Wish Upon a Star (35 page)

Before she gathered up her things she jotted a quick note to Abigail Samuels so that at least there was someone who could share her enthusiasm for what she was doing. Claire slid her things into her bag and walked out the door. As she walked by Knitting Kitting she felt no sense of failure. Her mood was too good and she was heartened by the fact that she had just made another new friend in Mrs. Venables. At the next corner she dropped the letter into the red pillar box. Then, fishing for her keys in her purse, she turned the corner and walked home.

The next morning Claire drank her tea, tidied up her things and decided to clean the kitchen. While Imogen was away might be a diplomatic time. She had learned from Mrs. Patel that ‘slut’ was actually closer to what Americans would call a slob. And Toby was certainly right to use it in Imogen’s case. Claire washed down the refrigerator, scoured the ‘cooker’, washed the dishes and dusted. She noticed that Imogen barely had two plates of the same pattern—her cupboard was a hodge-podge of patterns and colors that looked like the remnants of a yard sale. After two hours of steady work there was still more to do, but Claire did not want to appear too interfering nor play the role of a galley slave.

As she tidied the rest of the flat she left all of the manuscripts exactly as they were. She couldn’t figure out how Imogen could do her work; most of the books she edited seemed to be ‘how-to’s’ and she had them mixed up all around the flat. Sections on building a stone wall sat next to pages on cookery, interleaved with what looked like parts of a sex manual. Claire giggled at the thought of the result if bits of the three were accidentally combined at the printer’s. Still, she left it all as it was since Im seemed to have some kind of order to it that worked for her, and sat down to some tea and toast—a smaller breakfast than she was used to.

The morning passed slowly but luxuriously. She felt so lucky; there were so many things to look forward to. There was a possible visit from Toby; getting back to the museum and medieval art; the Nancy Mitford book; watching the gardens outside her window begin to bloom; finishing her throw.

She had tried very hard to keep thoughts of Toby to a minimum, and to spread her visits to him out. She knew only too well—especially since her adventure with Mr. Wonderful—that it was unlikely that a man with looks, charm and wit would be interested in her except in the most casual way. She was teaching herself to accept that, and using Toby as an object lesson. He was, she reminded herself over and over again, just a casual friend, someone she could drop in on, discuss books with, and expect very little more from. And, after all, wasn’t that enough? She wasn’t the kind of girl that men like Toby got involved with. She knew that, but she couldn’t help the fact that her mind, when left to its own devices, frequently reverted to Toby and whatever he had said the last time she’d seen him. Other thoughts that crept into her head right before she went to sleep were too embarrassing to even admit to herself.

Perhaps even better than all the things she had to look forward to was that there was nothing to dread. No more long commutes, no jammed elevators, no grinding job, no Joan, no gossip from Tina, no need to avoid Jerry. Freedom was bliss.

As she sat in the beautiful apartment, surrounded by music, Claire realized that she had never really had a nice space of her own. Most people would consider her ‘home-loving’ but that was a difficult thing to be if you didn’t have a lovely home. Her parents’ house had been filled with old junk, them and her brother. After Fred left and Jerry moved in there still hadn’t been much room for Claire. Here, in the quiet and the sunshine from the skylights, she began to feel not only as if she was starting a new life but also that she was becoming a new person. She was, of course, still Claire Bilsop, but it seemed as if she knew—and was willing to admit—what she liked and disliked. More importantly, she was willing to act on those preferences and do the things she enjoyed no matter what she had to give up. She looked around her. It was magical.

After a while she showered, dressed and went to her room where she took out her knitting. The pattern was indeed complicated and she had to pay a great deal of attention to it, but she enjoyed the concentration. She sat, her legs crossed, in the small armchair and every now and then rested her eyes by looking out onto the back garden or glancing around her small, pretty room. Then, after a satisfied sigh she would go back to the lap robe that was starting to grow, just as her life here was.

Her only true disappointment was that Mrs. Venables couldn’t use her help. It was a pity that the shop wasn’t thriving. A person with Mrs. Venables’s skills shouldn’t be wasted. Claire could never understand why more people didn’t knit. It was relaxing and soothing, yet productive. When knitting, one could watch television or converse, or supervise children. It filled up the interstices in life—waiting for planes, riding in buses, sitting in waiting rooms. It allowed for a pleasant meditative state while keeping one’s hands busy and one’s conscience clear. When you knit you could enjoy being, simply being, though you were actually doing something.

It was odd how Imogen and Tina and other people thought knitting was boring. For Claire it was a way to create with her hands and eyes while her mind was often free to wander, sometimes thinking of the past, occasionally planning the future or simply daydreaming. When she looked at the sweater she had finished before she left for London she remembered the hope she had knit into it. Her scarf reminded her of the way she had come out of the misery of Michael’s betrayal. Her gloves (which Im, always fashion-conscious, coveted) were her first project from London. And now, her lap robe would remind her of how she worked with pleasure in her new home and planned an ambitious new idea.

As she changed bobbins a thought occurred to Claire: more women would probably knit if they only knew how. There just weren’t any in-house grandmothers like Mrs. Venables or Claire’s dear Nana to teach anyone. In America grandmothers lived in Florida, or senior housing or gated communities. She wasn’t sure where they lived in London, but it didn’t seem as if they were thick on the ground. Yet knitting was simple to learn if someone taught you, though almost impossible to learn from a book. If, somehow, she could teach people to knit, then Mrs. Venables…

Claire put down her needles and sat up very straight. She had an idea, but it was very daring. Her mind raced. Did she have the courage to try? She’d have to be—well, if not pushy then pretty assertive. She thought it over. Embarrassing if she failed, but other than that, what had she to lose? And there was so much to gain.

The whole thing formed more fully. As it did, words and phrases fell into place. Excited, she got up, searched the kitchen until she found paper and a pen (extremely difficult to find despite the piles of manuscript everywhere) and began jotting her ideas down. In less than five minutes she had a draft prepared.

LEARN TO KNIT FREE

Introductory Knitting Lesson.

Get the Basics in Only Two Hours

With no Charge

You will master:

Casting on

Knit stitch

Purl stitch

Selection and use of needles

How to read a simple pattern

Gauging your work

AND MORE

Bring your own supplies or purchase them at the class.

Individual instruction available.

Mistake correction service provided.

Claire paused. When should the class—if it ever took place—be offered? Saturday morning might be a bad time since many women had errands and family responsibilities to catch up with. Saturday afternoon was for the children and Saturday night was certainly impossible. Claire shrugged. It might not work at all, so perhaps the time was irrelevant for now. And, of course, there had to be a place. But that would come next. She took another piece of paper, rewrote the text neatly and drew a little sketch of needles and a ball of yarn. When she was done she looked up and found that it was almost four-thirty. She’d have to wait until tomorrow to show Mrs. Venables, but, in her excitement, the person she most wanted to tell her new idea to was Toby.

Claire took the throw with her the next day. With the work in her knitting bag she set off to Mrs. Venables’s shop, her flyer tucked beside the project.

She stepped into the store, hoping she wasn’t going to be received as a nuisance. But Mrs. Venables greeted her with a smile. ‘Take a look,’ Claire said and placed the uncompleted piece on the counter.

The woman picked it up carefully. Claire had done the bottom border and almost half of the rows of stripes. Bobbins hung off willy-nilly but the old woman was not only careful, but very exacting in her examination. ‘Why, my dear, this is extraordinary.’ She looked up at her. ‘Quite ambitious!’ Claire felt herself color. ‘And very well done.’

‘May I show you something else?’ she asked.

‘Another project?’

‘Not exactly. Well, sort of.’ Claire took out a flyer and handed it across the counter. She held her breath as the old woman looked at it. ‘What an original idea!’ Mrs. Venables held the paper out as if to get the full effect. ‘An advert. I would never have thought of it.’ She paused, tilted her head to the side and looked at Claire. ‘Do you think it might work?’

Claire shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said truthfully. ‘I’ve never tried anything like this. But if you don’t mind teaching there’s really nothing to lose.’

‘Oh, but I love to teach. Of course it might be difficult to teach a large group, especially here.’

Claire laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I doubt we would get a large group.’ She paused, flustered because she had said ‘we’ and must not presume. She was also taking in the fact that Mrs. Venables had actually assumed the classes would take place at her shop. ‘Anyway, I could help if it comes to that.’

‘Of course you should, my dear.’ Mrs. Venables paused and looked at the flyer again. ‘But if we offer the classes for free how would you be paid?’

Claire smiled. ‘Well, the classes are free, but you know how we knitters are,’—she looked around at the goods lying on the shelves—‘people will want needles and yarn and knitting bags…’

Mrs. Venables laughed. ‘Of course. They’ll want to be kitted out.’

‘And you know how enthusiastic we get. I’m only half through with my throw and I’m already thinking about a cotton sweater for summer.’

Mrs. Venables’s watery blue eyes surveyed her again. ‘You are a really clever girl, Claire.’ She looked down at the flyer again. ‘Why don’t we tie them up with colored yarn?’ she asked. ‘So much more original than Sellotape. And a kind of promise of things to come, isn’t it?’

Did that mean she would do it? It must! ‘What a good idea!’ Claire exclaimed.

Mrs. Venables picked up some scissors and selected a cherry red four-ply yarn. ‘How many flyers do you have?’

‘Only the one, but I’ll make photocopies.’ Her heart was beating so hard she was afraid Mrs. Venables might hear it. ‘Do you think I should make fifty?’

‘As many as that?’ Mrs. Venables asked. ‘Where would you put them all?’

‘Oh, I’ll find places,’ Claire promised. ‘Corner lamp posts, church railings, next to post boxes.’

‘What a good idea!’ Mrs. Venables exclaimed. ‘Here, help me cut the yarn.’

It was half-past three that day when Claire walked into Toby’s shop. As she emerged from the dark stacks, Toby looked up and smiled. ‘Hello,’ he said and Claire smiled with relief. She was afraid of the day that he wouldn’t seem glad to see her. Today, luckily, was not that day. ‘Have you finished with Uncle Matthew and Co?’

‘Oh, yes! I loved the whole family,’ Claire said, referring to the Mitford book. ‘Time to move on, though. Something more…’

‘Oh, don’t tell me. It’s time for Barbara Pym.’ As usual he walked back to the stacks and rooted around. George Eliot, hearing the activity, jumped down from the desk and followed him, just the way Claire would have liked to. When Toby returned he had a book with a green and gray jacket. Claire took it.

‘You’ll love it,’ he said. ‘Vicars and jumble sales and lots of warm, milky drinks. Just what the doctor ordered.’

Claire took out a little wrapped box and put it on the table beside Toby’s chair. ‘What’s all this, then?’ Toby asked, assuming another of his funny accents.

‘Just a little gift for you,’ she said. ‘I wanted to thank you for setting me up with Imogen.’

‘Oh. The flat? So it’s working?’

‘It’s wonderful. It’s really the best place I’ve ever lived.’ Claire began to describe it and went on and on until she realized that she was gushing and that Toby was staring at her with an odd expression. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m boring you.’

‘On the contrary. Your enthusiasm is charming—I haven’t been that excited since I was sent down from Oxford. Well, I’m glad it’s working out. And this—’ he picked up the box—‘this wasn’t necessary. But it’s very welcome.’ He opened the gift. ‘Chocolates! Perfect,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat them all.’ He popped one in his mouth and handed the box to her. She laughed. ‘So, what else are you up to?’ he asked.

‘I do have a…a project that I’m trying to get off the ground.’

‘Really?’ He stood up, plugged in his kettle and shooed George Eliot off the tabletop where she had settled. ‘You can tell me all about it over tea and chocolates. Much more satisfying than sympathy.’

Claire withheld a sigh. It wasn’t that she didn’t like tea, but she could go for more than a quarter of an hour without a cup of it at her elbow. Still, she took the cup he gave her.

She began to tell Toby about the knitting class and showed him the flyer. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I could offer classes to teach people to read, just to drum up a bit of trade.’ They both laughed. ‘Where will you put the flyers?’

‘I thought I would try Imogen’s neighborhood. After all, people won’t want to travel too far on a Saturday morning. And besides,’ Claire paused to contain her enthusiasm, ‘I may have found a possible location in a small shop near there.’