The Thing About Clare

by Imogen Clark

‘Dear Miss Bliss’ it began, and Clare felt her stomach lurch. Did she really want to read this now? Shouldn’t she at least take it home with her? But then again, what could it possibly say that would do her any harm? StJohn Downing would just be some kindly benefactor, maybe a childless distant relation that she’d never heard of. It wasn’t like she had the names of all her relations at her fingertips. Miriam would know who this bloke was. She could just ring her . . .

  She looked down at the letter in her hand, took a deep breath and read on.

  I trust this letter finds you well. If you are reading it then you can assume that the same cannot be said for me.

  He has a sense of humour, then, this Downing guy, thought Clare.

  Depending on who has told you what over the years, you may or may not have heard of me. I was a friend of your mother’s for a brief period in the 1960s. After that, I travelled extensively in the Far East and we were unable to see each other, but I kept a watchful eye over you all, and particularly you.

  Clare could feel the eyes of the solicitor on her as she read. Her hands were really shaking now so she put the letter on the table so that the woman couldn’t see.

  I never formed any other attachments over my life and so I have been left with the thorny problem of what to do with my estate. I have considered charities as a backstop but have concluded that more good could possibly be done closer to home.

  Which brings me to the nub of the issue. Your mother told me, Clare, that there was a question over your paternity . . .

  What? Clare’s eyes skipped back over what she had just read. A question over her paternity? She felt adrenaline prickle in the ends of her fingers and her chest tightened as if she’d been running. She read on.

  I appreciate that that is a very bald statement, particularly if it has come as a surprise to you, but I’m afraid I could think of no way of introducing the subject in a gentler fashion. There has always been a chance that you were the product of one especially tender and unique encounter beneath a spreading oak tree. Statistically, I gather, the odds are stacked against it – I assume this is why your mother chose to keep it to herself – but theoretically it is a possibility. As I mentioned, I have no other offspring. You, Clare, might be all that I leave in this world to show that I was ever here. Equally, you may not.

  If it weren’t for the pressing conundrum of what to do with my estate, I would have gone to the grave with this mystery unsolved, leaving the question of my progeny up to the gods, but the practical part of me needed to know that the product of a lifetime’s work would not simply be handed to Her Majesty.

  So, I came up with a solution. If it can be proved beyond reasonable doubt that I had a child then that person shall inherit. If not, then the estate will be left to a charity that assists other children in the Far East who find themselves without parents to protect them. Whether you wish to put in a claim is entirely up to you. However, I have left instructions that such a claim must be made within one month of today’s date.

  I am sorry if this letter has caused you any unrest but sometimes keeping secrets has unforeseen circumstances.

  Yours, with the very greatest of respect,

  StJohn Downing

  Fuck. Clare looked again at the letter but the words were swirling on the page. She looked up at the solicitor.

  ‘Is this for real?’ she asked.

  The solicitor nodded.

  ‘As Mr Downing says in his letter, our instructions are that if a legitimate claim is made on the estate then that person will inherit.’

  Clare stood up and paced backwards and forwards. The room wasn’t large. Six steps and she was at the wall, six steps back.

  ‘And this claim,’ she said. ‘If someone wanted to make it, how would that work?’

  ‘There would need to be a DNA test which would prove the matter beyond reasonable doubt. Mr Downing has left a record of his own DNA for comparison purposes. As you will have seen, there is a deadline for the submission of such a claim of a month from today. Can I get you anything, Miss Bliss? A glass of water, perhaps?’

  Clare shook her head. A skin had formed on the top of her coffee but she picked it up and drank it, the sugar hitting her system quickly.

  ‘And how much money is there?’ she asked. ‘Just what are we talking about here?’

  The solicitor opened the folder again, ran her finger down a list of figures and said, ‘As at close of business yesterday, the estate was worth approximately one point two million pounds. Obviously there will be inheritance tax to pay on that, bringing the sum closer to six hundred thousand, although until the property is sold it is difficult to give an exact amount.’

  Clare felt sick. This was too much to take on board. More money than she’d ever had, but at what cost?

  She needed air. The cold coffee lay heavy on her stomach. She had to get out of there.

  Without saying goodbye to the solicitor, she grabbed the letter and then left the room. She could hear the solicitor calling after her but she didn’t stop. She ran down the corridor to the lift and banged the lift buttons. The lift was on the ground floor. She couldn’t wait for it. She made for the fire escape and bounded down the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the tiled space. At the bottom she burst out into the reception. Anna was still sitting where she had left her. She looked up as she heard the door opening.

  ‘That was quick,’ she said. ‘Was everything . . .? Clare?’

  Anna stood up but Clare rushed straight past her and out into the street, knocking into a couple who were coming in. Then she set off up the road at speed. She didn’t know where she was going. She just needed to put as much space as possible between her and that room. On the next corner there was a pub, pink and white petunia trailing from dripping hanging baskets around the door. She didn’t think, just marched straight in and ordered a double vodka tonic. It didn’t even touch the sides.

  IV

  Anna was less than ten minutes behind her but already Clare was on her third drink. The barman hadn’t batted an eyelid, just served her in the same glass. After her few dry months, the joy of the alcohol hitting her system was like welcoming a long-lost friend. She couldn’t take on board what had just happened so the best thing was to blot it out. It was a tactic that had worked for her all her life. There was no reason to reject it now.

  She heard Anna sigh as she came in and saw her sitting at the bar. She was such a disappointment to her family. She always had been. Had they always known that she wasn’t one of them, not really? Was that why they were so fucking perfect and she had always felt like a reject, like the ugly duckling who didn’t quite belong but was sort of tolerated?

  ‘Shall we sit down over there, Clare?’ Anna said, her arm gently on Clare’s shoulder, steering her away. Again.

  Clare allowed herself to be moved, holding her empty glass tight into her chest. They sat at a table in a window a little away from the main space. Clare banged her knee on the cast-iron table leg as they sat down and pain shot round her body. Anna signalled something to the barman over her head.

  ‘I need another,’ said Clare.

  ‘In a minute,’ said Anna. ‘First, tell me what happened.’

  Clare didn’t have the words to explain. She thrust the letter that she was still clutching at Anna.

  ‘Double vodka,’ she called out to the barman.

  Anna took the letter, smoothed it out on the table and began to read. Clare watched her face. What was she expecting to see when her sister discovered that they were less sisterly than they’d thought? Clare watched carefully but there was nothing. No reaction. It was just like before, when Anna had tried to talk her out of going.

  ‘You knew,’ said Clare slowly. ‘You fucking knew and you never said.’

  It was all starting to make sense now. The way they patronised her, that kind of smugness that they all had when she was around them, the silent raising of eyebrows when they thought she hadn’t seen. They all knew and had never said. They had just pretended that
she was one of them but all the time . . .

  Anna was shaking her head but Clare pressed on, the pieces all starting to drop into place.

  ‘You all knew. No wonder I’m such a fucking embarrassment to you all. I thought it was just Clare the walking disaster who can never make anything go right, but no. It’s Clare who’s not really one of us, who we can make excuses for, knowing that she doesn’t really belong. Christ, I’m an idiot, but I see it all now.’

  ‘No, Clare. You’re wrong,’ Anna said, her eyes wide and panicky. ‘I did know about StJohn Downing but only after Mum died and I didn’t tell the others. I promise.’

  ‘And you didn’t think you ought to mention it to me,’ spat Clare. ‘Just a little thing, not that important. You see, you might be illegitimate. That man, the one that brought you up. Well, he might not be your dad after all. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?’

  Clare needed another drink. ‘Vodka,’ she shouted at the barman who was cleaning glasses at the other end of the bar and seemed to be ignoring them. ‘NOW!’

  ‘Don’t, Clare,’ said Anna gently, like she was talking to a child. ‘That isn’t going to help.’

  ‘How the fucking hell would you know what would or wouldn’t help me? I’ve always had to help myself. It’s always been the same. You three, you tolerate me. No more. You’ve put up with me because we were family and you had to. Well, guess what, my little pretend sister. We’re not family so you don’t have to tolerate me any more.’

  Clare looked up at Anna and saw that she had tears streaming down her face.

  ‘And there’s no need to feel responsible for me any more either. That’ll be a relief, I bet. Half-sisters don’t need to mop up after each other, do they? You can just piss off back to Miriam and Seb. Tell them that all their troubles are over. They’ll be delighted. One less thing to worry about. The alcoholic nightmare of a sister can be cut free and left to rot.’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!!’ Anna was shouting now. ‘It’s not true, Clare. That’s not how we feel. And this’ – she pointed to the letter – ‘this won’t make any difference. It doesn’t matter what any test says. You are our sister and you always will be.’

  For one moment, Clare grasped on to Anna’s words, like a drowning man flailing for a life raft. Did she mean it? Would it really make no difference to them who had provided the sperm at her conception? But then she shook her head.

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Anna. Leave me alone. Where’s that fucking drink?’

  Clare stood up. Well, if they weren’t going to serve her in here then she would have to go and find somewhere else. She headed for the door, her head swimming slightly as she gathered pace. She expected to hear Anna following behind her but no one came. This is it, she thought as she crashed out into the street. I’m finally on my own.

  V

  When Clare woke up she found, by a miracle, that she was not in a ditch somewhere but safely at home. She hadn’t made it as far as the bed but at least she appeared to be in one piece and without any bruises or other scrapes. Her head was pounding, though, and her mouth was dry. She needed a drink but there wasn’t anything here. She’d been so careful not to buy anything, not to have anything close by where it could call out to her from inside cupboards, tempt her back to the place she’d just escaped. And now what had she done? All that work, all those AA meetings, the sheer bloody humiliation of exposing her considerable flaws to a room of strangers, and all for nothing.

  Clare groaned and rolled on to her side so that her head was level with the coffee table. Just twenty-four short hours ago she had been in control of her life for once. A place of her own, a job and a clear head. Things that seemed so simple for the others but had been almost impossible for her to achieve. Well, she wasn’t ready to let all that go. It didn’t matter how bad things got. She had made a deal with herself and she owed it to herself to hang on.

  The letter was sitting on the coffee table. It was considerably less pristine than it had been. She must have screwed it up at least once and there was a rusty-coloured drink ring on one corner. She tried to remember where she had been, who she had shared her tale of woe with, but the information wasn’t there, great chunks of her evening missing as they so often had been in her life, the memories not stored in her databanks. It was yet another night that she’d lost and would never get back.

  And then there was Anna. Clare felt a twinge of guilt. She could pretty much remember what she’d said to Anna. Poor Anna. Oh well. Fuck it. It was probably no more than she deserved. After all, she’d known about this Downing bloke all along and decided to say nothing. Playing God with Clare’s life.

  Well, her life was nothing to do with them any more. It was up to her. She could just take the test and inherit the money. It was obvious even to a blind man in a dark room that it would turn out that this stranger was actually her father. In fact, that would explain her whole life – every wrong step she had taken, every disastrous decision, every catastrophic mess that she had made could be linked back to this one, secret fact. She was predestined to fail. She had been an accident from the very outset. Of course a fact like that was going to affect her life, her karma. No wonder things had worked out the way they had. Some part of her, some deep-hidden section of her heart, had always known there was an answer, a reason for her failures, great and small. And now she knew what it was.

  Clare sat up carefully. Her head was banging but it was bearable. She tried to think clearly. This could be a good thing, the start of something new. She could take the test, claim the money and run far away where the rest of them would never find her, not that they’d want to. They’d be relieved to have her off their backs. She could just hear Miriam now. ‘Well, it’s all worked out for the best. We always knew, though, didn’t we, that there was something about Clare . . .’

  Did her dad know, Clare wondered? Her lovely, funny, big-hearted father – did he know that his wife had cuckolded him with a passing stranger? No. She couldn’t believe it. He had always treated Clare fairly, looked out for her and welcomed her back no matter how much she screwed stuff up. Would he have done that for a child that he had no claim over? No. Of course not. This must have been her mother’s dirty little secret. And then Anna’s.

  She needed a drink but tea would have to do. She even had some milk. She stood up, swaying slightly as she reconnected with gravity, and then moved into the tiny kitchen. Anna was already in there and Clare jumped. Her sister/not-sister was sitting on the rickety stool that Clare had rescued from a skip, staring out of the window watching the children run in the alley behind the block.

  ‘I wish I had a child,’ she said, which was so random that Clare didn’t think she’d heard her properly. ‘I always thought I would have. It was in my life-plan but then it just never happened. I even wondered for a bit about having one on my own. Women do, don’t they? But I just wasn’t brave enough and now I’m too old.’

  ‘You can have mine,’ said Clare, ignoring the surprising fact that Anna was in her kitchen, had been there all night quite possibly. ‘He clearly doesn’t want me in his life. Have you drunk all the milk?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Clare,’ Anna went on. ‘I should have told you about StJohn Downing but I just thought it would be better if no one knew. I mean, it doesn’t make any difference whether you’re Dad’s girl or not. You’re still our sister.’

  Anna was looking at her now and Clare could see that the rims of her eyes were crimson.

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ said Clare. ‘From your place up there on the marble pedestal.’

  Anna made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. ‘There’s plenty of milk,’ she said.

  Clare pottered about her kitchen boiling the kettle and finding the teabags and all the time Anna watched her. Clare quite liked it, liked that she could entertain her sister in her own home like a totally normal person. It had been such a long time coming, this self-sufficiency.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Anna, bringing Clare crashing b
ack down to earth.

  ‘Honestly?’ asked Clare. ‘I have absolutely no fucking idea.’

  MIRIAM – 2017

  I

  Miriam stood and stared at the poster for a long time, absorbing all the information that she could glean from it. She’d read Dancing at Lughnasa when she was at university. She couldn’t remember much of the play. Something about a big Irish family of mainly sisters who keep falling out over the best way to behave. It all sounded horribly familiar. And wasn’t the eldest, Kate, an upright teacher with crushed life ambitions? She’d be perfect for the role. She might even get away with her age, given kind lighting, and she’d barely have to act at all. The part surely had her name written all over it. There was dancing, which might be more problematic, but she could probably master that. How hard could it be to jig about on the stage with wild abandon? Miriam sighed. Not that hard when she was seventeen. Possibly more challenging now.

  She didn’t often let herself think about what might have been if she had gone to RADA after that fateful summer when Sebastian was born. Even though her father had said no to the audition when she’d first mentioned it, she was pretty certain that she would have won him round eventually, one stage of the process at a time. First the application, then the audition. By the time the start of term arrived, she would have convinced him that a daughter on the stage was his life’s ambition and that he had never wanted anything more. Of course, there was always the very vague chance that she might not actually have been offered a place, but when she was dreaming about this alternative life of hers she never let that fact cloud her vision.

  Did she still have it, that drive to perform? At college she had got involved in various serious but instantly forgettable productions, and at work the annual school play had fallen into her remit until the school had appointed a sickeningly keen newly qualified drama teacher. But as for treading the boards herself? It had been a while. Since the girls had been born there never seemed to be any time. Well, now that they were at university themselves maybe the time had come for her to claim back her life?