Wish Upon a Star (41 page)

On the first half of the underground trip to Mrs. Patel’s, Claire felt nothing but joy. She looked from one passenger to another and knew that she was the luckiest person in the car. She had found a lovely home with Imogen who might actually become a friend. Then there was Toby, who was someone she hoped might become more than a friend. Mrs. Patel and her children were almost a family to her, and now she had Mrs. Venables and a new and wonderful job that she had created herself. She put her hand in her pocket and touched the two twenty-pound notes and the ten-pound note folded over it. She couldn’t believe it. All of the women, many of whom looked successful and well-to-do, had turned to her as an authority. No one had questioned her ability and each one had asked for help as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Best of all, Mrs. Venables had been not just pleased but, well…tickled by their success. Claire couldn’t remember ever feeling this excited, optimistic or proud of herself, not ever.

She was so filled with her pleasant thoughts that when the train pulled into Leicester Square station she continued daydreaming until the doors almost rolled shut. She scampered out onto the platform and followed the signs to the Northern Line.

It was while she waited for a train to Camden that the difficulties of her situation began to nibble at her fragile joy. What would she do about Mrs. Patel, the children, her work in the shop, and her tutoring? She hadn’t discussed a salary with Mrs. Venables, but she couldn’t imagine a way that she would be able to help in Knitting Kitting, commute to Camden, work in the evening and have any time left for herself. If she had to make a choice, she certainly preferred the work with Mrs. Venables but how could she desert the first friends she had made in London?

She had come to love Mrs. Patel, with her delicately arched eyebrows, her protective suspicions, and her warm and loving heart. And once the baby came Mrs. Patel would need even more help. She also enjoyed the children, particularly Safta, though the antics of Fala and Devi almost always made her laugh. She hadn’t had any young children in her life back in Tottenville and she was surprised and delighted by how good she was with them and how good they made her feel. Lastly, there was the garden. Creating it had been a real work of love, and Safta’s excitement over it was a pleasure to watch. But it would need care and careful tending. Mrs. Patel certainly wouldn’t find the time to dead-head or to pick the slugs off the delectable leaves, nor water daily. If the garden withered and died, Claire was afraid that Safta’s new confidence and optimism would as well.

The Northern Line train lumbered into the station and as Claire boarded it she felt her shoulders and head droop with dejection. Most important of all, she had proved something to Mrs. Patel about trust, and friendship. She had given Mrs. Patel as much as she had gotten from her, and she didn’t want to disappoint her now. Quitting the work at the shop was possible but quitting the tutoring or the work in the garden was just not an option. As she got closer and closer to Camden she felt more and more apprehensive.

The train rolled into the station, the doors rolled open and she made her way slowly to the shop. As she opened the door she was greeted by all three children. ‘Oh, Claire, oh Claire! Come out and see,’ Safta said. Devi took her hand and pulled her in the direction of the back of the shop. ‘Come see. Some of the pansies are opening. And the wallflowers are out as well.’

‘And we have two difficult cartons to open. I tried to do it myself but one is washing powder and it’s very heavy indeed,’ Mrs. Patel put in.

‘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.

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.