Wish Upon a Star (26 page)

Meanwhile, Mrs. Patel closed the till and handed a twenty-pound note to Claire. ‘Here,’ she said.

Claire stared at the money. Twenty pounds! That would pay for her room. If Mrs. Patel would pay her twenty pounds a night, well, she could stay for months. Especially since she had the groceries as well.

As if reading her mind, Mrs. Patel looked up. ‘Don’t expect that every night,’ she said. She looked at Claire sharply. ‘Are you skint?’ she asked.

Claire had absolutely no idea what that was, but was too shy to say so.

‘Well? Have you any money? I don’t imagine you do.’

‘Oh, I have some,’ Claire said. ‘It’s just that, well, I came for a holiday and then thought I’d stay on longer.’

‘Fine,’ Mrs. Patel said. She walked to the door and Claire followed her. ‘I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow and on Friday.’ Claire nodded enthusiastically. ‘Saturday’s a busy day, though,’ Mrs. Patel continued, ‘and the children are home. Do you think you could help out a little longer then? Could you be here by one, when I have to give them lunch?’

‘No problem,’ Claire told her and as she left she felt as if, for the moment at least, she had no problems in the world.

Since her ride from the airport Claire had wanted to see the big Victorian piles they had passed on their way to the hotel. One was the Natural History Museum, another was the Victoria and Albert Museum and there was the Brompton Something.

Now it was Saturday and, somehow, the past two days had just flown by, with work at the shop and just, well, wandering and looking. But she had her morning free until her job with Mrs. Patel. What would she do with her four hours? She should use the time to read the Charles Lamb book that Toby gave her. She had so much to tell him about: her new job, how wonderful she found London, and perhaps even about Corporal Tucker. Claire could also phone the young American to arrange getting together, but she didn’t feel she was ready for that visit just yet. Instead, she consulted her map, took the tube to South Kensington and set off to walk through the neighborhood, north to the museums.

On front door after front door the paintwork gleamed, and polished brass doorknockers set off the enameled colors. Somehow the bright blue or the bus-red didn’t look garish the way it would in Tottenville. Maybe it was the soft color of the brickwork or the gentleness of the light. Whatever it was, Claire walked for blocks on the wet pavement until her feet were cold but her eyes were delighted with the visual feast.

She turned a corner searching for a direct route to Exhibition Road, when she saw the tiny shop. ‘Knitting Kitting’ it said in gold letters on the faded gray paintwork. Claire could hardly believe her eyes. She’d just finished her scarf and here was a yarn shop. In all of her walking around London she hadn’t seen any place—aside from the vintage needles at Camden Lock market—that sold knitting supplies.

The door was quaintly set kitty-corner at the end of the wall where one side of the building met the other. Claire walked in. The bell jingled cheerfully and she looked around the store.

It was quite small, with bins up one side where some skeins of wool were arranged by color and yarn content. There was a table on which pattern books sat in piles and a small counter behind which an elderly woman, her white hair pulled up on top of her head, sat with her eyes downcast working on the knitting in her lap. ‘Hello, my dear,’ she said looking up. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Claire told her. ‘I need some inspiration.’ Claire looked over the desk at the old woman’s knitting.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘don’t look at me. I don’t have the eyes for the kind of work I used to do.’ But as she shook her head she held up a circular needle and from it hung a cream colored garment.

‘You’re making a one-piece sweater?’

‘Actually, it’s a knee blanket. A very practical item when living here.’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ Claire agreed as she reached out to feel the texture of the yarn and to examine the pattern the woman was using. ‘It’s so soft. It feels like lamb’s wool.’

The woman smiled at Claire. ‘I hate to admit this to a potential customer but I have always wanted to make a cashmere wrap and I decided that it was high time. After all, I’m in my seventies. It’s working up beautifully, don’t you think?’

‘Outstanding,’ Claire said. ‘It looks like you used knit-one-back on the border. Is that right?’

‘You know your twisted stitches,’ the woman replied. ‘I use it for strength and to make the interior pattern more defined.’

Claire spread the mass out along the counter to get a better look at it. ‘Aran pattern.’ But it was smaller and lovelier than any she had ever seen. There must have been four hundred stitches to a single row.

‘I know it’s done too often but I always like doing the diamond with cable combinations,’ the woman said apologetically. ‘And for the symbolism. I know it’s because of my age, but on this one I’m using the tree of life pattern before the seed stitch edges. Let’s hope I shan’t die before I finish.’

Claire smiled. ‘It’s lovely.’ If this was the kind of work the woman did now and not what she used to do—well, what could be more difficult than this? ‘I think I’ll just look around. I’m not sure of the colors or what I really need.’

‘You’ll find the cottons in the bottom four bins at your feet in front of you, the lamb’s wool is in the four on the far top left, the basic worsted is by the door and the baby wool is across from that.’

‘Thanks,’ Claire said. She turned her back to the woman and scanned the displays of color around her. White, yellow, cream, linen, brown, black, orange, pink. This isn’t the place to be inspired, she thought. She stepped closer to the bins by the door and reached up to feel the texture of the yarn. Too coarse and what a hideous green. What would anyone make out of that? She bent down to check the yarn below waist level. This was a slight improvement in color but it was only single-ply cotton—useless unless you were into delicate doilies. She noticed that there was dust on the ledges of the bins and on some of the wool as well. Well, the poor old woman’s sight would explain that. She looked over at her and, for a moment, a trick of the light or Claire’s own mood cast a resemblance to Claire’s grandmother that was so strong Claire almost dropped the skein she was holding.

Then the old woman turned her head and the imagined resemblance faded away. ‘I’m afraid there’s not a wide selection,’ she said. ‘I’ve cut down on my stock. Young people don’t seem to be very interested in knitting these days. I mostly do special orders.’ She sighed as if she regretted it.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Claire told her. ‘I’ll find something.’ Then she thought that might sound rude. ‘There’s lovely stuff here in the baby wool.’ And it was true.

‘Yes, there are still indulgent grannies, thank goodness. But you’re not one. Now, how can I help you? Not a knee blanket, I suspect. Perhaps a string bikini.’

Claire smiled. ‘It’s not that warm,’ she said.

‘Just as well. You don’t really look like the string bikini type.’

Somehow, everything the woman said seemed approving, as if she already gave credit to Claire for good taste and good sense. ‘I thought I would try some gloves,’ Claire told her. They wouldn’t take much yarn, they would take a while to do, and she could actually use them. She was safe from the London dampness most of the time because of her raincoat but her hands were often chilly.

‘My, my. When I used to knit mittens for my son I didn’t like doing the thumbs and gloves are five thumbs in a row.’ The woman shrugged. ‘Well, some people are gluttons for punishment. Mind you it’s the needle ends that get in the way. I used to have short needles but I don’t believe they make them anymore.’

‘Oh, I’ll be all right,’ Claire told her. She had been looking about trying to see if there was anything in the way of wool that she might enjoy working. The old woman followed her eye.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘I might just have the thing for you. I have a few skeins of German wool. It’s quite amazing. It looks variegated.’ She held up her hand. ‘I know that’s usually dreadful but these are engineered so that they make figurative patterns when they’re knitted up.’ Claire hadn’t a clue what she was talking about but she waited while the shopkeeper rummaged in a drawer. ‘Here we go,’ she said and took out a gray, brown and tan speckled ball. She handed it to Claire. ‘I’m afraid it’s rather dear but it really is quite marvelous the way it works up. I think I have a sock I did as a demonstration.’

Claire held the ball of wool while the woman scrabbled through some drawers behind the counter. ‘Ah, here it is.’ And she handed Claire the most beautiful sock, one with an intricate stripe that alternated with a row of tweedy dots. ‘It’s all in the wool, you see. Heaven knows how those Germans managed it. Sixty years of knitting and I’m sure I couldn’t.’

Claire looked at the wool carefully. It was remarkable. There would be no need for color exchange bobbins or tying on a new strand. She had to have it. She nodded to the woman.

‘You know, my dear, they’re the last skeins I have. I may as well knock down the price, as I’ve had them here so long.’

‘Oh, no. That’s not necessary,’ Claire said. She wondered if she looked indigent, but her clothes were clean and pressed. Actually, she was better put together than she had been in New York.

‘I insist,’ the woman told her. ‘It would be a favor if you took them off my hands. Then, when you’ve finished knitting them up you can put them on yours.’ She chuckled.

‘I’ll come back and show them to you,’ Claire said.

‘How lovely. I look forward to it.’

And when Claire left, her purchase safely tucked into her bag, she looked forward to it as well.

Claire was very tired after an afternoon and evening working at the grocery store. She had split her time between serving customers and keeping an eye on the children. She’d done a good job with both, though Mrs. Patel seemed reluctant to admit it.

But of course Mrs. Patel might, at any time, tell her not to come back. And she doubted anyone else would actually employ her. The idea gave her a chill, but then again it could be because the heat was turned off. Mrs. Watson was very thrifty, and after ten o’clock there was no place warm except under the blankets in Claire’s bed.

But she decided she would take a bath first. Usually the heat was enough to get her back down the hall, into bed, and snug until the following morning.

She was in her robe and walking back down the hall, exuding the last of the scent from the Berkeley’s delightful bath gel, when, from behind, she was tapped on the shoulder. She gasped and turned.

But it was only Mrs. Watson. She had a kerchief on her head that looked none-too-clean and was wearing a sweatshirt over an old nylon nightie. ‘You had a nice bath?’ Mrs. Watson asked.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘And did you have a nice bath this morning?’

Claire tilted her head, feeling the warmth drain out of her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why? Has someone complained? I didn’t think anyone was waiting.’

‘I’m complaining,’ Mrs. Watson said. ‘For eighteen pounds you don’t get two hot baths a day. I can’t lose money on every guest. And if you don’t like it,’ she added, her face looking pale green under a layer of cream, ‘you can go elsewhere. That’s my position.’

Despite her shock and embarrassment Claire felt angry. Why was it every time she felt the slightest bit comfortable somewhere something like this had to happen? If she had any courage she would tell Mrs. Watson she was leaving in the morning, but instead she just stood there mutely. The cold was shooting up through the floor to the soles of her feet. Tiny waves of goose pimples radiated down from her shoulders to her wrists and began the voyage all over again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told Mrs. Watson. ‘I should have thought.’

‘Yes, you should have. Too late for that now. Twenty pounds a night. And I’d like some money in advance, please.’

Claire wondered if a tub of hot water could possibly cost two pounds. But she simply nodded, now colder than before, walked down the hall to her room, opened her purse and gave six crisp twenty-pound notes to Mrs. Watson. ‘Here you are,’ she said as calmly as she could manage. ‘And I’ll be leaving after that.’ Claire had had no plans to do so but her pride prevented her from even thinking about dealing with this woman. Her scarf would not allow a twisted stitch. Why should she allow one here?

She closed the door on the silenced Mrs. Watson and got into bed. But Mrs. Watson wasn’t quiet for long. She began to yell at Maudie’s children. They did make a noise, but did the woman have to be so dreadful to them? Under the blankets Claire began to shiver. This was ridiculous. At the very least she had to stay clean and warm. If she took a bath the night before would she be expected to go out without a morning shower? If she stood in the tub and simply washed herself, did she have to pay another two pounds, and how cold would she get?

She put her right foot against the back of her left calf hoping to warm herself. She inserted her toes into the crevice behind her knee but didn’t feel much difference in temperature. Huddled under her blanket, cold and a little frightened, she began to consider her options. She had probably been too impulsive, for where would she find a decent place as cheap as this one? She didn’t even know where to look.

But then the realization came to her: her life here was like a small but perfect scarf. And this dark room was far from perfect. Somehow, she didn’t know yet how, she would find another place to live. It would be somewhere she could afford, somewhere prettier and somewhere more congenial. If she had done it once she could certainly do it again. Laws of statistics told her this couldn’t be the only inexpensive rooming house in London. She tried to calm herself. She would be fine.

After a little while she realized she was too agitated to sleep and she had no knitting underway. She would have to see to that tomorrow. Meanwhile, she remembered Toby’s book and braved the cold air to fetch it.

The fact that it wasn’t a novel, which was her favorite read, had already disappointed her. But if she read it, it would give her something to talk to Toby about. She turned again to the essay she had looked at. ‘The Superannuated Man’ seemed to be about the author’s working days—thirty-four years in ‘a counting house’, which appeared to be something like a CPA firm. Claire began to read and sighed. His description was harrowing, the style a little less than Dickens, although it certainly read like a Dickensian tale. She couldn’t imagine why Toby—or anyone—would think that she wanted to read about a long-dead man’s office struggles, but Lamb’s voice, once she got used to it, was so engaging, and his ideas so heartfelt that soon Claire was deeply involved.