by Frances Vick
‘I . . .’
‘You have a feeling, Claire. An intuition.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you did the right thing by telling James, but I have to say – and don’t blow up – that I understand his exasperation. Child protection is a minefield. And nobody wants to make the wrong call, and what you did, by doing the right thing, and following your intuition, is give that man a potentially huge headache. Why do you think social services will take you seriously? They’ve hardly been covering themselves with glory lately. And what is it about this girl? Claire? Every year I hear this name, and every year it causes you some worry. Is she particularly bright?’
‘I’m not sure. Potentially, I’d say, yes.’
‘But still . . .’
‘I don’t think it’s about her especially. There’s just something – I don’t know – going on, that’s all.’
Norma sighed and looked down at the table for a long time. Claire felt her frustration rise. She’d done the right thing, the brave thing! Why couldn’t anyone see that?
‘Claire. Do you remember when I used to tell you, when you were small, that you should never be a teacher? Yes? Well, I wasn’t being especially serious. You were a child. But still, there was a kernel of truth there. No, No,’ she held up her hand, ‘listen to me now. It’s not that I think for a minute that you’re a bad teacher. Absolutely not. You’re one of the best. Certainly I couldn’t have lasted five minutes in that school. But. Oh, God. More tea?’
‘No, get it out, Mother.’
Norma put her hand – old, thin – on Claire’s wrist. ‘You never toughened up, Claire. You’re too soft. And you can be taken advantage of. And that’s why I was always in two minds about you being a teacher. You’re too trusting, too soft. How can I put it – situations themselves take advantage of you. You are the only person who’s been hearing alarm bells about this particular girl. Why is that?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if that’s true. Her teacher may well have. And teachers miss things all the time. Jade—’
‘What I mean is, is this girl seeking you out for some reason?’
‘No. I don’t think so. I think I’ve just happened to be there—’
‘Have you thought that perhaps you seek her out?’
‘What?’ Claire almost laughed, but Norma looked grim.
‘Perhaps you create situations where you will be called on to save people. There. That’s what I mean.’
‘I don’t know what you mean at all.’ But something novel and painful edged into her mind.
‘Don’t you? All those children that used to come round here when you were small, and you leading them about like Mother Goose. You made it obvious that you wanted to talk to them, and heal them, or whatever. And so they did. And maybe that’s what’s happening with this girl. You started that Christmas Cracker group and made sure she was in with all the other lame ducks. You hang around the playground looking out for the waifs and strays after school. If you’re there, waiting to be needed, then you are needed—’ Norma broke off and coughed. Johnny trotted over and put his paws on her thigh, while Norma waved Claire to the kitchen to get water.
‘Have you been to the doctor’s about that cough yet?’
Norma rolled her eyes. ‘You see what I mean?’
‘No. No I don’t. Have you been to the doctor’s?’
‘Yes I have. And it’s a cough. That’s all it is. But if you get worried, I’ll get worried and I don’t like to be worried. You know what he recommended? Benylin. I’m fine. And this is what I mean, you wait around for a hint of trouble, and then swoop in to help, but you might well be making the problem worse. Just by caring too much.’
Claire furtively wiped her eyes and took a shallow breath. ‘I think the problem with the world is that people don’t care enough,’ she muttered.
‘People care as much as they can, as much as their nature allows them to. And you can’t compensate for others’ lack by caring too much. You have a vision of children, Claire, that sometimes verges on the religious. It’s as if you want to save them from the sin of adulthood.’
‘I know they’re not saints—’
‘Do you? I’m not sure about that.’
There was a long silence then, and neither looked at the other. Johnny whined at the door. The clock ticked.
Claire had intended to stay for the evening but didn’t, and on the drive back to her flat she tried to think about Norma’s words, but full understanding eluded her. Mother really ought to get that cough looked at again. She was thinner too.
* * *
Tuesday morning, and Claire had been in school since seven, reacquainting herself with Lorna’s school file, as well as Carl’s. What a catalogue of disaster that family was. Dyslexia, dyspraxia, ADHD, everything. No mention of a father, a grandmother in prison, Carl’s colourful school career – the stealing, the exclusions, the unfortunate fire during harvest festival – was all there, as was Lorna’s mistake with the erasers and a few little skirmishes in the playground. Nothing on the mother’s ‘partner’, but Claire was sure there’d be mentions of him in the court reports in the local paper. She must find out his surname and check. And what about the neighbour – what was his surname? Oh, why hadn’t she asked?
By the time she was sitting in James’ office, sipping weak tea, she was exhausted. James was studiously ignoring her, frowning at his computer screen and clicking angrily. At ten there was a knock on the door, it opened with no pause, and Lorna was propelled into the room by Ruth, the office manager. Lorna’s hair was pinned up in messy bunches and her cheeks were suspiciously pink. A smear of lipstick, inexpertly rubbed into the skin. She smiled happily and arranged herself on a swivel chair. Claire sat on her left, James frowned behind his desk by the window.
‘Miss.’ She nodded to Claire, and turned, beaming, to James. ‘Hello Mr Clarke.’
‘Lorna.’ James finally turned away from the screen. ‘Lorna. Would you like a glass of water?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘Miss Penny – can you make sure the door’s closed? Lorna, there’s nothing to worry about, but I’d like to have a bit of a chat. About home. Is that OK?’
The girl giggled nervously. ‘Home!’
‘Yes. Just a – Miss Penny? Shut, is it? – few questions. You’re not in trouble, don’t worry.’
Lorna glanced at Claire, worried now. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Nothing, Lorna. Nothing. Just – well, you remember when Miss Penny took you home the other day? Well, after that we had a talk with your mum, just to find out why she didn’t come to collect you—’
‘I know.’ Again that nervous grin. Claire wanted to put a comforting hand on her knee, but didn’t.
‘Well, then your mum spoke with Miss Penny about, well, about some of the things that you’ve said about home? About your step-dad?’
‘What’s a step-dad?’
‘Pete. He means Pete, Lorna,’ murmured Claire.
‘What about Pete?’
‘Well’ – James cut his eyes at Claire, annoyed, helpless – ‘she said that you told her that Pete has . . . done some things to you?’
‘What things?’ Lorna’s face was scrupulously blank. Behind the lipstick swathes, her cheeks were sallow.
‘Well, suppose you tell me.’ He smiled tiredly at her.
‘Dunno what you mean.’ She shifted uncomfortably, and her fingers pulled at the nubby fabric of the chair seat. One hand strayed to Claire’s chair next to her, and Claire took it.
‘Lorna, can you tell me if Pete, or anyone else, has done anything to . . . hurt you, or make you feel frightened?’ asked Claire gently.
There was a pause. Lorna stared at James’ ‘World’s Best Dad’ coffee mug. ‘No.’
James blinked significantly at Claire and clenched his jaw. ‘Nothing, Lorna?’ he asked.
‘No.’ The girl's eyes were wide now, and focused on him. ‘No, nothing.’
‘And what about a neig
hbour?’ Claire asked gently.
‘What?’
‘Your mum told me that you said he asked you to do a dance?’ Claire murmured.
‘Oh! No!’ Lorna laughed and swung her legs.
‘Lorna. If there is anything happening at home – anything that you don’t like, that makes you sad or, or scared – you must tell me. Us. At the school. Do you understand?’ Claire reached out and touched one jiggling knee.
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘You must, Lorna.’
The girl looked confused, but stopped moving and nodded solemnly. ‘I will.’
There was a small silence. James drummed his fingers on the desk and raised his eyebrows at Claire. ‘Miss Penny will take you back to your class now, Lorna. OK?’
‘OK.’ She picked up her bag, adjusted her hair and hopped pertly off the seat.
Outside the door she slipped her hand in Claire’s. ‘That was weird.’
‘Lorna? I meant what I said in there – if anything happens at home, you will tell me?’
The girl giggled and swung their joined hands.
‘You must, Lorna.’
‘Oh I will. I saw you at the shops. On Saturday. You were with an old lady.’
‘Yes. That’s my mother.’
‘You’ve got a mum, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s weird.’ Her steps had slowed and her bag dragged on the ground. ‘Is she poorly?’
‘Bit of a cold.’
‘She looked poorly. My mum’s a bit poorly, too.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Dunno. She was in bed all weekend. She fell or something.’
Claire felt a little stab of anxiety. ‘Fell?’
‘Brrrr! It’s freezing, isn’t it?’
‘I hope she didn’t hurt herself too badly. When she fell. Is, er, is Pete looking after her?’ Claire asked carefully.
‘No. He’s not there. They had a fight. Or he got angry.’ The girl shrugged. Her steps had slowed to a near standstill.
‘What did he get angry about?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’ Claire stood still. Her heart pounded in every corner of her body. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. All the stuff you asked today. I think.’
‘Lorna, do you know Pete’s name?’
‘It’s Pete, silly!’
‘No, I mean his last name.’
‘Marshall. Why?’
Peter Marshall. She’d definitely read that name somewhere, or heard it. ‘Oh, I just wondered, that’s all. Lorna, remember what I’ve said, really. Anything happens, anything at all, you must tell me, us, at the school. And, look, I’m going to write my phone number down, here. And this is my number at the weekends, just in case.’
‘You’ve got two houses?’
‘Sort of. Look, this number for the week, and this for the weekends, all right? Keep it safe. And, Lorna? Don’t show it to Pete, all right?’
The girl nodded solemnly, and then suddenly sped up, and ran the last few steps. She gave a brief wave, and was gone.
At hometime, Claire saw Nikki loitering in the playground. Was she limping? No. Maybe. Too difficult to tell. Claire couldn’t see her face too well, but it could be bruised. Had she been beaten for speaking about Lorna to Claire? But wouldn’t Lorna have said something, when they were alone, walking to the class together, she wouldn’t have just said she’d been in bed. Lorna trusted her, she knew it. Of course, in the meeting, Lorna had said that everything was fine, but then, that’s what abused children do so often, isn’t it? They pretend to themselves and others, they try to rationalise what happens to them. Peter Marshall. Peter Marshall. She watched Nikki and Lorna leave, and headed to the office.
She tucked herself away in the corner with a notebook and a red pen, tapping furtively at the keyboard, and making sure the screen was turned away from Ruth. Peter Marshall. Yes, he was the star of the magistrates’ court – benefits fraud, possession of a controlled substance . . . what’s this? Fined for having a dangerous dog. He’d spent some time in prison for Actual Bodily Harm – against who? His ex-girlfriend and mother of his twin boys. Claire noted all this down in her neat, quick handwriting, and put the notebook in her cardigan pocket. Best to stop there. If she stayed on the computer much longer, Ruth would begin to ask questions.
‘Ruth, that nice man, the school liaison officer—’
‘What?’
‘The policeman, the one who comes to talk about safety? He had to come in to talk to Feras once.’
‘Oh him. Yeah?’
‘Do we have his telephone number on file anywhere?’ Claire asked oh-so-casually. ‘I want to keep it with me just in case you’re not here to find it one day.’
This mustn’t be one of Ruth’s sharpest days, because she didn’t ask any questions, and didn’t seem to be interested, but waved vaguely at the crowded corkboard behind her. ‘It’s on there somewhere. Jeff Jones. Something like that.’
Claire copied the number carefully into her notebook and left the office before Ruth rediscovered her curiosity.
* * *
‘Well, make the call yourself, Claire, if that’s what you want to do.’ Norma was sunk into the sofa, a cushion behind her head, her eyes closed.
‘You don’t think I should.’
‘I think you need to do something before you lose your mind. Can you get me some paracetamol?’
Claire wandered into the kitchen, biting her lips. It simply wasn’t good enough. After hometime, James had called her into his office to tell her in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t take her concerns further. He’d even suggested that she needed a holiday.
‘. . . a proper break. Everything will seem a lot clearer with a few good nights’ sleep under your belt. Bit of sun.’
‘Bit of sun,’ she muttered to herself, rattling the paracetamol.
‘What was that?’ Norma sounded amused.
‘Nothing.’
‘Talking to yourself? Sign of madness.’
‘I think I’ll have a sherry. Or something. Do you want anything?’
‘Not for me, but there’s brandy in the parlour, and some horrible Spanish thing Derek brought round. You’re welcome to take that away with you.’
Claire stood blankly in the kitchen. If she did call it in to the police, or social services, and Pete got angry . . . what then? He has no problem hitting a woman, surely he would hit a child. She remembered Lorna’s thin frame running to class; that little girl would be made to pay for it. If there was anything happening at home – and there must be something, Claire could feel it – Lorna would suffer for talking . . .
‘Claire? Paracetamol?’
‘Coming. Sorry.’
10
Over the next few terms, Claire watched for Lorna shuffling round the edge of the playground, hurrying down the corridor, staring at the floor in the lunch queue. She was withdrawn, yes. Quiet too. But then, that wasn’t unusual, certainly nothing she could bother the police liaison officer with. Claire kept an eye on the court notices for mentions of a Peter Marshall, but he seemed to be staying out of trouble. No, there was nothing concrete to go on, no new evidence, and she hadn’t even had a conversation with Lorna in months, but she couldn’t rid herself of the nagging feeling that the girl was in trouble, she was unsafe. Claire was certain of it.
And over spring and into the summer months, Norma grew weaker. She kept on working, but her cough wouldn’t go away, along with the bouts of breathlessness, and the stealthy despair, the frightened irritation with her sudden disabilities.
‘It’s so stupid, Claire, I know, but I can’t get up the stairs, not to the top floor. I thought a bed on the sofa, but all the blankets are in the linen closet upstairs.’
And Claire would drive over, telling herself not to drive too quickly: Mother mustn’t know she was panicked. But fear was etched into the folds of Norma’s face now too, and Claire could sense her thoughts – Can’t get up to the top floor today – what abou
t next week? Will I be able to keep up with the garden? Claire would arrange her own face into the placid, faintly humorous mask she wore at work, and put all her effort into reassurance.
‘Did the doctor give you a puffer? Well, he can’t think it’s serious if he only gave you an aspirator, can he? No x-ray? No? Well, that proves it. You’re pushing seventy. And I know that’s not old by our standards, but it is a time when your pace slows. Accept it, relax a little.’ But Norma, lean and tense as a spring, could not and did not relax, but rather raged, quietly, within herself, exhausting herself even more.
And so Claire spent more and more time at her childhood home. First just dropping in after work each day, to take Johnny for a walk. He was placid enough to deal with. Then, later – but not much later – she stayed to cook, coaxing Mother to eat just a little bit more. Sometimes she’d stay over and make breakfast for them both before they climbed into Norma’s immaculate old Volvo and headed to work. Norma dropped Claire off, just a few streets away at the gates of the school, before swinging the car around and heading off in the opposite direction to her own school on the other side of town. She promised Claire that she was taking it as easy as possible.
‘I’ve got my lozenges. Got my will in my back pocket in case I give up the ghost on the way.’ And Claire tried to laugh along, tried to hide the worry in her face. If only she’d go back to the surgery, or see another doctor, at least. Avuncular Dr Gordon – he’d always been a good GP, but still, he could have missed something.
Claire occasionally asked, ‘Why not go private? See what all the fuss is about?’ But Norma, normally so level-headed, claimed that seeing another doctor would mean she was blacklisted by the practice. ‘It’s not true, Mother. It really isn’t, that would be illegal.’ Norma, pretending to be joking, but now so fogged by fear, replied that once you paid, they always found something wrong with you so you’d have to keep on paying. ‘I’d rather live in blissful ignorance for free, Claire.’
A thin, unbroken rattle culminating in a sharp cough like a dog’s bark; the sound followed Claire around the house, the harsh, pneumatic breath of the aspirator settling it, but only briefly. At night Norma slept propped up on three pillows, the aspirator at hand, along with a book of crossword puzzles to pass the time when she couldn’t sleep, but stayed awake, spitting phlegm into tissues she made sure to hide. And still she went to work every day.
