, this,’ he said and his smile was almost as wide as his extended arm was long. ‘This is for you,’ he said. The book was small, covered in red leather and more than a little tattered. It was essays by Charles Lamb. Claire didn’t much like essays, but she certainly was not going to refuse the book. She reached for her purse. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘This one’s on George Eliot.’ The cat jumped into his lap as he sat down.

‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ she said, really confused.

‘Certainly you can,’ Toby told her. ‘You’ll feel indebted and that will cause you to come back and then you’ll have to buy something else. And it will all work out splendidly well.’ He grinned at her. ‘You’re not the first,’ he said.

‘Well, thank you,’ Claire said. How had all of this happened to her? She’d bought plenty of books in New York but she’d never had an adventure like this one. In fact, the bookstore clerks usually knew less about the stock than she did. She wondered if Toby might need an assistant, though it didn’t look as though he had many customers. As if that thought created one, the bell tinkled.

‘Hello,’ Toby called out and threw a light switch on. It seemed he only illuminated when necessary. A portly man, stuffed into his tweed jacket and trousers, joined them.

‘Hello, Stanton. Engaged with seducing the ladies again, are you?’

Toby smiled. ‘In my small way,’ he said.

Claire didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or pleased and decided on both, though she didn’t like to think of their little encounter as business as usual. She had to remember herself. She had probably overstayed her welcome. It wasn’t anybody else’s job to entertain her. This had been a charming diversion—very charming. But she must remember not to impose. The fact that she had nothing else to do did not mean that others were in the same situation. ‘Oh,’ she said standing up, ‘I must go.’ She gathered her purse and closed her raincoat buttons.

‘Come, take a seat, Harold,’ Toby told the stout gentleman and Claire moved aside so he might take hers.

Toby rose. ‘Don’t forget your book,’ he said to Claire.

‘Yes. Yes thank you.’ She tried to put it in her bag but the needles and yarn made it difficult to fit all the way inside. ‘Thank you.’ She would have liked to have taken a look at the other books, but felt too awkward now, it might look like she was trying to prolong his hospitality. The light in the aisle went off and all of the shelves of books were in semi-darkness. It must be on an automatic timing device. For a moment she did not know where to go but Toby hit the switch and the center aisle was illuminated.

‘Come again soon,’ he said. ‘Let me know what you think of Charlie.’

For a moment Claire thought Toby was talking about the portly man but then she remembered he was Harold. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said and walked past all the delicious-looking old books, up the few steps and out the door.

Once on the street, just steps away, she was surrounded once again by the bustling, thrilling atmosphere of London. And she felt more a part of it than ever before. She had spoken with someone who loved books as much, or possibly more than she did. Someone at least as interesting as Michael Wainwright. And though he wasn’t attractive in the same obvious, American good-teeth-Brad-Pitt way, he had…charm. He was…interesting looking and fun to talk to. For a moment, Claire was hit with an unexpected stab of pain, as she recalled the fun she had had with Mr. Wonderful. But then she looked down at the book in her hand and smiled. It was hard to believe that the interval she had experienced was real. It really had been straight out of
Mary Poppins
. But it had happened. Still, she doubled back just to be sure the store was there and carefully wrote down the address in the front cover of her guidebook. She would certainly return.

She spent the rest of the day sightseeing and almost every sight delighted her. Of course, there were tourists everywhere but Claire had the satisfaction of thinking she was not just a tourist. She was traveling, and didn’t know how long she might stay on. She wasn’t in a tourist hotel and she wasn’t taking tourist buses. She spent the day as an explorer might, charting her course on the underground and bus lines, following her map and looking everywhere. She decided not to bother with the Tower of London or Madame Tussaud’s. She wanted instead to walk down normal streets, stop into normal shops and see how normal people lived. It was a long morning and afternoon. At last, sated, Claire made her way back toward Camden.

Claire didn’t realize how good all the walking would be for her spirit or her body. All she knew was that near the end of the day she was ravenous—the tea and biscuits from Toby’s shop had hardly made a meal.

To conserve her money, she decided she would eat in her room. She remembered that close to Chamberley Terrace was a small, slightly dingy grocery. She decided to stop in. As she approached, she read a sign in the window: ‘
KEENEST PRICES IN CAMDEN
.’

The store wasn’t a delicatessen, nor was it a supermarket, nor was it like the Korean stores in New York. It was long and narrow but instead of being neatly crammed with goods the way New York stores were, there seemed to be a little of this and a little of that. Claire walked up and down the three aisles, amusing herself with the different brand names, the small sizes of everything, and the odd placement of items. The cans all seemed tiny compared to American ones, and the juice and the soda were in what looked like miniature six-packs. It reminded Claire a bit of her favorite toy when she was young—a little grocery store with pretend boxes of soap and bottles of catsup and jars of pickles. Here, small portions of pickles came in a plastic wrap, like the way frankfurters were packed. And beside them, in the refrigerator, were sandwiches already made, sliced in triangles, and set in plastic containers exactly the right shape. She looked at the ingredients: tuna salad with corn, tomato and shredded cheese, sliced egg and cress. They all seemed odd. Claire felt as if she’d like to try them all anyway but decided that a homemade ploughman’s would have to do. One loaf could last her for three or four dinners. She was delighted, however, when she found brown relish exactly like the kind she had had in the pub.

She continued looking and nearly laughed aloud at some of the juxtaposed positions of products. She wasn’t sure if what she was looking at was typical, or unique to this little shop, but having the beans beside the detergents struck her as peculiar. After three trips up and down the aisles, Claire selected a small loaf of bread, the relish, a wheel of cheddar and a bottle of something that looked like a fizzy juice. While she browsed people had come in and gone back out, but when she got to the counter she was the only customer.

The woman behind the counter was small, compact and had a long braid of shiny black hair that reached below her middle. Above her head was a sign that read ‘
CASH POINT
’. She wore a smock over a blue sari and peered through a pair of glasses at Claire. ‘Will this be all?’ she asked and though she was obviously from India, or someplace close to it, her English was perfect.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘We have a special on bread. You’d do better with the Smith’s loaf. It’s organic as well.’

‘Thank you,’ Claire said and then had to ask where she would find it. Before she returned with the exchange a teenage girl with two children beside her came running out of the back of the store.

‘Mummy, they won’t take any notice of me,’ she said.

Claire had to smile. The girl sounded exactly like Wendy in
Peter Pan
.

‘That’s very naughty of you,’ the counter woman said to the smaller boy and girl. ‘You must respect your sister.’

‘But I want to watch the telly,’ the little boy said.

‘You’ll have square eyes,’ she said shaking her head.

‘Mummy, they haven’t finished their homework.’

‘What do I do with you?’ their mother asked. ‘If you don’t do your lessons, there’ll be no sweets.’ The little boy began to object. ‘You can’t have the penny and the bun,’ the woman scolded. She looked up at Claire. ‘Do you see this? I am busy with my work and these children have no respect. They interrupt. I am most sorry.’ Claire was about to tell her that it was perfectly all right when the woman turned back to her children. ‘Do you see what you are doing? Apologize to the lady.’

‘Oh, that’s all right…’ Claire began. But the children had already begun to sing-song an apology and their mother was shooing them back to the door.

She shook her head. ‘Safta is studying for her GCSEs. She doesn’t have time to muck about, but there’s no one else to watch them in the evening.’ Before she could think, Claire volunteered.

‘I’d be happy to do it,’ she said. The woman narrowed her eyes.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Well, I’m new here and I thought, well, I like children.’

‘You’re American, aren’t you?’ the woman asked her. Claire nodded, not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. ‘Why would an American girl want to work for me?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t have to be work,’ Claire said. ‘I mean, you don’t have to pay me.’

The Indian woman’s eyes narrowed further. ‘What would a rich American want with my children?’

Claire blushed. ‘I’m not rich,’ she said. ‘I just thought, well, they seem like such nice kids. And if you don’t want to pay me, that’s fine. Maybe I could look after them a bit and you could…’ she paused and looked around. ‘You could give me some groceries.’ The woman looked at her with even greater interest.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

Claire smiled. ‘Well, just for a sandwich.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m not homeless or anything. My name is Claire Bilsop and I’ve just moved in on Chamberley Terrace and I need to get a job so…’

The woman stopped her. ‘My name is Mrs. Patel,’ she said. ‘Come back tomorrow at this time and perhaps we could talk.’ She looked around. ‘Would you be willing to sweep up?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ Claire said.

Mrs. Patel regarded her for a moment, blinking behind her thick glasses. Then she rang up Claire’s items. Claire handed her a note and took back the change. It was only after Mrs. Patel put her groceries into a bag that Claire saw the swelling under her smock. Mrs. Patel was obviously pregnant. Perhaps she really did need help. Claire could hardly believe her good luck.

Mrs. Patel handed her the bag. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’ Claire nodded and walked out into the dark. She’d found a job, no matter that it was a very minor one. Certainly, she wasn’t a tourist but when would she go home? She’d been in London five days and she knew she’d like to stay another five but she’d have to return sometime. Still, the richness of her days’ adventures—the bookstore, her exploration and now this unexpected encounter—made her feel that five weeks, maybe even five months wouldn’t be enough.