by Frances Vick
Lorna laughed. She picked up a tart and nibbled the edge. ‘Mmmmmmm! GORGEOUS!’ and threw it on the floor for Benji.
‘Not a good idea, Lo!’ Marianne chuckled. ‘She’ll make you have another one.’
‘I wasn’t making anyone have anything. I just made them as a treat, that’s all.’ Claire’s voice was small, tired.
‘Oh. My. God. I’m having a bath,’ huffed Lorna and ran up the stairs.
‘Scrub those ears, Lola-Lee!’ Marianne called and Claire stiffened, waiting for Lorna’s sharp retort, but instead a faint, cheerful ‘Will do!’ drifted down from the bathroom instead.
Claire made a big deal of wrapping up the tarts with cling film while Marianne yawned theatrically and drummed her nails on the kitchen table. They didn’t speak until Lorna came back from her bath, and padded over to Marianne, warm and scented, to get her hair brushed.
‘There’s special hair-growth shampoo you can get now. I think we should get some, don’t you?’ asked Marianne.
‘Yes! I want really, really long hair!’
‘And then we can do something with it. Think what you’d look like with an elegant top knot or something.’
‘Does it take ages for hair to grow? I mean, it’s already past my ears.’ Lorna spoke like a much younger child, gazing at Marianne.
‘Well, I think you have very quick growing hair, which is great. But I still think we should get some magic formula.’
‘Is it really magic?’ Her voice was all syrupy wonder.
‘Of course it’s not, Lauren, you know that.’ Claire was sharper than she intended to be.
‘Well, science is a kind of magic, isn’t it?’ said Marianne. ‘I don’t know why you had it cut so short anyway.’
‘Mum made me,’ said Lorna, and Marianne paused, embarrassed.
‘Lauren, you wanted your hair short, like George from the Famous Five.’ Claire heard her voice, nagging and peevish, and thought, oh God, this is the wrong tack to take with her! But she couldn’t seem to get off the tram tracks. ‘It was all your idea!’
‘It wasn’t. I just said it as a joke? And then you took it seriously.’
‘You know that’s not true!’
‘Well,’ Marianne said briskly. ‘A person can change their mind, can’t they? In the meantime, we’ll bob your hair, like a little flapper! And I’ll get something from the chemist’s tomorrow to grow the hair more. And maybe there’s some kind of scalp massage that would help too. I’ll do some research. Some people have hair kind of woven into their own hair so it looks longer. Lots of celebrities do that.’
‘We can do that, then!’
‘Lauren, you’re not going to wear a wig!’ Claire almost shouted.
‘Claire, it’s not a wig. It’s a weave. I think they even use real human hair, hair from Indian women I think, so it’s nice and strong and thick,’ Marianne explained.
‘I want that!’ Lorna gazed at Marianne with her eyes unfocused.
‘Well, let’s do that, then. That is – I mean – if your mum wouldn’t mind?’ They both stared at Claire who was poking holes in the cling film over the jam tarts, trying not to look upset. ‘I mean it’s perfectly healthy.’
‘It’s not suitable,’ Claire murmured at her hands.
‘Oh Lord, we’ll have to buy your old mum some fashion magazines, won’t we Lola? Get her dragged into this century!’
Lorna snorted and they all lapsed into awkward silence. After a while Marianne and the girl decamped to the living room to watch TV. Claire shoved the jam tarts in the fridge and then, hesitatingly, wandered into the living room after them. Marianne and Lorna stiffened. They exchanged glances and their easy chat became forced. After a while, Claire went upstairs for an early night.
Later she heard Lorna shuffling about outside her room, and opened the door to find a mug of cocoa and a note saying Drink me!! in a glitter heart. Claire smiled, relaxed, and after drinking, slept immediately.
30
Over the next few weeks, Claire began sleeping even later, sometimes until early afternoon, and when she woke, it was fitfully, with rising panic, as if she was clawing her way out of a grave. Checking the time, realising that, once again, the morning was over, she’d heave on the shawl of guilt. If she was going to sleep late, she ought to do more about the place. Lorna and Marianne had nearly always gone out by the time she emerged, and there was always the chaos of the kitchen to be tackled, blobs of jam on the carpet, tea stains on the sofa. The strengthening spring light was refracted through hundreds of greasy fingermarks on the windowpanes. Every day there were more and more things to do; the detritus from Lorna’s room was taking over, spreading down the stairs in an uneasy flood: cherry red lipsticks and dolls with their hair partially cut off; flakes of peeled-off nail polish; books with the covers ripped; stained pants and torn dresses. Marianne’s possessions, too, had multiplied: self-help books foraged from charity shops, synthetic silk scarves, ugly prints in ghastly frames, that she always said had ‘something’ but were still left in forgotten piles at the bottom of the stairs. The encroaching tide stopped at Claire’s door, but she knew with a deadly certainty that it would start to spill over soon; only yesterday, Marianne had talked vaguely about putting Lorna’s chest of drawers in there while she painted up a new one that she’d picked up from a lovely flea market in town . . .
Now that Marianne and Lorna spent most of their time together, Benji was left at home with Claire. They took calm walks every afternoon. He was such a comfort, good, easy company, like Johnny had been. When Marianne and Lorna came back each day, Claire’s timid questions about where they’d been and what they’d been doing were met with stony silence from Lorna and empty twittering from Marianne. They’d been ‘people watching’, they’d looked into taking a ‘movement class’, they’d been doing ‘retail therapy’. And they’d come into the kitchen with their dirty shoes, fling bags on the floor, and mess the whole place up again. Sometimes Marianne would throw her some praise.
‘You have been busy, Claire! Look, Lauren, even Benji’s bowl is sparkling clean!’
‘Where’s my bag of scarves?’ The girl looked panicked. ‘The special scarves?’
‘I put it in your bottom drawer. But, really, Lauren, you need to keep them all together. I found one in the garden today—’
‘All right!’ And she charged up the stairs.
‘She’s a bit of a teenager today,’ Marianne smiled. ‘That’s all. Great job on the fridge, Claire!’
Often though, her work was ignored, or criticised.
‘. . . I mean, it’s so difficult to find anything when it’s always being put somewhere else. Claire? Where’s that notebook? My best notebook?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘The one with the birds on it?’
‘I haven’t touched it.’
‘Oh God, never mind, never mind. Lola? Lo? Have a look in your room, will you? God knows where the thing is, and it has the list of classes in it.’
‘Marianne, if you leave things out all the time . . .’
‘One little notebook, Claire! That’s all. One little notebook. It’s hardly the messiest thing in the house. I mean, look at the stair carpet. You’ve been in all day.’
‘I’m planning on doing the stairs tomorrow. But if you’d take your shoes off in the house, it wouldn’t get so bad.’
Marianne rolled her eyes, shouldered past her. ‘Found it yet, Lauren?’
Lorna threw a volley of books down the stairs in response.
‘Brilliant! Got it! Here it IS! Lola! I’ve got the list!’
Lorna ran down the stairs trailing mud and dripping cola. ‘Let me see!’
Claire looked over their shoulders, making out the first thing on the list: ‘Miss Cumberland’s School of Dance’.
‘What’s this?’
Marianne turned glassy, faintly irritated eyes to her. ‘It’s the only good dance school in the area. The Truro one is a joke.’
‘But—’
‘That’s not what I meant—’
‘She’s ten now, we’ve left it late, but if we get her just in time, I really think she’ll be able to fulfil her potential!’
Lorna smiled and curtseyed. ‘Please Mum? Please? It’s SUCH a good school, and—’
‘Claire, I absolutely promise you that if it wasn’t an amazing opportunity, I wouldn’t ask. But it looks so good, and Lola’s so excited! Please?’
Lorna leapt clumsily down the last two stairs, landing in first position.
‘Look, see? She’s a natural! Look, we’ll be back, oh, within two hours I’d say. I’ll text. Don’t worry. In the meantime, Claire? Stairs?’ And they were on their way out again, Marianne nudging Benji back in the house with one boot. Claire heard her say to Lorna in a stage whisper, ‘Told you. Told you she’d let you.’
A few hours later, Claire got a text: ‘Taster session went brilliantly!!!! L tres excited. Now at cinema to celebrate. Don’t wait up. And later: Forgot we got you that cocoa you like! In the cupboard.
* * *
Because they were definitely away for the next few hours, Claire felt brave enough to put on the news, but she kept the volume down so she could hear them coming back. There was nothing on the fire though, and the drab national news leaked seamlessly into the drabber local news. She made herself a mug of hot chocolate. Lorna had drawn a smiley face in the powder; oh, she could be so thoughtful! She tried to keep that feeling close, she’s a good girl, she’s a thoughtful girl. Not, perhaps, an exceptional one. She needs discipline. She has done for a long time. Another failure of Claire’s. And all this reach-for-the-stars propaganda from Marianne wasn’t helpful, but what can I do about it now? Lorna was always a dreamer – what little girl isn’t? But this emphasis on fame . . . It’s not good. It’s corrupting.
Sitting down was making her sleepy. She got up decisively and got the Hoover out of the understairs cupboard to tackle the stairs. Marianne had a habit of tearing the hair from her hairbrush and dropping it in little frizzy clouds, where they drifted into corners, and they both tracked mud into the house. Claire got the worst of the stains up with carpet cleaner, and then began dragging the Hoover up the stairs, balancing it precariously on each. But then, something happened.
She suddenly felt so lightheaded, dizzy. And she must have got her foot caught in the cord or something, because suddenly she felt herself wavering, and too far away from the bannister to prevent a fall. She tumbled down three stairs backwards, before her head hit the newel post at the bottom and stopped her dead. The cord pulled out of the socket, and in the sudden silence, she heard Benji barking.
Dazed, shaken, almost unbearably weary, she put tentative fingers to the back of her head, and was relieved that they came back dry. Keeping her eyes open was hard. Concussion. I must have a concussion. Sit up, Claire! But that was hard too, and her stomach flip-flopped; the taste of the strong cocoa repeated on her. Benji nosed wetly at her splayed fingers.
‘Just had a bit of a tumble, Benji. Have a nice trip, see you next fall!’ she giggled weakly and tried to untwist the Hoover cord from around her ankle. That was a tougher job than it looked; she couldn’t seem to make her fingers work. Shock. It must be. Benji whined and pawed at her shoulder until she managed to raise one hand to pat him. She was so tired.
Suddenly he leaped up and ran, barking, to the door. Marianne and Lorna must be back. Claire struggled to stand up, but failed. She was still spreadeagled and vague looking as they came in.
‘Oh my Lord, Claire, what the – yes, Benji, yes yes, for God’s sake get down!’ Marianne rushed to her side.
‘Mum?’ Lorna was all concern. ‘Mum, what happened?’
‘I took a tumble. Silly. Don’t know what happened.’
‘Can you get up?’ Lorna frowned and passed an arm around her shoulder. ‘Can you try?’
‘Yes, yes, I think so. Just let me take a breath.’
‘Mum!’
‘Darling, don’t be scared, look, I’m not hurt! Just a bit bruised and I feel very silly!’ She gazed at the girl’s loving face, blotched with cold and tears. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not. She’s not! Auntie May, help me!’
Between the two of them, they managed to get her upright, and led her carefully to the sofa, where Lorna insisted she lie absolutely still while she applied an unneeded cold compress to her forehead. Her glazed eyes, beneath the puckered brow, told Claire how concerned she was. ‘Auntie May? Are there any of those codeine pills left?’
‘Lots, yes.’
‘Can you bring some in? And make Mum a strong cup of that hot chocolate she likes? Mum, do you need something to eat? One of your lovely jam tarts?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘It’ll go lovely with the hot chocolate. Go on.’
‘Well, yes then. Yes I will.’
Lorna bounced off into the kitchen, and came back with a tray filled with tarts, a muddy-looking hot chocolate, two Bourbon biscuits and a bag of crisps. And she sat with her, holding her hand, until Claire fell asleep, half the cocoa finished, the neat stack of jam tarts untouched.
Some time in the night, Claire dreamed that they were talking about her.
‘She drinks,’ said Marianne solemnly.
‘I know,’ Lorna whispered back.
* * *
The dizziness and fatigue stayed with her over the next few days. Sometimes she didn’t get out of bed at all, and Lorna, solicitous, would bring her over-salted soup and watch, cow-eyed, as she ate down to the last drop. She chased Benji from the room, shushed Marianne, closed doors soundlessly and squatted on the floor beside the bed, gazing at her. There was always fresh water, with a bendy straw, so that Claire didn’t have to raise her head too high. Hovering close, the girl patted her cheeks, kissed her softly, watched her sleep, which she did most of the time. Sometimes, though too weak to open her eyes, Claire listened. There was a conversation on the landing. Marianne was concerned.
‘She should go to the doctor’s, really.’
‘I know what’s best for her,’ Lorna said flatly.
‘Well, I know that this is what you’re used to, Lo, but you really shouldn’t be taking on all this responsibility. You never should have. You’re not a carer, you’re a child.’
‘But I always have!’
‘I know, poppet, and that’s what I’m getting at. It’s not fair on you. It’s role reversal, it’s bizarre! She should be looking after you!’
‘I try really hard!’ The girl was crying. ‘It’s really hard!’
‘Oh, darling, I know, I know it is. But, look, come here, wipe your pretty eyes. Can’t you see that it’s not right? I mean, I don’t want to make things worse for you . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well. What we said the other night. About the drinking . . .’
‘Oh.’
Claire felt her sluggish heart beat, suddenly, quickly. She shifted her head on the pillow a tiny bit so she could hear better.
‘I know it’s not something that we’re supposed to talk about,’ Marianne was saying. ‘We’re all so bloody English about it, but, really, I mean, it’s not just that, is it?’
‘The pills. I know. It’s not good for her,’ Lorna mumbled.
‘I’ve been missing some pills, I’ve noticed—’
‘I think she hides them.’ Lorna was near tears.
‘Oh darling, look, look at me, it’s not your fault!’
‘I’m trouble. I’m too much trouble for her! I know I am! It’s me that makes her poorly. If it wasn’t for me she wouldn’t have to drink and take all those pills like she does.’ Lorna was sobbing quietly.
‘Well, you’re not too much trouble for me.’ Marianne must have drawn the girl into a fierce hug, because Lorna’s next words were muffled and choked.
‘I love you, Auntie May!’
Claire’s skin shiver
ed. The mumbling continued but she couldn’t make out anything else. She heard them going down the stairs together. She heard Lorna’s muted giggle and they left the house. The car door slammed.
It took her half an hour to get out of bed, and another fifteen minutes to shuffle down the stairs into the kitchen. There, she rested her head on the table for a minute, and woke up an hour later with a headache and a jumping muscle in her neck.
The cache of pills – Marianne's knock-out drops – wasn’t in the cupboard any more. Nor was the codeine. Claire, in tiny increments, searched for them before exhaustion took over.
31
The next morning, Claire planned to dump her cooling tea down the drain before Lorna could notice, but the girl had stayed with her to make sure she drained every last drop, her lashless, rabbity eyes circled in black kohl, her forehead lined. Claire felt the effects almost immediately, that now familiar wave of tingling numbness, and then, the black wings of exhaustion folding themselves around the edges of her vision.
‘Mum, go to bed,’ Lorna muttered. ‘Just go to bed.’
And Claire did, but managed to stay awake by digging her nails into her forearms and clenching her feet painfully. When she heard the front door slam, she lurched untidily into the bathroom to make herself sick. She stayed on the floor for a while, until she felt stronger, and then dragged herself down the stairs.
There were definitely no pills anywhere in the kitchen. Marianne’s room? It took her some minutes to work up the energy to go back up the stairs, and when she did, she fainted halfway, which, oddly, seemed to help; when she came round her vision was clearer, and she was able to hold her head upright. Marianne’s room, fragrant, chaotic, was a dumping ground of clothes, scarves, books and cheap moisturisers, but no pills.
Lorna’s room was darker, with the secretive scent of an animal. There were piles of clothes, some still in carrier bags with the tags attached, presents from Marianne, she assumed. A semi-melted pile of lipsticks stained the dressing table, and inside the drawers there were even more clothes, cheap jewellery, false nails and – no pills. Knees creaking, Claire peered under the bed; more dirty clothes were hidden here, along with a couple of broken, headless dolls. She stepped on the squeaking guinea pig. It didn’t squeak, and felt strangely solid underfoot. Claire picked it up. It was heavy, it didn’t rattle, there was a solid whump of sound when she upended it . . . something was packed inside, where the batteries should be. Her weak fingers pried open the plastic casing, and here they were – some of them anyway. The knock-out drops.
