Bad Little Girl

by Frances Vick

  Something about the artifice of this scene had steadied Claire enough so that when the door closed and Marianne was safely out of earshot, she was able to remain clear-headed. ‘Lauren?’

  The girl looked at her slyly, and laughed. ‘It’s what we said, isn’t it? It’s pretty.’

  ‘It was good thinking.’

  Lorna/Lauren flopped down on a kitchen chair. She chewed a finger thoughtfully ‘So, I’ll call you Mum?’

  ‘It’s probably best to, yes. At least in front of other people.’

  The child leaned forward to look her in the eye. ‘Can I call you Mummy?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘You are my mummy now, aren’t you?’

  Claire felt oddly detached. The codeine pinned her, supine, to her chair. ‘Do you want me to be?’

  ‘Mummy.’ Lorna chewed the word over. ‘Mummy. And Lauren. OK.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Yes Lauren?’

  ‘Marianne’s a bit silly, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s been very kind to us though. I don’t know how we’d have got any shopping without her. Don’t chew your fingers.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Lorna said, pulling some skin off her lips meditatively, ‘she asked me if I wanted to be a ballet dancer.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I wanted to be famous instead. And she laughed and said, “Don’t we all.” But she did say she’d teach me ballet. But I don’t really want to. But I will if you want me to. Mummy.’ She smiled winningly.

  ‘I just want you to be happy. But don’t tell her where we came from or anything like that, OK?’

  The smile blinked off like a faulty light. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘No, but you might forget.’

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ said the girl again, huffily.

  ‘Lorna—’

  ‘Lauren you mean. Who’s being stupid now?’ She was working herself up into a rage. Claire closed her eyes so as not to see the child’s contorted face, see that inner animal, confront how young she still was. Younger than ten in a lot of ways. She remembered seeing her once in the playground, not too long ago, spinning a skipping rope in a fury, hitting knees, elbows and faces around her. No teacher could get near to stop her. Claire had watched from the staffroom as the caretaker snuck up behind her in a crouch and grabbed her by the knees, bringing her down in one deft movement.

  ‘I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me.’ She kept her eyes closed, her voice calm.

  ‘. . . way you’re speeaaaking to meee.’ Lorna kicked the table leg. Claire heard cutlery hitting the floor. There was a pause, and another kick. A chair fell. Claire kept her eyes closed. ‘You think I’m fucking stupid.’

  ‘I don’t. You know I don’t. Don’t swear.’ Keep calm, Claire. Keep calm, and she will calm down too. The stress the girl was under, her background . . .

  ‘FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!’ chanted the girl.

  There was a pause. Claire tried not to move. She heard the girl shuffle, heard her pick up the chair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  Now Claire opened her eyes, and saw faint red welts on the girl’s forearm, carved with those bitten-down nails. She had the same expression on her face as she had when the caretaker had grabbed her: like she was waking up from a furious coma.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘I’m sorry’, and her voice rose to a wail as she collapsed onto Claire’s lap. Her knees jabbed into Claire’s midriff as she climbed up her, straddling her awkwardly, hooking her chin over her shoulder; a big, sprawling girl. Her thin chest caught with choking breath, her fingers twisted into the hair at the nape of Claire’s neck. And then the sobs came, huge and juddering.

  Claire held on tight, forced herself to open her eyes to stay awake, wishing she hadn’t taken four of those pills. It might take Lorna an hour to calm down; one whole hour of patient cajoling, stroking, feeble jokes and bribery. A fresh wave of drugged torpor came over her and she groaned.

  Lorna/Lauren hiccupped, shifted. The sobs lessened. ‘You’re hurting,’ she said. ‘You’re hurting.’

  ‘I just need a rest, my love.’

  The child scrambled down. ‘You’re hurt, I said.’

  ‘I am. And I’m tired.’

  ‘Go to bed then,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘I’m not. Go to bed. If you’re tired.’

  ‘Are we friends again?’ Claire tried to open her eyes, smile.

  ‘You’re my mum,’ said the girl flatly. ‘Go to bed. I’ll bring you some more pills in a bit.’

  ‘I don’t think I can get up the stairs.’

  ‘I’ll tuck you up, nice and cosy. On the sofa?’ She was solicitous again. The turnaround was dizzying.

  ‘Yes.’

  They struggled to the sofa together.

  ‘I’ll get a blanket. And a book!’ Lorna bounced up the stairs. From outside, the dog yapped and leaped at the door, which opened with a rush of frigid air.

  Lorna put on the thuds and bangs she called music. She must have forgotten about the blanket. But nothing, the pounding music, panting dog, the cold draught – nothing could keep Claire awake. She slept, scissored up and frozen on the sofa, wrapped in codeine.

  25

  When Claire woke up it was still light. She remembered taking more pills with tea, too sweet with honey, and then it had been dark, but that must have been a dream because she woke up on the sofa in exactly the same position she’d fallen asleep in. The side of her head felt tender, bruised under its own weight on the cushion, and her tongue was dry and cumbersome. Her ankle throbbed dully when she carefully swung it over the side, but it seemed a little better than it had been – yesterday? The weather had calmed down too. Cheerful sunshine filled the kitchen and edged into the living room, along with an odd collection of smells, individually pleasant but mixed, faintly sickening.

  Limping sleepily to the kitchen, she called out to Lorna, ‘Oh I’ve been asleep for hours. You should have woken me up! Have you had your lunch?’

  But Lorna wasn’t there, Marianne was. There was a CD player on the table – she must have brought it over – pouring out big band music from the forties. And that smell . . . baking, coffee, cigarettes, and something else impossibly sweet: flowery, and too much of it.

  Lorna and Marianne had been busy. The table was covered with goodies. Muddy-coloured gingerbread coated in gelatinous blue icing and enormous cinnamon rolls; half an apple pie and some melting ice cream; and a two-litre bottle of ginger beer.

  ‘All Lauren’s idea, especially the ginger beer. Very Enid Blyton! She said she’d never tried it, so I said that we’d get it as a treat, to see if she liked it.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Claire lumbered onto a chair.

  ‘Oh, she’s upstairs. She’s putting on a little show. Very exciting.’

  ‘Did you go out, then?’ Claire was sitting with her leg up on a kitchen chair, watching Marianne bustling about the kitchen, cleaning. Her idea of cleaning was very similar to Lorna’s: great smears of gingerbread mix remained on the surfaces, the floor was dusted with flour.

  ‘We had to! You were dead to the world. I camped out in your spare room last night, to keep Lola company. You don’t mind me calling her Lola, do you? It’s such a sweet little name.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. Lord, I’ve been asleep all that time?’

  ‘Codeine. It’ll do that.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Claire pushed a dry hand through her greasy hair. ‘I can’t believe it! That’s terrible! L— Lauren must have been so worried.’

  ‘Oh she was fine. We played Monopoly, then did a bit of shopping.’

  ‘I was really asleep all night?’

  ‘Out like the proverbial.’

  ‘I’m so sorry! I must give you the money – for the pills and the food and everything.’

  ‘Oh, no need to do that.’

  ‘I will though. I must. It’s not
fair of us to impose on you like this. I mean, you must have your own life to get back to . . .’

  ‘Well, I write. I’m a writer. So I make my own deadlines.’ Marianne put a bit of wet kitchen roll on the bottom of her boot and wiped up some of the flour.

  Of course she’s a writer, thought Claire. That’s why she doesn’t seem to do anything. ‘What are you working on at the moment?’ she asked politely.

  ‘Oh, so many things. My main focus at the moment is the screenplay.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I really shouldn’t talk about it, though.’ Her eyes were unfocused.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, it’s all secretive, what I’m doing. It’s a commission from someone pretty big. All I can tell you is that it’s a suburban murder mystery.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds interesting,’ said Claire, all interest dead.

  ‘Yes, so that’s why I’m here in this godforsaken place. To get some peace, finally be able to work, you know? London can be so distracting.’

  ‘You come from London?’

  ‘Near London, yes.’ Marianne looked pointedly at the floor to discourage any more questions. There was a pause, and Claire realised that Marianne was about to ask where they were from in return. Her fuzzed brain searched for a plausible answer. If she told her, surely the story of the fire would come up, and Marianne might put two and two together? Perhaps she could claim that they were from one of the towns nearby; that might explain Lorna’s accent. She waited for the question, her stomach tight, before finally realising that it wouldn’t come. Marianne wasn’t interested – in Claire, at least – and relief drove out pique. The woman’s self-absorption would make everyone’s lives a lot easier.

  ‘Well, thanks again Marianne. For looking after Lauren. She can be a bit of a handful.’

  ‘Oh, she’s a darling. No, she reminds me so much of myself when I was that age. She has great potential, hasn’t she? Her dancing! I could tell that she’s a natural dancer just from seeing her walk across a room.’ She was sitting down now, back straight as a board, chest out, one hand waving the flame of her lighter to the filter of her cigarette. ‘It kills the harmful fibres,’ she explained. ‘It’s better for my voice.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you’re a singer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, not here! In London, yes, and other places. But, my God, Karen—’

  ‘Claire.’

  ‘Claire, what do people do in the country?’ She drummed uneven nails on the table and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth. ‘Before I met you guys I was going crazy. Cccccraaaaazzzzy, as Lola says.’

  ‘I think it gets more crowded in the summer.’

  ‘Oh God, I’ll be long gone by then!’ She yawned and stretched. ‘Book launch in April.’

  ‘For a screenplay?’

  ‘No, not a proper launch, of course. More informal. A party. I’ll get friends around, caterers, Mexican food, people will bring their guitars. Like that. You guys will have to come.’

  Claire felt dizzy. ‘Perhaps I’ll have something to eat.’

  ‘No, no, let’s wait until she comes back. She was very insistent on having breakfast with you.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have slept so long.’

  ‘She didn’t want to wake you.’

  The conversation dried up and they waited, awkwardly, together, Marianne smoking and tapping, Claire trying to stop her stomach from rumbling. The dog whined in his sleep under the table while the clock ticked.

  ‘What is she doing, anyway?’

  ‘I’m sworn to secrecy.’ Marianne made a little zipping motion over her lips and flicked ash on the floor. ‘Do you need some more pills? It’s better to keep taking them while you heal. Trust me, I was housebound for weeks once with just this thing.’

  ‘Oh, yes? All right, then. It does hurt a little.’

  Marianne shook out two and handed them over with a cloudy glass of water. ‘As soon as we have breakfast, I’ll be on my way.’ She stubbed out her cigarette decisively on the edge of her plate. They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the puffing of the boiler, the faint sound of draining bath water.

  ‘You bite your nails,’ said Claire for something to say.

  ‘Oh, yes. I used to wear false ones, but now, oh, who has the time?’ Marianne glanced at them and grimaced. ‘They’re ugly, aren’t they?’

  ‘Oh, no. Not ugly. But you don’t seem like an anxious person at all. It’s strange.’

  Marianne smiled crookedly, turned her hands over slowly and wiggled her fingers.

  ‘Lots of nervous energy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh God yes. I’m quite transparent. The artistic temperament!’ She struck a pose, batting her eyelashes. Claire smiled politely and sipped her dirty water. ‘Oh hell. Why not have a drink? A proper drink. Come on, it’s – well, it’s early, but we’re grown-ups, aren’t we? Brandy? Or whisky?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Well, can I?

  ‘Of course. But, will you be all right to drive home?’

  Marianne didn’t answer, picked up her bag and spent a long time rearranging the contents. The atmosphere thickened. Benji farted. Both women pretended not to notice.

  And then Lorna swept into the room. Her face was stuccoed in a thick layer of dark foundation, covered with talcum powder, and her eyes, sunk into the mess, were rimmed with blue eyeliner. Her lips had been crudely painted in candy pink. She’d drawn a heart on her cheek in red biro, and that overwhelming cheap, sweet scent that Claire had noticed earlier flowed from her clothes, her hair. She was wearing an imitation silk robe. It dragged on the floor behind her, picking up flour and food scraps. Ragged tinsel was wound around her head.

  ‘I bought her the make-up, do you mind?’ whispered Marianne. ‘It’s all cheap stuff, and she absolutely begged for it. And the perfume – well, it was on sale.’

  Lorna, as if in a trance, crossed the room in her gauzy gown wielding a CD. ‘She’s been practising,’ whispered Marianne again.

  ‘I have a surprise.’ Lorna was coy. ‘For both of you.’

  ‘Oh, fun fun!’ Marianne clapped her hands.

  ‘I’ve been practising, haven’t I? All morning. In the car.’

  ‘We have a champion lip-syncher here,’ smiled Marianne. ‘A real little star.’ She took the CD from Lorna’s fingers, while the girl struck a kabuki-like pose, waiting for the music to start.

  Some soupy strings. Lorna extended one arm, then the other, and rose up onto her toes. The tinsel slipped over one eye and she brushed it away with annoyance. Claire and Marianne exchanged an anxious look. Lorna dimpled, and began to mime:

  ‘After you get what you want you don’t want it.’ She wiggled her fingers in Claire’s face. ‘If I gave you the moon . . .’ She gently stroked Claire’s cheek. ‘You’d grow tired of it soon . . .’

  Marianne nudged Claire, half closed her eyes, and mouthed, ‘Bless’, then mimed along with the girl, waving an unlit cigarette. ‘You’ll grow tired of me . . .’

  ‘’Cause after you get what you want you don’t want what you wanted at all!’ Lorna grasped their hands tightly, and led them into a shuffling, giggling waltz around the table. Claire gritted her teeth and tried not to let the pain show.

  The last chorus began and she gestured to Marianne and Claire to sit down. Marianne lit a cigarette, smiling fondly. When the song finished, Lorna picked up her hems and curtseyed. Claire smiled sleepily at her. The pills were starting to work.

  Marianne leapt to the CD player and pressed stop, leading the applause. Lorna smiled and bobbed on her feet, shivering with excitement.

  ‘Again,’ she said and dragged Benji out from under the table. ‘Put it back on again – the music.’

  Benji was reluctant to stand on his hind legs; Lorna bunched up a fistful of tinsel, and walloped his head. The dog flattened its ears and crouched back under the table, snarling, a low, threatening sound, tinged with fear.

  ‘Benji! Don’t be silly!’ Mari
anne leaned down. ‘Silly boy!’ But the dog curled up tighter, cringing from the swaying tinsel.

  ‘Ben-jiii!’ Lorna sang, waving the tinsel in his face. ‘Come and dance!’

  ‘Darling, I think he wants to stay where he is.’ Claire put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Leave him alone.’

  ‘Come and DANCE!’

  ‘Oh Benji, you won’t get a prettier partner! Come and dance!’ Marianne pulled him out from under the table by his collar. His paws scrabbled feebly and he twisted his head away from Lorna. Lorna prodded him hard in the kidneys with one dirty foot and he yelped and skittered towards the closed door, turning fearful eyes on Claire.

  ‘Stop it, stop it, he doesn’t want to!’ Claire cried.

  ‘He did before. When we practised. He liked it!’ Lorna ran to him and smacked his nose with one small fist.

  ‘He doesn’t now, please, he’ll bite you! Stop it!’ begged Claire just as the dog sprung at the girl, his teeth meeting together inches away from her knee.

  Lorna froze. Benji coiled himself up for another attack. Marianne dropped her cigarette on the floor and swiped ineffectually at the dog with a tea towel. Claire limped forward slowly, slowly, so as not to alarm Benji, and inched Lorna away, and then reached down and caught hold of the dog’s collar. The animal, relieved, apologetic, whined and cowered. He licked her hand gratefully. Lorna began to cry. Claire inspected her knee, but there was no mark; she was scared, that’s all.

  ‘You’re all right, he didn’t bite you.’

  Tears pooled under her angry eyes. ‘He tried to though!’

  ‘Darling, you were tormenting him. Dogs don’t like being hit.’

  ‘I was playing,’ Lorna shouted.

  ‘L— Lauren, you hurt him, you frightened him. He’s just an animal, he doesn’t understand. You hit him.’

  ‘I didn’t. I did not!’

  ‘I saw you. You might not have meant to—’

  ‘I was only joking with him.’

  ‘I know, but he didn’t know that. He thought you were being mean. But, listen, you’re all right. He didn’t bite you. And look, he’s really sorry. Look at him.’ Claire pointed at the eager, sad dog, staring beseechingly at them.