by Frances Vick
‘Still. What do people do in the country?’ That phrase was pure Marianne.
‘It will be better soon, Lorna. In the summer, there’ll be loads of things to do, and people to play with.’
‘You always say that,’ muttered the girl, drumming bitten fingers.
‘Maybe even earlier, if the weather gets better. People will be here. There’ll be more to do.’ And more people to recognise her, she thought but didn’t say. She remembered, fleetingly, the first few weeks. How happy they’d been. How complete it all felt.
‘Auntie May has to go to London in the spring.’ Lorna picked her nose meditatively.
‘What for?’ It was the first Claire had heard of it.
‘Her book. Something to do with her book.’
‘She’s not writing a book. Not really.’
‘Why would she say she was if she’s not?’ The girl frowned.
‘Well, I think that sometimes she says things that – she just says things, that’s all.’
‘You think she’s lying?’
‘Well not lying. Just . . . exaggerating.’
‘I don’t think she’s lying.’
‘I didn’t mean lying—’
‘Anyway she says she’s going to take me with her. For a break. She says we should get some headshots done.’
‘Lorna, I think, I think well, it’s not too good an idea to get your hopes up. About modelling,’ Claire said carefully.
‘It’s not just modelling. It’s for dancing too. And she’ll pay for it all, she said. She says it’s bad for me to be stuck here. She says London is the place for me.’
‘Well, she’s not your mother. And I say—’
‘Well you’re not, either? Are you?’ And Lorna sauntered off, singing a show tune.
And Claire thought, keep calm. She’s testing you, that’s all. She still needs you, just hang in there. Don’t show your hurt. Don’t show your fear. Don’t drive her further away.
* * *
‘She needs variety,’ Marianne urged. ‘She needs to see more of life, something of the world.’ And Claire, catching the criticism in her voice, lurched to her own defence.
‘It was her idea to come here! But now she doesn’t want to learn.’
Marianne pursed her lips, keeping her eyes on the fire. ‘She learns from experience. Like me. We learn differently, people like us. Come on, Claire, you must feel it too! She’s a free spirit! We’ll have to work with her, she’ll have to lead.’
‘She’s only ten.’
‘But she’s an old soul in many ways. She knows what’s best for her.’ Marianne nodded sagely.
‘Marianne, I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. It’s difficult enough to get her to do what I want her to do, without you putting it in her head that she doesn’t have to, like she’s above it all.’
Marianne cocked her head to the side and smiled a sad smile. Her eyes glistened. ‘I certainly don’t want to step on your toes.’
‘I shouldn’t have said that—’
‘I wouldn’t want to come between you two.’ And she looked at the fire again, her eyes now more than glistening.
‘Marianne—’
‘The way I see it, Claire,’ Marianne’s voice wavered, but held, ‘is that we’re both teachers. And we both love her, we both want the best for her. And we can make that happen if we work together.’
Something cracked in Claire’s mind, then; like boiling water poured into a cut glass bowl. I’ll just tell her. I’ll tell her the truth. Share the burden, accept my lot. She tried to take a deep breath, but her chest felt suddenly tight. ‘Marianne, I need to tell you something.’
‘What?’
‘About Lauren. She’s not who you think she is . . .’
Marianne was amused. Her eyes crinkled and she lit a cigarette. ‘So far, so mysterious, Claire . . .’
‘I need to be honest with you. It’s been so hard, it is hard, but I hate to lie. I can’t bear it!’
Marianne was concerned now. She leaned forward and blew smoke over her shoulder. ‘What is it? Claire? She’s not sick, is she?’
‘No! No, it’s, well it’s worse in a way – it’s difficult. But. OK.’ She took another deep breath. ‘Just after Christmas—’
There was a thundering crash on the staircase. Both women jumped up. Marianne got to the door first, opened it, and a crushed, crying Lorna spilled out at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Hurt my back,’ she whimpered through a split lip.
‘Oh my God, Lauren! Did you fall? Down the stairs?’ Marianne was white, shaking.
‘Can you move? Oh my darling!’ Claire put out her hands. Lorna ignored them. She heaved herself up on one arm and held onto Marianne in a bear hug. Marianne crooned and carried her awkwardly to the sofa. Claire hung behind them.
‘What hurts, lovely?’
‘My back and my mouth,’ the girl groaned.
‘And what happened, lovely?’
‘I had a horrible dream, and I called for Mum, but she didn’t hear me. You were both talking. And I couldn’t find the light and I was scared, and I’ – she began to choke – ‘fell, all the way down!’
Marianne cooed and stroked while Claire went into the kitchen to get the medical box, a horrible image creeping into her mind: Lorna standing on the stairs, listening to their conversation, so scared, feeling betrayed, feeling angry. What on earth was I thinking? About to speak to Marianne about all that, about the fire? What were you thinking, Claire? Her hands shook so that she nearly dropped the box, and the first thing she said to Lorna when she went into the living room was: ‘I’m so sorry!’
‘What for?’ The girl’s dull eyes were fixed at a point just above Claire’s shoulder.
‘That – that we didn’t hear you. I’m so sorry, darling. Here, let me see your back.’ Lorna turned over painfully. A small red graze at the bottom of her spine. Claire dabbed it ineffectually with arnica. ‘And how’s your lip?’
‘Hurts. And my arm, and my fingers too.’
‘Ah, you poor little poppet!’ Marianne pushed her stricken face at Lorna. ‘You poor love!’
Lorna closed her eyes. ‘I was calling and calling but you just kept on talking.’ Both women stood guiltily before her. She opened her eyes, narrowed them. ‘What were you talking about, anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ Claire blurted. ‘Nothing really. Just chatting.’ Lorna stared deliberately at the fire and pursed her lips.
‘Just chattering away.’ Marianne sounded nervous now too. ‘We mustn’t have heard you through the door. Thick doors in these old cottages.’
The girl stayed silent and the two women edged about her, offering water, paracetamol, a story, but she shook her head.
‘I’ll go back to bed now,’ she said flatly, accepting Marianne’s help up the stairs. She didn’t look at Claire.
Claire wandered into the kitchen and poured herself a drink. Not much brandy left, and hardly any whisky either. She drank every night now. Even though she’d always enjoyed a small brandy at the end of the day, she never used to have more than one. Nowadays she never had less than three. Sitting at the kitchen table, under the unforgiving fluorescent strip light, she could see the veins and age spots on her hands, their slight quiver. I’m getting old, old, she thought. I’m getting weaker, and a sudden bolt of fear drove through her. A voice deep down, not Mother’s, something else, something more primal, whispered – Take care of yourself, Claire, stay safe Claire. She thought about that little boy, the one at the farm. She remembered his little face cracked in pain. The bruise. Would Lorna be badly bruised in the morning from her fall, she wondered. How far did she fall? Did she fall at all?
She’d almost finished her drink and was thinking, guiltily, of pouring another, when Marianne crept back into the kitchen, grim-faced, and pulled the door shut ever so gently. The strip light didn’t do her any favours either; deep grooves showed on her forehead and down the sides of her mouth. Twinkling white roots showed at her parting.
‘Is she OK?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Can I? I mean, should I go and see her?’
‘I don’t know. She’s quite upset.’
‘I don’t understand how we couldn’t have heard her.’
‘No. But, it can’t happen again. You know she’s afraid of the dark.’
‘Since when?’ This was a new one on Claire.
‘Since always.’ Marianne’s voice crackled with irritation. ‘You know that.’
‘She’s never told me that.’
‘Well, I knew, so you must have done.’ Marianne drummed her nails on the table, and took a seat. ‘I should have got her that night light she was asking for the other day. Stupid! She was asking for it, said she needed it. I didn’t think.’
‘Well, listen, don’t be too hard on yourself. She’s always been able to find the light before—’
‘Well, she didn’t tonight, and now she’s hurt. Because of us!’
‘Marianne—’
‘Because of us chattering away.’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No. No. I think perhaps we’re drinking too much. Maybe that’s why we didn’t hear her on the stairs.’
‘Come on, you haven’t had a drink today.’ Claire smiled.
‘No. But you have.’ Marianne stared at her hands, her mouth a tight line.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look, nothing. I don’t mean anything. But I will say this, we have to be alert, we have to be more – present. Lola’s special. She has to be taken care of.’ Marianne’s voice quivered between tears and anger. ‘I think from now on, early nights wouldn’t do either of us any harm. I’ll go to bed when she does, just so she knows that someone is in the room next door, so she knows she’s safe.’
‘She’s been fine up till now,’ Claire bridled.
‘But she hasn’t. She’s been too proud to tell you. She’s been frightened at night for a while. All this time we’ve been nattering away downstairs, enjoying a drink, she’s been terrified and alone up there.’
‘I don’t . . . I mean, how were we meant to know?’
Marianne passed a lumpy hand through her hair. ‘Keep our eyes open? Think a bit less selfishly? Oh God, look, we know now. Go and see her. Tuck her in.’
‘Really?’ Claire felt suddenly frightened.
‘Yes once you do that, we’ll both go straight to bed so she won’t have to be frightened.’
Claire advanced up the stairs slowly, unwillingly. Lorna’s room was a mess. The bed in the corner heaved with toys and clothes, and the painted chest of drawers was stained with lipsticks, and scored with felt tip pen. The whole place smelt sweet, buttery, slightly fetid. Claire edged fearfully through the door, towards the bundled-up shape on the bed, and stood on a battery-powered hamster; it squeaked and clucked, and scuttled off under the bed.
‘I was nearly asleep,’ intoned Lorna from the depths of her pillow.
‘I wanted to come and see if you were all right.’ Claire sat on the bed, hesitantly patting the girl's shoulder. ‘Are you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Did you hurt yourself?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Lorna—’
‘Lauren.’
‘Lauren—’
‘You were about to tell.’
‘About to tell who, what?’ Claire laughed weakly.
‘You were about to tell her! You know!’ The girl sat up suddenly. ‘About the fire! About us! You were going to tell!’
‘I—’
‘Yes you were!’ she hissed, and hit Claire’s arm with one small fist. The pain bloomed. ‘You were!’
‘I’m sorry! Look, I wasn’t really, I – silly – I thought, just for a moment, that she might be able to help us or something, but I wasn’t really—’
The girl clenched her fists on the faux patchwork duvet cover. Her mouth was a thin, contemptuous line. ‘If you tell anyone, you’ll be sorry. You will be. I’m telling you now, you’ll be really, really sorry.’ It should have been funny, this little girl laying down the law, barking orders from her toy-strewn bed. But it wasn’t funny. Claire rubbed her arm, frightened. Lorna took her hand, and squeezed, hard. ‘If you tell, I’ll tell more. Do you get me?’
‘What? No, what?’
‘I. Will. Tell. More,’ the girl said through her teeth. ‘I’ll tell the police all about how you kept me at your house, overnight. How you took me away. I’ll tell about the fire.’
‘What do you mean?’ The child’s pale face seemed to fill the room; those hateful words hissed through tiny teeth. ‘What do you mean, tell about the fire?’ Claire managed.
‘I’ll say you did it.’ It was a whisper, full of venom.
‘You couldn’t. They’ll know that’s not true,’ Claire whispered back.
‘They won’t know anything until I tell them, will they? And I will, if you don’t shut up.’ She was squeezing Claire’s hand harder now, hard enough that in the morning she would be left with four small bruises on each knuckle, like fingerprints. ‘If you do shut up then everything stays the same.’
‘Oh my God—’
‘And I want ballet lessons.’
‘What?’
‘BALLET LESSONS.’
‘Lorna?’
‘Go to bed now.’ The girl lay down and turned her back. ‘Go away now.’
And Claire did go. She drifted downstairs, walking glaze-eyed into the kitchen where Marianne was waiting.
‘Did she ask you about ballet lessons? She’s so keen. And I’ve seen a decent-looking school in Truro.’
‘Yes, yes, she asked.’ Claire sat down, dazed, nearly missing the chair.
‘And?’
‘Yes. Yes, she can have ballet lessons.’
‘Oh, that’s grand! Brilliant! She has such ability, and I really think it will help her confidence.’
‘Marianne?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have any of those sleeping pills handy? I think I might take one tonight after all.’
29
The next day, Claire woke late, with a sleeping pill hangover. The TV was on downstairs but the house was empty. There was no milk in the fridge, no bread in the cupboard. A trail of jam and crumbs led from the table to the sofa, where Lorna had left a chewed crust on the arm next to the remote control. Claire hunted around for paracetamol, found none. Pills. Why had she taken the pills? Marianne’s craggy face as she handed them over, reproachful. She shuddered. Lorna’s anger and bunched-up fists, her threats. Claire sat down on the sofa, fingers tentatively tapping the remote control. Of course she’d been angry, overhearing her that way, about to tell Marianne something. Stupid. Stupid thing to do. Lorna had every right to be angry. Every right. But the rest of it . . . ‘I will tell,’ she’d said, as if she’d reached into Claire’s brain and plucked out its biggest fear with her dirty fingers. Claire, taking a child. But Claire, starting the fire? Surely not? The hatred in the girl’s face, the contempt.
Her tired brain swung from dread to dissonance; from fear of the girl to overwhelming protectiveness of her. She had learned viciousness from that terrible family; it was an animal-like defence mechanism, that was all. After a few more months of nurture and comfort, that inner armour would be finally, properly, cracked. Maybe it was Marianne that was throwing her off, delaying the healing process? It was a lot for a small child to take in, after all, first one then another adult playing Mother. No wonder she was confused, talking about moving away! This idea of performing, of dancing school, what was that but a pre-adolescent desire for escape and autonomy? It was a pipe dream, but a telling one. Perhaps Lorna didn’t feel worthy of the attention she was getting from Claire, and so, in some psychologically perverse way, was pushing her away? That seemed logical. And, all her drinking, all her pill-taking, it must have seemed to the poor girl that Claire was abandoning her, didn’t want to spend time with her, and so she was more or less forced to throw in her lot with Maria
nne. It made perfect sense when you thought about it. She made herself a cup of tea without milk and put on the radio, listening out for the girl’s return.
They clattered back to the house late in the afternoon, laughing, but stopped as soon as they saw Claire. Marianne coloured, looked down and grinned nervously at the floor.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Claire tried to keep her face humorous, kindly.
‘Nowhere,’ muttered Lorna.
‘Let’s get those boots off,’ said Claire, trying not to notice Lorna’s look of contempt as she kicked them off before she could help.
‘Did you go to town?’
‘Just a trip to the shops. And we went into the library, didn’t we, Lo, to see if there were any classes we could take. The dancing school isn’t taking anyone new until the summer term.’
‘Any luck at the library?’
Marianne rolled her eyes. ‘Knitting. Local History.’
‘All boring stuff,’ murmured Lorna, dragging a half-eaten packet of crisps out of her pocket.
‘Lauren, don’t eat those. Look, I made jam tarts!’ Claire exclaimed brightly.
‘Me and Auntie May had McDonald’s.’
‘Well, I’m sure you have enough room for one of my jam tarts!’
‘I had ice cream. I’ll be sick if I have anything else.’
‘You’re not too sick to eat the crisps though, are you?’ Claire felt Marianne’s eyes on her as she put a plate on the table. ‘Dig in, I’m sure you can manage one or two.’
Lorna looked at Marianne. ‘Tell her, will you?’
‘She has eaten a lot a lot a lot. Hollow legs, this one.’
‘I’ll be sick,’ the girl muttered.
Claire took the plate off the table again. She caught Lorna and Marianne eyeing each other in a tired, knowing way.
‘Don’t be like that, Claire. We’re just full, that’s all. I can manage a cup of tea and that’s about it,’ Marianne sighed.
‘I’m not being like anything,’ said Claire in a tight voice.
‘Oh God, here, I’m taking one.’ Marianne shoved the whole thing in her mouth, talking through the crumbs. ‘Mmmmm!’ Her eyes widened in exaggerated appreciation. ‘Gorgeous!’
