Clara's Daughter Read online

  My hands are about to tighten around the bag in my lap, when I notice it isn’t in my lap. It’s standing next to me. Open. I snatch it and press it tight against my chest, shaking my head vehemently from side to side.

  ‘OK, OK, lady. Don’t get upset. I’ve asked for an act of kindness from you, but if you can’t spare a penny for an old man . . .’

  He gets up mid-sentence and simply walks off. I stare at him, hugging my bag so hard that my arms start to hurt. Then I loosen my grip.

  15

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  As Jim pushes the plunger of the cafetière down and Natalie pushes her cup silently across the table towards him, Jim suddenly realizes that he has forgotten to put out either. At home, Michele and he drink black coffee.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Natalie lifts her cup, blows on the steaming liquid and takes a small sip. She has tied her hair back in a ponytail and is wearing glasses that make her look more serious than she did last night. He can imagine her as a doctor now.

  ‘I hope you didn’t misunderstand me last night,’ she says hesitantly as she lowers her cup again. Her eyes are fixed on a spot on the table. ‘This doesn’t usually happen to me.’

  Again, Jim’s stomach slightly turns. He swallows and hopes that he doesn’t need to rush to the bathroom. For a moment he closes his eyes.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he says.

  ‘For what?’ She now looks up and straight into his eyes.

  ‘For last night.’

  A smile hovers around her lips. ‘You behaved impeccably.’

  He averts his eyes and lifts the cup to his mouth to disguise his confusion. He is making a fool of himself.

  ‘So what happened last night?’ He looks back across the table at her.

  ‘We kissed.’ She pauses, then says, ‘I wanted you. And you wanted me. But then you stopped and told me that you are married.’

  A buzzing fly has appeared in the kitchen. It knocks against the closed window. A silence follows, but only for a few seconds before the buzzing starts again.

  ‘And then?’

  Jim wishes he could remember. But his last memory is of being on the sofa kissing her. She is beautiful. Now with a slight hang­over and no make-up, even more so, because it is a less self-conscious beauty.

  For a brief moment she holds his gaze.

  ‘You went to the bathroom. But before that you insisted I should take the bed in the spare room.’

  She stands up and opens the window. The fly immediately finds its way out and disappears. She turns towards him with a smile.

  ‘You stayed in the bathroom for quite a while. I sat on the bed in the spare room waiting for the bathroom to become available. Eventually I got worried and knocked on the door. But no reply. Not a sound. So I opened the door and there you were, sitting on the floor with your back against the bathtub, fast asleep.’

  Jim senses the heat rising from his stomach into his face. But seeing her cheeky smile, he laughs.

  ‘I can handle a couple of beers happily, but anything more . . . I am truly embarrassed.’

  ‘It was rather cute seeing this big man fast asleep on the floor. I had to help you up, then covered you with a blanket on the sofa.’ She shuts the window.

  ‘I enjoyed yesterday evening. If you weren’t married . . .’

  ‘I can smell coffee.’ Gus has suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  Jim glances at Natalie briefly, then turns his attention to his friend.

  ‘Good morning.’

  Gus has thrown on a pair of trackies and an old T-shirt. Jim pushes back his chair.

  ‘I need to go, but I’ll put on some more coffee.’

  Gus disappears into the bathroom. Natalie’s chair scrapes along the linoleum behind Jim. He turns around. She comes towards him. Then stops. He reaches out for her and pulls her close. Her cheek rests against his shoulder, her face turned away. He feels her breathing, her heart beat. She moves, he loosens his grip. Quietly, she closes the door of the spare room behind her. Her smell lingers on his body.

  The bright sun hits him squarely in the face. The Heath is heaving with joggers and children and dogs and young parents. He walks quickly, with his hands in his trouser pockets and his gaze low, hoping not to meet anyone he knows. He tries to remember the conversation from last night. But again he can’t summon up much except lots of laughter and enjoying himself, but feeling out of place and an odd sensation of missing Michele, but not the Michele he had left in anger at home. He falls into a light trot and fills his lungs with air. His head begins to clear. His body feels strong. Michele and he should do something together. Get away from the house. Perhaps even away from London. They could drive up to Norfolk and walk along the beach, book into a B&B.

  16

  I’ve been sitting on this park bench for quite a while now. The man frightened me. Perhaps I shouldn’t talk alone to an estate agent. I look at the closed handbag in my lap. I don’t want to open it again. When I snatched at it a few minutes ago, an empty space inside flashed past my eyes before the bag snapped shut beneath my fingers. I am sure no one could have taken the money. But I prefer not to check for the moment. I will ask Hilary to accompany me to the estate agent’s later on. However, she usually comes mid-morning, so I have a bit of time to kill. I don’t want to go home just yet. Having made it this far I might as well walk to the Heath. I stand up. My back and knees are hurting. I have got cold and stiff on the bench. I walk slowly towards the south exit of the park, near the cemetery. A group of school­children are rushing past in the opposite direction. A dog chases after a ball on the grass. I stop and look at the dog. Memories of Vicky come flooding back, a lovely dog and such a loyal, simple soul. Hilary named her Vicky. With her long furry ears and tappity feet, Vicky looked and behaved like a dog who thought she was the luckiest creature in the world. She jumped along rather than ran. I decide to sit down again and watch the dog. A woman with a pushchair stands at the edge of the grass. She rolls the pushchair back and forth. The dog arrives with the ball, she lets go of the pushchair, holds out her hand and the dog drops the ball into her palm. It is sitting down on its haunches, beating the grass with its tail and looking up at its owner, barely able to contain its excitement in anticipation of the next throw. But the woman keeps the ball in her hand. She drops it into the bag that dangles over the handles of the pushchair. She says something to the dog, which immediately jumps up and charges ahead. The woman follows slowly. I watch them until they disappear around the next bend. Then I stand up.

  For a split second the world vanishes behind a black screen. Small sparkling stars pierce the darkness. The ground beneath my feet is spinning. I must have stood up too quickly. I drop back on to the bench. I feel the wood of the seat under my hand and stability returns. I am still holding the handkerchief crumpled up in my hand. Once again I dab the perspiration off my face. It would be lovely to have a wet handkerchief to cool my face, my neck. It would be lovely to have some water to drink, too. I could shuffle back up the hill towards Highgate. There are shops and cafés. But the hill is quite steep. My body suddenly remembers the feeling of pushing the pram up it. One child inside – must have been Hilary – and the other one sitting on it in one of these removable seats. And the prams in those days were heavy. No, going back up the hill would mean I won’t make it to the Heath today. But I would really love to reach it. My mouth is dry. There are no shops between here and the Heath. How silly. The middle of London and no shops. I close my eyes. It’s lovely to sit in the shade. A cool breeze touches my cheeks. It’s a pity Edward isn’t here any longer. I could have put my head against his shoulder. And we could have stayed here and rested. Anyway. I shouldn’t waste time. I push myself up and walk out of the park. My feet are as heavy as lead. I can barely lift them. But after a while it becomes easier. My arms feel light now, they are dangling by my side. I carry no handbag. For a spl
it second I hesitate mid-stride. Then the decision is made. I won’t turn back. I don’t want to know if there is anything in the bag or not. I chuckle as I imagine that handbag so lonely on the bench. Did I take my handkerchief? My hand slips into my coat pocket. Yes, it’s there. That’s all I need. What do I need a bag for anyway? I never liked bags. My hand rises up to my head. And I never liked hats either. I pull the pillbox hat off. Silly, silly stupid hat. I balance it on a branch hanging right over the pavement from a front-garden hedge. I don’t care if anyone is looking. It’s dangling in the wind, that silly old hat. Once again I can’t help chuckling, then I make a straight face and go on my way.

  A man is watering plants in a garden.

  ‘Excuse me, young man, would you mind giving me a glass of water? I am rather thirsty.’

  The man turns around and sees a little old lady, quite pale, with beads of sweat on her forehead. Her light-blue trench coat is half unbuttoned. She looks slightly deranged and he wonders if she should be out on her own. Perhaps he should call an ambulance. I know that’s what he’s thinking. I can read his mind.

  ‘Would you like to come in and sit down while I fetch you a glass of water?’

  ‘Oh no. That’s very kind of you. Thank you. But I’d rather stay here.’

  Don’t ever go into the house of a stranger, Mutti told me. I catch myself just in time not to say it out loud. The man already looks quite bewildered and if I say this he will surely think I am away with the fairies. A batty old woman. Well, I am not batty, that’s for sure. I take a deep breath. I feel alive. As alive as a naughty little girl who has finally got rid of a silly pillbox hat and a useless handbag. I feel even better after drinking the water. Water is something beautiful, isn’t it? I will go swimming in the pond, the ladies’ pond. Yes, that’s what I am going to do. I thank the young man and as I turn away I catch him bending down to pick up his watering can, holding his back. No longer that young. I unbutton my coat and put my hands in my pockets.

  I am wearing three-quarter length trousers and flat black pumps. My coat is black too. My long ponytail à la Brigitte Bardot is swaying from left to right as I am heading through the Latin Quarter to the atelier where I am working. Glue and clay from yesterday are still stuck beneath my fingernails and I can’t wait to return to the piece.

  I take off my coat and hang it over a fence.

  I see myself stopping at the café just around the corner from the atelier. I order a café au lait at the bar and a croissant and light a cigarette. The patron knows me and knows I don’t talk much.

  I cross the road and walk towards the Heath. I stop and hesitate. Where is the ladies’ pond? It’s been a long time since I came here. Edward eventually wanted to move back to south London. It was the area where he grew up, that he knew best. I missed the green of the hilly north. Mind you, I never swam in the pond. And I only visited it once, with Edward’s sister, who’s dead now too. I’ve never learned to swim properly. Michele goes swimming there all the time. She loves it, it invigorates her, she says.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A woman stands in front of me.

  ‘Tell me, dear, where is the ladies’ pond?’

  ‘Would you like the quickest way?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘You follow this road along the edge of the Heath. In about five minutes, you come to a gravel path. Take the path for a couple of minutes and then you’ll see the entrance to the pond on your left.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I nod and, before the woman has time to say anything else, I walk briskly in the direction she indicated. I am suddenly in a hurry to get to the pond. But after a few metres I slow down again. I look back over my shoulder. The woman is no longer there. Thank God. Somehow I didn’t like the look of her at all. The concerned gaze in her eyes. Pah, anyway, what do I care? I stretch my hand out and let my fingers brush past the hazel hedges hanging over the iron railings that separate the edge of the Heath from this small narrow road.

  I am entering my atelier, dropping my coat carelessly on the only chair and approaching the big lump of clay in the middle of the room. It might be totally dried out. I don’t yet know what the last few hours have done to it. I worked fast yesterday till late at night, constantly hosing it down to keep it as moist as possible. I was soaked to the bone too but continued to work. From the beginning I knew I wanted to keep on working after daylight had gone. To incorporate the passage of time, day and night, the difference between seeing and feeling. One day I will work with a huge lump of clay far away from any electric light. Somewhere in the deepest French south. But that is not an option at the moment. I have to stay here in Paris. My teachers are here. I am learning a lot. I step up to the clay. The tip of my nose is touching it. The plastic sheet rustles. I close my eyes, then move to put my cheek against the clay. I open my arms and embrace it. My hands don’t touch on the other side. The object resembles a cone. The base is much wider than the top, which reaches about half a metre above my head. I spread my legs wide and push my feet along the floor around the base as far as possible without losing my balance. Then I press my body against the clay. My breasts, my tummy, my pelvis. ‘Let’s get to work, you and I,’ I whisper. I let go and start to loosen the rope that I used to keep the plastic sheet in place. I have no idea what is awaiting me. I could have continued working last night. But I didn’t. I wanted to incorporate sleep. Time advancing while I was sleeping. Time passing without me seeing or touching my object. What would time left to its own devices do to my object? I pull down the plastic sheet.

  I have reached the path. The gravel beneath my feet crunches. It’s beautifully cool here under the shade of the big old horse chestnut trees. Like being in a huge dark forest. Mutti always warned me not to come to the Heath alone. I took her once and she didn’t like the dark parts overgrown with trees at all. Strangers might be lurking. I lean my head back. The sunbeams filtering through the leaves touch my face.

  17

  Jim opens the door. He is met by the smell of freshly brewed coffee, but he receives no answer when he calls out to Michele. In the kitchen he sees her coffee cup on the table next to an empty plate. He turns and heads upstairs. The bed hasn’t yet been made. Her laptop is on her desk in the study with the lid closed. He returns to the kitchen and approaches the kitchen table. A large sheet of paper is covering one side.

  Michele finds a parking spot right outside the house. She takes two of the flowerpots out of the boot, one in each arm.

  She walks into the house and sees Jim standing in the kitchen, his hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward, supporting his weight with his arms. The sudden realization that she didn’t tidy away the plans for the basement conversion before she rushed out of the house makes her freeze mid-step.

  ‘What’s this?’ Jim asks without looking up.

  Michele starts moving again and places the two pots on the kitchen counter and her shoulder bag next to it. She takes the keyring out of her mouth.

  ‘Preliminary drawings for converting the basement into a separate flat,’ she replies.

  She moves towards him. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up. Thick, blue veins protrude. He is unshaven, his shirt and his trousers creased.

  ‘I can explain. It’s not what you think it is.’

  She places her hand on his upper arm. He doesn’t look up. She removes her hand.

  ‘I’ll just fetch the remaining flowerpots from the car,’ she says.

  ‘What’s this?’ Jim repeats, trying to collect his thoughts. Who is betraying whom here? She takes him for granted. She disregards his opinions. She behaves as if they weren’t sharing a life. And he is idiotically loyal.

  Michele stops in the doorway. The front door is standing wide open. A man with a white Fox Terrier walks past.

  ‘We can talk about it. No decision has been made yet.’

  She is about to turn on her
heel again when she hears Jim slowly saying, ‘Oh yes, a decision has been made,’ enunciating each word clearly and with emphasis. He picks up the sheet of paper and rips it down the middle. ‘As long as I live in this house, the basement will not be converted.’ He puts the drawings on the table, then thumps the table with his fist.

  Michele flinches, hesitates, then heads outside to lock the car. She will fetch the other flowerpots later. Stepping back into the house, she closes the front door behind her. In the hallway Jim walks straight past her and climbs the stairs. An unfamiliar, sweet smell follows him.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ Michele asks calmly.

  Jim continues up the stairs. At the top, he turns the corner and disappears from sight. She catches up with him in their bedroom as he is pulling his shirt over his head. She inhales. The smell of a sickeningly-sweet woman’s perfume hangs in the air. She stares at his naked torso. He goes to the gym regularly. He plays cricket during the summer and practises indoors during the winter.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ she asks again.

  His head reappears. He looks her straight in the face, letting the shirt drop on to the bed.

  ‘Giving you a reason not to trust me,’ he says calmly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean.’ He unbuckles his belt.

  ‘You are lying.’

  He picks up the shirt from the bed and throws it at her. She catches it spontaneously.

  ‘Smell it.’

  She holds the shirt in her hands but doesn’t bring it up to her nose. It smells of his sweat and the sweet perfume.

  ‘You are lying,’ she repeats.

  He unzips his trousers.