Clara's Daughter Read online

  ‘What a pity. May I have your phone number?’ he then asks without batting an eyelid.

  She shakes her head. But her eyes shine brightly.

  ‘It’s not my lucky day, is it!’

  She raises her eyebrows playfully, slowly shaking her head.

  With a twinkle in his eye, he then says, ‘Two more proposals. My friend and I could join you here for a drink, or you could join us for dinner at a restaurant of your choice on Upper Street.’

  The women exchange a quick glance.

  ‘We have no objections to your joining us at the table.’ She pauses before adding, ‘If you can find two chairs.’

  She nods at the table behind him, the one Gus and Jim have just left. Jim looks over his shoulder. A couple are sitting down.

  ‘Ladies, don’t you worry. We will sort this out.’

  Gus has now stepped in, gesturing theatrically, before forging his way through the crowd to the other side of the room. Jim catches up with him, just as Gus is about to lift two chairs.

  ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea. I chatted them up; it was fun. I haven’t done something like this in ages. But I think we should leave it at that. Let’s go and have a curry. My supper earlier was cut rather short.’

  Gus’s hands remain on the back of the seats. ‘They won’t bite.’

  Jim shakes his head. ‘Michele and I are going through a bit of a rough patch, but I’m not up for a fling.’

  ‘You sound like a frightened schoolboy.’ Gus laughs. ‘Marriage really does weird things to us men, eh? We are going to have a nice pleasant chat and invite them out for a meal. That’s all. Take the chairs back and I’ll buy us another round of drinks.’

  Hanna and Natalie are from Poland. Jim met Natalie at the bar. She is a doctor at the Royal Free. Her friend Hanna works as a hairdresser and appears younger. Natalie has been in the UK for five years, while Hanna only arrived six months ago. They love hard rock. ‘Like all Eastern Europeans,’ Natalie laughs self-mockingly. Soon the conversation turns to Scotland. Gus was born and bred in Edinburgh, and the two women are planning a three-week summer break up in Scotland next month, island-hopping in the Hebrides. When the music starts up again, the invitation to the restaurant, this time made by Gus, feels natural, and Hanna and Natalie are clearly delighted to have met two admirers of Scotland.

  The remains of Jim’s initial trepidation are washed away with Indian lager. He sees Hanna’s head flirtatiously fall on to Gus’s shoulder. Gus’s arm rests on the back of Hanna’s chair. Natalie reaches for the water and, filling his glass, her hand briefly touches Jim’s. A perfect little round birthmark sits in the middle of her right cheek.

  They are the last to leave the restaurant. Outside, the air smells beautifully fresh and clean. Hanna has put her arm into Gus’s. Natalie keeps both hands in the pockets of her jacket, but every few steps her arm brushes Jim’s by chance.

  ‘What would the ladies like to do now?’ Gus asks.

  ‘Let’s go dancing,’ Hanna says.

  ‘Do you know a place?’

  ‘Of course,’ she assures him.

  They take a taxi to a nightclub near Piccadilly. Thumping beat, flashing lights through darkness, twitching bodies. The smell of sweat and perfume and life and desire. And youth. Natalie’s body touches Jim’s on the dance floor. Her arms above her head. Their legs move into each other, their upper bodies brush and for moments sway in unison. Then she takes a step back and their eyes meet and Jim pulls her gently closer by the waist. Over her head, he sees Gus and Hanna kissing.

  ‘Hanna and I are heading back to mine,’ Gus says when they meet back at the table.

  He sees Hanna talk to Natalie. Natalie replies, Hanna shakes her head, laughs.

  Hanna turns back to Gus.

  ‘My friend says I am not allowed to go on my own into a stranger’s apartment. She is coming too.’ She pauses, then taps Gus’s nose with her index finger. ‘But not that you get the wrong idea.’

  In the taxi Gus entertains them with anecdotes about buying a French chateau. ‘The deal is nearly concluded,’ he says proudly. ‘And then I will produce the best wine in the world. It’s pretty good already, what they’ve been producing, but I will improve upon it.’

  ‘We will taste the wine,’ Hanna declares. ‘I love French wine.’

  Gus kisses her neck. ‘Whatever you wish.’

  Back at his flat, they open a bottle and taste the wine. Then they open another. Gus and Hanna have disappeared. Natalie snuggles up closer to Jim on the sofa. She puts her feet under his legs. Her mouth feels soft and warm and tastes of red wine.

  12

  Clara – One Year Later

  I am fine on my own. I’ve always been fine on my own. I love the silence in the house. When Edward was still around and the children were at home I often couldn’t wait until the door shut behind them. I then sat on the sofa with a coffee. Motionless. Enjoying the silence. Enjoying that no one made demands on me. I was busy sitting there, as I am always busy. Don’t misunderstand me. I span my cocoon. I made it whole again. When people are around – even the ones I love dearly – my cocoon gets pierced with little tiny holes. And then they frighten me, because they can attack me through these holes. And sometimes they do indeed attack me. At least, they used to. When I still had to mingle with people because life wouldn’t allow me to do otherwise. When the children were small, when Edward was around. I don’t know why my cocoon is so porous. I don’t even know if others have a cocoon at all. Need a cocoon. The moment I came in contact with people my cocoon would become brittle and I had to keep people at bay. I didn’t want them to peep through the holes, to see me naked. Of course, most people didn’t want to do me any harm. But their mere presence pierced holes. And they came too close.

  Mending the delicate fabric of the cocoon took a lot of effort and time. That’s what I used to do when I sat on the sofa for hours. I didn’t have a rocking chair. Even a rocking chair would have caused too much turbulence. You can’t mend a delicate fabric while in motion. It requires careful needlework. Painstakingly picking up the stitches with a very fine needle. I unplugged the telephone and didn’t answer the door for the postman. I needed the silence, the safety of my four walls around me. I still do. But I have become better. Perhaps all the mending and repairing has led to the cocoon being stuck, being sewn to my skin. And my skin has turned into leather. And now I am finally thick-skinned.

  I miss Edward. Edward was my link to the outside world. I felt safe with him. He wasn’t scared of people; he could handle them. I wasn’t always kind to him, but he forgave me and that was a nice feeling. In bed I used to put my head on his shoulder and my feet underneath his feet. It didn’t matter how angry I had been during the day. He died in the middle of the night. He simply slipped away. I must have noticed something because I turned around and put my arm around him and knew straight away that he wasn’t breathing any longer. I didn’t move. I closed my eyes and breathed for the two of us. The morning came and I still didn’t move. As long as I stayed in bed nothing had changed.

  The silence after his departure was different. More absolute, of course. Initially I worried that I might feel lonely. But I didn’t. Loneliness has never bothered me. Loneliness for me is something beautiful. It means the absence of danger. The absence of danger of being attacked. Why then did I become so angry when I was lying at the bottom of the stairs in Rose Gardens? So angry that I couldn’t get up. Anger overcomes me in a blind rage. It overcomes me when I suddenly see myself from the outside and I see a lonely, old, batty woman and I think this shouldn’t be. What this? My situation, my status, my circumstances. From the outside a lonely old woman should be cared for, looked after. And so I insist and demand because I know that anyone looking onto the scene from the outside shakes their head and says, This shouldn’t be. I forget myself, I forget who I am, that silence and loneliness are my haven. It doesn�
�t make me feel lonely.

  Michele’s house makes me feel lonely. I walk around in it. I know every corner, every drawer, every slip of paper laying around.

  And I found the four black bin liners stuffed with Jim’s clothes.

  They are the bin liners I have seen in my dream. And I thought it was me who was throwing Edward on to the rubbish heap. No. Michele has thrown Jim on to the rubbish heap. I sat down on her bed and stared at the four black bin bags in her wardrobe. Why hasn’t he come to pick them up? Why hasn’t she taken them away? I closed the door and returned to my basement and sat on the rocking chair. And I rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  And I cried for Michele.

  I felt so sorry that I had seen those black bin liners. That I had laid eyes on them. That I had pierced her silence. I don’t know why they broke up, whether he left her or she threw him out or they separated on mutual terms. All I know is that neither I nor anyone else should have laid eyes on those bin liners. They belong in my dreams, and there they should have stayed. I didn’t have the right to create a situation where they materialized in reality.

  I picked up the phone and dialled her mobile. Her voicemail came on. I put down the phone. For a moment I hesitated. Should I ring again and leave a message? But what did I want to say? I was sobbing. And the only words that came to mind were, I am sorry. I am sorry for the black bin liners in your wardrobe. I am sorry that I created a situation where the bin bags from my dream have turned up in your life. She wouldn’t have understood. She doesn’t understand such talk. She is far too pragmatic. She’d probably have listened impatiently and then, as soon as the telephone call was finished, she would have called Hilary or Larissa and told them to pass by and check on me. I don’t need anyone to check on me, thank you very much. I have created mayhem. And I need to undo it. And I know what to do. Words won’t mean anything in this situation. Perhaps one day, when all of this is over, I will be able to talk to Michele and say that I am sorry in a way that she will understand. Now there is no time to find the right words. Now I have things to do.

  13

  Jim is lying on his back. On a sofa. He opens his eyes. A blanket covers him. But this isn’t his sofa. For a moment he is disorientated. Gus. Two women. Hanna and Natalie. His hands pad along his body. He is fully dressed. His belt is buckled, too. He moves his head in pain and immediately feels his stomach turn. He jumps up and rushes to the bathroom. Empty bottles and half-empty glasses on the low coffee table in the living room. The doors to the spare room and Gus’s bedroom are closed. No sounds. There are women’s cowboy boots on the floor, one underneath the table, the other in front of the sofa. Jim goes into the kitchen, noticing that he even kept his socks on. He pours himself a glass of water. The sun blazes in a clear blue sky outside the window. Quarter to eleven. He goes back to the sofa. He remembers kissing Natalie. He gulps down his water, stares at the empty glass in his hand. His hand is shaking. He hears the door to the spare room opening, then the bathroom door closing. He should talk to her. Whatever happened last night, that’s the least he can do. He hears the loo flushing. He turns his head and looks down the corridor. Her gaze is directed at the floor; she seems to be heading back to her room.

  ‘Good morning,’ Jim says.

  Natalie looks up, while her hand reaches towards the door that she’d left ajar.

  ‘Good morning.’

  She is wearing a T-shirt and knickers. She squints.

  ‘I can’t really see you without contact lenses.’ She laughs apologetically.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ Jim asks.

  She doesn’t reply immediately, appears to be hesitating. Then says, ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She disappears into the room. In the kitchen, Jim puts on the kettle.

  14

  I button my coat and put on my hat. I bring my face close to the mirror. I put on some lipstick. Smack my lips.

  I take my handbag. I open it to double-check: yes, the money is in there. I smile at myself in the mirror. I don’t need to ask anyone for permission to find a place of my own because I have enough money to pay the first few months’ rent up front. Straight away. I am sure no estate agent will refuse such an offer.

  I close the door behind me, climb the few steps up to the pavement. It’s such a beautiful day. And I do love to get out early in the morning. I ought to thank Michele. If she hadn’t ordered her cab and the cab driver hadn’t rung the doorbell, I wouldn’t have woken up. I heard the doorbell and Michele’s feet flying down the stairs, rushing along the corridor. The door opened; the door closed again. She went back upstairs. The cab driver left his engine running outside. I sat up, put on the light, turned it straight off again. I didn’t want Michele to see the light. And anyway, I didn’t need it. Dawn was creeping through the curtains. I looked for my glasses. Quarter past five. I was wide awake. Nevertheless, I must have gone back to sleep at some point because when I looked at the clock next it was nearly seven o’clock.

  I turn left and walk down the street. I have a spring in my step. I’m feeling quite young again. I might have a coffee in Highgate. And once I’ve talked to the estate agent, I might venture into the West End. I’d love to look at some Greek vases at the British Museum. There was a programme about them on Radio 4 the other day. I wish Michele could have listened to it. About how vases represent the womb and women’s need to recreate the womb. She’s been sneering at my vases ever since I started. And I know that she’s got a box full of them out in the garden shed. She forgot to hide them before I moved in. But the mother–and-child model stands on the mantelpiece in the living room.

  Involuntarily, I laugh out loud while passing the nursing home. A nurse is sitting in the front garden, smoking a cigarette. I wave at her. Why not? She probably thinks that just because I am laughing out loud I’m mad. She’d love me to be inside that home, wouldn’t she? Like a witch, a white witch, that’s how she sits there in her front garden.

  ‘This is a nursing home, Mum, where elderly people go to recuperate after an operation or a long illness,’ Michele explained, sounding like a schoolmistress talking to a dumb child. ‘They stay for a few weeks, then they leave. What Hilary and I have chosen for you is a home where elderly people live together.’

  I wish she’d stop saying ‘elderly’. And I wish she’d stop trying to pull the wool over my eyes. That’s how it works in the business world. But not with me.

  I turn right, up the hill. Pah, I need to slow down. I stop, slightly out of breath. Panting. I touch a garden wall with my right hand, put my left hand against my heart. Breathe . . . breathe. My lips tremble. Should I turn back? I have caught my breath. I look up into the blue sky. I will continue to walk. The fresh air is doing me good. Old people don’t recuperate after an operation or a long illness. Old people start dying. And no one wants to see them dying nowadays. I looked after Mutti right up to the end. And I would have taken her into my house, but Edward was against the idea. So I drove to Norwich three, sometimes four, times a week. Hilary had just finished school. I was thinking about taking some drawing classes. I even got prospectuses. But then Mutti’s health deteriorated.

  I’ve reached the top of the hill. There is this lovely block of flats here. I stop and look up to the top floor. It was built before the war and reminds me of home, of Germany. I suddenly know that’s where I want to live. On the sixth floor. Beth lived here. I’d forgotten about her. I wonder if she’s still around. But it’s too early to knock on her door and I can’t remember her flat number anyway. Though I once visited her for coffee when Michele was a baby. Before we moved to Battersea. The view across London is breathtaking. Yes, that’s where I am going to live. High up in the sky. Not hidden away in a basement. I open my bag and touch my money. I’m so lucky to have my savings. I now hurry. I want to be the first at the estate agent’s. I want to be there as soon as they open. So that no one else can snatch away my flat from in front of my nose.
It’s such a big block of flats. Surely one of the estate agents will have a flat available.

  I am crossing the bridge and throw a quick glance to the left. The hills beyond London are visible. But I have no time to contemplate the scenery. I’ve got business to attend to this morning. I cross the road at the traffic lights. The pavement on the park side is shady. It will give me some respite from the sun. I can feel my heart thumping and working hard. I don’t know what time it is. But I left the house at eight, so surely it’s not even nine yet. And those estate agents won’t open before nine thirty at the earliest. I’ve already made it halfway up Highgate Hill. The gate to the park is open. I might as well take a short break. I enter the park. I pass the first few benches. They are too close to the road. You can still hear the traffic. Eventually I find the ideal spot. In the shade, looking south over a vast open green space.

  I sit down on the bench. I am now truly out of breath. I loosen the top button of my coat. I am quite hot from walking. I open my bag to see if I can find something – a pamphlet, a piece of paper – to fan myself with. No. I take out my handkerchief and by accident pull out a few banknotes too. I quickly grab the ones that have fallen on to the bench and stuff them back into my bag. I notice a couple that have fallen on to the path. I will collect them in a moment. But let me first catch my breath. I dab my forehead with the handkerchief and wipe some drops of sweat from my upper lip. That feels better. I close my eyes.

  Someone has joined me on the bench. I open my eyes and turn my head. I’m pleased to see an old man. Probably around my age, I’d say. For a split second I was worried that it might be someone about to take my money. This man looks harmless. Though he does smell.

  ‘Morning, young lady. Could you spare me a pound?’

  No manners! How about some small talk first! My eyes search the ground around my feet for the banknotes. There aren’t any. I frown. Surely no one could have picked them up. I had my eyes closed for a minute or two at most and would have noticed anyone scrabbling about down by my feet. Perhaps I made a mistake. After all, tiny beads of sweat had been running into my eyes.