Wish Upon a Star

by Olivia Goldsmith

  ‘Almost fifty.’

  ‘Fifty!’ Nigel repeated.

  ‘Well, then. Two or three complaints over fifty signs. That’s one in twenty-five. My goodness, with the number of cranks in London I would think that’s a low percentage.’ She poured out the three cups of tea. ‘Claire did it with my permission and didn’t mean any harm. A couple of complaints aren’t going to ruin your property empire. Now, apologize to Claire nicely and we can move on.’

  Nigel cleared his throat, but before he said anything Claire spoke up. ‘I’m sure it’s all my fault. I didn’t realize what the signs meant or that the fence posts were private property. I won’t do it again.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Nigel said. ‘My mother doesn’t need to advertise the shop as if it were a side show. And she certainly doesn’t need the income. Let’s just forget about it, shall we? No harm done.’

  ‘Exactly what I was trying to say,’ Mrs Venables told him serenely. She handed the plate of macaroons to Claire, who took one but felt that the lump in her throat would make it impossible for her to choke it down. Nigel felt no such difficulty and took three, making short work of them. ‘He’s loved them since he was a little boy,’ Mrs Venables confided. ‘I used to send them to him at school.’

  Nigel bit into yet another macaroon. He turned to Claire. ‘Bilsop?’ he asked. ‘Where are your people from?’

  It reminded her of Im. Did everyone in this country want to place you in some hierarchy? She wasn’t second-cousins to the Queen. ‘I don’t have any people,’ Claire said. She stood up. ‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ she told Mrs Venables. ‘I’m going to be late for work.’ That, of course, wasn’t true.

  ‘I understand,’ Mrs Venables said, and it looked as if she did.

  Claire left the shop and trudged the two streets home. Things had been going so well. She should have known that meant too well. Being cornered and scolded as if she were a child or an opportunist was deeply disturbing. But she hadn’t pushed Mrs Venables into anything, she told herself. It was just that detestable Nigel who made her feel so guilty. Now, she would be too embarrassed ever to go back to the shop again. Claire felt tears spring to her eyes once more, but this time she didn’t have to hold them back.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  After an hour or two in the haven of her new home, Claire felt in better spirits and decided to do something positive. She had found a garden center in Chelsea and thought she’d ask permission to take the Patel girls to it. When she left for work – even earlier than usual – the sun was breaking through the flat silver clouds. There was a smell of soot mixed with earth, and that indefinable odor of new growth that heralded the spring. Of course, early flowers were already blooming, but this scent marked the season as truly begun. It would be lovely to make a garden.

  She had just reached the corner when she recognized the man approaching her as Nigel Venables.

  ‘Miss Bilsop.’

  Claire waited, carefully keeping her expression neutral – he was the last person she wanted to see but, in her new, positive mood, she was determined not to let him upset her again.

  ‘I must apologize for my outburst,’ Nigel said. ‘Can I take you for a cup of coffee?’

  Caught completely off guard and temporarily robbed of the powers of speech, Claire just found herself nodding.

  ‘There’s a decent café just up the road; it’s very kind of you to come.’

  ‘Well,’ Claire said, recovering. ‘I haven’t much time.’

  ‘We won’t take long.’

  Claire tried to match her strides to Nigel’s long ones but couldn’t, and had to take an undignified skip every three or four steps, just to keep up. When she was beside him she snuck a glance at his face, pointed resolutely toward the café. This confirmed her first impression; that he was nice-looking, having Mrs Venables’s aristocratic features which, Claire had to admit, looked better on a man.

  She was expecting peace-making but, once in the café, he was just as arrogant as he had been earlier. He seated her and fetched them coffees and then he began to question her. ‘What brought you to London?’ he asked.

  A man, Claire was tempted to say. That would shock him. Instead she told him she had decided to come on a whim.

  ‘Doesn’t your family worry about you?’

  Claire sensed that he was trying to ‘place her’ the way Imogen did. What was it with these English and their odd strata of class distinctions? ‘My father died about five years ago and my mother …’ Claire paused, ‘… is about to remarry.’ That was pushing the truth, but Claire certainly didn’t feel like explaining the sordid Jerry.

  ‘I’m sorry. My father died when I was a boy,’ Nigel said, softening just a little. ‘Were you and your father close?’

  ‘Yes. I miss him very much.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  There it was again, that need to place her. ‘About what?’ she asked. She looked at her watch. ‘I really have to go,’ she said. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’ Which she hadn’t touched. Before he could say anything more, she turned and walked out the door. He hadn’t wanted to apologize. He wanted to pump her; to make sure she wasn’t some wandering grifter or con artist! He wanted to make sure she was ‘the right sort’, and Claire was sick of it.

  On Friday afternoon, when the Patel girls were out of school, and with their mother’s permission, Claire took them to the garden center where they selected dozens of flowering plants, some ground cover, and ten square feet of sod, which Claire learned they called ‘turf’. She arranged to have it all delivered and spent the rest of the afternoon working with the girls on the ground behind the shop. She’d purchased a hoe with her own money, but said nothing about it to Mrs Patel who looked on, expressionless.

  Once all the rubble had been cleared away, the space was not as bad as it had, at first, appeared. There was a concrete walk (or ‘path’ as the girls called it) that made a U-shape across the back and two sides of the area but the center was clear. The delivery arrived and, first of all, Claire added some peat moss and topsoil which she and the girls worked into the cindery soil. After that it didn’t take long to put in borders of plants, with the little piece of grass in the center. The girls were good helpers, and though they couldn’t manage to dig deep they did take the plants carefully out of their plastic containers and sink them into the prepared earth. ‘This is just like Ground Force!’ Safta exclaimed, and told Claire all about the ‘telly’ program. In less than four hours the little space had been transformed and, though there was no outdoor spigot or hose, Claire and the girls managed to water everything using buckets and pitchers.

  When Mrs Patel took a break the girls, so excited that they had to hold their hands over their mouths to keep from shouting, pushed her into the garden from behind. Claire was left to cover the counter and waited to hear exclamations of pleasure.

  But there were none. Five, and then ten minutes went by, and still nothing was heard from the back of the shop. Maudie came in with her boys, had a chat and Claire was finishing up her few purchases, carefully placing them in a sack when Mrs Patel, her head lowered, came walking toward the front of the shop. She didn’t approach the counter until Maudie had left. Claire had Maudie’s money ready. But it was only when Mrs Patel raised her head and looked straight at Claire that she knew this was very important. Mrs Patel’s dark eyes were wet with tears. ‘How did you do that?’ she asked. ‘How did you manage it? It is quite marvelous.’

  Claire was as surprised and touched as Mrs Patel. ‘It wasn’t very hard,’ Claire said. ‘Really. They delivered the heavy stuff and the girls helped.’

  ‘But it’s beautiful. It’s a real English garden. It will be so lovely for the girls. And I can sit there in the evenings. No smell of cat. It smells of flowers.’ She paused, took a napkin from the counter and patted her eyes. ‘I didn’t think I could have such a thing,’ she said.

  ‘I’m so glad you like it,’ Claire said.

  ‘I must make a confession to y
ou,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘I thought that when you moved, we had seen the last of you. I was sure that you would get tired of slumming.’

  ‘But Mrs Patel … I never felt that I was …’

  The woman held up her hand. ‘No, no, you must hear me out. I was unjust. I underestimated you and I was afraid, not just for the children but for myself. I have come to count on your help.’

  It was the first time Mrs Patel had acted as if she were doing anything but a favor for Claire. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ Claire said. ‘Safta is terrific, and the little ones …’

  ‘No, please. I have distrusted you. I haven’t let you go near the till. I’ve paid you very little. I apologize for all of it.’

  Claire had to stop her before the two of them were crying.

  Mrs Patel took a deep breath. ‘You know, it is more difficult to accept a kindness than a cruelty,’ she said, ‘when you’re used to cruelty.’ She looked away from Claire and into the empty streets. ‘Sometimes they call us “Pakis”. And we are from Pakistan originally. But I have lived here my whole life and I am British. And so are my children. But you see we do not fit in with the British. And we do not fit in among the Pakistanis because my family is not Moslem, but Hindu.’ She looked at Claire. ‘My father was a very holy man, but when he died my mother asked my uncle to send for a husband for me from Pakistan. When Lak came he was handsome and it turned my head. What could I do anyway? Perhaps my father would have stopped it but he was gone. It was not a good match.’ She looked away again and Claire took a deep breath. She had wondered where Mr Patel was, but wouldn’t, of course, ask. ‘He took money. He hit me. Not once, but many times. Though I was giving him a citizenship and children he was angry, always angry. You see my father had bought the shop for me. Lak was angry that I owned the business, that I spoke English, that I had opinions.’ She sighed but there was an angry glint in her eye. ‘Perhaps there was another woman he had to leave behind. Perhaps it would have been as bad, and he as difficult, no matter what.’ She looked at Claire.

  ‘But they forced you to marry a stranger,’ Claire said. She tried to imagine what that would be like and failed completely.

  Mrs Patel shrugged. ‘You see, though I am very modern I don’t believe that an arranged marriage is a bad thing. You almost never know the person you marry until you have had years of being together. Love can grow just as it can die.’

  ‘Didn’t you try to get help, from your mother or the police?’

  Mrs Patel gave her a look that told her she understood very little. ‘I told my mother and then my aunt but never the police. You don’t involve them in your family problems.’

  ‘But what did your mother say? Couldn’t she stop him? Didn’t she tell you to leave him?’

  Mrs Patel shrugged again. ‘My mother is very traditional. Without my father to guide her she turned to my aunt and uncle. But my uncle’s family had been the ones who made the match. I was told to be quiet, that my complaining was causing the problem.’ She made a clicking sound.

  ‘What happened?’ Claire finally had the courage to ask.

  ‘It went too far. He began to hit the children. He thought he could do whatever he wished, with me, with them, with the money. I did call the police. I put him out. Five months ago. He went back to Pakistan. And then I went to a solicitor for divorcing him.’

  ‘Good,’ Claire said. ‘Well, that was the right thing.’

  ‘Not to my family. So we don’t see them – haven’t seen them for yonks. They don’t speak to me. The children don’t meet their cousins. My uncle came to me and said “If you do this shameful thing then all of us will turn our backs on you.” You see, it caused all kinds of financial difficulties. There was a dowry that had been paid to Lak’s family in Pakistan. Now that money is lost forever. Everyone was very, very angry. They said I was a whore, that Lak had put up with me as best he could but that he wasn’t even sure the children were his.’ This time a tear rolled down her face but she angrily wiped it away. ‘It made my children pariahs. How cruel of a father. And all over false pride and money.’ She looked down, straightened her clothes and put her hand protectively across her belly. ‘Let me check on the children,’ she said. But Claire thought she wanted to gather her feelings. ‘Flog the bread off,’ Mrs Patel said as she waddled to the back. ‘It’s about to go off.’

  To Claire’s relief no customers came in to push the day-old bread on. Mrs Patel returned, more composed. ‘My children have had a difficult time and have suffered, but since you have begun to help Safta she is much happier and perhaps now, with this garden, she will invite a friend over. If not, she can read and study there. It is very English and very fine indeed. Thank you, Claire.’

  ‘Oh, it really isn’t a big deal,’ Claire said. But she knew now that it was. ‘We all had fun working together.’

  Mrs Patel gave one of her rare smiles. ‘Yes, fun is very good.’

  ‘And I can teach the girls how to dead-head and snip the grass.’

  ‘Dead-head? Is this some American thing or is it English?’ Mrs Patel asked, one brow raised again. ‘I know precious little about gardening.’

  Claire smiled. ‘It means picking off the dead flowers so new ones can come in. The girls will be good at it.’

  ‘I can be good at it as well,’ Mrs Patel declared. ‘I can keep this garden.’ She patted her belly. ‘And the baby can enjoy it, too.’ She smiled at Claire. ‘How can I thank you?’ she asked and took Claire’s hand.

  Claire shrugged. ‘You already have. You gave me a job. Because of that I’ve been able to stay here in London.’ She paused. ‘You know, I am something of an outcast too,’ she said.

  Mrs Patel nodded. ‘I thought as much,’ she said.

  FORTY-NINE

  Claire woke up at seven on Saturday morning filled with excitement at the prospect of the first knitting class in just two hours. She didn’t think that Imogen was an early riser on the weekends, but she wasn’t sure because every weekend but this one Imogen had been away. Claire tried to be as quiet as she could as she tip-toed to the bathroom, took her bath, washed her hair and then, wrapped only in a towel, headed to her hall closet to pick out what she would wear for the class. But as she passed the door to Imogen’s bedroom it opened and a man – totally naked and very well-built – appeared. He gaped as much as Claire did. ‘Sorry,’ she managed to gasp as she turned and scuttled back to her room.

  Once there she closed the door behind her with a bang so loud that everybody in Kensington would hear it. Oh, god, she thought. The very last thing she needed was for Imogen’s boyfriend to complain about her presence in the flat. She hadn’t met him before, and this wasn’t exactly the way she’d envisioned their first meeting. This must have been the first time since Claire had moved in that he had stayed over. Claire couldn’t get over her bad luck, or the fact that she hadn’t had a chance to get her clothes. She was stuck in her room.

  She looked at one of the flyers sitting on her bureau. The class was scheduled for nine and now, looking at her watch, she realized she had only an hour and ten minutes to find a way to her closet, avoid Imogen and her fiancé, get something for breakfast and hope that she still had a place to stay by the end of the day.

  She needed to calm herself and hope that this wasn’t a bad omen for the rest of this very important day. Then she remembered her electric kettle. Luckily it had water in it and she merely had to plug it in and wait. She had her mug from the previous night and some tea bags in the top drawer of the bureau. A hot cup of tea and a little calm reflection while looking out the window soon helped her put things in perspective.

  If they couldn’t laugh about it, at least she doubted that they would evict her. Surely that would be an overreaction. At eight-thirty, hearing nothing outside her door, she gathered up her nerve and went out into the kitchen wearing her clothes from the day before. They were dirty, but the last thing she wanted to look was provocative. She knew how quick Tina had always been to think that women might be flirting with Ant
hony.

  Although Claire expected to meet no one, Imogen was there in a robe, making a pot of tea. Claire winced but Imogen simply said, ‘Good morning. Would you like a cup?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘I don’t have time. I have to get dressed properly: I’m going to give a class this morning.’ But, as she made her way to the closet, Imogen stopped her.

  ‘A class in what?’ she asked. ‘Are you teaching American English?’

  Claire tried to laugh. ‘Actually, I’m teaching knitting – at least I think I am, if people show up.’

  ‘Knitting! How absolutely brilliant! God, everyone is knitting. In my office half of the girls are working on something or other. They all swear by it.’

  At that moment Imogen’s fiancé came out of the bedroom. His hair was tousled and his eyes were the darkest brown Claire had ever seen. His arms were too long for the robe he was wearing and his skinny legs were exposed to the thigh. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Claire, this is Malcolm. I gather you already met.’

  Claire blushed. Malcolm smiled and asked Imogen for tea. It seemed that he was not offended at all.

  Incredibly relieved, Claire went back to her room and dressed quickly. She was about to leave when Imogen stopped her at the door.

  ‘Do you think I could come to your class?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘I’d love it,’ Claire said.

  ‘What time are you teaching?’

  ‘Actually, it begins in just a few minutes. Nine o’clock.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ Imogen said. ‘Nobody would make it to that. You should have made it eleven or maybe noon.’

  Claire’s chest tightened again but it was too late. She would, as Tina frequently said, have to like it or lump it. Well, if she didn’t get everyone, she hoped she’d get at least some of the dozen people who had left messages with Toby or Nigel. And if some came late, she could just start them while the others moved along. ‘You don’t have to come to a class,’ Claire said to Imogen. ‘I’d be happy to teach you anytime you want.’