The day was so lovely that at one o’clock, as she passed the enormous black wrought-iron fence of Green Park, she decided to sit down. She’d read some of Toby’s book and have her lunch. The day was warm and people seemed to be both strolling and sitting, some on the ground and some in lovely canvas chairs. At first she was struck by the fact that all of them seemed to have brought the same lovely but unwieldy chair. Was it the only one available in London? Then she realized that the chairs were provided by the park. She sat down in one and simply couldn’t get over it. It was very comfortable and with her face to the sun she felt as if she could almost take a nap. How did London manage this? In New York benches were nailed to cement. They were uncomfortable but no one could steal them. What luxury, and what a wonderful place this must be, where nobody stole things and graffiti didn’t cover every inch. She took out her knitting and worked on it for a while. Then, with the sun on her face and hands her stitches slowed and …
The next thing she knew, a man in an official hat was tapping her shoulder. ‘I don’t believe you’ve paid,’ he said. If it wasn’t for his uniform Claire would have been sure he was a madman. They certainly had enough nuts wandering through New York parks and they must have them here, too. But she was becoming wise enough to look around her and try to figure out the customs of these people she was visiting. Clearly, the chairs belonged to the park and one paid rental. Rather than being disappointed, Claire was impressed with the sensible and comfortable system. So much better than lugging the chair to the park.
‘How much?’ she asked
‘A pound for an hour,’ he said and, though she hated spending any extra money, she felt it was well worth it.
People strolled by her and she wondered about their lives. Did they work? What were they doing in this park in the middle of central London, in the middle of the day? Did they live nearby? But then, at about two o’clock, the park seemed to quickly empty out. They must all work she thought and was grateful that she didn’t have to abandon her chair or the pleasant weather.
She reached into her bag, took out Toby’s book and opened it in a desultory way. It was written in nineteenth-century English, a little brisker than Dickens, but a bit of a stretch nonetheless. Claire wasn’t sure that she wanted to read some dead old Brit’s essays, but her eye fell on a title, ‘The Superannuated Man’, and she began to read. She was pleased to see Lamb’s style was open and there was actually some humor in his tone. After only a paragraph she felt as if he was talking to her from the page. But the sun on her face and the comfortable deck chair overcame the power of Mr Lamb’s words and Claire fell asleep.
Anyone walking by her sleeping form, and several did, would have seen a young woman, just slightly heavier than she ought to be, with a face quite beautiful in repose. There was something about it reminiscent of a French Madonna carved and painted in the fourteenth century: the tilt of the head, the downcast eyes, the slightly elongated face and nose. When her eyes fluttered open, the pink that suffused her face only made the likeness greater.
Claire, of course, was embarrassed and rather flustered by her unexpected nap. The park, despite the traffic noise of the street, was fairly quiet and there was no reason why she shouldn’t take a little siesta in the middle of the day. She thought of the times that she had been so tired or bored at work that she had longed to close her eyes but couldn’t.
She felt grim at the thought of returning to that life. Had it only been a week since she had come to London? She counted it out on her fingers. She’d arrived on Thursday morning – just under a week ago. She had seen so much and there was so much to look forward to. She simply couldn’t go back. Not in a week or even a month. She wasn’t sure how she could manage it, but this wasn’t going to be a two-week vacation.
Now, cheered by that momentous decision, and refreshed after putting her chair to such good use, she reached into her bag and pulled out the three postcards. Thinking of Tina, she had to decide whether her friend would bring the card into work, even if she addressed it to her at home. Knowing her, she figured she would, even if she asked her not to. Well, it was a small piece of paper and she didn’t have to explain anything. It was only a postcard.
London is lovely. I am enjoying it so much that I couldn’t come home yet. I’m seeing all the sights and making new friends.
Love, Claire
She read it over. It seemed friendly enough, but distant. She couldn’t, however, explain to Tina how delicious it felt to be away from the life that Tina embraced. Claire sighed. She’d probably be back soon enough, though she knew she’d have lost her job. She shrugged and picked up the next card. She would have to address Abigail Samuels at the office, and though there was a danger that the mailroom would read it, she doubted Abigail would mention or show it to anyone. Still, she’d be discreet.
Thank you so much for the guidebook and your help. I use the book every day and there is so much to see that I just couldn’t come back yet. I found a little job and I may stay on longer. Once again, thanks for everything.
Claire
The last card was the most difficult. She wrote her home address and then had to pause. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and it looked as if the weather – as usual – was about to change. Unsure of what she would say Claire began to write.
Dear Mom,
I had this chance from work to go to London and I decided to take it. Sorry I didn’t tell you first, but I wasn’t sure I would go until the last minute. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’ll write soon. Love to Jerry.
Writing that last line was difficult but she knew she had to add a P.S.
P.S. I used your Saks card. Don’t worry. I’ll pay you back when I return.
She decided she wouldn’t mention that her mother owed her more than the card balance. After all, her disappearance might come as a shock, though with her mother she really couldn’t tell. Perhaps she’d be glad that she and Jerry had the house to themselves. She would regret the lost income, but maybe it would finally force Jerry to go out and get a regular job. Claire shrugged.
She didn’t want to be charged another pound for the chair, so she rose, bought stamps and posted the cards. (She had learned that you don’t mail things in London, you post them.) Then she wandered south through the park until she came out of it on The Mall. Turning to her right she saw the enormous stone mound that was Queen Victoria’s memorial, and behind it Buckingham Palace.
When she had had a chance to take it in – the size, the gates, the guard, the gold – she opened Abigail’s book. She read that it was the main home of the kings and queens since Victoria was crowned. And that when the Queen is in residence, her royal flag is flown. The flag was up and Claire approached the gates. Somewhere inside, not far from her, the Queen of England was drinking a cup of tea or reading a book or playing with one of her dogs! Claire had never been this close to royalty, and the idea that the elderly woman whose picture she had seen a thousand times actually lived right there astonished her. She read that the changing of the guard happened at eleven-thirty and decided to come back another day to see it.
She followed the fence to the right and began walking along Constitution Hill. All along the left-hand side of the road was an old brick wall, ten feet or more high with razor wire curled in gleaming coils along the top. Claire walked and walked but the wall continued. She looked on her map carefully. The wall was the one that enclosed the Queen’s backyard! When she looked on her map she saw the yard – actually called Buckingham Palace Gardens – was about the same size as Green Park and had a lake with an island in it. Claire shook her head. What would it be like to have a private park in the middle of a city like this? What would it be like to live in ‘Buck House’ and be able to choose from a hundred rooms? It was, of course, impossible for her to imagine. But she thought, on the whole, that she preferred to sit in a deck chair in Green Park than to be walled up and alone in Buckingham Palace Gardens. She wondered if the Queen was lonely, and then for a moment, if she was. Oddly, she decided she wasn’t and continued her walk with a faster pace.
She got confused at Wellington Arch: she knew it was close to Knightsbridge because she and Michael had gone past it so often. But walking was different. She took two wrong turns, and then managed to get to Park Lane where she walked past all the grand hotels on one side and Hyde Park and traffic streaming by on the other. When she finally got to the end she was on Oxford Street but she was very, very tired. She took out her map again. She simply couldn’t walk all the way to Chamberley Terrace, though she’d had every intention of doing it in the morning. As it was, she had walked so much in the last week that she had noticed her slacks were fitting a little bit looser. Perhaps she was losing weight. But she couldn’t walk any further. Feeling guilty she slunk down into the underground at Marble Arch.
It was four o’clock before she got back. She washed, changed, brushed her hair and teeth, ate a piece of cheese and lay down. But she couldn’t nap. She took out her knitting instead. It was calming and she worked steadily at it. Her needles clicked and clicked.
It seemed no time at all before Claire finished. She spread the scarf flat on her little bed and studied it with pleasure. The piece wouldn’t need blocking and it didn’t have one imprecise stitch. Whenever Claire knit she had to correct every twisted yarn or reversal because if she didn’t her eye moved always to the spot where the imperfection was.
She liked perfection, but it seemed achievable only in very small things. When she looked at her life and the lives of others she saw nothing but disappointment, compromise, dropped stitches and twisted yarn. She had always been wary of her mother and father’s life and their marriage. Her mother’s life with Jerry seemed even worse. Claire had never been envious of Tina or of Tina’s marital plans with Anthony. Other people she knew – in Tottenville, the women at work, the executives at the perimeter, both male and female – all seemed to live generally dreadful lives. Either there was no challenge or too much pressure; too little or too much. Even Mr Wonderful, who seemed to have – in a phrase Tina might use – ‘the world by its balls’ didn’t seem content.
Claire stroked the scarf flat. It really was perfect. Of course, it was only a scarf, but she had made it with her own hands, her own vision and her own intelligence. Perhaps the secret to a perfect life (or something close to it) was to keep it small and pay attention. For some reason, she felt as if here, in London, she could manage to do that. She sighed and folded the scarf to put it away in the wardrobe. It might be true that she could create a small but perfect life here, but she didn’t have the means to do it. And now that she was finished, what could she knit next? Where would she find a yarn shop? Her projects always felt like friends, something she could turn to when she was bored or alone.
Of course, now she had run out of time and she fell asleep immediately. She would have been late for Mrs Patel if it weren’t for the sound of Maudie’s two children running up and down the corridor.
She got up refreshed, ran a comb through her hair and greeted Maudie on the way out. The woman tried to apologize for her children but Claire merely smiled and told her not to. She should have thanked her, but Maudie seemed so grateful as it was that a thank you seemed overkill. Claire ran down the stairs and out onto the street.