Wish Upon a Star (23 page)

She thought of Michael, then, and his mouth. Michael, good-looking as he was, had never made a sacrifice for anyone, much less his country or his beliefs. Not only had he betrayed her with Katherine Rensselaer but he had betrayed Katherine Rensselaer by going up to the suite and lying beside Claire. It occurred to her that Katherine Rensselaer would have had to know that. She looked into the face of Captain Wentworth. Perhaps she was wrong, but she couldn’t imagine that he would behave without standards or decency.

She didn’t know how long she had been standing there transfixed by the statue and her thoughts, when a tour group came around the corner. Claire scurried away as quickly as she could. She knew she did not want to hear anything that would disturb her reverie.

She left the cathedral then, descended the stairs, gazed briefly at the stolid statue of Queen Anne and quickly walked down Ludgate Hill and on up Fleet Street. She knew this had been the home of many newspapers and that the press was still known by that name, though the newspapers had all relocated. But the thought of Captain Wentworth and the distressing feelings the memorial had brought up about Michael closed in on her, just as the narrow gray street did.

She walked on for a little while with her shoulders hunched. What was she doing here? she asked herself. This was madness. She was alone, friendless—and probably always would be. If she dropped down onto Fleet Street and died, how long would it take for anyone to know who she was? And who would mourn her? There certainly wouldn’t be any statue put up by grieving relatives.

Fleet Street seemed to go on forever and suddenly Claire felt so tired that she would have liked to lie down. After what seemed like an endless trudge, the street opened and changed. She made a left, past a church that sat on its own little island in the middle of the road, and then she was on a much wider but less grim avenue. Eventually she found herself in a great open space. Pigeons rose and descended and lions—not real ones but huge statues—crouched at the foot of a tall monument with another statue at the very top of it. She recognized Nelson’s column, and realized she was at Trafalgar Square, which she had seen in passing on her first Saturday in London. It looked exactly like a movie set. The difference was that she was in the picture. She was, suddenly, tremendously happy and filled with a spirit of adventure.

Claire found a bench at last and sat looking across at the pediment of the National Gallery and the front of the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields. She looked up at Admiral Nelson. For a moment she remembered how she and Michael had looked down on him from the National Portrait Gallery. Now, instead, she like everyone else could only look up at him. She would not allow herself to think about Michael. It was enough that she was here, even if she was alone. Back home it was—she looked at her watch—so early that right now Tina would just be stepping out of the shower and beginning the long process of getting her hair and face ready for the commute to work. Would she be wondering at Claire’s absence? Had she asked Michael Wainwright anything? Soon she would be in the office and all of them, Tina, the Maries, Joan and even Abigail would discuss her absence. Tina would have called her house. Would Tina tell Claire’s mother where she had really gone? She doubted it. Would her mother be concerned? Claire doubted that as well. Perhaps in another few days.

The idea that when she was back at Mrs. Watson’s after this day of astonishing sights and encounters the women at Crayden Smithers would be sitting down for another boring lunch gave her a chill despite the warming sunshine. The only difference her absence would make was that they would have a new subject to discuss—her. She smiled as her eyes followed a drift of pigeons that flew like a gray smear across the sky. She had never been the source of much entertainment before. Now even
American Idol
wouldn’t push her off the lunchtable agenda as the most interesting event.

She stopped smiling when she thought of Mr. Wonderful. He would be putting on his perfect suit jacket and reading the
Wall Street Journal
. When he showed up in the office Tina might give him a look, or even a wisecrack, but Claire doubted that he would otherwise give her a thought, except perhaps one of mild annoyance. She pushed Michael Wainwright out of her mind.

She stood up. She would go into the National Gallery, walk around and have another cup of tea. She was getting hungry, but she told herself sternly that she would neither eat lunch nor spend money on a bus. She would look around the museum, have a cup of tea and then walk ‘home’. She’d been in London for less than a week and she’d already walked more than she did in a year in Tottenville. But somehow here the walking didn’t feel like exercise. It felt like exploration.

And since she had left Michael in the hotel she had eaten less. There was no bagel from Sy, no Danish at her coffee break at eleven, no lunch after her big breakfast and very little for dinner. She thought of the loaf of bread and the cheese waiting for her in her room. She should have made a sandwich to take with her. Well, too late now. She would eat when she got home and then at eight she would go to Mrs. Patel’s little shop to see about a job. That would be her day.

The gallery was surprisingly crowded. Claire hadn’t been to one in a long time and, standing amid the moving crowd, she realized that she didn’t know how to look at a painting. She could see the Virgin Mary in the painting in front of her and the tiny ray of light with an angel floating in it but aside from the pretty colors, what did it mean? She decided to try and find out, so she sat down on a bench opposite
The Annunciation
. She waited patiently, staring at the picture, until a guide with a group of white-haired women stopped in front of it.

‘This painting, executed in the fifteenth century, is a classic Annunciation. The Virgin is kneeling, hearing the news from the angel of the impending birth of Jesus. Now, what we see here is the iconography of the painters of the period. Because their audience was illiterate, they needed a way to tell them that this was the Virgin and not, say, Saint Anne or Saint Katherine. So they gave clues. Because she was going to bear the Christ—she was a vessel—we have the vase on the right. The lily is another symbol for the Virgin because she was without original sin, she was, like the lily, spotless in the eyes of god and man. Saint Katherine of Alexandria would be represented by the wheel on which she was martyred.’ The woman smiled and looked at the group in front of her. ‘They didn’t have guides in those days, so explanations of the painting had to be right in the picture. Fra Filippo has done a far better job than I ever could,’ she said and there was a small, polite murmur of dissent before the group moved on.

Claire continued to sit on the bench. She stared at the painting. There had been all of those clues and she hadn’t known anything about them. The picture was still beautiful, but in her eyes it had completely changed. The gold vase now stood out, though she had not noticed it a few moments before. The lily, perfectly depicted, glowed. After a while she went through the whole medieval section looking at all the Annunciation paintings and noticing for the first time that there were, indeed, lilies and vases in almost every one. It wasn’t so much that they were puzzles, Claire thought. It was more as if they were a different language. Next time she went to Toby’s store she would buy a book about medieval art. She would learn the language. She left the museum determined to see the symbols not just in paintings but also those hidden away in everyday life.

It was an interesting but very long walk back to Mrs. Watson’s. Claire was so tired—both with the walk and perhaps lingering jet-lag—that when she got back to her room she had to lie down. She ate the rest of the bread and cheese, drank some water and then, despite her best intentions, fell asleep.

It was almost ten when she opened her eyes. For a moment she didn’t know where she was and then, with a start she realized she was two hours late for Mrs. Patel. She jumped up and didn’t bother to change out of her wrinkled clothes. She nearly forgot to take her key she was so flustered. She ran down the stairs and out onto the street. She was in front of the little grocery store just as Mrs. Patel came to the door.

‘Well, there you are,’ Mrs. Patel said. Claire nodded, breathless from the run.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I am…’

‘You are late. Very, very late. I don’t need any help now.’

Claire hung her head. It was probably useless to offer excuses. She was embarrassed and, surprisingly, tears rose to her eyes. It was silly, she told herself. It wasn’t as if this was a good job, or even a certain one. She was about to turn away when, feeling stupid and guilty, she lifted her head. ‘Could I just help you in any way at all—not for money,’ she said and looked down at Mrs. Patel’s bulging belly.

‘Well, you could pull down the grille,’ Mrs. Patel said and pointed to the iron gate rolled high above her head. ‘But I’m not going to pay you.’ Claire nodded and meekly did as she was told. ‘Just half way,’ Mrs. Patel said sharply. ‘And then you can follow me in.’ Mrs. Patel awkwardly ducked under the gate after she stabilized it and, once they were both inside, handed her a broom. ‘Start at the back,’ she said. ‘And don’t be hiding the dust under the shelves,’ she added.

Claire took the broom, walked to the end of the first aisle and began. Within minutes she was sneezing and her eyes were watering. The floor clearly had not been swept in some time. Mrs. Patel was at the front, doing something at the counter. Claire focused again on the sweeping but by the time she had gotten to the middle of the first aisle—and there were four to go—she had to go to ask, ‘Do you have any water?’

‘You are thirsty already?’

‘No, no, not for me. I just need to sprinkle down the dust.’

Mrs. Patel paused for a moment. ‘All right then,’ she said. She took a bucket out from under the counter. ‘There’s a slop sink in the back, next to the rubbish bin.’ She looked at Claire who could feel her eyes watering and she became a little less starchy. ‘The place is a bit of a tip,’ she admitted, and though Claire wasn’t sure what a tip was, she nodded.

As she worked she passed the refrigerated case and smiled at the sign, ‘
FROSTED FOOD
’, that hung over it. It took her almost forty minutes to finish the sweeping, and when she was done it took another ten minutes to pick up the dirt and wipe the floor. Claire was careful to put all the dirt in the bag Mrs. Patel gave her.

‘I suppose it could do with a wash,’ Mrs. Patel said, looking at the floor. Claire nodded, hoping it meant a little more work for the night.

‘I’d be happy to,’ she said. Perhaps she could win the woman over.

‘Not tonight,’ Mrs. Patel said. ‘It’s too late.’

Once again, Claire felt flooded with guilt as well as the sadness of a missed opportunity. ‘Where shall I put the broom?’ she asked humbly.

‘In the wardrobe in the back. When you come back tomorrow night you can use it again and give the floor a wash.’ Mrs. Patel raised her eyebrows. ‘If you get here in good time.’

Claire smiled. She didn’t know that when she did her pale radiance was almost irresistible to Mrs. Patel. She also didn’t know about the prejudice against ‘Pakis’, or the pain Mrs. Patel felt when her children were harassed. The idea of an American kissing up to her gave Mrs. Patel a little surge of pleasure.

‘I’ll be here,’ Claire said. ‘I’m actually quite responsible.’

‘We’ll see,’ Mrs. Patel said.

Claire washed her hands in the slop sink and made her way to the front of the store. The librarian in her felt frustrated as she walked by the cans and boxes arranged almost willy-nilly. She remembered a character in an Anne Tyler novel who arranged all of her canned goods alphabetically. The idea made her smile, and that’s how Mrs. Patel saw her as she emerged from the back. She must be simple, Mrs. Patel thought, and Claire would have been hurt to know it. That or round the bend, Mrs. Patel continued to herself. Why would an American girl be smiling over work that even an Untouchable didn’t enjoy? ‘Here,’ she said and handed Claire a bag. Claire did not want to appear rude but she glanced into it. There was bread, some potato chips, cheese, two cans of Coca-Cola, and a box labeled biscuits. She started to thank Mrs. Patel who waved her hand dismissively. ‘Have you a fridge? Or a cooker?’ Claire shook her head. ‘Well, I was going to give you a packet of tea and a tin of fish but I wasn’t sure if it would serve.’ Mrs. Patel pressed a button and looked at the till. She took a ten-pound note from the drawer and tried to hand it to Claire.

‘No, no,’ Claire said. ‘I was late. I’m very sorry. I said I would work for nothing.’

‘Nobody works for nothing,’ Mrs. Patel said.

‘Well, I worked for this.’ Claire patted the bag and before Mrs. Patel could argue anymore she walked toward the door. ‘Nothing else to do?’ she asked.

‘Well, you could chuck that into the dustbin. It’s just outside.’

Claire picked up the heavy rubbish bag—now she knew not to call it garbage—ducked under the half-drawn security gate and managed to hold the groceries in one arm while she dumped the rubbish with the other.

When she got back to Mrs. Watson’s her landlady was waiting there. ‘I’ll need the money in advance,’ she said, looking Claire over and seeming more and more witch-like. Claire blushed. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to bring food up to the rooms and she didn’t want to be caught offending.

Now she put the grocery bag down between her feet and rummaged in her purse. She took out one of the twenty-pound notes and handed it to Mrs. Watson who gave her two coins in return. ‘So, then, how long will you be staying on?’

Claire smiled at her. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But I think for quite a while.’

When Claire woke up the next morning she felt as happy as a child on the first day of vacation—actually it was her seventh day. She jumped out of bed and saw the sun was actually shining through the window—it was the first sunny day she’d had. She bathed then dressed in her black slacks and the new T-shirt. She decided against the pearl necklace but she put the earrings on.