Wish Upon a Star (27 page)

Poor Charles had begun working at fourteen and spent ten hours each day but Sunday virtually chained to a desk doing sums. He hated his servitude. His description of his plight was heartrending, but then, unexpectedly, he was not just freed but given enough of a pension so that he could leave and never work again. His good luck astonished him, as it astonished her. He had been feeling ill and was called into the partners’ offices. She supposed that was like having to speak to Mr. Crayden. He was afraid it meant he might be fired. And then, instead, they asked him how long he had worked for them and after he told them thirty-four years (thirty-four years!) the partner in charge told him they were going to retire him. (That was what superannuated meant.) And give him four hundred pounds a year.

His joy was palpable. It flooded out to her from the pages of the musty book.

If peradventure, reader, it has been thy lot to waste the golden years of thy life—the high shining youth—in the irksome confinement of an office; to have thy prison days prolonged through middle age down to decrepitude and silver hairs: without hope of release or respite; to have lived to forget that there are such things as holidays, or to remember them but as the prerogatives of childhood: then, and then only, will you be able to appreciate my deliverance
.

There, in her little shabby room, Claire’s eyes filled with tears. She felt as if Charles Lamb was speaking directly to her. Only a week ago she had been working at Crayden Smithers, and though she hadn’t moved from youth to middle age to ‘decrepitude’, there were people there who had. She thought of the women at her lunch table and of the older Abigail and her unexpected approval of this adventure. Wasn’t that also an unspoken warning? Yes or no, she must take warning from Charles Lamb as well, she realized. She couldn’t possibly go back to that job, to that office. She thought of the windowless room where she worked. She thought of Joan, and her coworkers all breathing the same air, all more than two corridors from natural light. Things hadn’t changed so very much in all the years since Lamb’s time. Unlike poor Charles, Claire decided then and there not to waste thirty-four years in servitude.

But unlike Charles Lamb she would not receive a pension. She would not have any money coming in, in any regular way. How could she possibly survive? She closed the book and put it under her pillow. She switched off the light and lay down. She could feel the little volume under her head. It served as a reminder of her new promise to herself. Perhaps she could find work, work that made enough money so that…well, she didn’t want to move too fast, but money would be necessary.

She thought of Toby and wondered if he had guessed the profound meaning the little book would have for her. She would have to go back to the Pied Piper and ask him. Or even speak to Corporal Tucker at the American Embassy. She had almost forgotten about him. He wasn’t exactly the kind of personality that Claire would normally be drawn to, but Corporal Tucker must know of something, some work. Of course. Maybe even someplace to live. She would call him in the morning.

Claire pulled the blanket over her shoulders and sighed. She would have to hope that the work at Mrs. Patel’s would last until she could come up with another arrangement. Maybe Toby would know of something or better yet perhaps the old woman in the yarn store needed help. Claire rolled over, stuffed the pillow under her neck and fell asleep.

‘Back in Black’ was blaring so loud that Claire had to ask Adam to repeat himself. She’d never liked AC/DC very much, and here in a London restaurant she liked them even less. ‘How long?’ she asked.

‘Almost a year,’ Adam said and picked up his hamburger. He had been stationed in London that long and yet he had picked this place—he said it was his favorite—for them to meet and eat in. Claire looked around. Aside from a higher percentage of guys with military haircuts, this could be any place in New York. The menu featured steaks, burgers and buffalo chicken wings, the beers were all American, and the only tea was iced. Worst of all, it wasn’t easy to have a conversation above the music and the noise at the bar.

She had called him that morning, been relieved to reach him, and jumped when he offered to meet her for lunch. She had taken a lot of trouble with her hair and her make-up, not just because he was good-looking but also because she was hoping for a favor, or at least some information. It didn’t make her feel good, but she reasoned that she wasn’t using him. He was free to refuse help, and who knew? They might have something in common. But looking around again at his favorite spot she began to doubt it.

Claire picked at her salad. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked. She tried to sound casual but perhaps there was somewhere nearby where she could…The song ended and Claire was grateful to hear it replaced with a quieter (but equally American) Eagles number.

‘We’ve got military housing near the airport. It’s great over there. Good food, cheap movies and a PX that blows your mind. It’s cheaper than CostCo.’

Claire nodded and tried to keep anything but a positive expression on her face. NO way was she going to live on some army base with a giant discount Post Exchange. Better to be back in Tottenville. But he didn’t talk much about housing, though that was foremost in her thoughts. Instead Adam Tucker went on to tell her about the stereo, the Walkman and the laptop he’d bought at discounted prices. She tried to appear interested, but his enthusiastic simplicity made her suddenly miss Michael Wainwright. That wasn’t good. Corporal Adam Tucker was nice looking, friendly, and even sexually attractive. He was big, with broad shoulders, big hands and long legs. His blond hair, though cut too short, would be lovely if it was grown in. And he seemed to like her. There must be something there, she told herself, besides Budweiser and hamburgers.

‘How long are you going to stay on?’ he asked her. ‘Maybe I can get you into the PX.’

The PX wasn’t what she needed: she had to make some money, not spend it. ‘I’m not sure,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got a little job and I’m trying to make my money last as long as I can.’

‘Do you have a work visa?’ he asked.

‘I think I’m going to get one,’ she told him. If she was breaking the law, what would happen if she got caught?

‘Well, if you’re getting one you’re lucky. Pissed-off people are coming in and out all day over them. The Brits don’t want to give away jobs they can keep for themselves. How’s your salad?’

If she’d been interested in it before Claire had no appetite for her meal now. But she stabbed at a hard-boiled egg with a fork. ‘Really good.’

‘They got great ranch dressing here. You can’t get it anyplace else. Even the ranch at McDonald’s tastes funny,’ Adam said.

She nodded, though the last thing she would think of having here was a Happy Meal. How could she get him to talk a little more about a visa? She couldn’t just come out and ask him. ‘Who’s in charge of work visas?’ she asked.

He bit into his hamburger but answered her, his mouth half-full. ‘Oh, hell, there’s tons of paperwork. Best I can understand the company here writes a request that goes to the Limeys and then, if it’s approved, goes up to the third floor. Oh, man, I love the Clash. Isn’t this song bitchin’?’

Claire sighed. Despite the cute accent, the uniform and the good looks, Adam Tucker was as boring as the men that Tina tried to set her up with. A little different, but just as dull. And useless to her, except socially. Maybe she could date him. She told herself to try harder. ‘What’s your favorite place in London?’ she asked.

‘The PX,’ he said without even a moment’s hesitation.

‘Does that count as really London?’ she asked. ‘What do you like in the city?’

‘Well, the movies are good. I mean the Mel Gibson ones and
The Matrix
. And, of course,
X2
.’

‘What about English movies?’ Claire couldn’t help asking.

‘Which ones are English?’ he asked. ‘There was that one about servants and guests in some manor house and the guy, one of the servants, he came back to kill his daddy. But it wasn’t very good.’

‘
Gosford Park
?’ she asked. ‘I think that was made here but it was directed by Robert Altman, an American.’

‘Well, whatever it was, it was real boring. Even the murder was boring.’

Claire had loved it but said nothing. In fact, there was nothing more said until Adam finished his burger. ‘Want some dessert?’ he asked. ‘They have sundaes that kick ass. Oh, I’m sorry. They’re really good.’

Claire shook her head. She was afraid to tell him she had to get to work. Perhaps he would report her. ‘I have to get back. I have an appointment with a friend.’

‘Is it a boy friend?’

Claire shook her head. ‘An English lady. I promised I’d help her.’

‘Can I take you there?’

‘Oh, no. It’s a long trip on the underground.’

‘I don’t have anything else to do,’ he said and shrugged.

Though Claire didn’t want to tell him about work she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She was such a chicken. That’s why she never went out with people: if she did and they didn’t like her she was hurt. If she did and she didn’t like them, they were hurt. ‘I just better go,’ she told him.

He insisted on walking her to the tube and then asked if he could see her again. She nodded. Then he asked if he could kiss her goodbye. She said yes again and was surprised when she liked his hands on her shoulders and his mouth against hers. It was just a pressing of lips, but there was something about his size that made his bent head and big arms very moving. He was sweet. ‘I’ll call you,’ she said. He smiled and waved as she walked down the stairs. When she turned her head he was still there, smiling and waving. Claire ducked into the underground station with relief and more than a little guilt.

Monday afternoon Claire sat in the worn but comfortable armchair across from Toby, Lamb’s book of essays on her lap, sharing space with George Eliot—the cat not the writer. ‘I’ve read it over twice now,’ Claire was saying. After the disappointment of the lack of help from Adam Tucker the day before and a long evening of work at Mrs. Patel’s, Claire had rewarded herself with a visit to the used bookstore. Toby had seemed happy to see her and now he seemed delighted to discuss Charles Lamb.

‘His retirement was such an escape. And he was so…’ she paused, at a loss for words.

‘…joyful?’ Toby offered.

‘Yes. Shocked and joyful about it,’ she paused again, too shy to say that she, too, was joyful to be liberated. ‘It reminded me of the work I do…did back in New York and how it’s possible to be so busy with paperwork that before you know it you look up from your task to find that twenty or so years have escaped you. Anyway, it has made me think.’

‘Great. That’s what essays are for. Stories make you feel and essays make you think.’ George Eliot jumped off Claire’s lap and gracefully onto Toby’s. He stroked the cat and scratched her behind her ears. Claire watched his hands. He was so interesting to talk to; far more amusing and well-informed than Corporal Tucker. Claire was embarrassed to find herself almost jealous of the cat. Toby had lovely hands. She couldn’t help but wonder what a kiss from Toby would feel like.

She put the idea out of her mind. She needed to ask him for help, but could not find the courage. Yet she had only four more nights at Mrs. Watson’s and she would hate to have to extend her stay there.

She refocused on the conversation. ‘What is strange is the essay seemed as if it was meant exactly for me,’ Claire said. ‘As if Charles Lamb was sending me a message.’

Toby nodded. ‘It’s a gift I have,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how it works and I can’t seem to make a penny out of it, but I seem to divine what’s wanted by the reader. Sort of like a prose consultant.’

On the one hand, Claire was flattered that Toby seemed to be on her wavelength. On the other she had to admit a certain disappointment that, as a client, his services to her were not unique.

Toby rolled George onto her back and stroked the long hairs on her belly. ‘I’ve often thought I should put up a sign. You know, “Mystic Reading” or something of that sort. The trouble is it would bring all the wrong types in. Fools who wanted to know if their portfolio was healthy or if they were going to meet a tall, dark stranger.’

‘Well, I’m not sure about them, but this was great for me.’ She briefly explained about her own working life in Manhattan.

‘Suited you down to the ground, eh?’

‘Yes. And now I’d like one about medieval painting, please.’

Toby cocked his head. ‘An expensive pursuit, I’m afraid. I have wonderful, beautiful books but all rather dear.’

‘Perhaps there might be one…’ she began, but before she could ask for the cheapest one he had smiled. She had to notice that he was very good-looking.

Toby stood, and he and George ran off into a dark aisle of books. He was back in a flash. ‘This book is a wonder, but as the cover is stained and it’s missing a few pages I could give it to you. I won’t ever be able to sell it and as it came in a box from an estate sale…well, here.’

The cover was gray leather, with a nasty ring from some hot mug that once rested on it. But when she opened it up the jewel-like colors and the actual gilding on the pages made her open her eyes wide. She looked up at Toby. ‘Oh, I couldn’t…’

‘Certainly you can. Could have it rebound and sell it off, but the cost of binding—well you’d take a big loss. So take the book instead.’

‘Thank you.’ She put it in her bag and wondered if she might ask him if he knew how she could rent a room, or if that was too forward. What would she do if he told her he had a place she could share? The fact was that Claire felt very attracted to him. He was so different from Michael Wainwright that they could not be compared. Toby was not business-like, not manly in the way that Michael was, but he had a sharp mind and was certainly more widely read. She couldn’t imagine Michael having a cat or stroking it so sweetly. From what she could see, English men seemed a lot less pushy, not nearly as macho as American men. Nothing wrong with that, she thought. Corporal Adam Tucker probably spent his free time watching football or playing it. With Toby she could talk about books forever. Of course he wouldn’t, but if he offered her a place to stay with him would she accept? She pushed the thought out of her mind.