by Joan Smith
Loretta moved in her seat, looking down so that Lizzie couldn’t see her face. ‘Well, I suppose she wanted to stay in London – she had lots of friends here –’
‘You’re not just saying that?’
Loretta looked up, startled.
‘I mean, I’m not saying you’re lying, exactly,’ Lizzie continued. ‘You probably think it’s for my own good – like Daddy.’ She rolled her eyes up towards the ceiling. ‘But I don’t think I believe you.’
‘You don’t?’ Loretta repeated faintly.
‘She’d left him, hadn’t she? That’s why she didn’t come home – they were going to get a divorce.’
‘Oh, I don’t think –’ Loretta bit her lip, not knowing what to say. Lizzie’s guess about the state of her parents’ relationship was as good as hers, and she was anxious not to upset her. That is – she didn’t mention it to me,’ she said truthfully. She saw that Lizzie was waiting for her to say more, and decided to stick with the story Sandra had told her, or an edited version of it.
‘All she said was she’d had a flood, and you were all away in Switzerland. So of course I said she could come here –’
‘But she could have come home,’ Lizzie objected again. ‘She could have been there when we got back. I hadn’t seen her since August.’ Her voice quavered, but then she seemed to recover.
‘Maybe she didn’t want to be on her own – people don’t, sometimes,’ Loretta said helplessly. She tried another tack. ‘Lizzie, does your father know you’re here?’
The girl rolled her eyes up again, saying nothing.
‘What did he – you did give him my message?’
Lizzie leaned forward and lifted Bertie on to her lap, avoiding Loretta’s gaze.
Loretta frowned. ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’
‘Why should I?’ Her voice was sulky. ‘He doesn’t tell me anything. He said I was too young to go to the inquest –’
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirteen. Fourteen next month. That’s old enough – a girl in my class had to go to court and give evidence about a man who stole her pony, and she’s younger than me.’
‘I’m sure he meant it for the best.’
‘I’m not.’ Lizzie stared at her defiantly. ‘It’s all his fault.’
‘How is it his fault?’
‘He was horrible to her and she wanted to get a divorce. If he hadn’t been so horrible she’d have come on holiday and she wouldn’t have gone to that stupid place.’
Loretta shook her head. ‘Lizzie, how do you know these things? Surely you were at school –’
‘Not in the holidays – the summer holidays. Mum was only home for two weeks and they had terrible rows. I heard them after I was in bed, they were shouting in the kitchen. One night I got up and sat on the top step – I heard Mum crying and I wanted to go down but I was scared.’
‘What were they –’ Loretta stopped, ashamed of even thinking of trying to get information from a bereaved teenager, but Lizzie ignored her.
‘I hate him!’ she exclaimed, her eyes growing red. She began to cry, feeling in the pocket of her jeans and drawing out a grubby handkerchief. Loretta hesitated, not knowing whether she should go and comfort her, and decided against it. She was hardly acquainted with the girl, but had seen enough to guess that such attention from a stranger would be unwelcome.
‘Drink your tea,’ she said gently. ‘Are you cold? I think I’ll light a fire.’
She got up and busied herself in front of the grate, leaving Lizzie to recover in her own good time. She took a firelighter from an open cardboard box, covered it with sticks and put a match to it. Behind her Lizzie’s sobs were subsiding, and when Loretta got to her feet the girl was obediently sipping her tea.
‘Better?’
Lizzie nodded, keeping her head averted.
Loretta returned to the sofa, troubled by the responsibility of having the girl in her flat. At some point she would have to ring Tom Neil, and she wondered if she should do it in the kitchen, behind Lizzie’s back. She didn’t like the idea, but was afraid the girl might bolt into the night if she suggested contacting her father.
‘That’s Mum’s suitcase!’ Lizzie’s voice, still thick with tears, interrupted this train of thought.
‘Yes, didn’t I say? I’m sure – she left it here. That’s why I rang your father. . .’
‘What’re you going to do with it?’ Lizzie’s tone was accusing.
‘Nothing! In fact I think I’d better –’ A thought had just struck her. She could hardly inform Tom Neil of his daughter’s whereabouts without mentioning Sandra’s bags, but she still hadn’t spoken to Ghilardi. . . She wrestled with this problem for a few seconds, then admitted that events had defeated her. ‘I’d better ring your father,’ she said, in as lowkey a way as she could manage. ‘Don’t you think – he’ll be worried when he finds you gone, won’t he?’
Lizzie gave an angry shrug, but said nothing and made no move for the door.
‘Will he be at home?’
Lizzie pulled back her cuff and looked at her watch, an outsize one with a thick strap and a large round face. ‘No, he’ll be at his stupid warehouse,’ she said sulkily. ‘That’s all he cares about, his stupid wine.’
Loretta crossed to the phone and picked it up. ‘What’s the number?’
Lizzie reeled it off, and Loretta dialled.
‘Got any biscuits?’ Lizzie demanded suddenly.
‘In the kitchen. In a tin, next to the tea caddy.’ Loretta watched anxiously as Lizzie left the room, and relaxed when she heard her moving about in the kitchen.
‘Mr Neil? My name’s Loretta Lawson – I’m ringing from London. I’ve got your daughter here.’ It sounded rather bald, but Loretta didn’t know how else to put it.
‘My daughter? Lizzie? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’ Neil’s tone was brusque, uncomprehending.
Loretta explained briefly about Sandra’s arrival at Christmas. ‘What would you like me to do?’ she finished, suddenly alarmed by the thought that Neil might expect her to drive Lizzie all the way to Winchester. There and back in one evening – Loretta’s heart sank.
There was silence for a moment, then Neil said crisply: ‘Put her on, please.’
Loretta looked at the receiver, thinking that the whole family seemed to be in the habit of giving orders, but said nothing. ‘Lizzie,’ she called. ‘Your father wants a word.’
The girl came back into the room and took the phone unenthusiastically, nibbling a chocolate digestive biscuit. Loretta heard only half of the ensuing conversation, but it was obviously acrimonious.
‘I only wanted to see where she lived.’
‘I didn’t –’
‘You said –’
‘Dunno.’
‘Dunno.’
‘All right. I-do-not-know.’
‘I can get the tra –’
‘Come on, Dad. . . All right.’
Lizzie handed the phone back to Loretta with an exaggerated sigh. ‘He’s coming to get me. Sorry.’ She wandered out of the room, apparently in search of another biscuit.
‘Miss – er?’
‘Lawson. Loretta Lawson.’ She didn’t like being called Miss, but couldn’t summon up the energy to correct him.
‘Miss Lawson. I’ve told Lizzie I’m coming to collect her. If I leave now I should be in London by – what? Half past seven? I’m sorry to put you to all this trouble.’
‘That’s all right.’ Loretta couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘Shall I give you the address?’
‘Please.’ Neil wrote it down. ‘See you in an hour and a half,’ he said briskly, and the line went dead.
Lizzie reappeared, still looking sulky. ‘I could have got the train,’ she said. ‘It’s a waste of the ticket. And he’ll make me go back to school,’ she added, throwing herself into the armchair she’d previously occupied.
‘To school? Shouldn’t you be there now?’ It had only just occurred to Loretta that term must have sta
rted at least a week before.
‘Yes,’ said Lizzie carelessly, swinging her arms over the sides of the chair with a reckless disregard for Loretta’s furniture. ‘I’m allowed to go back late – I’m supposed to stay at home till I get over it. Felix, that’s my brother, he’s gone back already. He isn’t sensitive.’
Loretta stared glumly at her charge, wondering how to entertain her until Tom Neil arrived. She hadn’t much experience of teenage girls, and this one seemed particularly difficult to deal with. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel sorry for Lizzie, it was just that her mood was clearly unpredictable. Her mind wandered back to Neil, and it occurred to her that he might recognize her from the inquest. She doubted it; he had been so distressed that he probably hadn’t taken in much about the other people in the court-room.
‘Sorry?’ She looked at Lizzie.
‘I was just saying – I don’t want to be rude but have you got anything I could eat? I’m starving.’
‘Yes, I – when did you last have something?’ Loretta felt guilty, thinking this should have occurred to her without prompting.
‘On the train. It was repulsive.’ Lizzie pulled a face, once again reminding Loretta of Sandra.
She thought about the food she’d bought in Sainsbury’s, the fresh pasta and the lollo rosso lettuce, and doubted whether either would interest Lizzie. Then she brightened.
‘How about a pizza? There’s a place round the corner – it’s only five minutes’ walk.’ Time would pass more quickly in a restaurant, she thought, and they’d get back just in time for Tom Neil’s arrival.
Lizzie’s eyes narrowed. ‘All right – but I haven’t got much money.’
‘Leave that to me.’ Loretta thought fleetingly of the cash in Sandra’s suitcase, and wondered what would happen to it. ‘Ready? The bathroom’s upstairs if you –’
‘No thanks.’ Lizzie got to her feet. ‘Where’s my – oh, I remember, I hung it up.’ She went into the hall.
Loretta turned on the answering-machine and moved a small brass fireguard in front of the fire. As an afterthought, she reached over and added a couple more logs.
‘Can we go now?’ Lizzie’s voice sounded from the hall.
‘Coming,’ called Loretta, amazed by the girl’s self-assurance. Had she behaved like this at Lizzie’s age? She didn’t think so; she suspected it was one of the results of private education, of which she heartily disapproved. With a backward glance at the fire to check that the logs had caught, she followed Lizzie into the hall and lifted down her coat.
‘Hello, can you hear me?’ Tom Neil’s voice was distorted by the entryphone.
‘Yes, come up.’ Loretta pressed the button to release the street door. ‘It’s your father,’ she told Lizzie, who was looking grumpy in the doorway of the drawing-room.
She opened the front door of the flat and waited for Tom Neil to appear, listening to his footsteps grow louder as he mounted the stairs. She wrinkled her nose, wondering if he would expect to be offered a drink. She hoped not; Lizzie’s spirits, which had improved considerably with the consumption of a deep-pan pizza and two glasses of Coca-Cola, had deteriorated as soon as the prospect of seeing her father drew near. Loretta stepped forward on to the landing, a rather forced smile on her face.
‘Hi,’ she said, as Neil rounded the bend. He was wearing a Burberry – just like Sandra, she thought.
‘You made good time. We’ve only just –’ She stopped, astonished by the look on his face.
‘You!’ he said accusingly. ‘You were at the inquest!’ He paused on the stairs, and she felt a wave of anger and suspicion cross the space between them.
‘Yes. . .’ she said, unconsciously taking a step back. ‘It was the least I could do,’ she said, plucking the cliché from the air. ‘With missing the funeral,’ she added by way of explanation.
Neil was staring at her. ‘You mean you’re not – I was under the impression you were from the press.’
‘Oh no.’ Suddenly Loretta understood the reason for his hostility. She could see why bereaved relatives might resent the presence of reporters, scribbling away and turning their grief into copy. ‘I sat in the wrong place and everyone assumed . . .’ She realized she was babbling, and turned to Lizzie, who was now behind her.
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me off,’ the girl said, hanging back near the kitchen.
‘Lizzie –’ Neil’s voice softened. He hesitated at the top of the stairs. ‘I thought you’d gone shopping with Jenny’s mother,’ he said, gently accusing.
‘Yes, well, I had to say something, didn’t I?’ Lizzie retorted. ‘Anyway, you’d have had to come to London some time to collect Mum’s bags. Wouldn’t he?’ She looked at Loretta for support.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Lawson, you’ve been put to a lot of trouble,’ Neil said smoothly. ‘I had no idea Sandra had been staying here.’ He advanced into the hall, and Loretta saw he was wearing a suit under his raincoat. ‘Now you’ve told me, I suppose I ought to go and have a look at the damage. Do you know how bad the flood was?’
‘I –’ Loretta goggled at the thought of Neil turning up in Norfolk Gardens and encountering his wife’s tenant. ‘I don’t –’
‘Well –’ Neil was looking at his watch and appeared not to have noticed her consternation. ‘I think it’ll have to wait. I’m going to take this young lady back to school first thing tomorrow.’
‘I told you so,’ Lizzie wailed.
‘And I’d like her in bed at a reasonable hour,’ he finished, ignoring the outburst. ‘You said – my wife’s bags?’ He looked at Loretta politely, all hostility gone.
‘I’ll get them.’ Loretta turned and went into the drawing-room, hearing a muted exchange between father and daughter as she did so. ‘Here they are,’ she said, returning.
‘Let me.’ Neil hurried forward. ‘This is the lot?’
She nodded.
‘You don’t hap –’ Whatever he had been about to say, Neil stopped, apparently thinking better of it. ‘Lizzie, your coat.’
Loretta watched the girl heave on her duffel coat, a mutinous look on her face. ‘Bye, Lizzie,’ she said, suddenly wishing they’d got on better.
‘Bye,’ said Lizzie, dragging her feet as she went to the top of the stairs. ‘Oh –’ She turned. ‘Thanks for taking me to the restaurant.’
‘You’ve been to a restaurant?’ Neil asked, surprised. He started feeling in his pockets. ‘I must owe you some money, Miss Lawson –’
Loretta shook her head violently. ‘It was only a pizza.’
‘If you’re sure. . .’
‘Really.’
‘Well – goodbye.’ Neil held out his right hand.
Loretta shook it, impressed by the firmness of his grip. He released her hand and lifted the bags. She watched him follow his daughter down the stairs, screwing up her face as she watched the suitcase disappear round the bend. She couldn’t help feeling as if she’d handed over an unexploded bomb, and she wondered what Neil would do when he finally discovered the cash. Well, she wasn’t going to admit anything, even if he phoned her – but why should he? There was no reason for him to suspect she’d looked inside. . . Loretta closed the front door and leaned against it for a few seconds, as if she feared the Neils were coming back.
When the phone rang at half past nine she was struggling with a letter to John Tracey, having abandoned all hope of making inroads on her marking before the weekend.
‘I must admit I was rather surprised by your news,’ she had written, thinking this was something of an understatement. ‘But now I’ve got used to the idea I just want to say I hope you’ll both be very happy.’
The letter was proving difficult, and Loretta was glad of the interruption until it occurred to her that the caller might be Robert. Surely not; it must be obvious by now that they were unsuited in all ways but one. . . She balanced her pen on the writing-pad and got up to answer it.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, this is Sally. How are you?’
‘I can’t talk for long,’ Sally informed her. ‘Felicity’s got some sort of stomach bug – I’ve only just managed to get her down. But I wanted to tell you about Sandra –’
‘About Sandra?’ Surely Sally was ringing to get information, not give it? Loretta sank into a chair, confused.
‘I don’t suppose you saw the report of the inquest? I don’t usually read the Telegraph, either – someone happened to leave yesterday’s in my office.’
‘The Telegraph?’
‘Yes. I had a look in the Guardian but they didn’t seem to have it. There wasn’t very much, just a couple of paragraphs. It was mainly about the time of the crash – it happened on New Year’s Eve, apparently, or just after, so the story was whether she died this year or last. Did you manage to speak to Tom Neil?’
Loretta hesitated, wondering where to start. ‘Well, I –’
‘Hang on – I think I can hear Fliss –’ Sally was silent for a few seconds, listening. Loretta’s mind went back to the man next to her on the press bench at the inquest, and she guessed he had supplied the story to the Daily Telegraph. Tom Neil was right, she thought with distaste, journalists of that sort were vultures.
‘No, I think it’s all right – God, they don’t warn you about this sort of thing in ante-natal classes. Listen, Loretta, I’d better be quick – I was at a meeting today, a sort of miniconference on developments in managing drug dependency. I know one of the speakers, he’s quite well-known in his field, and I got talking to him in the lunch break.
‘The point is that he’s the director of a project in Holland Park, a centre that’s trying out a multi-agency approach to working with drug-dependent people who’ve come into contact with the courts. It’s been going for eighteen months and it’s getting excellent results, a very low rate of recidivism.’
Loretta eyes widened; she was unused to social work jargon.
‘And it turns out Sandra used to work for him,’ Sally announced, unable to disguise her triumph at this discovery. ‘That’s where she went when she left Westminster. But she didn’t stay long – at first he said something about a relationship with a client, and then he backtracked like anything and said she left over a policy disagreement. I got the distinct impression there was more to it than that – that she might have even been asked to leave. It explains the business of the health club, doesn’t it? I always thought it was strange, but if she left under a cloud – and getting involved with a client is a pretty big cloud, I can tell you – it’d be just about impossible for her to get a job in social work again.’
