Wish Upon a Star (46 page)

With relief, Claire promised she would and ran across the road to the shop. Once inside it took her only a moment to know Mrs. Venables was not behind the counter or getting something from the little cupboard under the stairs. Claire ran up to the flat. Mrs. Venables was not in the sitting room or the kitchen. But as Claire called her name and tentatively started down the hall to the bedroom she thought she heard, well, something.

The door to the bedroom was partially open. Claire knocked. ‘Mrs. Venables? Are you…are you…’ The door swung open from the slight pressure of her knuckles, and Claire could see a long bare foot lying on the carpet. She gasped and ran into the room.

Mrs. Venables was lying face down on the floor. For a terrible moment Claire thought she might be dead but then she heard the noise again, the half whimper half groan she had heard in the hallway. She crouched beside Mrs. Venables and, afraid to move her, put her head down to the old woman’s face. Had she fallen and broken her hip? That happened with old people. Or had she had a heart attack? Perhaps it had just been a dizzy spell or even a fall out of bed. ‘Mrs. Venables?’

Claire put her cheek to the carpet so that she was inches away from the old woman’s face. ‘Are you ill?’

Mrs. Venables made a noise in her throat. It wasn’t speech, but it was an answer to what Claire considered her most stupid question. Claire didn’t know if she should try and pick her up or leave her where she lay until help came. Then she realized she didn’t know how to call for help. What did you dial in London instead of 9-1-1? She felt a fine sweat break out all over her body. She shivered but she took Mrs. Venables’s hand in hers. The old woman made another sound and weakly tried to squeeze Claire’s hand. Claire couldn’t bear to look at her, face down on the rug like a corpse. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, though she felt it was all wrong. ‘I’m here now. It’s all right.’ The old woman’s hand was icy cold. Claire reached for the bare foot and it was colder still. Slowly, gently, she began to turn the old woman over, waiting for the slightest sound of pain.

But there was none. Once Mrs. Venables was face up Claire grabbed the pillow and coverlet from the bed and tried to make her more comfortable. One of Mrs. Venables’s eyes stayed focused on her as she moved, but the other rolled independently, as randomly as a blue marble in a tumbling box. It must have been a stroke, Claire thought, and became even more frightened. ‘Don’t try to speak,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a doctor in just a few minutes.’

She wasn’t sure that was true, but she went to the phone on the bedside table and dialed the operator. It all took almost more time than she could bear, but at last she was able to give the address to a dispatcher. Then she went back to Mrs. Venables’s side. She took her hand and though its grip wasn’t any stronger, it did feel a bit warmer. Claire chafed it gently between her own two hands. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll call Nigel. He’ll come here or meet us at the hospital.’ Mrs. Venables made a noise, this time a kind of gurgle that frightened Claire even more than the first look at her had done. ‘We have to go to the hospital,’ she said. ‘And Nigel will come and you’ll feel much better. They’ll fix this.’ She paused. ‘I’ll put some socks on you,’ she added. She went through a few drawers in the bureau until she found some very old knit socks. ‘These ought to do.’

Praying for the arrival of the ambulance, Claire rubbed the woman’s feet and put the sock on each one as gently as she could. It seemed as if she had been there for ages, but it was only a little before ten on the bedroom clock. ‘I’m going to call Nigel,’ she said.

Claire opened the little drawer beneath the phone. ‘I’m looking for your phone book,’ she said. But the top drawer only held a small pack of paper tissues, a pen, a box of lozenges and some hairpins. Claire said a little prayer. ‘I’m going to look in the second drawer,’ and her prayer was answered because as soon as she pulled it open, a little red leather book with gold embossing lay in front of her. It said ‘addresses’ and Claire snatched it up. How would an English mother list her son’s phone number? Under ‘V’ for Venables? Or ‘S’ for son? Or ‘N’ for Nigel? She was about to rifle through the pages when she noticed that the first page had not only Mrs. Venables’s name and address but also Nigel’s. Several of his phone numbers had been crossed out and replaced. Claire prayed again, this time that one of the numbers was current. There were three. The first got no response, not even a machine. The second produced the fax buzz. ‘I’m calling him,’ Claire said. ‘Just one more minute.’ She dialed the third number which she remembered was the one on the shop sign. After three rings it was picked up.

‘This is Nigel Venables,’ his voice said coolly. ‘I am not able to take your call. If you leave your number I will call you back.’

Claire waited for the beep. ‘I’m here with your mother. She’s ill. I’ve called for an ambulance. They should be here any moment—at least I hope so. I don’t know where we’ll take her but I will go to the hospital and call you again from there. If you get this message please call your mother’s number right away.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s now ten oh nine in the morning,’ she added. Not knowing what else to do she put the phone back on its cradle and sat down on the floor beside Mrs. Venables. Once again she picked up her hand. ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ she said. ‘We’re taking you to the hospital and Nigel will be there in just a little while.’

But Nigel wasn’t there, nor was he at home to answer his calls. When the ambulance arrived Claire ran across to tell Mr. Jackson where they were going. Mrs. Venables was taken to the Chelsea and Westminster and Claire stayed beside her every moment except when she was physically examined.

The nurses were kinder, it seemed, than the ones in the States and the doctors a bit more formal. Dr Winters, the first physician to examine Mrs. Venables, took Claire aside almost immediately. ‘I can’t say for certain without a few neurological tests, but it would appear to be a stroke. And a rather serious one. Were you with her when she was taken ill?’ Claire shook her head. She explained that she had arrived and found Mrs. Venables on the floor.

‘A shame, really,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s hard to know how long ago it happened and with a stroke recovery is based very much on timing—how quickly we can begin to treat the patient. She lives alone, then?’

‘Yes. I work for her.’

‘A paid companion?’

‘No. No, in her shop. I work for her in the store that she owns.’

‘So, until you found her today she was quite active? No indication of neurological impairment?’

Claire wasn’t sure what an indication would be and certainly Mrs. Venables had seemed normal in every way except for her arthritic knees. ‘I think she was normal; I mean normal for a woman her age.’

‘No confusion? No weakness in her hands? No dragging of one foot or the other?’

Claire shook her head. ‘She was fine,’ she said with more conviction. ‘Certainly her hands were fine. She knits. She runs a knitting store.’

‘Well, her hands aren’t fine now. At least her left one isn’t.’

‘But is this only temporary?’ Claire asked anxiously. There was a bustle down the hall and several nurses and a doctor pulled aside a screen. Claire hoped she wouldn’t see that happening at Mrs. Venables’s bedside.

‘Hard to say. Let’s wait for the test results and an examination by the neurologist. Has she any relatives?’

‘Yes. Her son.’ Claire felt herself flush with annoyance. ‘I haven’t been able to reach him yet.’

‘Well, when you do, let him know that he should come straight away.’ The doctor turned and walked down the hall, leaving Claire to return to Mrs. Venables’s side. She sat there, holding her hand and talking to her for most of the day. She left her position only when the doctors came in or orderlies wheeled the old woman away for tests. Then Claire grabbed a sandwich and a cup of tea, also purchasing a phone card that she used over and over to try to reach Nigel.

By five o’clock that evening both Mrs. Venables and Claire were exhausted. Mrs. Venables closed both of her eyes—to Claire’s relief since she no longer had to be distracted by the floating eye. Claire wished that she could lie down as well, but where? There was a lounge for visitors and perhaps she could lie down there on the battered sofa, but she hated the idea of Mrs. Venables waking up in a strange room alone.

It was only when she was at the phone, trying Nigel yet again that she thought of Toby. She felt embarrassed at the thoughts she had had about him until she was rudely awakened by Imogen’s announcement of his sexual preference. But she couldn’t take the time now to worry about that. Claire needed some help and she knew she could depend on him.

‘You’re all alone,’ he said after she explained the situation. ‘Well, where’s that bloody son of hers?’ She had told Toby on a previous occasion about her difficulties with Nigel.

‘For all I know he’s on holiday in China,’ she said and thought briefly of her own ticket to Nice booked for this Saturday. She had organized the time off with Mrs. Venables, but of course she couldn’t think of going now. ‘I just don’t know where he is or how to contact him. He usually carries his mobile with him.’

‘Well, you’ve been brilliantly resourceful and loyal,’ Toby said. ‘I’ll ring up Imogen, have her give me a change of clothes for you and come right over. Have you eaten?’

‘I had a sandwich,’ Claire told him.

‘Well, it must have been vile hospital food. When Thomas was in hospital I catered. Shall I bring you some smoked salmon? I will,’ he told her, without waiting for her reply.

‘Thank you. But don’t make any special trips.’ She looked around at the people bustling by. ‘I better get back to her room,’ she said. She gave Toby the ward’s number and quickly climbed the stairs and made her way back to the sleeping Mrs. Venables. She sat there for more than an hour and several times she fell into a doze, but woke up with a start each time, straining to be sure that Mrs. Venables was still breathing.

It was a little easier when Toby arrived. He brought flowers, a few sandwiches, hot tea in a thermos and, of course, several books as well as a change of clothes. ‘You poor dear,’ he said and gave her a warm look. ‘Don’t thank me for the flowers. Imogen insisted. She said she’d come in tomorrow.’

Claire washed, changed into a fresh pair of slacks and a sweater, then took up her vigil again. ‘Look what else I brought you,’ Toby said and triumphantly pulled out a bag that held her knitting. Claire took a deep breath and felt tremendous relief. She could bear to sit beside Mrs. Venables, listening to her labored breathing, if she had something like this to do.

‘Toby, I’ll never be able to thank you.’ She was so glad that their friendship seemed to be the same and felt a strong rush of affection for him. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be so difficult for her to adjust to her new knowledge of him.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said as he poured her out a cup of tea. ‘You already have.’

A little later, a nurse offered to sit with Mrs. Venables so Claire could rest. Claire kissed Toby goodbye and lay down on the scruffy sofa.

It seemed as if she had been sleeping for only a moment when the nurse shook her awake. ‘He’s here,’ she said. ‘Mrs. Venables’s son.’

Nigel was at his mother’s bedside, her limp hand between his two, his face almost as pale as hers. He looked up at Claire and she thought his eyes were glassy with tears. He was wearing a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up; his beautifully tailored jacket was thrown carelessly on the windowsill. ‘They think your mother has had a stroke,’ she said as calmly as she could manage. ‘I found her on the floor early this morning. I don’t know how long she was lying there or when she got sick.’

‘I only just got the message. I left my mobile in a taxi this morning…on the way to Bristol…Jackson got me. I was in court in Bristol,’ he said, managing to sound both defensive and accusatory. ‘Why didn’t you call my office? I could have been here hours and hours ago.’

Claire moved closer to the bed. She lowered her voice, but couldn’t hide the pent-up frustration. ‘Because I didn’t have your office number. Neither does your mother, or if she does, she didn’t write it down with your other numbers. Believe me I tried to get you. I know all of your numbers by heart. You have a dozen messages on the one line that takes them, and I must have called your other phone thirty times today.’ Claire looked at him. ‘Do you think I was comfortable with this kind of responsibility? Don’t you think I was frantic to reach you?’ Nigel’s concern for his mother was clearly clouded by his suspicion of Claire—and perhaps his guilt. She felt he was telling her that she had done something wrong. ‘I’m sorry if you don’t approve of how I handled this but I am really not practiced in dealing with severe medical emergencies either in New York or London. I’ve been with your mother since ten o’clock this morning. That makes it fourteen hours. And I made sure she had tests and saw the doctor, and I didn’t let go of her hand, unless someone else was beside her when I went to the toilet or took a nap. She was never left alone.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Nigel shook his head and rubbed his eyes, which were red with tiredness and grief. ‘It’s just I hardly know you and…’

‘I’m Claire Bilsop from Tottenville New York,’ she interrupted. ‘Now I live in London, work for your mother, and I may be the person who saved her life.’ She picked up her bag and turned. ‘The neurologist still hasn’t come by with her test results. They think she had a severe stroke and I guess he’ll confirm that. You should know that she doesn’t seem to be able to speak and she can’t focus her left eye. Now I’m going home.’ She sighed and, seeing how upset he seemed, took a piece of paper from her purse and scribbled Imogen’s number on it. She said more gently, ‘I don’t have a cell phone but I’m giving you my roommate’s number in case you want to call. I’ll come back tomorrow if you don’t mind.’ She dropped the paper on the bed, turned and walked out the door.

Exhausted as she was, Claire had trouble sleeping that night. The vision of Mrs. Venables prone on the carpet kept flashing each time she closed her eyes and began to drift into sleep. Lying there, on her narrow bed in the dark, she began to think of her own future. When she was old, who would be there for her? Certainly no one from her family. Her mother had Jerry, Tina had Anthony, Imogen had Malcolm, Toby had Thomas and, it seemed, Michael Wainwright would have Katherine Rensselaer. They also had sisters and brothers and children and aunts and uncles and god knows how many cousins. After an hour or two in the dark, Claire didn’t know if she felt more sorry for poor Mrs. Venables or for herself.