by Frances Vick
Claire smiled. ‘And where would I be moving away to?’
The girl hesitated. ‘Where would you like to move away to?’
‘Oh, the seaside I think.’
‘There, then. That’s where you’re moving to.’ Lorna nodded.
Claire smiled. She was such a sweet little girl. Inventive. ‘How is school at the moment?’
‘I was a villager again this time in the play.’
‘Oh, well—’
‘But being a villager is crap.’
‘Oh, don’t use language like that, Lorna.’
‘You coming back to school?’
‘Oh yes. Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Well, I’m having to look after someone at the moment. Someone who’s ill. When they . . . get better, I’ll be able to come back.’
‘Who?’ Lorna demanded. Claire looked down, took some breaths. She felt cold, sticky fingers worming their way into her closed palm. ‘I know who,’ whispered Lorna. ‘Your little girl. Or boy. They’ve got the flu. That’s bad. I had that. A week ago.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah. I thought I was going to die!’ One bitten fingernail gently stroked Claire’s palm. ‘But I got better. I’m fine now. Look,’ and she pirouetted perilously close to a tower of cut-price gin.
‘Who are you here with, Lorna?’ Claire smiled.
‘Pete. Mum.’
‘Carl?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’s he getting on?’
The girl smiled oddly. ‘He’s not very clever, Carl.’
‘Well, we can’t all be.’
‘No.’ Lorna nodded sagely.
Claire looked at her watch. ‘I’d better be getting on, Lorna.’
‘I’ll see you again, Miss.’ And she skipped off, suddenly.
On the way out, Claire remembered mint imperials and had to go back. Lorna was a few aisles over, and Claire waved, but she mustn’t have seen her, because she didn’t wave back. Pete was with her, Claire could tell it was him, it must be him, and Lorna, her head cocked to the side, smiling, was telling him something, some fey little story more than likely, and she laughed, a clear, guileless giggle. It made Claire smile to hear it. But Pete didn’t laugh, and Lorna, small and shivering in her thin school cardigan, began to cry as an angry Pete, inches away from her face, began to shout at her, close enough for his spittle to hit her cheeks. Shoppers slowed to watch, swapping concerned frowns. Carl, a few metres away, absently scratched his balls through his tracksuit bottoms.
Claire was about to step forward when a large woman, quivering with indignation, got there before her, and told Pete to stop. Pete turned his wrath on her then, and the scene degenerated into the kind of hysteria normally reserved for daytime reality shows. The woman was screaming that he shouldn’t talk to a kiddy that way. Pete screamed that she should mind her own fucking business, and eventually a security guard placed himself between them both, while onlookers smirked and shook their heads. Claire looked for Lorna, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Back in the car, she put her head on her knees and swallowed saliva soured with adrenaline. Her hands were shaking as she put the key in the ignition. She had to do something. She would do something. She’d make the call to social services as soon as she got home.
But when she got back, she found Norma sprawled on the stairs. She’d hit her head on the bannister on the way down, and she didn’t immediately recognise Claire running to her; she tried to fight her off with her bird-like limbs. What was she doing on the stairs anyway?
‘I had to use the lavatory,’ Norma whimpered.
‘Perhaps we should, I don’t know, think about—’
‘Getting a commode? I am not that far gone, Claire!’
‘But, we have to be practical—’
‘I don’t want to be practical. I want to be normal again!’ Norma wept, weakly pounding her loose fists on her thin knees.
It took a long time to calm her down. A long time to persuade her to take her pills and go to sleep. They never got round to watching It’s a Wonderful Life after all.
* * *
The next night, Claire, buoyed by brandy, called PC Jones and left a slightly rambling message – she was terribly worried about a girl in the school, not one of her own children, but still . . . accusations . . . a neighbour . . . saw something terrible at the supermarket . . . can you call me back? Please?
He called back in the following morning, just as Claire, suffering an unaccustomed hangover, was on her third cup of coffee.
‘I really shouldn’t be calling at all, but, Miss Penny, you sounded so distraught, I just wanted to put your mind at rest.’ Yes, Pete had had a few convictions, but there were no concerns about his behaviour with children. She needn’t worry. He wasn’t a violent man.
‘But I saw, in the paper, something like bodily harm? On his girlfriend or something?’
‘Oh, that. Well, Miss Penny, let me tell you that Mr Marshall’s ex is very much on our radar, and believe me, she gives back what she gets and then some. I wouldn’t be surprised if, well, not that she made it up, but . . .’
‘He was so violent towards Lorna, yesterday, though. I saw it myself—’
‘Violent?’ His voice held a frown. ‘Violent how?’
‘Oh, he was screaming at her. It was terrible, really.’
‘And did he hit her? Put his hands on her at any point?’ Claire could hear him reaching for a notebook, heard his pen click.
‘N-no. A woman, another shopper, she intervened. And then the security people talked to them.’ She heard the pen click again. He wasn’t going to write anything down.
‘Well, we don’t get involved with arguments, Miss Penny.’
‘But it’s emotional abuse, surely? It proves that he’s a bully at the very least?’
‘There’s been no report to us about it. Do you want to make a report?’
‘I-I suppose not.’
‘And, when she was in school, has the girl ever said anything to you about Mr Marshall? Made any accusations?’
‘Well, Lorna’s mother said that Lorna had accused him of all sorts of things. And the neighbour too. But when we asked Lorna she didn’t tell us anything, no.’
‘And the mother, what did she say exactly?’
‘She said that Lorna was . . . well, she said that she was a liar, but . . .’ She trailed off. She knew how she sounded.
‘Miss Penny, I don’t for a minute think you did the wrong thing by calling, but children do make things up. You know what it’s like, they watch something on TV, or the internet. Or a soap opera. And before you know it, it’s happened to them. If it’s something concrete, then I can take a look at it, but as it stands . . .’
‘I understand.’
‘I just wanted to put your mind at rest, Miss Penny. I know things aren’t good at the moment, and, well, Mrs Penny is poorly. My girl’s just gone into the sixth form, so I heard about it. It’s a difficult time. For you, I mean.’
He thinks I’m a bit potty, Claire thought. He thinks the strain has got to me. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.
‘Take care, Miss Penny,’ PC Jones said gently, and put the phone down.
Norma was often disoriented, and plagued with imaginary irritants. Unopened windows banged, silent clocks ticked, phantom phone calls.
‘I heard the phone. Another one of those calls with no-one speaking.’
‘It’s just one of those silly PPI cold claims calls. Just don’t bother with the phone. If it’s that important they’ll call back or leave a message.’
‘There was someone there though – I heard them breathing.’
The community nurse said this was natural.
‘She’s worried that she’ll go in the night. Without having a chance to say goodbye. So her brain keeps her awake with all sorts of worries,’ she murmured. ‘That’s normal. A lot of them have the same trouble towards the end.’
The nurse, the GP, the palliative care team, every
one seemed to have a grasp on what Norma thought, what she needed, wanted, what she feared; except Claire. She was on the outside of this circle, unable to find a gap in the fence.
‘Carers need a lot of support at this time as well – are you getting the support you need?’
The trouble was, Claire didn’t know what support she needed. What was the point of support anyway? It wasn’t going to take any of this away. How could she explain to a stranger that what she wanted was everyone else to stop, to go away, and leave Claire to care for her alone? But it was beyond her, she knew that she’d fail without even beginning to try. And the professionals know it too – all of them. They were here to paper over her ineptitude with their expert kindness, their cheerful home modifications and their professional sympathy.
Finally, Norma was asked if she wanted to go to the hospice. A single room had opened up, they said. That means someone died today, thought Claire.
‘Norma? My love?’ the nurse whispered. ‘The choice is yours. You might want to stay at home, but there is a room . . .’
Norma spoke for the first time that day. Her voice was firm. ‘I don’t want to die here. Don’t want Claire to have the memory of that.’
‘Mother – you’re not going to—’ began Claire, and was checked by a warning but sympathetic glance from the nurse. ‘I mean, you have to think of what you want. What you want is what I want.’
Norma gazed at her for a long time. ‘I want a little turn around the garden. With you. Then I’ll go.’
‘Right, you two do that and I’ll go ahead and meet you there – Norma? You’ll go with Claire? Will you be comfortable in the car?’
Norma’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Comfortable, Lucy? On my way to the grave?’
‘Mother—’
‘Claire, I know Norma and her sense of humour by now, don’t worry! I’ll see you there. And I’ll have a cup of tea waiting.’ The nurse extended a hand and took Norma’s fingers in hers. Norma squeezed back. Claire, envious, looked away.
And so they took a walk around the garden in the glorious spring sunshine. The magnolia tree was blooming and blossom dotted the lawn. Norma trailed her fingers through the fresh, live leaves, and they didn’t say a word until Norma tired and they had to sit on the little bench by the cherry tree.
‘I’ll miss this. I shall. Miss this.’ Norma reached out and plucked blossom from the cherry tree, crushed the petals and sniffed her fingers. ‘How strange. Passing strange.’
* * *
At ten o'clock that night there was a phone call. Claire snatched up the receiver, but there was no-one there, no computer clicking of a call centre, no noise at all. She put the phone down, but when she woke up in the morning, she found that the line was blocked. Whoever had called last night hadn’t put their receiver down. She could hear a television blaring, dogs barking.
‘If anyone’s there, please put the phone down!’ Claire shouted. ‘I need this line to stay open. My mother is ill. I need to use the phone!’
The other phone was abruptly put down.
When Claire called the hospice with trembling fingers, they told her that Norma had died an hour before.
‘We tried to call, but you were engaged, and we didn’t have a mobile number. Lucy just got in the car to let you know. Miss Penny, it was very peaceful. Lucy will tell you the details, but I want you to know. She went very peacefully. She was a great lady. I don’t know if you know, but my two daughters went to the girls’ school, and, well, I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but she was such a wonderful teacher. Just, wonderful.’
* * *
Condolence cards came from friends and relatives. A card came from Norma’s school, from Claire’s school. And another, unstamped and shoved through the letter-box, dirty in the folds, as if it had been carried around for a long time. A cartoon cat pegged to a washing line. Hang in There! in Comic Sans. Lorna had signed it with a flourish of hearts. This was the card Claire kept.
12
After the funeral, after everyone had come back for sandwiches and tea, expressed their admiration for Norma, and asked-what-they-could-do-to-help, Claire sat alone in the empty house, not moving, not making a noise.
Derek had given her a bereavement support leaflet.
‘Awfully good people. Very nice. Helped Pippa no end when she lost her father.’ It lay in front of her on the coffee table, tea-stained, amongst the sandwich crumbs: ‘We offer a buddy service – one of our volunteers can help you get out and about again by accompanying you to one of our Bereavement Network mixer events held on the first Tuesday of every month at the Jubilee Halls.’ Claire had shuddered, but dutifully circled the number and pinned the leaflet to the noticeboard in the kitchen.
‘That’s the only way, Claire. Onwards and upwards, and listen, if me and Pippa can do anything – you might want to thin out some of this furniture . . .’
Lucy, the nurse Norma had been with when she died, had offered to stay behind to help, but Claire told her no. There wasn’t much to do, it wasn’t a job for two people. But here she was, hours later, and she still hadn’t stirred herself to clear up the glasses, the plates, the wreath that Derek had taken from the crematorium and placed, oddly, in the empty fireplace. When she did begin, she moved so slowly, and her mind wasn’t on the job; cards were put in the cutlery drawer and she dropped a glass into the bin. Strange. She’d felt all right at the funeral itself – a brisk affair. Claire had picked the right music, the right readings, chosen the right coffin and gone with the good undertakers. Afterwards, she’d been attentive to the guests, providing just enough alcohol to be sociable, but not enough to encourage the retelling of frivolous or maudlin anecdotes; she’d spoken practically about the future and had accepted assurances that she had done whatever a daughter could have done. It was only now, now that there was nothing else to do, that time slowed down, and the quiet of the house resolved itself into a series of pointers marking her isolation. The ticking of the boiler. The rattle of the bathroom window in the wind. The slight creak of Mother’s door, as it opened to an empty room.
She knocked a glass off the kitchen table, and, thoughtlessly, reached to pick it up with her bare hands. Little shards of crystal were driven deep into the cushion of her palm. It took her half an hour to prise them all out with a darning needle.
* * *
The next few days turned into the next few weeks, and for the first time in her life, Claire didn’t want to go to work. Her obliging doctor told her that he was happy to sign as many stress-related sick notes as she required, and so she drifted about most days, standing blank-faced before books in the library, and buying over-packaged meals for one from Tesco. Sometimes she’d find herself on the other side of the town, with no memory of having walked there, wandering about unfamiliar housing estates and sitting on squat little benches in dirty recreation areas, trying to get her bearings.
It was an odd, dreamlike time. She felt lobotomised, tranquillised. Nothing mattered. She was wiped clean, hollowed out. The only time it lifted was when she allowed herself a drink or two before bed. That seemed to give her some sense of the ground beneath her feet, some feeling of attachment to the world. She could care about what she saw on TV at least. She didn’t drink during the day, but sometimes wondered why she didn’t.
On one of her blank perambulations around the city, she found herself on a dimly familiar street. It was early September, now, but still warm. Most of the white, pebble-dashed prefabs had a window or two open, and music, TV and conversation pooled in the streets. St George’s Cross flags drooped out of upper windows, and the streets seemed to go on for ever, curving round to form yet another line of identical houses, identical flags. Very faintly, Claire could make out fields in the distance, as the estate petered out into scrubland. Now she knew where she was: this was the Beacon Hill estate, and Claire had seen it only once, the evening she’d driven Lorna home. Strangely, the thought that she was near Lorna made her happy, lent her some small strength.
&nb
sp; She passed a group of men sitting on a sofa in the front yard of one of the terraced houses, watching football on a TV propped up on a wheelie bin. They called out to her, but she nervously ignored them and kept walking. At the end of the street she turned right, saw that it ended abruptly with a row of lock-up garages, so she turned back, walking quickly now, determined to find her way out of this maze. But all the streets were so similar, and there were no landmarks, pubs, phone boxes – anything – to remind her of where she’d been before.
An ugly, wiry dog started trotting beside her, pausing when she paused, matching her pace exactly; an absurd accompaniment. She was near to the house with the men in the yard again, and she crossed over the road, so as not to pass too closely, but the dog chose that moment to run across and bark continuously at a terrier curled at the base of the bin. A Staffordshire cross charged out of the open door and propped itself up on the front gate, snarling. The men in the yard – large men, in strained T-shirts – shouted, frustrated at the interruption, and all eyes turned towards the interloper dog, and, by extension, Claire, frozen with self-consciousness on the opposite pavement.
The angry dogs snapped at each other, and another huge beast hurled itself against the inside of the house window, making the wheelie bin judder. The TV was only just saved from falling.
‘Get that fucking dog out of the road!’ shouted one of the men.
‘It’s not my dog!’ Claire managed.
‘Well move the thing!’
Claire snapped her fingers at the dog. Incredibly, it stopped barking and trotted placidly over to her side of the street, but then the Staffordshire cross vaulted the gate and ran towards them, all teeth, saliva and purpose. Claire let out a tiny moan of terror as it collided with her shins, knocking her to the floor, and ran over her to get to the small dog, hiding behind her, but still yapping bravely. She curled herself up into a ball, trying to protect her face, feeling the dog's breath near her hair, certain that she was going to die. But then, suddenly, it choked, and a glob of spittle landed on her closed eye. A slim man with an oddly protruding pot belly had the dog by the collar, and was heaving it off her, calling, ‘Carl! Carl! Come here and get your fucking animal!’
