by Frances Vick
‘I’m not very tidy.’ Tears were shining again.
‘Oh, don’t worry, we can get this all cleared up in a jiffy.’
‘I’m messy. I’m a lot of trouble.’ A tear dropped off her lower lashes.
Claire took her firmly by the shoulders, and dipped down to meet her eyes. ‘You’re not any trouble at all. You’re not! You’re a lovely, sweet little girl!’
‘I can’t do anything right.’
‘That’s not true! Lorna, Lorna, look at me.’ She pushed up the girl’s chin with firm fingers. ‘You’re a very capable girl, and I’m very proud to know you!’
‘You don’t mean that. You’re just being nice.’ But she sounded hopeful, and peered out from under her hair, shyly.
‘I most certainly do! Listen, let’s take your lovely picnic and have a walk on the beach. You’re right, it’s not too cold. It’ll do my old bones good to have a stroll.’
‘You’re not old! You’re beautiful and young young young!’ The girl laughed.
‘OK, look, I’ll tidy up. I will! What do you have to do?’
‘We have some spray, here? It smells of lemon. So, you get one of these scrubbers . . . spray the table . . . and . . . give it a wipe. That’s all.’
Lorna smeared Nutella and antibacterial spray in tentative half moons ‘Like this?’
‘Yes – but I think once the sponge gets a bit dirty, you have to wring it out again so things stay clean.’
Lorna wandered to the sink and splashed the sponge under a cold tap. She slapped it back down on the table. The brown smears turned to streams. ‘It’s going on the floor now though.’
Claire leaped forward with kitchen roll to mop up the puddles. Lorna sighed with satisfaction.
‘And now I’ve cleaned up, I can pack the picnic! I made chocolate and jam sandwiches, and a cocktail of juice.’ She waved a Coke bottle filled with murky-looking liquid.
‘Lovely,’ said Claire, thinking longingly of the fresh ham and vine tomatoes Lorna had left in the fridge. ‘Let’s get a move on, before it decides to rain.’
‘Oh it won’t rain,’ Lorna said firmly. ‘Today is going to be perfect.’
But it did rain.
* * *
Lorna didn’t look for shells that day, or make castles, or draw hearts and flowers with a stick on the sand. Today she ran about on the beach like a mad thing, scooping up handfuls of shingle, flinging it, shrieking, at the turbid sea. Her boots slapped and crunched on the shore, and the wind carried odd tendrils of sounds – singing, laughing – to Claire, who huddled nearer the cliffs, away from the oily-looking water. The wind was fierce down here, coming in low, viscous swathes, and burrowing into ears, eyes, between buttons and up sleeves. God knows how the girl could stand it. There she was, coat off now, dancing in the waves, soaked to the knees, screaming and throwing stones. Happy. She’s just happy. Claire rubbed at her chapped knuckles and stamped her feet in her boots to keep warm. A wave soaked Lorna’s trousers. Still she laughed, waved. Claire waved back.
‘Lorna, put your coat on!’
But Lorna, smiling, shook her head and said something, but the wind whipped the words away. She stamped, splashing sandy water in her eyes, and whirled, singing, until she collapsed in a hysterical heap, choking with laughter, the sea lapping around her soaked jeans.
Claire hurried over. ‘Lorna, seriously, you’ll catch your death!’
‘I am cold.’ She was shivering suddenly.
‘Oh Lord, I should have brought some towels, or spare clothes. Come here! Oh Lord, you’re soaked through!’
Lorna’s teeth were chattering now, and her face was pale, jaundiced looking.
‘It’s beautiful, the sea,’ she murmured.
‘It is, but it’s cold. Let’s get back home and get you warmed up.’
‘No, no. Not yet, let’s go and have a drink at that café.’
Claire hesitated. Going to a café together was very public. ‘Lorna, you’re too cold, really.’
‘I don’t want to go yet, please! I won’t stay on the beach, but can we go to the café? It looks so warm. If we go there I promise I’ll go home without any fuss.’
Claire gave in. They’d have to be seen together at some point. She couldn’t keep the girl cooped up at home all the time, it wasn’t fair. ‘All right. But you have to have something warm. A hot chocolate.’
‘And something to eat, too.’ Lorna held up the bag with the sandwiches. ‘They’re soaked.’
20
The Tiffin Bar was an unprepossessing cement cube with a mural painted on the sides and back, a sunset, with leaping dolphins, now peeling and scabrous. Pressed against the window was a large artificial Christmas tree, and fairy lights were strung about the counter. There was only one other customer: a blonde woman in sunglasses, hunched over her phone. A wet Labrador dripped onto the lino beside her. The hush was oppressive – you could even hear the tap tap of the woman’s nails on the table, the panting of the dog. Without a word or a glance at each other, Lorna and Claire began to back out, but just then a woman emerged from the kitchen, so they took the table nearest the door, smiled fixedly at the laminated menus, and, both suddenly nervous, squeezed each other’s fingers.
‘It’s all right,’ Claire whispered, not really knowing what she meant. ‘It’s OK. You just order whatever you’d like.’
‘Can you do it for me?’
‘Of course.’
Tap tap tap went the woman’s nails. The dog snuffled and, from behind the counter, the radio was suddenly turned up a little louder. Claire and Lorna relaxed, sagged against the Formica seats, and giggled.
‘That was weird!’ said Lorna. ‘Wasn’t that weird? I got all shy.’
‘Well, I suppose – oh, I don’t know. We’re all a bit shy sometimes, aren’t we,’ Claire answered shakily.
Lorna peered at the woman with the dog. ‘She looks weird.’
‘Shhhh!’
‘She does though. Look at her boots.’
Claire gave it a few seconds. The woman was wearing fringed, wedged cowboy boots in clashing green and turquoise. Skinny jeans, slightly baggy at the knees now, were stuffed into the tops. She’d put her phone down and was reading a hardcover book with moons and rainbows on the cover – Women Who Run With the Wolves: A Goddess’s Guide to Life. Claire smirked, immediately felt guilty, and put on a serious face for Lorna.
‘I think she looks very individual.’
The dog perked up, and lumbered over to them. Lorna immediately put out her hand to it, making a clicking sound in her throat, but the woman, without looking up, called it back sharply, and the dog about-turned, sighing, and curled up in its puddle again.
‘Now then, what will you be having? Hot chocolate, on a day like this?’ The waitress beamed at Lorna. Lorna stared at the tabletop.
‘Yes, two hot chocolates. And, cheese sandwiches,’ said Claire.
‘You’ll want a hot meal? On a day like this?’ The waitress’s forehead puckered; she seemed concerned. Claire caved.
‘Yes, yes that’s a much better idea. L— Lovey? What would you like?’
‘Chips and egg,’ muttered the girl.
‘And for me too. And some bread and butter?’
The waitress smiled, collected their menus, and on the way back to the kitchen, stumbled against the Labrador, now stretched out in the aisle. Its owner looked up. She had a handsome profile, if a little haggard. the skin just beginning to wattle about the neck. Her ringed fingers snatched at the dog’s collar and pulled it further towards the table. Words were exchanged, but Claire couldn’t tell if they were friendly or not, and when the waitress left, she saw the woman poke the dog firmly in the chest with one pointed boot. Her voice was louder than the radio.
‘Stay there nicely, or no cuddles!’
It was a silly voice, thought Claire; a voice designed to carry . . . a voice that thought it was musical, but instead rang with all the beauty of cheap jewellery. As if she’d spoken out loud, the woman sud
denly looked straight at her. Claire blushed, and smiled. The woman flashed her teeth back, and shook her head.
‘Dogs! Worse than children! Oh, except your little one, I’m sure she’s a delight! Aren’t you, Missy?’
Lorna kept her eyes stubbornly on the tabletop. Claire could see her jaw clenching.
‘She’s a little bit timid of dogs, that’s all. A little shy,’ Claire apologised.
‘Oh, she couldn’t be with Benji! No-one can be, he won’t let them, will you? Will you?’ She poked at the disinterested dog. ‘Go and trot over there, Benji, and make friends with that lovely little girl!’
Lorna stared wildly at Claire. ‘Tell her to stop talking to me!’ she muttered.
Claire stroked her head with one hand and warded off the dog with the other.
The woman shrugged. ‘All right. Benji, come here. Come here, I said!’ And the dog, who had advanced only a couple of inches, lay back down, relieved. The woman ostentatiously turned her back on them, and took up her book again.
Claire and Lorna ate their food, the coldness emanating from the woman with the dog preventing them from speaking to each other. Stupid of Claire to make a fuss about that dog; the woman might remember her from that, and that would make her remember Lorna. Claire watched the girl squirt ketchup in the yolk of her gelatinous egg, then sop white bread in it. Something would have to be done about her table manners, as well as her eating habits. All that junk food crammed into the cupboards back at the house. At the supermarket, Claire had been weak; she’d made Lorna stay in the car, alone, while Claire shopped, because it wouldn’t do for anyone to see them together in such a crowded place, with cameras and everything. She’d compensated by buying all the sugary rubbish that Lorna loved; but she couldn’t go on living on Pop-Tarts and bags of crisps. Her skin was sallow, the nose overlaid with tiny pinprick blackheads. No ten-year-old should have bad skin. But then, once the weather was better, once she got some sun, and got used to eating fruit . . .
Again, that little inner voice piped up, a jeering voice – And then what? What are you going to do, Claire? Live happily ever after? Pass her off as your daughter? What are you going to do? You can’t keep this up for ever. All someone has to do is link the missing girl with the teacher who didn’t come back to work – the worryingly obsessive teacher, the lonely, grief-stricken teacher, who’d gone a bit potty – and it’s all over, Claire. And that’s the best option; what if Pete finds you first?
Outside, the rain lashed the windows and rattled the sign outside.
‘Not fit for dogs,’ murmured the waitress.
The blonde woman shut her book with a snap and shoved it into a large patchwork shoulder bag. The dog, sighing, clambered up and trotted to the door with her, hesitated, and then stoically walked out into the rain before it was dragged out.
‘Hope she’s got a car,’ the waitress said as she collected Lorna’s smeared plate. ‘Not a day for walking.’
‘No.’
‘You just here for the day, then?’ The waitress wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Up from Truro,’ Claire answered with reasonable truth.
‘Lonely here, in the off season. We don’t get many people this time of year, especially not little ones. I keep the place open just to give people a bit of shelter on days like this. You two and that lady were the only people here in days.’
‘Christmas is slow I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ the woman answered vaguely, looking out at the rain. ‘It’s getting slower each year. Should sell up, my son tells me. You in the market for a café? No? Well, it’s not like I gave you the hard sell, eh? Stay here until the rain eases. No point in you getting soaked.’
She went back to the kitchen. They heard her singing tunelessly along to the radio.
‘It’ll get worse you know, the questions,’ Lorna muttered. ‘We have to think about what we’ll tell people.’
Claire bowed her head. ‘I know.’
Lorna leaned conspiratorially across the table. ‘I mean, I should change how I look. Suppose I cut my hair really short . . . d’you think I’d look like a boy?’
‘Oh Lorna–’
‘I could. George from the Famous Five did it. Can you cut hair?’
‘Not really.’
‘Let’s go to a town then and get my hair cut. And if I only wear jeans and stuff—’
‘Lorna, oh Lord, I don’t know. I don’t know how, but maybe we should go back?’ She took a deep breath, kept her eyes on the table. ‘Tell the police?’
Lorna was silent for a long time. ‘We can’t,’ she said flatly, finally. She was drawing spirals on a paper napkin, her mouth set in a firm line. ‘We can’t. I won’t let you.’
Claire tried to smile. ‘We can explain, about the things that have been happening to you. We can keep you safe. Lorna, I’ll do my very best – I want to keep you with me,
Maybe—’
‘NO!’
‘Keep your voice down, Lorna!’ Claire whispered.
‘Or what?’
‘Or we’ll attract attention.’
‘Well, that’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Ooooh, let’s go to the police.’ Lorna’s voice was a falsetto facsimile of Claire’s. Her face was twisted.
‘Lorna, love, I know this is . . .a strange time, and it’s hard for you, but I will not be spoken to like that.’ Claire, shaken, remembered her teacher voice, and she watched Lorna’s face flush red with fury. The spirals became darker, pressed into the thin paper with more force.
‘We’ll get my hair cut,’ she hissed. ‘And we’ll get a telly.’
‘I want you to remember your manners.’ Claire’s voice cracked a little.
The spirals became loops, which turned into a series of jittery lines. A tear splashed onto the tabletop. ‘Don’t shout at me!’ Lorna whispered.
‘I’m sorry, but—’
‘Just don’t shout. Please?’ She let the pencil drop. The lines had just begun to turn into loose hearts. ‘I can’t . . . you being mad with me. Shouting.’
Claire took her hand, guiltily, and pressed her little knuckles. ‘I’m sorry, poppet. Let’s not argue. It’s silly to argue, but—’
‘I hate arguing. I really do.’ Lorna snuffled. ‘I won’t get my hair cut, not if you won’t like it. I won’t. And the telly doesn’t matter either. I was just being stupid again.’
‘You’re not stupid, darling. You’re not, but we have to work together—’
‘Can I have a Coke now?’
‘We’re just leaving.’
‘My throat’s sore. With the crying. Can I have a Coke?’
And Claire felt suddenly tired, so tired that when she went to pay at the till, the waitress offered her paracetamol, and called, ‘You look after your mummy!’ to Lorna as they left.
* * *
The next day, New Year’s Eve, they drove to Truro, and Lorna got her hair cut in a barber’s shop called, incongruously, Daphne Charles. The barber was mercifully taciturn, and Lorna’s severe short back and sides did make her look like a small-boned boy.
After that, she decided that darkening her hair might be a good idea; ‘It looks darker, now it’s short, but it needs to be really, really darker. Like George’s.’ And so she made Claire buy dark brown hair dye. ‘It’s a pity I can’t change my eye colour. You can’t, can you? No? What if I made it curly, my hair I mean? And we need a TV. One with all the channels. Even the nature ones.’ Lorna brushed sharp splinters of hair from her face. ‘It’ll help with the teaching, like I said.’
Lorna was full of purpose, and she wanted to come in with Claire to supervise the shopping, but Claire managed to persuade her to stay in the car. ‘They have cameras in big supermarkets, Lorna.’ Claire spent a fortune on clothes and treats to make it up to her. On the way home, Lorna nestled in the back seat of the car, amongst her gifts. Claire could see her admiring her new hair in the mirror, fingering her new trainers, spotless in the box. Her bright, pebble eyes gazed appreciatively at the sea, and s
he smiled with her tongue slightly protruding. It did Claire’s heart good to see her so happy, and she smiled at her in the rear-view mirror.
‘You look like a very pretty little boy with that haircut, Lorna!’
‘I think I’m too pretty to be a boy really – don’t you?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘So, I think that I can’t really pretend to be a boy, like George. So I’ll have to have another name.’
It was a good idea. A very sensible idea, when you thought about it. Then why did Claire feel so unsettled? ‘Another name?’
The girl nodded pertly. ‘I mean, I have to, really, don’t I? I can’t be Lorna if I’m with you. I mean people might find out and link us together. So I’ve been thinking – how about Lauren?’
‘Lauren?’
‘The new girl in EastEnders is called Lauren, and it’s nice. It suits me. Lauren.’ She swirled the name around her mouth, as if she was tasting it. ‘Lauren Penny? No, no, you should be my auntie, maybe. But then I could still be Lauren Penny, couldn’t I? You don’t look happy though.’
Claire tried to smile reassuringly. ‘I’m just a little taken aback. By how grown-up you’re being. You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’ The girl’s eyes filmed over suddenly, and she looked down and bit her lip. ‘It’s all I’ve thought about since I was a Christmas Cracker.’
21
The TV took up one wall of the small sitting room, a black monolith primed for worship. The impossibly thin screen seemed to teeter down from the wall bracket, and it loomed and shouted all day. Lorna ran through all the channels, again and again, though she sped past the news channels as quickly as she could. Claire could guess why, but they’d have to watch the news at some point, just to see if Lorna had been reported as missing, if it was a big news story or not. It would be best if Claire looked alone though. She didn’t want to upset the girl.
