‘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.
THIRTY-TWO
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.
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.
THIRTY-THREE
‘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 makeup, 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, thou
gh 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.
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