Bad Little Girl(23)
‘Ruth, that nice man, the school liaison officer—’
‘What?’
‘The policeman, the one who comes to talk about safety? He had to come in to talk to Feras once.’
‘Oh him. Yeah?’
‘Do we have his telephone number on file anywhere?’ Claire asked oh-so-casually. ‘I want to keep it with me just in case you’re not here to find it one day.’
This mustn’t be one of Ruth’s sharpest days, because she didn’t ask any questions, and didn’t seem to be interested, but waved vaguely at the crowded corkboard behind her. ‘It’s on there somewhere. Jeff Jones. Something like that.’
Claire copied the number carefully into her notebook and left the office before Ruth rediscovered her curiosity.
* * *
‘Well, make the call yourself, Claire, if that’s what you want to do.’ Norma was sunk into the sofa, a cushion behind her head, her eyes closed.
‘You don’t think I should.’
‘I think you need to do something before you lose your mind. Can you get me some paracetamol?’
Claire wandered into the kitchen, biting her lips. It simply wasn’t good enough. After hometime, James had called her into his office to tell her in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t take her concerns further. He’d even suggested that she needed a holiday.
‘. . . a proper break. Everything will seem a lot clearer with a few good nights’ sleep under your belt. Bit of sun.’
‘Bit of sun,’ she muttered to herself, rattling the paracetamol.
‘What was that?’ Norma sounded amused.
‘Nothing.’
‘Talking to yourself? Sign of madness.’
‘I think I’ll have a sherry. Or something. Do you want anything?’
‘Not for me, but there’s brandy in the parlour, and some horrible Spanish thing Derek brought round. You’re welcome to take that away with you.’
Claire stood blankly in the kitchen. If she did call it in to the police, or social services, and Pete got angry . . . what then? He has no problem hitting a woman, surely he would hit a child. She remembered Lorna’s thin frame running to class; that little girl would be made to pay for it. If there was anything happening at home – and there must be something, Claire could feel it – Lorna would suffer for talking . . .
‘Claire? Paracetamol?’
‘Coming. Sorry.’
10
Over the next few terms, Claire watched for Lorna shuffling round the edge of the playground, hurrying down the corridor, staring at the floor in the lunch queue. She was withdrawn, yes. Quiet too. But then, that wasn’t unusual, certainly nothing she could bother the police liaison officer with. Claire kept an eye on the court notices for mentions of a Peter Marshall, but he seemed to be staying out of trouble. No, there was nothing concrete to go on, no new evidence, and she hadn’t even had a conversation with Lorna in months, but she couldn’t rid herself of the nagging feeling that the girl was in trouble, she was unsafe. Claire was certain of it.
And over spring and into the summer months, Norma grew weaker. She kept on working, but her cough wouldn’t go away, along with the bouts of breathlessness, and the stealthy despair, the frightened irritation with her sudden disabilities.
‘It’s so stupid, Claire, I know, but I can’t get up the stairs, not to the top floor. I thought a bed on the sofa, but all the blankets are in the linen closet upstairs.’
And Claire would drive over, telling herself not to drive too quickly: Mother mustn’t know she was panicked. But fear was etched into the folds of Norma’s face now too, and Claire could sense her thoughts – Can’t get up to the top floor today – what about next week? Will I be able to keep up with the garden? Claire would arrange her own face into the placid, faintly humorous mask she wore at work, and put all her effort into reassurance.
‘Did the doctor give you a puffer? Well, he can’t think it’s serious if he only gave you an aspirator, can he? No x-ray? No? Well, that proves it. You’re pushing seventy. And I know that’s not old by our standards, but it is a time when your pace slows. Accept it, relax a little.’ But Norma, lean and tense as a spring, could not and did not relax, but rather raged, quietly, within herself, exhausting herself even more.
And so Claire spent more and more time at her childhood home. First just dropping in after work each day, to take Johnny for a walk. He was placid enough to deal with. Then, later – but not much later – she stayed to cook, coaxing Mother to eat just a little bit more. Sometimes she’d stay over and make breakfast for them both before they climbed into Norma’s immaculate old Volvo and headed to work. Norma dropped Claire off, just a few streets away at the gates of the school, before swinging the car around and heading off in the opposite direction to her own school on the other side of town. She promised Claire that she was taking it as easy as possible.
‘I’ve got my lozenges. Got my will in my back pocket in case I give up the ghost on the way.’ And Claire tried to laugh along, tried to hide the worry in her face. If only she’d go back to the surgery, or see another doctor, at least. Avuncular Dr Gordon – he’d always been a good GP, but still, he could have missed something.