Bad Little Girl

by Frances Vick

  ‘Don’t worry, darling!’ trilled the woman. ‘My silly puppy crippled your mum, but she’ll be all right!’

  Lorna jumped back and ran up the stairs as Claire and the woman lurched into the living room towards the sofa.

  ‘Where’s your kettle?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t really think I can manage a coffee or anything,’ said Claire faintly.

  ‘Well, can I? I’ll need to steady my nerves for the long drive back.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Let me—’

  ‘No, no, I’ll look around for things. Don’t worry. Unless your daughter could give me a hand?’

  ‘Oh.’ Claire tried to laugh dismissively. She could sense Lorna on the bottom stair, listening. ‘She’ll be upstairs listening to her music by now. She’s very timid around strangers.’

  ‘How will she look after you? Get to the shops?’

  Oh God, will she just leave! What’s wrong with this woman? ‘I’ll be OK. Bit of rest. Aspirin. It was so kind of you to drive me. Benji sounds frantic without you.’

  But again the gambit was ignored. The woman was rooting about the drawers and the cupboards in the kitchen. ‘Ah! Honey!’ She dolloped most of the jar into a mug and filled it with hot water. ‘This kind of weather gives my throat all sorts of problems. And I’m a singer. Blues, jazz, you know. So a certain amount of raspiness is fine, but not too much.’

  Despite herself Claire asked, ‘You’re a singer?’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ She smiled at something just a few inches above Claire’s head.

  ‘And you’re an academic?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The paper. The paper you did on—’

  ‘Oh, the home-schooling paper. Yes. Yes, I do a lot of things. Stop studying, Marianne! You have so many talents, you need to focus on one thing. That’s what I was always told. But what’s a life worth if it’s led in monotony?’ Claire heard Lorna shift behind the door, as if she’d sat down to listen. ‘Anyway, I must go. You’re right, Benji will be tearing up the car.’ She gulped her drink and rattled her car keys. ‘Listen, feel better! I’m so sorry. Let me give you my number so I can run a few errands for you while you’re recovering.’ She threw a business card onto the kitchen table. ‘And tell your daughter that I hope to meet her some time when she feels a bit more confident. I don’t bite, little one!’

  The wind outside carried the dog’s furious howls to the open door, and when the woman finally left, Claire heard Lorna sigh.

  On the table, her card had landed in a splotch of honey. Claire limped into the kitchen and picked it up.

  [BCT]Marianne Cairns. Wordsmith and Dreammonger[BCT] it said. Blue on cream.

  As soon as the sound of the car and the barking died away, Claire heard the creak on the stair and felt Lorna behind her. She reached for the child’s reddened fingers without turning round.

  ‘Don't be scared. Some silly dog knocked me over on the beach and that lady gave me a lift home. That’s all.’

  The girl shifted, coughed. ‘I wasn’t scared.’ She peered at the business card. ‘What’s a Wordsmith?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a silly way of saying writer.’

  ‘What’s a’ – the child frowned – ‘Dreammonger?’

  ‘It’s . . .’ Claire stopped to think. Pretentious? Whimsical? But the thought of defining these made her tired. ‘It’s just another silly thing. It means someone who makes dreams come true.’

  Lorna dropped the card abruptly, as if it was hot. ‘People can do that?’

  ‘No. No. Not really. It’s just a silly joke.’

  ‘No-one can really do that.’

  ‘No.’

  Lorna scratched her elbow distractedly, sighed and began plodding upstairs again.

  ‘Lorna, do we have any aspirin?’

  ‘Dunno. Oh! D’you want a bandage on your foot?’

  ‘That would be nice, thanks. If we have anything.’

  The girl scampered up the stairs, and Claire hobbled back to the sofa and propped her foot up on the coffee table, wincing at the little bolts of pain running up her leg. They didn’t have any painkillers. Not even any frozen peas to take the swelling down. No car. No way of getting out. It was a mile to the bus stop and getting there was impossible, let alone walking round the shop in town, and then walking back home, dragging that little trolley on wheels. And she couldn't send Lorna out on her own; it was term time now, and someone would surely notice her, ask her why she wasn’t in school. Even call the police. And then Lorna would panic and God knows what she’d say. No. No. She’d just have to heal, that’s all. Heal quickly. Rest, isn’t that what you do for a sprained ankle? And heat? Or massage and cold? But what if it was serious? Broken even? What then? Fear mixed with dizzy nausea, she felt like crying, but as Lorna came trotting down the stairs, she put on a neutral expression.

  ‘I found all these pretty bandages, and jewels! In the airing cupboard.’ Lorna was carrying a disintegrating plastic bag filled with chiffon scarves and costume jewellery. ‘You didn’t take your sock off.’ Claire painfully rolled it down over the horrible swelling, red and tight over pale, quivering toes. ‘Oh, I’ve seen worse,’ said the girl, setting to work. ‘If we tie this up nice and tight’ – the scarf bit into the red foot – ‘and fasten it’ – she pinned the ends together with a diamanté brooch in the shape of an owl – ‘you’ll be fine. I bet it already feels better, doesn't it?’

  ‘Very much. A lot better.’ Claire winced.

  ‘It has to get better.’ The girl was serious. ‘We don't have any bread or Nutella left.’

  ‘Oh God! I left the shopping in our car!’

  ‘Oh never mind,’ Lorna said generously. ‘Poor you with your poorly hoof! Poorly hoof! Poorly hoof!’ She drifted over to the kitchen and took up the business card again. ‘That lady . . .’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She was a bit weird.’

  ‘She was, a bit.’

  ‘She was ccccccrrraaazy. CccccccRrrraaaazy lady!’ Lorna must have been watching Cartoon Network.

  ‘Crazy how?’

  ‘Crazy like a cccccccccrazy lady!’ The child danced around, and Claire thanked God she was happy. Happy and not frightened. It would be easier to dampen Marianne’s interest in them if Lorna was just a normal little girl, on the shy side, perhaps, but normal, rather than a hidden, crop-haired recluse.

  They found aspirin in the end, and Claire took four, biting her lips to keep in the pain while Lorna ate cereal and watched TV.

  ‘I think I’ll have to sleep down here tonight, Lorna. Can you get me my pillow and a duvet?’

  ‘Uh?’ The girl didn’t take her eyes off the screen.

  ‘I’ll need my bedclothes?’

  ‘In a bit. Let me watch this first.’

  The fire banked down. Claire shuffled closer to the girl for warmth.

  24

  That night Claire lay on the sofa, but with no real hope of sleeping. She could hear Lorna upstairs, talking to herself and bandaging up toys with scarves. No matter how Claire shifted, she couldn’t lessen the throbbing pain, and by three a.m. the worry rolled back, crushingly. What if her ankle was broken after all? How could she get to a hospital? What if she had blood poisoning? What if she died? What would happen to Lorna then? Derek knew where she was, what if he came to see her, discovered Lorna? And more, even darker worries – what if Pete had woken up already? What if he was talking to the police right now, about the strange, shrill teacher who kept showing up at their door? He’d tell the police anything, anything at all, to shift suspicion about the fire onto someone else, and why not shift it to Claire? And she was trapped, literally housebound, unable to drive, to escape, to protect Lorna as she needed to be protected!

  She closed her eyes and pictured the girl’s sleeping face; the half-inch of violet shadow beneath her eyes, the pale eyelashes, the delicate, pallid profile. She remembered how, only a few nights ago, she had packed her limbs into some kind of order beneath the duvet, and those brown eyes had flickere
d open, sleep-filled and unseeing, and she’d said, ‘Thanks Mum.’

  She heard the wind, the clatter of twigs against windows, and, beneath that, the sound of the sea. Claire felt tears of panic. They were so isolated. They were so alone!

  * * *

  She woke up to a bright, windy morning. The scarf bandage had loosened in the night and now lay, shed, like a snakeskin around her still huge ankle. Somewhere a door was open and a vigorous draught ran through the house, cold but pleasant, and carrying voices. The radio? She shuffled up on the cushion, counted to five, and swung her legs over the side of the settee, clutching the arm for support as the blood rushed mercilessly to her ankle. Whimpering, she hopped her way into the kitchen. The front door stood wide open, the voices were louder here, coming from the outside. A dog barked.

  ‘He’s ccccccRAYzeee!’ Lorna laughed.

  And there was Marianne Cairns, with her aviator sunglasses and her tarnished hair, laughing along with her.

  Lorna held a rope with a ball on the end of it, swung it about her head like a shot putter and flung it into the bushes. The dog yapped joyfully and bounded after it.

  ‘You’re ccccRAYzeee! Benji!’

  ‘He is. He’s very little still. Just a pup. Like you. How old are you?’

  ‘Ten.’ Lorna was pert.

  ‘Ten!’ Marianne widened her eyes dramatically. ‘I thought you were just a baby of eight, but you’re a big girl of ten!’

  That struck the wrong note with Lorna. She stood suddenly stiff, mouth pursed. ‘I’ve never been a baby. Even eight is big. And I’m ten.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re a very, very big girl.’

  There was an awkward pause. Claire called from the doorway, ‘I think you’d better find Benji before he gets lost in the little woods.’

  ‘Oh my God, you look like Banquo’s ghost,’ cried Marianne. ‘Look at you! Sit down, sit down!’ She hustled Claire to the kitchen table and pressed her into a chair. ‘Thought I’d drop in and give you these.’ She crouched down and began dragging things out of her shoulder bag. ‘I went to the doctor’s this morning pretending to have a badly sprained ankle. Not a bad performance, if I say so myself, but that’s years of theatrical training for you! I got you, let’s see . . .’ She rummaged around. ‘Codeine, anti-inflammatories, some rub-on gel stuff. More painkillers – these are great – I use them with migraines, helps you sleep, and – ta dah! Brandy! I noticed you were nearly out, so I got a big bottle. All you need for a happy convalescence!’

  ‘That’s so kind of you,’ Claire murmured.

  ‘Ah’ – Marianne made large, dismissive movements with both hands – ‘not a problem.’ Her voice had a slight American twang to it. ‘No big deal. Let’s get inside and open up that brandy.’

  ‘It’s the morning.’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if you’re going anywhere, is it? If you need to get anything from the shops I can go for you. Sit down and let me make amends.’ And she hustled Claire into a kitchen chair. Marianne hissed through her teeth when she saw the ankle, gently moved it from side to side while Claire winced. ‘Nasty. This happened to me once and I was out of commission for weeks. Here, take these.’ She held out four pills. ‘And I’ll put on some of that gel once the pain lessens. Keep it up too. Do you have a little table and a cushion?’

  Outside they could hear Lorna bounding about with the dog, squealing. The wind buffeted the windows and blew leaves and gravel into the kitchen.

  ‘Crazy crazy puppy!’ shrieked Lorna. ‘Lovely crazy puppy!’ Then the door slammed abruptly.

  ‘She doesn’t seem very shy.’ Marianne passed Claire an unwanted cup of coffee and brandy.

  ‘She’s timid around new people, and dogs, until she gets to know them. She does seem to have taken a liking to Benji though.’

  ‘Oh we were having a fine time just now. She was telling me all about her old school.’

  ‘She was talking about school?’ Claire tried to keep the surprise out of her voice.

  ‘Yes. And her hamster.’

  ‘Hamster?’

  ‘The one that died, just before you came here?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ Claire, flustered, blew on her coffee. ‘The one that died.’

  ‘How’s the coffee?’

  ‘Lovely. It’s lovely.’

  ‘So, how long has she been out of school?’ Marianne asked.

  Claire took a deep breath. ‘She was in mainstream until Year Four.’

  ‘So recently? Does she miss it? The interaction with other children, I mean?’

  ‘No.’ Claire held her mouth tight.

  ‘It can be a difficult transition. Steiner always said – what was it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  There was a pause. ‘I can see I’ve touched a nerve.’ Marianne laughed lightly, but her eyes were hurt. ‘It’s just that she seems so full of life. Energy. And it can’t all be the negative ions. And teaching is such a vocation. I mean, you have to be made for it, don’t you? It’s such a big thing to take on.’

  ‘I am a teacher.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Marianne gave a wide smile. Her front teeth were slightly rimmed with black. ‘I taught too, for many years. Small groups. It’s a wonderful job, but sometimes so constricting. I found it so, negative sometimes. The other teachers I mean. The system. No room for manoeuvre, you know?’

  ‘So you’re a teacher and a singer and an actress? Really?’ The words were out of Claire’s mouth before she knew it; she shocked herself. Marianne folded her mouth shut and stared at her lap. Claire felt terrible. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude. You seem to have done so much, that’s all.’

  ‘Well. Perhaps I share too much,’ Marianne said shortly.

  ‘You’ve been very kind, and I didn’t mean for a minute—’

  ‘And I don’t often get to talk with people who have the same interests and experiences as I do. And I thought, with you also having a teaching background . . .’ Marianne stood up, smiling like a hurt child. ‘Ach well. Look, it’s your business. And you’re a protective mother, and I honour that. I really do. I just really wanted to come and see if you were OK. I felt just terrible last night, thinking about you both all alone here. But of course, you’re not really alone. If you have each other.’ She reached slowly for her shoulder bag, large eyes cast down, holding her mouth in a tight little line. Claire felt even worse.

  ‘I’m sorry. We’re so isolated here and – I’m sorry. I was sharp. I haven’t had much sleep, but that’s not really an excuse. You were so kind to come and see how I was.’

  Marianne stayed standing. A tear fell onto the tabletop. She dabbed it with a trembling finger. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘No!’ Claire’s guilt was paralysing. She felt as if she’d kicked a crippled animal. ‘No, really, please stay. I’ll make you another cup of tea.’

  ‘You can’t walk,’ said Marianne, smiling a little. ‘I can do it. If you’re sure. I don’t want to impose myself.’

  Claire began to feel the painkillers. A gorgeous tingling inertia spread through her limbs, her mouth loosened, her lips were going numb.

  ‘I feel a bit better,’ she said and Marianne looked so happy, she said it again. ‘Those pills.’

  ‘I know! Wondrous, aren’t they? Oh, I got an ice compress thing for you too, I’ll put it in the freezer for a bit. In the meantime . . .’ she waggled the brandy bottle ‘. . . straight or in more coffee?’

  Claire swallowed, smiled. ‘No more brandy please.’

  ‘Yes more brandy. Then a lie-down. You have to rest. Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘You’re a doctor too?’ Claire smiled, woozy and reckless.

  ‘Oh honey. Don’t let me commence.’ Marianne pouted and rolled her eyes and the accent was back, thicker now, a southern drawl.

  Claire smiled again, sleepy, safe; the pain beautifully blanketed by the brandy and pills. Barking and shrieks from the outside reached her dreamily, and weak alarm tried to surface.
Lorna, who must not admit to her real name. Lorna, guileless and unprotected. She made a huge effort to open her eyes, to speak.

  ‘Can you – Marianne – can you get L—, my daughter, inside? Can you tell her I need to speak to her?’

  And Marianne opened the door, yelled into the garden, ‘Lauren! Lauren! Mummy wants you!’

  And when Lorna appeared at the door, Claire managed to say, ‘Lauren?’

  And Lorna replied, smiling, ‘Yes Mum?’

  Claire fought through the fog of the pills. She had to get Marianne out of the house, or away at least, to give her a chance to talk to Lorna.

  ‘Marianne, can I ask you a favour? You’ve been so kind already, but if I give you some money could you drive to the shop and get us some milk, bread and things? And – Lauren, are you being careful with Benji?’

  ‘Of course!’ She was indignant.

  ‘Oh, Benji will be OK for a while without me, with his new little friend. He’ll forget all about me.’ Marianne ruffled Lorna’s hair. The girl’s face flickered briefly into annoyance, then smoothed itself blank.

  ‘If I have a little nap can you look after Benji for Marianne until she gets back?’

  ‘OK. Marianne? Can you get a treat at the shops? Like chocolate?’ She said the word as if she was tasting it. ‘I can share with Benji?’

  Marianne ruffled her hair again, smirking. ‘You’re sure you’ll share it with poor Benji? You won’t eat it all up yourself?’

  Again, contempt crossed the girl’s face, almost imperceptible, gone in an instant and replaced with a smile. ‘I promise promise promise. And Benji told me he likes Mars Bars best.’

  ‘Did he?’ Marianne raised an arch eyebrow. ‘You two are fast friends, aren’t you?’

  The girl nodded, pertly. ‘I’m a friend to all the animals.’

  ‘I think chocolate is poisonous for dogs though. I think. Isn’t it?’ Claire managed.

  ‘Oh, well, I’ll just have to eat all of it after all then!’ Lorna beamed.

  Marianne let out a laugh. ‘Oh, God she’s just adorable, isn’t she? Sweet as pie! Little Madam! OK, I’ll get some essentials and I’ll be back. With treats, Miss Lauren!’