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.