Clara's Daughter Page 3

  Michele leans forward. She places both hands on her mother’s crossed arms. But before she has time to respond, her mother says, ‘Could you please move over to the other side of the table? I don’t like you sitting so close to me.’

  Michele takes her hands off her mother’s arms and moves the chair a couple of metres along the round table. Then, deciding to make that cup of tea after all, she gets up and puts the kettle back on.

  For a few seconds Clara stares at her eldest daughter’s back, then she looks at the lump of clay she has picked up. She digs both thumbs deep into the mass, squeezing it outward into her palms. Michele is as cold as a fish. She can’t get through to the girl. Never could. When Michele was very young, she used to wake up every morning at four and wouldn’t go back to sleep. She wanted to play. Clara sat on the carpet with a cup of coffee and watched her daughter play. She’d ask, ‘Why don’t you sleep?’ But Michele would just insist, ‘Mama, play with me.’

  Clara’s hands press the clay into a flat shape. And now Michele wants to put her into storage, like an old piece of furniture. Clara flattens the shape on the table until it becomes as thin as a skin. Of course living on her own has been a struggle since Edward died. Although he was as deaf as a post for most of his life, he kept her company.

  Hilary sat here on Wednesday, crying, ‘I’d love you to come and live with me. But our house is far too small and I have the two boys.’ Then she said that the only other option she could think of was living with Michele.

  Clara shook her head. ‘No, Hilary, that wouldn’t work. Michele is always so busy. I would only be in the way.’

  ‘She could convert the basement into a separate flat. There is enough space for a built-in wardrobe, so you could take Dad’s clothes with you. You’d be living closer and it’d be less of an effort for me to see you. I would be much happier knowing you were living with Michele rather than in an anonymous retirement home.’

  Clara has had a few days to think about Hilary’s suggestion. And the idea, far from perfect, has grown on her. Hilary would be happy and she could take Edward’s clothes with her. The thought of throwing them out is unbearable. Whenever she wonders about it, the same picture comes into her head: she is climbing a big rubbish heap, smoke smouldering, rats chasing about beneath her feet, the reek sickening. She carries two black bin liners. At the top of the heap she stops and empties the bags. Edward’s body is falling out. No, she won’t ever throw her husband on to a rubbish heap.

  She peels the clay skin off the table and kneads it back into a big lump.

  ‘If you convert your basement, I’ll happily come and live with you. But I know that you don’t want me. And Jim doesn’t like me,’ Clara says. Michele pours the boiling water into the teapot.

  When her sister suggested the basement conversion, Michele shook her head. ‘I don’t want Mum to move in with us. It’s not a good idea. And besides, I work late at night and travel a lot.’ She asked Hilary not to mention the basement to their mother. She didn’t want to sow seeds of false hope. ‘The residential home in Hampstead is ideal,’ she said to her sister. ‘It only takes fifteen residents at a time. It’s close to us both. And Mum knows the area from when Dad and her lived there as a young couple. We are so lucky that a place has become available and even luckier that with the sale of Mum’s house we will be able to afford it.’

  ‘There won’t be anything left for our inheritance after that,’ Hilary objected quietly.

  ‘Probably not. But we always knew it, didn’t we?’ For a moment Michele was astonished that Hilary was concerned about their inheritance. She never thought about it herself. ‘And fortunately, neither of us is living on the breadline,’ she concluded calmly.

  Clara pulls one of the cups towards her. She lifts it to her lips and takes a few sips. She lowers it into her lap, holding on to it with both hands. Her eyes fill with tears. Michele’s gaze is fixed on the cup in her mother’s lap. It shakes; liquid drips on to Clara’s skirt. Michele rises to her feet and removes the cup. Clara is now crying bitterly.

  ‘I don’t want to go into an old people’s home,’ she sobs.

  Michele stands next to her mother’s chair. One of her earliest childhood memories is of holding on to her mother’s knee and looking up at a crying woman sitting at the kitchen table. She doesn’t know how old she was. The image in her head is that of a two-year-old toddler. But she was probably older, because she vividly remembers the feeling of wanting to make it better for her mother. She ran off and returned with her favourite doll and placed it in her mother’s lap, waiting for her to acknowledge the gesture. But her mother didn’t notice. She just sat there and continued crying, sometimes muttering, ‘I can’t cope. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘What can’t you cope with? What can’t you do?’ Michele grew up haunted by these questions. For years she tried to help; for years she tried to make things better. But when she was a small child her mother would shoo her away, saying, ‘Leave me alone. Give me some space.’ And when Michele was older, these sentences turned into criticism: ‘Can’t you play on your own? Why can’t you play on your own?’ Until, as a teenager, Michele realized she couldn’t make anything better for her mother. No one could make anything better for her mother. And she needed to escape the house otherwise she too might end up like Clara, sitting at a kitchen table, crying her eyes out because her mother never acknowledged the beautiful doll Michele had placed in her lap. Her favourite doll, her dearest possession, the one she hugged at night and whose hair she would twirl to help her fall asleep.

  Michele kneels down and puts her arms around her mother. Clara feels tiny and very thin. She strokes her mother’s back.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk along the river. It’s beautiful weather outside. The fresh air will do us both good.’

  4

  Clara – Six Months Later

  It smells of fresh paint. It’s disgusting. It gives me a headache. I don’t like the smooth walls. I don’t like sitting underground. Why have they thrown me out of my house? They say I don’t need such a big house any longer. They say I have problems looking after myself. Just because I fell down the stairs. I slipped. And then I lay there. And I didn’t want to get up. I was upset with Michele. She wanted to put me into an old ­people’s home. Lock me up, put me into storage. I didn’t like Hilary’s suggestion of moving in with Michele. And I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to stay in my own house. But they say I can’t look after myself any longer. I can’t look after the house any longer. That is nonsense. I am not the tidiest. I am not the cleanest. But everyone has to eat a bit of dirt before they die. I felt safe in my house. Here I don’t feel safe. The walls are too white. Like in a madhouse. Michele never liked me. I know. And Hilary told her to convert the basement. So she did. And now here I am, sitting in this basement. The walls are too white. And Edward’s clothes are in a new wardrobe and I don’t like the wardrobe at all. It’s a built-in wardrobe. I never liked built-in wardrobes. His clothes don’t belong there.

  I sit in my rocking chair day in, day out. I rock back and forth, back and forth. I look at my clay on the big table. She bought me a big table too. Eventually. Hilary insisted. I put all the clay together in a big, round lump. It is sitting in the middle of the table, where it is drying out. I can’t work surrounded by white walls and a strong smell of paint with a new table. I’ve been sitting in the rocking chair ever since I had to move in here. Michele is away all day and often at night too. I haven’t seen Jim at all. They must have split up. She hasn’t mentioned it or him. She doesn’t talk to me about their relationship. Hilary comes once a day. She at least is happy. She loves how clean everything is here. She told me that they have put the house up for sale. My house in Rose Gardens. It’s a lovely house. I don’t know why I had to leave. One day they came and simply told me to leave.

  Mum, you can’t stay here any longer, they said. Both of them. Michele and Hilary. I fell down the
stairs, that’s true. And I didn’t get up all night. I was upset. That’s why I didn’t get up. I think I could have got up. But I didn’t. I wanted someone to come and help me. That’s what I wanted. And when no one came, I started knocking on the wall. And then they came and took me to the hospital. And all I wanted was for Hilary and Michele to bring me home. But Hilary is always so concerned and Michele is not concerned enough. And so Hilary took me to hers and Michele simply agreed to Hilary’s suggestion to convert the basement. Because Hilary nags and didn’t want to drive across London. I never asked her to drive across London. I was happy in Rose Gardens. My children grew up there. I lived there with Edward. I did my pottery there. I never agreed to move out, but I wanted to please Hilary. I don’t like the smell of new. It gives me a headache, and the pain and the smell blur my mind. I look at this lump of clay all day. I know if only I were to touch it, I could shape it into a beautiful artwork. No, I don’t shape it. My hands would be guided by it. It would tell me its form and shape. I’ve been stuck far too long on vases and bowls, while all the time I knew I had it in me to create art. If only I were back home in my kitchen, where I always wanted to make art. First it was the children, then Edward and now again it is the children who are preventing me. Who put me into this white, soulless room. Hilary comes and takes me out. I go with her. Again to please her. I can’t disappoint her. She needs someone to talk to. She’s unhappy, has put on weight. Her boys are sweet but they run riot. Charles is no use. I wish she had a hobby, a passion. She claims she has no time. I tell her to cut her time with me short. I don’t need company every day. Perhaps no company would do me good. I could let my mind drift. I would probably become calm and be able to approach the clay. It’s a huge ugly piece. I have touched it. Sometimes I make it very smooth, like a giant ostrich egg. And then, a day or so later, I become angry and dig my nails into it. I don’t destroy the egg shape, only the surface.

  I jump up from my rocking chair. I hear it rocking back and forth, back and forth, click-clack, click-clack, behind my back as I am heading to the kitchen area, where I pull open the drawers, searching for a rolling pin or a steak hammer. But no! They took everything away from me. The drawers are almost empty. They say I don’t need a rolling pin or a steak hammer or a garlic press or a cheese grater or a potato masher any longer. They say I never liked cooking anyway. There is a little cutlery in the drawers. Two knives, two forks, two soup spoons, two dessert spoons, two teaspoons and a wooden spoon. They say I can’t cook. So are they expecting me to serve dinner for two? Pathetic. I am so angry, I pull out all the drawers. I enjoy the noise they make as they hit the floor. For a moment I stand still and stare at the clutter on the floor. I spot one knife close to my feet, the other over by the cooker. I want a knife. I look around. There are only these two pathetic table knives. They haven’t even given me a kitchen knife. Of course I could go upstairs into Michele’s kitchen. But I don’t want to. She is so particular. I am sure she knows exactly how the cutlery is laid out in the drawer. And God forbid I should disturb that order. No, I’d rather not. Bending down is not the issue. I worry about rising to my feet. Ever since falling down the stairs I can’t get rid of the pain in my right knee. Nothing bad. I’m simply no longer as agile as I used to be. But I want that knife. I lower myself down slowly, stretching my bad leg towards the back so I don’t need to bend it. I am holding on to the worktop. It’s a balancing act. I shouldn’t go all the way down, only far enough to grab the knife. Nearly there. The fingertips of my free hand are touching the cold metal. I lose my balance and tumble forward. I land on the floor surprisingly softly. I roll on to my side, lie motionless. I feel the knife in my left fist. I close my eyes. But I open them straight away again. It’s dangerous to close my eyes. I lose track of time. I shift closer to the worktop and pull myself up. Luckily my body is light. I manage. I knew I would. I could have pulled myself up from the bottom of the stairs too. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted help. An old woman can’t simply be left on her own.

  Back at the table I stand and stare at the mass of clay. I slowly lower the knife and insert it into the soft lump. I turn it around a few times, then pull it out, lift the hand with the knife above my head and bring it back down with as much force as possible. A steak hammer would be better. I pull the knife out of the clay again, stab it, pull, stab, pull, stab. With my left hand I hold on to the edge of the table. I hear the knife hit the tabletop. Poor tabletop. It will be ruined. But I never liked the table. Eventually I am exhausted. The lump of clay has lost all its shape. I leave the knife stuck in it. Then I sit down in my rocking chair. They have put me into a cellar. Out of sight, out of mind. I won’t have it.

  5

  Michele can hear the birds outside. The grey light of a breaking dawn is creeping through the blinds. She looks towards the alarm clock. Half past four. Her head is hurting. She gets up and puts on her dressing gown. In the kitchen she swallows two Nurofen. They didn’t make love last night. By the time they returned home from the dinner party they were both too tired. The birds outside are by now wide awake and very noisy. Michele can still feel the alcohol in her system. She had a glass of champagne to start with, followed by a couple of glasses of wine. She knows she shouldn’t mix alcohol, even sparkling and red. It will probably take all day for her body to deal with it. She fills a glass of water. Its tastelessness instantaneously makes her feel sick.

  She climbs the stairs to the top floor. Thea’s room resembles an empty shell, long since evacuated. Not even a child ghost lingers here any longer. She is now working for an advertizing firm in New York. Michele walks around the bed and opens the cupboard. When Thea visited over Easter, Michele asked her to sort out anything she no longer wanted. The rest they stored in the attic. Michele runs her hand along the empty hangers. She wants to redecorate the room. Thea can use it when she comes home, but it can also serve as a general guestroom. The only personal touches left are some postcards still stuck to the wall above the desk. Michele removes them, scraping off the Blu-Tack with her fingernail. She should call the decorators next week.

  Felix’s room still appears far more inhabited. He left for university two years ago and comes back most holidays. This summer, though, he’s working in a bar in Brighton. It will be another couple of years at least before he moves out for good.

  ‘Watch it, Michele. He might not move out at all,’ Hilary likes to tease her sister. ‘You’ve been incredibly lucky with Thea. She’s an independent girl. Always has been. She’s ambitious, like you. Felix, on the other hand, seems to go more for comfort. Like most young men nowadays. He’ll crawl back into the warm nest once he’s finished university.’

  Michele sits down at his drum kit. She picks up two drumsticks, pretending to play. But suddenly she worries that she might hit them by mistake and returns the sticks to their place. On the middle floor she opens the balcony door in the study. A cool breeze enters the room. This is Jim’s and her favourite room in the house. Ceiling-high bookshelves fill every inch of wall space. She sits down in one of the two big old armchairs in the middle of the room. She puts her feet up on the coffee table. They sit here to read books, to listen to music or to make love on the Persian rug in front of the roaring fire in winter, or in the dark in front of the open balcony doors in summer. The wind plays with the light curtains. She closes her eyes. She feels the hard floor beneath her back and feels Jim thrusting inside her. She hears herself laughing, pulling Jim’s head down, asking him to be quieter. ‘Shh, the children might hear us.’ She sits on top of him and feels the fire on her naked body and his hands on her buttocks. But these are all images from years ago.

  Michele slides into bed. Jim hasn’t stirred. His breathing is deep and regular. She moves closer to his back. She puts an arm around him and places her hand on his chest and her nose against his neck.

  The phone rings far away. They are in a grotty hotel, Jim, the children and her. The children are still young. The sheets on the beds ar
e dirty. Michele wants to go and complain, but Jim says, ‘I don’t like it when you complain.’ Then she hears the phone ring. She knows that it isn’t her mobile. Nevertheless, she finds herself looking in her handbag. The phone keeps on ringing. It’s becoming louder. Then it is quiet. She looks down the long hotel corridor. She feels someone tapping her shoulder.

  ‘Michele? Darling.’

  She senses Jim sitting down on the bed next to her. His hand is resting on her shoulder.

  ‘I just had a dream,’ she mumbles, pulling the duvet up to her chin. She wants to go back to the hotel to see what happens next. Why did they visit the hotel in the first place? And the children were so young. She has a feeling that they’ve been to this hotel before, have left something there and have now returned to fetch it. She needs to get back to her dream to figure out what she was supposed to find.

  ‘Michele.’ Jim shakes her shoulder gently again. ‘Sorry to wake you, darling. But your sister is on the phone. She’s distraught and refuses to go until you’ve spoken to her.’

  Michele finally opens her eyes. For a moment she lies totally still. The dream has gone.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asks.

  ‘Eight fifteen.’

  She turns on her back and looks at Jim. He is fully dressed.

  ‘I was just on my way out to get some croissants. It’s a beautiful day.’ He rises to his feet.

  ‘I was thinking . . . we haven’t been to an exhibitions for months. I also wondered about going to a matinee.’

  He is already at the door. He stops for a moment and points to the study, whispering, ‘Your sister . . . Don’t forget.’

  Michele is tempted to turn around, pull the duvet over her head and go back to sleep. She feels drowsy and heavy. But then she sits up, throws off the cover and jumps out of bed. She takes the phone from the desk in the study and sits down in the chair facing the open balcony door. Jim must have opened it. She rests her head against the back and looks up into the clear blue sky. They should go on holiday. Somewhere warm. As soon as the Sea Shelf 3 deal is finalized.