Bad Little Girl(24)

Claire occasionally asked, ‘Why not go private? See what all the fuss is about?’ But Norma, normally so level-headed, claimed that seeing another doctor would mean she was blacklisted by the practice. ‘It’s not true, Mother. It really isn’t, that would be illegal.’ Norma, pretending to be joking, but now so fogged by fear, replied that once you paid, they always found something wrong with you so you’d have to keep on paying. ‘I’d rather live in blissful ignorance for free, Claire.’

A thin, unbroken rattle culminating in a sharp cough like a dog’s bark; the sound followed Claire around the house, the harsh, pneumatic breath of the aspirator settling it, but only briefly. At night Norma slept propped up on three pillows, the aspirator at hand, along with a book of crossword puzzles to pass the time when she couldn’t sleep, but stayed awake, spitting phlegm into tissues she made sure to hide. And still she went to work every day.



* * *



A new school year, and Claire was supervising the plans for the Christmas play when she got the call. This wasn’t one of those schools with a sharp-elbowed PTA, so the teachers had to do the majority of the work, along with the Reverend Gary, who usually provided some thin-lipped church-goers to put together raffle prizes. Church – in the form of Gary – and State – Miss Brett and the young guard – clashed uncomfortably during each planning meeting, with Claire trying to keep them on as amicable a footing as possible. Today they were coming to the end of a protracted debate about the crib. A compromise had been reached whereby the crib would still be given its usual place at the edge of the stage, surrounded by lights, but there would be a disclaimer in the newsletter assuring parents that at no point would their children be compelled to visit it and coo at the baby Jesus. Both sides privately claimed victory.

Lorna hadn’t been in school all week. Claire had checked the absence register, and there was no reason given. Perhaps she should call her house? Would that be strange?

‘Claire. Phone for you,’ Ruth the office manager said through a mouthful of sandwich.

‘For me?’

She nodded. ‘Police.’

Claire hurried to the office without excusing herself from the meeting. Taking the phone, she cast about for a chair in a quiet corner, but there wasn’t one, and Ruth showed no sign of giving up hers, so Claire perched uncomfortably on the edge of the desk where everything she said could easily be overheard by anyone passing the office.

‘Hello?’

‘Claire Penny?’

‘Yes. What—’

‘We have your mother. Bit of a car accident. Collision. She says she doesn’t want to go to hospital, but she’s a bit confused, so . . .’

Claire could hear Norma now, querulous, old sounding. She heard ‘Ridiculous’, ‘Perfectly fine’, and ‘Have to get to work.’

‘Just outside the doctor’s? I’ll be there,’ Claire whispered, and put the phone down.

‘Accident?’ Ruth swallowed the last of her sandwich and picked her teeth with her fingernails.

‘Yes. My mother. Had a collision. I’ll have to go.’

‘Can’t do the dress rehearsal without you.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s today, isn’t it? Well, look, you don’t need me for that.’

‘Can’t do it by ourselves. You know the lines.’ Ruth blinked slowly.

Claire felt unaccustomed anger. ‘There’s all the rest of the teachers and the support staff, I mean, you can do without me just this once. I have to take my mother to the hospital for God’s sake!’

‘Not with Fergus Coyle as narrator we can’t. You can handle him. It was your idea to have him in the first place.’

‘Oh God. Look, just be nice to him. That’s all! That’s all you’ve got to do. Be nice to him and feed him the lines if he forgets.’ Claire shrugged on her coat and dashed out of the office.

‘Just be niiiice to him!’ she heard Ruth whine at her back.



* * *



The car was a write-off. The Volvo straddled the kerb over the flattened bollard, and pedestrians had to walk in the road to avoid the broken bumper. The crumpled number plate had been incongruously propped up by the stone steps, and Norma sat next to it, crouched on a chair borrowed from the surgery, wrapped in a checked blanket. A bruise bloomed on her cheek and her careful French plait had come unpinned. She was trembling.

‘Couldn’t catch my breath.’ Norma squeezed Claire’s fingers. ‘Just couldn’t catch my breath. On the way to the doctor’s. Started coughing. Before I knew it – all this.’

‘We need to get you to the hospital.’

‘No need for that. No need. Aspirin. Rest. I’ll be right as rain.’

‘Let me get the doctor at least?’

‘Oh, I think I might have missed my appointment.’ And she tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat, and caused a coughing fit.

‘Made a decision, Norma?’ A pleasant-faced policeman leaned into the car.

‘My daughter here thinks we should go to the hospital, but—’

‘She’s got her head screwed on, your daughter.’

‘But—’

‘She didn’t just lose a fight with a bollard, did she? Get yourself to A and E. Get yourself checked out, and we’ll get the car towed.’ He eyed them both kindly, and Claire had an insane impulse to ask him if he’d heard of Pete Marshall, if he was safe to be around children. She shook her head, tried to clear it. ‘Come on Mother, let’s get you to the hospital.’