Clara's Daughter

by Meike Ziervogel

  Clara’s Daughter

  A psychological thriller about the archetypal ­mother-daughter duel for power, from the author of Magda.

  Michele is a successful business woman with a troubled private life. She has a high-powered job, a family, a husband, yet she is defined by a term of possession: she is ‘Clara’s daughter’. Nameless. When Michele moves her mother into the basement, her husband slams the door and disappears into the night. Michele increasingly hides away upstairs, as Clara weaves her conspiracies beneath.

  Clara’s Daughter begins in the terraced houses and city parks of North London, but develops, through sharp-edged monologues and surreal visions, into a primeval stand-off between mother and daughter. Eventually, Clara – the controlling matriarch – finds a way to release her daughter. But can Michele release herself?

  ‘Meike Ziervogel is becoming one of the most interesting figures in the contemporary British and European world, not just because she is a publisher of imagination and daring, but a writer of grace, forensic precision, and power. Rarely has someone given so much from sheer enthusiasm, and talent, and been so worth watching.’

  NICHOLAS LEZARD, Guardian critic

  ‘A taut and compelling drama about the place of the elderly in family life and about how, in one way or another, it’s the destiny of the old to be hidden away. It’s also about how much a marriage can take, and what it eventually boils down to – clothes in bin liners. I enjoyed Clara’s Daughter hugely; in this novella-length story, Meike Ziervogel

  has achieved a lot with, relatively speaking, a little. Reading it was like watching a very good play.’

  ISABEL WOLFF, Sunday Times bestselling author of Ghostwritten

  Clara’s Daughter

  MEIKE ZIERVOGEL grew up in the north of Germany and came to London in 1986 to study Arabic. She has worked as a journalist for Reuters and Agence France-Presse. In 2008 she founded Peirene Press, an award-winning, London-based independent publishing house. Her debut novel Magda was shortlisted for the Guardian’s Not the Booker prize and nominated as a book of the year 2013 by the Irish Times, Observer and Guardian readers. Meike lives in London with her husband and two children. Find out more about Meike at www.meikeziervogel.com.

  Also by Meike Ziervogel

  Magda (2013)

  Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

  12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Meike Ziervogel, 2014

  The right of Meike Ziervogel to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

  Salt Publishing 2014

  Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978 1 84471 990 7 electronic

  ‘She rises up out of the water and steps over the shingle, keeping the same calm pace.’

  JAN VAN MERSBERGEN, Tomorrow Pamplona

  1

  There are no cars on the road this early on a Saturday morning. The leaves on the huge plane trees around the old village green rustle in the light breeze. A refreshing chill from the night still lingers in the air. Jim slows down, steers his bicycle into the middle of the empty road and waits for Michele to catch up, looking back over his shoulder. With her strawberry-blonde hair hanging loose beneath the helmet, her summer skirt and green cardigan, she looks just like the young woman he first fell in love with twenty-five years ago. She arrives beside him, slightly flushed from pedalling uphill. She smiles. Jim stretches out his arm and she takes the offered hand. They ride towards Hampstead Heath together, hand in hand.

  At the bottom of Merton Lane they chain their bikes to the railings. With swimming bags over their shoulders, they set off across the Heath. The anglers in their tents around the pond are still asleep. Two ducks stretch their necks, flap their wings, then gather speed and move across the water before taking off into the air. Michele’s hand in Jim’s feels soft and warm.

  The gates to the mixed bathing pond are closed and a handwritten sign announces that Due to lack of staff the pond will open at 10 a.m. on Saturday. They exchange a mischievous glance and climb over the fence. The water is cold, but Jim dives straight in. As he resurfaces, he roars with pain and joy and threatens to splash Michele, who hasn’t yet made it beyond the second rung of the ladder. She wets her arms and descends into the pond. She gasps for air, shrieking. She swims towards him and they hug, pressing their cold lips together, laughing, then quickly letting go of each other before they sink. They race to the end of the pond, turn around and race back. Michele wins. But only because Jim lets her. She pushes him underwater and speedily climbs the ladder on to the jetty to escape his retaliation.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says while towelling his body dry, ‘now that Felix is at university too, why don’t we sell the house, downsize to a flat and buy a small cottage up in Scotland?’

  Michele is already dressed. She brushes her hair.

  ‘I’m not in control of my own time,’ she replies in a preoccupied voice. Then continues: ‘As you know. And I wouldn’t be able to commit to going up there. Perhaps in a few years.’ The spikes of her brush get stuck in a hair knot. ‘And there is also my mother,’ she adds, pulling the brush forcefully through the knot.

  Jim steps into his trousers.

  ‘You’ve been CEO for fifteen months now. Surely soon you’ll be able to claim at least your weekends back and perhaps even take a couple of weeks’ holiday.’

  ‘Not if the Sea Shelf 3 deal comes through.’

  She cleans the hair out of the brush and examines it. There are a few grey strands. She really ought to go to the hairdresser. She opens the palm of her hand and lets the wind take the fluffy ball. Jim watches it catch in a spider’s web that is hanging between the branches of a hawthorn.

  The patio in the back garden is sun-drenched. They lay breakfast outside and sit next to each other on the bench. Jim’s laptop stands open on the table. He shows Michele a cottage on Barra, where they spent their honeymoon. She places her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. The vibration of his deep voice enters her body and she breathes in his smell – a mix of cold pond water still lingering on his skin, sweat from cycling on his shirt and only a very faint trace of aftershave. This is how he smells when they are on their hiking holidays: a smell of distant places, adventures, physical exhaustion. She puts an arm around him. His body feels solid and strong. He continues talking but she is no longer listening. Her hand slides beneath his shirt and moves across the firm, smooth skin of his back. She lifts her head and places tender little kisses on his neck, travelling slowly upwards to his ear. He has fallen silent. Michele hears his breathing. He hasn’t shaved yet, and the stubble rubs gently against her cheek. The fingers of her other hand dance teasingly across his tummy just above the waistline. He kisses her.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he whispers.

  She nods.

  They step inside the kitchen. Jim turns around and kisses her again. His hands move down her back. Michele closes her eyes. He pushes her slowly towards the worktop and li
fts her up on to the surface. She wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him close. Her hands glide upwards along the back of his head; her tongue meets his while she feels his hands on her skin. He unhooks her bra. For a moment he sucks gently on her earlobe. Goosebumps spread down her body. She giggles. She leans back and undoes the first buttons of her blouse. Jim’s mouth is playing with her hard nipple. She pulls bra and blouse over her head. As she emerges from under her clothes, she opens her eyes.

  For a split second her gaze falls over Jim’s bent body on to the wall behind the kitchen table. The clock shows five to ten. The red second hand shifts towards the twelve. Her mother. She has to take her mother to the osteopath this morning. She quickly closes her eyes again. She had a funny feeling when she mentioned her mother earlier – as if there was something she ought to remember. Jim is now sucking her right nipple with slightly too much force. It hurts. The appointment is at eleven. Even today, on a Saturday morning, it will take more than three-quarters of an hour down to Battersea, and then there’s the palaver of getting her mother out of the house – that’s at least another fifteen minutes. She shakes her head involuntarily. She bends forward and lifts Jim’s face. She kisses him, her hands unbuckling his belt. Hilary will be livid if their mother misses this appointment. Mum has recently started to complain of an increased pain in her knee and this was the first appointment her sister could arrange. Hilary is so stressed with her twins that frankly Michele would prefer to avoid creating any unnecessary friction. She might just about make it if she leaves right now. Jim is pushing her skirt up, moving the crotch of her pants aside. His actions have lost all sexiness; they feel crude. Michele is about to unzip his trousers, but then stops herself. She shifts her head back from Jim’s face.

  ‘I forgot. I have to take Mum to the osteopath today. In fact, in an hour. I really need to go.’ She places her hand flat on his chest.

  ‘Your mother can wait a few minutes,’ he says, wanting to kiss her breast again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not in the mood any more. My brain has switched itself on.’ She gives him a gentle push.

  For a moment he hesitates. His hands are resting on her inner thighs.

  ‘We’ll make love tonight,’ she says.

  Suddenly he takes a step back. He will not beg. He zips up his trousers and buckles his belt. Michele jumps down from the worktop and puts on bra and blouse. Jim turns towards the kettle to make fresh coffee.

  ‘What are your plans for the afternoon?’ Michele asks, already in the hallway, searching in her swimming bag for the keys.

  ‘I have a cricket match.’

  ‘It’s the Peels’ dinner party tonight.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten. It’s a home match, so I should be back in time.’

  He steps outside and fetches the cafetière. Michele grabs her handbag.

  ‘Bye,’ she calls over her shoulder, as she is pulling the front door shut behind her.

  Jim is standing in the middle of the lawn with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. They haven’t made love in weeks. And over the past fifteen months, ever since Michele accepted the new job at Nordic Oil, they’ve managed a handful of times at most. He puts down the coffee and picks up an old cricket ball that is left lying around for the neighbours’ cat to play with. She’s too tired, she’s too preoccupied, or she’s not there at all. Perhaps he should have made a move as soon as they came back and not waited for her to take the initiative. Unwittingly, a sarcastic snort escapes from his nose. He’s been rebuffed too often recently. This wasn’t the first time that she’d stopped mid-flow, either. He weighs the ball in his right hand. Oddly enough, when the children were young it seemed easier: they booked a babysitter regularly, went out on dates, just the two of them, and made love afterwards. Or simply: had sex. Good solid sex. He swings his arm in a wide bowling motion and lets the ball drop a few metres in front of him at the edge of the lawn. He turns back to the table and closes the laptop. And when his wife isn’t preoccupied with work, she is preoccupied with her mother. He leafs through Saturday’s Guardian and pulls out the sport section. True, his mother-in-law has been a worry ever since Michele’s father died a couple of years ago. The good news is, however, that Clara will go to a residential home soon. They found a very nice one six months back, not far away on the other side of the Heath. The home called last week to say that a place had become available.

  His eyes fall on the headline: Australia retains grip. Jim shakes his head. He starts reading.

  2

  Michele – One Week Later

  I take a pencil and snap it in half, just because I have to do something. I can’t sit here and do nothing. Then I am still, and the house is still, and I know it wasn’t enough simply to break a pencil. I want to do more. So I take the metal pen holder, turn slightly on my chair and throw it straight through the open door across the balcony and into the garden. The clattering noise as it hits the patio tells me I have achieved my aim. I get to my feet and pick up the two cushions from the chair and fling them into the garden too. Then I stop and consider the neighbours and wonder what they must be thinking, seeing our stuff flying through the air. Then I shrug my shoulders. What they are thinking is probably exactly right, namely that their neighbours are a middle-aged couple whose children have now left home, that she works far too hard and loves her job and the status and the illusion of power that it gives her far too much, that he is an attractive man whose career has stagnated over the last however many years, but actually he is the one who knows that there are far more important – or, at least, other equally important – things in life, that he has been such a great father to his kids and such an accommodating husband . . . No. Stop it. He hasn’t been such an accommodating husband. He cared for the children while I went to work, but that had nothing to do with being accommodating, which suggests an element of sacrifice. Far from it. It suited him perfectly. He doesn’t like to work 24/7, is happy with his part-time teaching, loves his cricket and fishing and fresh air far too much. Not to mention his naps during the day. I look around the room. I want to throw more stuff out of the window. My eyes are scanning the bookshelves. I can already see my arm stretching out and emptying the shelves with one huge sweep. No, not the books. Definitely not the books. I would regret it and have to spend hours afterwards putting them back. It’s not that I am out of my mind with rage. I am simply angry and want to throw a fit. Like a toddler who hurls herself to the floor to show the whole world how angry and upset she is. And since I am too old to throw myself to the floor, I might as well throw something else. My eyes move across the desk. Paper, Sellotape, nail varnish. Too light, too inconspicuous. It needs to feel solid when I hurl it. There is a small coffee table in front of me. From the table my gaze goes down to my feet. I slip out of my sandals and fling first one and then the other into the garden. There and there. You’ve got it.

  I am no longer worried about the neighbours. To tell the truth, part of me wouldn’t mind them seeing my display of anger. Yes, in fact I have a right to be angry if my stupid husband goes and fucks a woman probably half my age, and, for that matter, his. What am I supposed to do? React with understanding? Show sympathy? Compliment him first, then give constructive criticism? Fuck him. No way. I storm out of the study and into the bedroom. I theatrically tear open the doors to his part of the wardrobe, both sides at once. My arms are open wide, the doors are open wide. There are a couple of suits hanging on the rail. Wonder when he wore them last. On the shelves underneath are his shirts, his thick woollen jumpers, his T-shirts, his sports clothes. I scoop up his beloved cricket whites and carry them to the balcony. I stand at the railings with the whites in my arms, as if holding a baby. I see my sandals on the grass, a couple of pens on the grey stone of the terrace. I lift the clothes over the railings, ready to drop them into the garden. For a few seconds I don’t move. Then I turn around, go back into the study and sit down on one of the chairs – only to jump up again the n
ext moment. If I remain sitting I will start to analyse what’s happening and the anger will abate. But the sudden adrenalin rush was doing me good. I enjoyed it.

  I shake my head. All my life I’ve been able to control my anger. That’s why I am successful at my job. I have never lost my temper with anyone. Even the most useless people. I have learned to avoid them or, if I can’t avoid them, to do their job for them. And nowadays I am in a position either to delegate their jobs to someone more efficient or to move them on. Nicely, kindly, even with a few compliments on the way. A lot of people don’t want to get better at their jobs, aren’t humble enough to improve, to learn. There is no point losing my temper. You run a business despite all the obstacles and inefficiencies of other people. It’s a game. A mind game, a chess game, a game of endurance, an exhilarating game. Most difficulties you face aren’t personal. And even the betrayals, the jealousies, the back-stabbings – you just have to try to see them coming and manoeuvre your way through; or forgive yourself if you don’t see them coming, draw your lesson from them and move on. I sit down again.

  But this is not business. This is personal. I look at the cricket whites in my arms. When he stood in front of me naked, I wanted to touch him, to run my hands over his body, feel the hair on his torso, his softness, his hardness, his arms around me, his body on top of me. There was a voice inside me that wanted to stop accusing him, tried to persuade me that the man had done nothing wrong, the man who was standing in front of me naked, defenceless. That there was probably a very good reason why he hadn’t come home last night. Why there was the smell of another woman’s perfume on his body. And that all he wanted was for me to touch him too. But that split second passed. I shake my head. And it is good that it passed. Women forgiving their treacherous men. Treacherous middle-aged men. How fascinating. Nothing has really changed. We might earn our own money, run a company, share the childcare and the household chores with our husbands, but when it comes down to the basics, the most fundamental thing – sex – nothing, absolutely nothing has changed. He goes out to prove himself, like a testosterone-driven monkey, and she is willing to forgive him. Why? I get up and the clothes drop from my lap on to the floor. I stand in front of the mirror. Because I too am middle-aged and no longer twenty? I take off my T-shirt and my bra. I let my skirt drop to the floor and take off my pants. Because I haven’t shown my naked body to any other man for over a quarter of a century? I turn to the side. I have a good figure. Slightly more rounded than twenty years ago. And there is a tiny belly. But not much. No, it’s not my body. I put my pants back on. When I look at my naked body, I feel happy with it. When I look at myself dressed I feel happy about it.