Claire slept late on Sunday morning. The day before had been so filled with anticipation, excitement, achievement and guilt that she’d exhausted herself, and she’d been too tired the previous evening to open Mrs Patel’s gift. However, when she opened her eyes she felt well rested. The clean and cheerful little room was filled with watery sunlight, her knitting was spread across the little armchair, and the stand held not only the Battersea box from Michael but also the program from Lucia, Toby had given her.
The thought of him made her smile. She so enjoyed his company, and she had to thank him once again for so many things and report on the success of her classes. She was free all morning and afternoon and decided that she would buy him a present; not just chocolates like before, but something more substantial, to show her appreciation. It couldn’t be too personal, partly because she didn’t know him well enough and partly because she didn’t want to seem, well, as interested in him as she was. But if it was too impersonal it would hardly be worth giving.
Thinking of the gift for Toby, she remembered the bulging bag from Mrs Patel. That reminded her of the letter from her mother which Maudie had given her and which Claire had completely forgotten. She jumped out of bed, put on her robe, filled the kettle and then went out to wash her face, getting back into her bedroom without disturbing Imogen or Malcolm. If they were there. It was a shame she couldn’t have gone for a drink with them. Perhaps she could make dinner for the three of them sometime.
Thinking about these pleasant plans, she took out the envelope and the crudely-wrapped package. She had to go back out to the kitchen for a knife because the tape and the layers of plastic and paper proved difficult to remove. But when she finally got the top of the paper unwrapped the rest of it slipped off easily.
Claire caught her breath. Revealed before her was the most perfect little vase. It was made of some kind of metal, but the tiniest pieces of mosaic had been laid into it in a delicate pattern of vines, flowers and birds. Claire picked the vase up and slowly turned it in her hands. The light picked up the pink of the mounded petal pieces and gave the lapis blue more depth. Perhaps the mosaic pieces were ceramic but they might have been semi-precious stones, Claire couldn’t tell. She just looked at the fine tracery of the leaves and the incredible detail of the birds that perched on tiny branches and wondered at it. Where had it come from? Was it something from Mrs Patel’s family? How old was it? And how marvelous of Mrs Patel to give it to Claire.
Claire turned the vase over and over in her hands, each time seeing a new detail, a new bit of workmanship. She thought about how lovely it would look filled with flowers. It was smooth and cool in her hands as she put it up against her cheek. If one was ill, surely the touch of this on the forehead would end a headache, stop a migraine. When she could bear to stop touching it she placed it on the bureau and had the pleasure of looking at it from a distance, the back of the vase reflected in the mirror behind it. Oh, how could Claire keep such a valuable gift at a time when she had to stop working for Mrs Patel, but how could she consider giving it back?
Next she opened the envelope. It contained a page obviously ripped from Safta’s exercise book and taped into an untidy pouch. For you because of help and the garden. Safta, Devi, Fala. And for the store. Mrs Patel hadn’t even signed her name. Carefully Claire tore at the tape and, to her complete surprise, a bundle of grubby five-pound notes fell into her lap. Claire looked at them astounded. A hundred pounds! And then there was the fifty pounds that she had from Mrs Venables. Half a month’s rent! Or enough to take Toby out for a very nice dinner and have plenty to spare. Or perhaps money to buy her own teapot and cups and saucers. Or …
She took the money and put it in her bureau drawer. She picked up the wrapping paper and envelope, thrusting them into the plastic bag, but Mrs Patel’s homely note had to be saved and she placed it, tape and all, inside the cover of Hons and Rebels. She poured herself a cup of tea, sat down near the window and took up her mother’s letter.
She sipped the tea and looked out the window at the soft sunshine and the gardens below. A cat crept along the top of a fence, and a laburnum tree waved its fronds, so that the cat lifted its paw and batted at one. Claire felt pure happiness. It was odd that in less than two months she had created a little home for herself here in this strange city she loved, a home that was far more comfortable, far prettier, and far more ‘her’ than Staten Island had been. She had certainly been astonishingly lucky with this flat, but part of the charm of her new life was that she had so little, but that each thing she had was necessary or beautiful or both. From her kettle to her raincoat she liked and used each one of her belongings. The thought of her bedroom in Tottenville with the old knick-knacks, the dreary prints on the wall, the unwearable clothes in the closet, was utterly distasteful.
But Tottenville waited for her. She sighed, finished her tea and then opened her mother’s letter.
Occasionally life juxtaposes events so diametrically opposed, in such a short space of time, that it seems as if there must be some cosmic intelligence – not necessarily a pleasant one – at work.
Dear Claire,
I don’t know what you are thinking. You just picked up and left. Tina says you are having an affair with some guy at the office. Is that true? Jerry says he was probably married. I don’t want to believe that. Why haven’t you come home? Tina says you quit work. Are you pregnant?
I went to church and lit a candle for you. Father Frank told me I should pray for your well-being but I said you sounded well enough in your card. Taking in the sights and living the life of Riley. Other people have to work.
Frankly, Claire, I’m surprised at you. You’ve always been quiet but you’ve never been sneaky. When I go to church I can’t even look at the other women. Just don’t come back with a baby.
I got the bill from Saks and Jerry nearly hit the roof. We were talking about a timeshare in Sugarbush, Vermont. We can forget that now. Thanks a lot. Jerry says we should turn your room and Fred’s into an apartment the way the O’Connors across the street did. I haven’t heard from Fred lately so I don’t know when he comes back from Germany, but I sure know we can use the money. Especially with that Saks bill. I don’t know what you were thinking of. Two hundred and ten dollars for shoes? If you want to buy jewelry and shoes, why don’t you let your married boyfriend pay for them?
So I don’t know what we’re going to do upstairs. Property taxes are probably going up – school taxes surely are. I’d like to hear from you and know if you’re coming back soon and when you plan to pay the bill. Right now I’m just paying the interest but Jerry says it’s a lot of money to throw away every month. Father Frank said he might be able to get us a tenant, but I’m not sure if I like the idea.
Claire crushed the letter in her hand and, on impulse, opened the window and tossed the paper ball as far as she could. She couldn’t sit back down so she paced up and down the small room. What was the matter with people? Perhaps she should have told her mother she was going to London, but would it have changed anything or produced a softer response when she told her she was staying on? Why in the world would her mother think she would become involved with a married man? Or that she was pregnant? Surely Tina wouldn’t tell her that. They might no longer be friends, but Tina was never a snitch.
She went to her bureau, took out all of the cash she had, including the money from Mrs Patel and Mrs Venables, and counted it. It was nowhere near enough to pay her mother back, and if Claire did give it to her, it would be more difficult, maybe even impossible, for her to stay on.
And the moment after she had that thought, she knew she was staying on. She was never going to return to Tottenville, her mother, Tina, Jerry, Crayden Smithers or any of her previous life. She had no idea how unhappy she had been until she had experienced the happiness she felt here almost daily.
And then the thought of her father and his early death came to her. He’d spent so much time talking about the things he was going to do, but he never got a chance to do them. And – if she was honest with herself – she would admit that he might never have done them, no matter how long he lived. She decided to try and live every day as if it was her last.