Clara's Daughter

by Meike Ziervogel

  ‘Why should I?’ He shrugs and lets the trousers drop to the floor, stepping out of them and picking them up with one foot, kicking them on to the bed.

  ‘I’ve never lied to you.’

  He drops his underpants and kicks them on to the bed too.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Michele says between gritted teeth, the shirt still in her hands.

  Jim now stands fully naked in front of her.

  ‘I have indeed been a ridiculous fool. For twenty-five years.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘I would like to take a shower.’

  ‘So you fucked another woman.’

  Jim watches his wife’s lips, which have become a tense straight line.

  ‘If you have any decency left, you will at least answer that question,’ she adds.

  ‘I didn’t think you asked me a question,’ Jim replies. ‘It sounded like one of your usual statements. No need for me to add my version of events.’

  He pushes past Michele and leaves the room. She doesn’t move. The dust is dancing in the sunbeams that fall through the window. The glass is covered in smears. She needs to tell her cleaner to take more care.

  ‘Who?’ she asks.

  In reply to her question she hears the gushing water of the shower. She drops the shirt. Jim is standing in front of the shower, feeling the water.

  ‘Who?’ she repeats.

  He steps underneath the shower. He closes his eyes, leans his head back, pointing his face upwards. Michele steps inside the wet room, reaches out to the shower handle and turns the water off.

  ‘I think we should talk.’

  ‘Switch the shower back on, Michele.’

  Jim hasn’t opened his eyes. He feels his way to the handle blindly. Michele hasn’t moved her hand. He opens his eyes and turns towards his wife.

  ‘I advise you to leave the room.’

  ‘I am not leaving until you give me an answer.’

  ‘Michele, I am asking you one last time: please leave the room.’

  She shakes her head. For a moment they both stare at each other. Then Jim grabs Michele’s shoulders and pushes her towards the door, holding on to her.

  ‘Get out!’ he screams into her face. With the force of his body weight he pushes her out of the shower room. The door slams shut. He locks it from the inside.

  She stands outside the closed door. She hears the water running. She hears his phone ringing in the kitchen. For a split second she hesitates. Then she rushes down the stairs. An unknown number. She picks up the phone.

  ‘Hello? Jim?’ A woman’s voice with a foreign accent.

  ‘This is his wife speaking,’ Michele says. Silence. Michele hears the other woman breathing. Then the line is cut.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Jim stands in front of her, with a towel around his waist, water dripping from his hair and body on to the floor. He holds out his hand with an immobile face. Michele places the phone into his hand. They look at each other. Stone-faced.

  ‘If you call her back,’ Michele says quietly, ‘we will no longer live under one roof.’

  She turns and walks out of the room.

  ‘Natalie, it’s Jim.’

  Michele touches the banister as the kitchen door swings shut. Jim’s muffled laugh from behind the door reaches her ear. She goes into the study and sits down at her desk.

  18

  I am standing at the edge of the jetty, looking down into the water. My shoes in my hand. Tights in my skirt pocket. It’s been such a long time since my bare feet have felt the sun. I wiggle my toes. I can’t wait to go on to the grass. I will change outside. Not go into that stuffy changing room. I remember some women changing outside all those years ago, when I once came to the pond but didn’t dare go into the water because I was scared of its depth. I looked away quickly when I saw those naked bodies. I felt embarrassed for them. Now I can’t wait. If only they would allow us to jump into the pond naked. But it’s forbidden. I look around. The young lifeguard has disappeared inside the changing room to search for a spare swimming costume for me. They always have some spare ones, she told me, the ones people have forgotten. What if I just slipped out of my clothes and simply jumped in? I giggle like a little girl at the mere thought of it. The sun makes me so giddy. I would swim out into the middle of the pond and the lifeguard could stand here and shout as much as she likes. By the time I reached the middle of the pond, I’d probably not hear anything. My hearing has worsened considerably in the last few months. I’d swim front crawl. I can’t remember if I have ever swum front crawl before. Most likely not. I’m not very good at swimming. But I have watched it on the television a lot. The slow-motion bit. I love the way the arm comes out of the water at an angle and the swimmer effortlessly glides along. I will take swimming lessons. Yes, that’s what I will do. Here at the pond each morning. I drop my shoes on to the jetty and stretch my arms over my head. It’s such a beautiful morning.

  ‘I’ve found you a couple.’

  The young woman has returned and holds out a purple swimming costume and a black one. I let my arms drop to my sides and stretch out my hand for the purple one.

  ‘You are sweet. Thank you. I’ll change over there.’ I point to the empty grass slope on the right.

  ‘There are a couple of towels people have left behind too.’

  ‘No, don’t you worry.’ I shake my head. ‘I love lying on the grass.’

  I bend down to pick up my shoes and notice that neither my knee nor my hip pains me. I straighten up with ease and flash a smile at the woman. As I step on to the gravel path the soles of my feet hurt at first, but then I simply quicken my step, almost dancing along. Walking in the early morning does me good. I reach the grass. How beautifully soft and cool and moist. Where should I position myself? There is a small slope, with old trees and hedges at the top shielding the pond from the public path. It’s shadowy up there. The rest of the grass bank is bathed in beautiful morning sunlight. I head right for the middle. I want to feel openness all around me. I sit down and fall backwards, stretching my arms and legs out like a starfish. Then I move my arms up and down and close and open my legs. I am making an angel – a grass angel – like I used to do in the snow – a snow angel. I can’t remember when I last made an angel. It must have been before we left home. With my best friend, Frauke. Who died before we left. The damp is penetrating my clothes.

  ‘Clara, steh auf, du holst dir eine Nierenentzündung. Clara, get up, you will catch nephritis.’

  I stop moving, look to the left and then to the right. Green grass and the sound of birds. I look up into the blue sky.

  ‘Mutti, you are no longer here. Leave me alone.’

  And I am lying very still, listening. Mutti has gone away. And I laugh out loud and continue moving my arms and legs. I am making a beautiful angel with a very clear outline that will stay in the grass for a long time. I suddenly stop and sit up.

  You silly old woman, I say out loud. But I am not actually angry with myself. I am far too happy. I stand up. My back and behind have got a bit damp after all. But I have never in my life caught nephritis and won’t catch it now either. I have a lovely view over the pond. I can see the jetty and the lifeguard’s hut. The young woman is sitting inside. I squint. I can’t see the far end of the pond from here, because it is hidden behind trees. I start walking to the right. A wooden fence runs along the edge of the grass bank and separates it from the lake. How silly that humans continuously need to shield and protect. And separate places where you are allowed to swim from those where you are not. And where you are allowed to be naked from where you are not. How silly, silly, silly. I lean over the fence to see how far it reaches into the bushes. It seems to be going all the way. Further along, towards the far end of the lake, I spot an old wooden jetty poking out into the water from the hedge. It is hidden behind trees and leads right into the reeds. I straighten up and look over to the lifeguard’s hu
t. No, she won’t be able to see me once I disappear into the bushes. I will climb over the fence from there. I cast a quick glance back to my shoes and the swimming costume lying forlorn on the grass next to the angel with the widespread wings. I turn and walk into the thicket.

  The jetty is now right in front of me on the other side of the fence. There is a gate, but it is locked with a big iron padlock. The fence reaches nearly to my chest. I’ve never climbed a fence. Not ever. This will be the first time. I put both feet on the wooden plank that runs horizontally a few inches off the ground. The fence posts are pointed. My only chance to get over is to lift one of my legs high enough to step on to the top horizontal bar, then pull the other foot up and jump. Yesterday I wouldn’t have even dared to contemplate this. Now I just do it. I lift my foot, place it on the upper bar and for a moment I am so surprised at myself that I stop breathing. I want to laugh. Wait, I remind myself. You haven’t yet reached the other side. Concentration is required. I’m not sure how to proceed from here. So I simply hold on to the pointed fence posts, lean forward and pull up my other leg. For a split second I balance on top of the fence, and all I know is that I mustn’t lean back, otherwise I will fall on to the wrong side. I lean even further forward. And fall head first. I lie still, very still, and wait for the pain.

  No pain. Still I don’t move. I might be dead. Then my hands become aware of the moist ground beneath my palms and I know I am alive, and I smell the dark soil and gather some in my fist and bring it close to my nose. I sprinkle it on my face and laugh, and I put out my tongue and taste the earth. I have climbed a fence and it was so easy. I will do it again and again and again. I sit up. Why have I never climbed a fence before? Perhaps I never wanted something badly enough on the other side. I suddenly fall silent and hold my breath. Has anyone noticed? Two ducks appear from under the old jetty and swim out into the lake. The sun dances on the water. I stand up and unbutton my blouse, letting it slide down my back on to the ground. I unclip my bra, my arms bending backwards up my back as if I were a young woman. I unzip my skirt, push my pants down, hop over pants and skirt. I look down at myself. I have not looked in a mirror while naked for a long time. Wrinkly, baggy skin is not a pretty sight. But now as I am looking at myself I am oddly surprised. Yes, my breasts and my tummy are hanging; my skin looks baggy. I am an old woman, after all. But it is not ugly. This is skin that tells of experience and life. After my swim I will hurry home and translate this sight, me looking down at myself, into clay. A rush of enthusiasm floods my body. I finally know what my next piece of work will be. I fold my hands in front of my tummy and lift my face up to the sky. And I breathe in life and the blue sky. Then I step on to the wooden jetty. It looks rotten. Will it hold me? The jetty moves. I stop mid-stride. I hear birds in the tree behind me. I see a blue dragonfly dancing around my ankles. I feel the warm planks beneath my feet. With a firm step I walk to the edge of the jetty. I bend my knees, take my arms back, then bring them forward in one go and jump in head first. I feel the arc through the air, my hands breaking the surface of the water, my head, my body entering. For a moment the cold paralyses me and I wonder if my heart has stopped, but my legs and arms are already kicking, and I am heading up to the surface of the water. No. I take control of my movements, turn and start swimming underwater. My eyes are still closed. I feel the cold on my head, my breasts, between my legs, my hands, my feet. I stretch out and glide. Little bubbles escape from my mouth. I climbed a fence; I jumped into the water naked. Will I be courageous enough to open my eyes? It will be very dark. The pond is deep and very murky. I keep my arms still, my legs still. I open my eyes. Rays of light break through in total silence. My eye catches a ray. Where will it end? I have enough breath.

  19

  The little boy climbs up on the bench. He sits dangling his feet. His mum stands a bit further along the path. She is chatting on the phone but has her three-year-old in view out of the corner of her eye. An old lady in a light-blue summer coat and a matching pillbox hat sits at the other edge of the bench. She doesn’t seem to mind the child.

  ‘Why is your handbag open?’ the little boy eventually asks.

  The old lady doesn’t reply. She has her eyes closed, her hands folded in her lap. For a few moments the boy returns to watching his dangling feet, until his curiosity gets the better of him. He peeps into the bag. It is empty.

  ‘Why is your bag empty?’ Again there is no reply.

  ‘Rory, we have to go home, darling. It’s lunchtime soon,’ his mum calls.

  He jumps down from the bench. As he climbs into the buggy, he says, ‘The old lady doesn’t like talking and she has an empty handbag.’

  It takes a few seconds for the woman to process her son’s words. Her mind was somewhere else. Then she looks over to the bench and sees the old woman sitting there very still. She doesn’t appear to have moved at all. Her son is now back in the buggy. She fastens his seat belt. Home is in the opposite direction. She is about to turn the buggy but then changes her mind and approaches the bench.

  She calls an ambulance and waits until the paramedics arrive. The old woman looks very peaceful. The paramedics confirm that she seems to have died about an hour ago. Probably of a heart attack. It’s very likely she didn’t even notice.

  ‘A lovely way to go,’ one of the paramedics says, smiling.

  20

  Michele – Eighteen months later

  Four bulging black bin liners. Jim never collected them. I guess at the beginning there wasn’t enough space in Gus’s spare bedroom. I don’t want them in the flat when the children are coming for Christmas tomorrow. I quietly open the door, carry one bag after the other along the corridor to the elevator. I could have got rid of them as I was moving, along with Mum’s and Dad’s clothes. But I didn’t.

  The lights on the Christmas tree in the foyer are blinking forlornly. It’s just gone 5 a.m. on Christmas Eve. The world is still asleep. I pull out the woollen hat, scarf and gloves I stuffed into my shoulder bag. Then I put the notice I have written on top of the bags, just to be on the safe side. ‘Please don’t remove. Fetching the car and will pick them up in 5 min.’ The cold air hits me in the face. It is freezing. The digital thermometer in the car shows -6° Celsius. The winters are definitely turning colder and the summers hotter. I drive the car to the front of the block and load the bags into the boot. I will leave the clothes outside a charity shop in Battersea. I don’t want to bring them to a shop in Highgate or Crouch End. I wouldn’t want anyone to recognize Jim’s clothes or to meet someone on the street who is wearing them.

  I reach Waterloo Bridge in no time. Though I am surprised about the traffic on the road. I expected less. I cross Waterloo Bridge. I join the roundabout at the end, get into the lane to take the turning to carry me west. Then I suddenly change my mind. I won’t take them to Battersea. There are still people I know and who know me. A car behind me hoots as I change lane. I drive around the roundabout to gather my thoughts. I want Jim’s clothes where I am certain that no one knows me and no one knows him. I head south. I pass the Old Vic, and beyond that I don’t know London at all. After a while I slow down, concentrating on the row of shops to my left. There is an Oxfam shop. I don’t stop. I don’t want a shop on the main road. I turn off left. Within a second I realize I made a mistake. I am now in a residential road and it’s a one-way system and there are no shops; there will be no shops. I wait for a turning, then another turning, then I am back on the main road. But I am not heading south. I am heading back home. The roads are still clear and I get back to the flat at six twenty. I carry the bags inside. I take off my coat. I put the kettle on. While the water is boiling I dust Mum’s clay model, which is standing on the mantelpiece in the living room. I dust it every day. It’s my tribute to Mum. I make the coffee.

  In the bedroom is a big wardrobe. It came with the flat. It is far too big for my clothes alone. I start to reorganize them. After an hour they have all found space behind the
three doors on the left-hand side. The right side holds a rail, a few shelves and three big drawers. It’s a beautiful wardrobe. Whoever designed it thought things through and knew what they were doing. I carry the bags from the hallway into the bedroom. Outside, dawn is slowly breaking. The sky displays a leaden grey colour. I open the bags and pile Jim’s clothes on the bed. I refold them carefully before I put them into the wardrobe. Afterwards his smell lingers in the room. I turn off the lights and lie down on the bed. His clothes won’t stay in the wardrobe for ever.

  THANK YOU

  I’d like to thank the women writers’ retreat Hedgebrook on Whidbey Island, Washington, where I spent two wonderful weeks in the summer of 2012 working on this book.