by Frances Vick
‘I hate him now,’ said Lauren flatly.
And Claire thought fleetingly of the dogs in Lorna’s home. The dogs that were dead now. Along with her mother, her brother.
‘No you don’t, you’ll be friends with him again in no time.’ Claire tried to keep her voice reasonable.
‘I won’t. I hate him.’ And then her set face collapsed into wails and she buried her head on Claire’s shoulder. ‘He was my friend and then he bit me. For no reason!’
‘He’s a very naughty boy.’ Marianne’s voice was shaky. ‘I won’t bring him round any more.’
‘I don’t really hate him,’ Lauren snuffled. ‘I don’t really. I love him, but he doesn’t love me!’
‘He does! He does, honestly! Benji, Benji, say sorry! Look, he’s trying to give you a big lick to say sorry.’ Marianne pulled the dog from Claire and dragged him over to Lorna by the collar. He choked and resisted, claws dragging against the linoleum. Marianne held the dog’s jaws and moved its lips. ‘“I’m sorry Lola! I’m just a big silly puppy with no brain! Please be my friend Lola-Lee!”’
Lauren giggled, snuffled. ‘He can’t really talk.’
‘“I can so!”’ The dog twisted its head but Marianne’s grip was too tight. ‘“All dogs can speak, to the right people. When they want to. Please forgive me Lola-Lee!”’
Lorna giggled again and wiped her eyes. Smears of blue cut through the brown and white. ‘I forgive you Benji. But I do want to dance with you.’
‘Oh, that’s not a good idea, Lauren. Let Benji calm down. Dogs don’t dance, they don’t like it. He’s not a toy,’ said Claire.
‘Oh he’d LOVE to dance! Wouldn’t you Benji!’ And Marianne was up out of her chair, putting the CD on again. ‘Just let me go to the car and get his muzzle. Just in case.’
Lauren clapped and leaped down from the kitchen counter, straightening her robe and picking up the tinsel again.
‘How’s my make-up? Did you like my dancing?’ She swayed in front of Claire.
‘I did, darling. But I think it’s a good idea to calm down now.’
‘I’m hungry. You were asleep for ages. It was like you were dead.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’ The adrenaline was beginning to fade and the pills were taking over again.
‘And I didn’t want to eat without you. I made a feast, to help you get better!’ Lorna twirled around and around.
‘I saw that. Lovely. But you need to calm down now. Calm down, and we’ll have some food, OK?’
‘Here comes Benji!’
‘All right, all right, nice and calm now, darling.’ Claire was struggling to keep her eyes open.
‘Are you ready to dance? Benji?’ Lorna shouted as Marianne led the beast in. He made slow, unwilling progress to the girl. A too-tight muzzle covered his snout and held his jaws together. Lorna laughed and draped tinsel over his ears. He twitched, trying to shake it off but couldn’t. Marianne put on the music, picked up his front paws and placed them in Lorna’s outstretched hands, and they made a clumsy, drunken waltz around the kitchen. The dog’s bowed back legs wobbled. His tail curved under his shaking buttocks. His eyes rolled tragically. At the end of the song Lorna kissed his muzzle.
‘Now we’re best friends again!’
Benji backed under the table and curled up, his bright, wary eyes showing over his quivering flank. Claire gazed at him in mute apology.
26
It turned out that Lorna didn’t like ginger beer after all. She slyly opened a can of Coke. ‘Auntie May bought it me. When you were asleep and we had to do the food shopping.’
Claire picked at a cinnamon roll while Marianne went into raptures over the gingerbread, a bit of blue icing smeared on her chin.
‘You have a real little chef here, Claire!’
By the afternoon, Claire was flagging. Her ankle throbbed, and she took more pills, retiring to the sofa while Lorna and Marianne clumsily tidied the kitchen. They sang together. Benji, still muzzled, crept into the living room and lay beside Claire, and it crossed her mind that now was her chance to watch the news, while the others were noisily occupied, but it seemed suddenly so much effort, so much useless effort. She was trapped here, after all. If the police were looking for her and Lorna, there was nothing she could do about it. She slipped into a blank, death-like sleep. It was dark when Lorna woke her up.
‘Tell her not to go!’ the girl wailed.
‘Lola, please. I’m sure your mummy wants you to herself.’ Marianne lingered in the kitchen doorway, holding her zipped bag.
‘What time is it?’ Claire asked, dazed.
‘It’s not late! Auntie May says it’s late, but it isn’t, it’s only eight. And she doesn’t have to go home yet, does she?’ The girl bounced on the sofa, jarring Claire’s ankle. ‘Does she?’
‘Marianne has got a life to go back to. We’ll see her again. We’re bound to run into her on the beach or something.’
There was a pause. ‘Mummy’s right, Lola. I’m sure we’ll see each other again. Some time.’ Marianne’s voice was soft, sad.
‘MUM!’
‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘Tell her not to GO!’
‘I’ve left you all the pills and the compress is back in the freezer.’ Marianne shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. ‘And, Lola, we’ll have to finish that picture some other time.’
‘Mum! We were doing a picture!’
‘Benji!’ Marianne clicked her fingers. The dog didn’t move.
‘You see, he doesn’t want to go! He doesn’t want to go home either!’ Lorna wailed.
Claire propped herself up and gingerly swung her feet onto the floor. Marianne made a big deal of finding her car keys.
‘Perhaps you’d like to stay for dinner, Marianne?’
‘Stay for dinner! Auntie May!’
‘Oh well—’
‘It’s no trouble.’ Claire staggered up, trying to smile. ‘I’m sure we have enough for all of us.’
‘We’ve got loads. Auntie May bought burgers, and buns and chips. Pizza.’
‘I thought, if you were slow to heal, it would be useful to have things in – quick and easy, you know.’ Marianne’s eyes glistened. Claire was stricken.
‘You must stay. Yes. And as soon as I can get to the bank I’ll pay you for all the food, and medicine—’
‘Won’t hear of it,’ Marianne whispered, smiling. ‘It’s all my fault this happened anyway. The least I can do is help out.’
She insisted that Claire stay on the sofa while they heated up a pizza. She made her take more painkillers. ‘You have the History Channel? Lauren was telling me you’re a history buff. I’ll get that on; I think it’s Tudor weekend or something. Do you need another blanket? How about a brandy?’
‘A little brandy maybe.’ Claire closed her eyes slowly as the pills began to work, and she felt befuddled warmth towards Marianne; yes she was silly, yes she was affected, but she’d been so kind. So helpful. ‘Thank you so much, Marianne.’ And Marianne turned those tragic, kohl-rimmed eyes on her, her dry red lips quivered and she put out a large chapped hand. Claire felt the ragged nails poke into her palms. She smiled with great tenderness. A ruined, leonine face, but a kind one. ‘You’re a real rock,’ she said, and smiled sleepily.
Marianne wiped away a tear, her eyes widened and she shook her head laughing softly. ‘Oh, you don’t know how good that is to hear! I’ve been so worried that I’ve been a pain. I’ll get Lauren seen to. You just rest, promise me!’
Lorna was a lamb about cleaning her teeth, about washing her face, about turning the light off. In between reconstructions of Tudor crimes, Claire could hear them, talking softly so as not to disturb her, giggling together. She heard Lorna sigh sleepily, ‘Goodnight Auntie May.’ She heard Marianne tiptoe down the stairs, towards the sofa.
‘I’ll be getting home now, Claire.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I’d better. Don’t want to outstay my welcome.’ She grinned
awkwardly.
‘You really wouldn’t be,’ said Claire, automatically.
‘Ach. I would be.’
‘No, really.’ Claire shifted herself on the safe to make room. ‘Have a seat, Anne Boleyn’s about to meet her maker.’
‘Oh, I’ll need a drink for that! Claire? Brandy?’
‘I better not.’
‘Rubbish. Just a little one. Let me look at that ankle too. Still nasty. I’ll get that compress.’
‘You’re very nice.’
‘Back in a bit. Call me before the axe falls!’
It was nice to sit with someone. Nice to watch the TV without having to explain things, or guard against a sudden channel change. And as it turned out, Marianne was quite knowledgeable, almost incisive. They discovered that they shared a faintly guilty sympathy with Mary Tudor.
‘If only she’d been able to have a child. That was the thing that drove her mad, in the end, I think,’ Marianne mused over a second brandy. ‘As a woman – to be needed. It’s so important, isn’t it? Yes?’
‘Yes. I sometimes think that that’s our greatest strength.’
‘And weakness. No? I mean, we leave ourselves open to rejection by putting ourselves out there. Helping. Don’t we? I mean, I wear my heart on my sleeve, and you do too, I can tell. And you get taken advantage of.’
‘I do. I do,’ said Claire, and took a sloppy sip of brandy. ‘My cousin Derek—’
‘You see, I could tell. I could. People like us, we give, give, give and leave ourselves empty. Really’ – she topped up Claire’s glass and added a healthy swig to her own – ‘it’s the story, well, one of the stories of my life. Yours too, I bet?’ She was curled up on the sofa now, patting Claire’s arm.
And now Claire felt tears herself, warm luxurious tears of self-pity. ‘I always felt that if I did the right thing, that if I was always polite and kind, well, then I’d be rewarded. In some way. But, it never happened. I just, people just, expected me to always be like that. It becomes your role, doesn’t it? And so you’re never really valued.’
Marianne’s face shone in the light of the screen. ‘Lauren does. She absolutely values you. Loves you.’
‘She does?’ And Claire let the happy tears run.
‘Absolutely. Worships you. All the time you were asleep, she was planning her little show for you. To make you feel better. Asked me to get a repeat prescription for you; bought all your favourite food. No, she adores you.’ She clenched Claire’s hand in emphasis, accidentally knocking the brandy glass so that some slopped out. ‘You’re so lucky to have a daughter, it’s such a special bond, mother and daughter.’
‘It is. My mother, well, she died. Recently. And, I just haven’t felt whole since.’
‘Lauren didn’t mention her granny.’
Claire froze. ‘Well, she plays her cards close to her chest. So, no, I’m not surprised that she hasn’t told you about it.’
‘Is that why you came here? To get away from the grief?’
‘It’s a part of it.’
‘Well, at the end of the day – oh my God, such a horrible phrase, I’m sorry! – but still, you have a daughter. You have that closeness. Look, I’ll tell you something – here, have a drop more – all the time we were in the supermarket – Lauren and I – oh it’s silly, I know, but I was thinking, “I hope people think I’m her mum and she’s my daughter”, you know? Just once. You don’t think that’s terrible, do you? Or awful?’
Claire’s head swam. Pills and brandy on a nearly empty stomach. ‘No. I can understand that. I really can.’
‘She’s such a poppet. Such a very affectionate girl, and well, I’d be very proud of her. If she was mine, I mean. You’re so lucky.’
They sat in silence and watched the fire bank down. Of course, after all that brandy, Marianne couldn’t drive home; that vague, unspecified place she inhabited. ‘Horrible hole. Spartan. I’m only house-sitting for a friend – an actor, and you know what they’re like. Barely any amenities, that’s one of the reasons I’m so envious of you lovely ladies.’
‘You can stay here, whenever you’d like.’ Claire said it without thinking.
‘I’m glad, because even though it might seem a bit out there, I feel very close to you. Both of you. And what’s weird is that it doesn’t really feel that weird, you know what I mean? It’s more organic, more natural somehow. Now, let me tell you something that’s a bit more out there. A bit left field. Oh, God, I’ll need another drink for this! You? Yes? Just a little one. OK, I really, truly and totally believe that we were meant to meet. All three of us. There’s something about this situation, us meeting that way on the beach. I don’t know. I sound mad, I know, but I feel it, I do. I am meant to be in your life, and’ – she banged their entwined hands softly on the table top for emphasis – ‘ I. Am. Here. To. Help. Both of you.’
They stayed silent for a few moments, Marianne keeping up her significant gaze and Claire trying to keep her eyes open.
‘And on that note,’ Marianne laughed, rising unsteadily, ‘I really had better get to bed, before I begin to scare you. There’s a mad woman in the attic!’
‘Oh, no, Marianne, really—’
‘I can be too intense for most people, I know that.’ She stared at her knees. ‘But, I know what I feel.’ She tapped the paisley scarf over her heart.
Claire coughed. ‘You’ll be all right in the spare room?’
‘The one overlooking the drive? It’s heavenly. Really.’ Her brandy bright eyes twinkled. ‘Perfect. It’s like something out of Enid Blyton, isn’t it? These low eaves . . . we could be in the Faraway Tree.’
‘You should tell Lauren that. She loves Enid Blyton at the moment.’
‘Oh Lord, who doesn’t? It’s so comforting, isn’t it? Unthreatening? Magical creatures, strong friendships, adventures . . .’ She drifted towards the stairs. ‘Many moons ago I wrote a series of children’s books on that kind of theme – updated though, you know. And not so English . . .’
‘Did you publish them?’ Claire felt pinpricks of wariness again.
‘Oh, I was going to. A company was begging for them, but something stopped me,’ she laughed. ‘Something always seems to stop me.’ She turned to Claire, her sad, craggy face furrowed. ‘Being alone, that’s the hardest thing. I need to be with people to create, to really complete something, you know?’
Claire’s eyes refused to open. The silence lengthened. ‘I do. Being alone, well, it can be hard.’
‘Yes it can.’ Marianne sighed, looking at the ceiling. ‘It can indeed. But! Onwards and upwards! Do you need a hand up the stairs?’
‘No, I’ll be all right. The pills have worked.’
‘OK, I’ll do my best to keep Lola quiet in the morning.’
‘We don’t have a spare toothbrush, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I bought one today. Sleep well, Claire. Take it easy in the morning. I’ll deal with anything that needs to be done.
* * *
The next morning, Claire woke to find Lorna crouched beside the bed, shivering. She looked like she had been waiting a long time.
‘Can I come in your bed?’ she managed through chattering teeth.
‘How long have you been there?’ said Claire, folding over the blankets to let her in. ‘Quick, you’re freezing.’
‘I woke up worried,’ said the girl, snuggling down and putting her cold feet on Claire’s thigh. ‘About Marianne.’
‘What about her?’
‘I don’t think you like her, and if you don’t like her, I don’t want to like her,’ she whispered.
‘I do like her.’
‘Really?’ Lorna examined one bitten finger.
‘I do. I thought she was a bit . . . strange . . . at first. But she’s been very kind and nice and she’s lovely to you, so of course I like her.’
Lorna sighed; she hadn’t cleaned her teeth, her breath was sweet, rotten. ‘I like her too, and I like Benji. Move up!’ She wiggled around, pushing a sharp elb
ow into Claire’s midriff. ‘She said that I’m a really very good dancer.’
‘Did she?’
‘Yes, and she used to be a dancer, did you know?’
‘I don’t think she used to be a dancer,’ smiled Claire.
‘She did! She told me.’ Lorna propped herself up on one elbow, nodding insistently. ‘When she was little, or my age. She told me.’
Claire considered it. It could be true. ‘Well, then, that’s quite a compliment.’
‘Yes.’ Lorna closed her eyes and remained silent. Claire was drifting back to sleep when Lorna piped up again. ‘She said I could be a dancer. She said I could train starting now and maybe get good enough to be famous.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I could dance on a stage.’
‘Mmmmm.’
‘Or I could go to stage school and be an actress ’cause they teach dancing there, too.’
‘Mmm.’
‘You’re not listening!’ That sharp elbow again. ‘Listen!’
‘Lorna, you have to learn other things too, like maths? Science? We have to catch up on all of that before we start thinking of anything else.’
The girl let all the breath go out of her body and stayed very still. Sleep stole over Claire again, until she heard the whisper:
‘I’ll never be able to do anything.’
Claire forced her eyes open. ‘Don’t say that, Lorna.’
‘Lauren.’
‘Lauren.’
‘I won’t though. How can I? You need, like, a birth certificate or something to go to stage school, and I don’t have anything.’ The girl was speaking Claire’s thoughts back to her. ‘Can you change your name? Be someone else?’
‘I don’t know,’ Claire said carefully.
‘Who would know?’
‘I’m not sure. You can’t ask people those sorts of questions though. I mean, you can ask me, but no-one else. Not Marianne.’
‘She might know though. She knows lots of things.’
‘Yes, but, what you’re talking about is illegal. I mean, it’s against the law. To take another identity.’
