Bad Little Girl(28)

But when she got back, she found Norma sprawled on the stairs. She’d hit her head on the bannister on the way down, and she didn’t immediately recognise Claire running to her; she tried to fight her off with her bird-like limbs. What was she doing on the stairs anyway?

‘I had to use the lavatory,’ Norma whimpered.

‘Perhaps we should, I don’t know, think about—’

‘Getting a commode? I am not that far gone, Claire!’

‘But, we have to be practical—’

‘I don’t want to be practical. I want to be normal again!’ Norma wept, weakly pounding her loose fists on her thin knees.

It took a long time to calm her down. A long time to persuade her to take her pills and go to sleep. They never got round to watching It’s a Wonderful Life after all.



* * *



The next night, Claire, buoyed by brandy, called PC Jones and left a slightly rambling message – she was terribly worried about a girl in the school, not one of her own children, but still . . . accusations . . . a neighbour . . . saw something terrible at the supermarket . . . can you call me back? Please?

He called back in the following morning, just as Claire, suffering an unaccustomed hangover, was on her third cup of coffee.

‘I really shouldn’t be calling at all, but, Miss Penny, you sounded so distraught, I just wanted to put your mind at rest.’ Yes, Pete had had a few convictions, but there were no concerns about his behaviour with children. She needn’t worry. He wasn’t a violent man.

‘But I saw, in the paper, something like bodily harm? On his girlfriend or something?’

‘Oh, that. Well, Miss Penny, let me tell you that Mr Marshall’s ex is very much on our radar, and believe me, she gives back what she gets and then some. I wouldn’t be surprised if, well, not that she made it up, but . . .’

‘He was so violent towards Lorna, yesterday, though. I saw it myself—’

‘Violent?’ His voice held a frown. ‘Violent how?’

‘Oh, he was screaming at her. It was terrible, really.’

‘And did he hit her? Put his hands on her at any point?’ Claire could hear him reaching for a notebook, heard his pen click.

‘N-no. A woman, another shopper, she intervened. And then the security people talked to them.’ She heard the pen click again. He wasn’t going to write anything down.

‘Well, we don’t get involved with arguments, Miss Penny.’

‘But it’s emotional abuse, surely? It proves that he’s a bully at the very least?’

‘There’s been no report to us about it. Do you want to make a report?’

‘I-I suppose not.’

‘And, when she was in school, has the girl ever said anything to you about Mr Marshall? Made any accusations?’

‘Well, Lorna’s mother said that Lorna had accused him of all sorts of things. And the neighbour too. But when we asked Lorna she didn’t tell us anything, no.’

‘And the mother, what did she say exactly?’

‘She said that Lorna was . . . well, she said that she was a liar, but . . .’ She trailed off. She knew how she sounded.

‘Miss Penny, I don’t for a minute think you did the wrong thing by calling, but children do make things up. You know what it’s like, they watch something on TV, or the internet. Or a soap opera. And before you know it, it’s happened to them. If it’s something concrete, then I can take a look at it, but as it stands . . .’

‘I understand.’

‘I just wanted to put your mind at rest, Miss Penny. I know things aren’t good at the moment, and, well, Mrs Penny is poorly. My girl’s just gone into the sixth form, so I heard about it. It’s a difficult time. For you, I mean.’

He thinks I’m a bit potty, Claire thought. He thinks the strain has got to me. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.

‘Take care, Miss Penny,’ PC Jones said gently, and put the phone down.



Norma was often disoriented, and plagued with imaginary irritants. Unopened windows banged, silent clocks ticked, phantom phone calls.

‘I heard the phone. Another one of those calls with no-one speaking.’

‘It’s just one of those silly PPI cold claims calls. Just don’t bother with the phone. If it’s that important they’ll call back or leave a message.’

‘There was someone there though – I heard them breathing.’

The community nurse said this was natural.

‘She’s worried that she’ll go in the night. Without having a chance to say goodbye. So her brain keeps her awake with all sorts of worries,’ she murmured. ‘That’s normal. A lot of them have the same trouble towards the end.’

The nurse, the GP, the palliative care team, everyone seemed to have a grasp on what Norma thought, what she needed, wanted, what she feared; except Claire. She was on the outside of this circle, unable to find a gap in the fence.

‘Carers need a lot of support at this time as well – are you getting the support you need?’

The trouble was, Claire didn’t know what support she needed. What was the point of support anyway? It wasn’t going to take any of this away. How could she explain to a stranger that what she wanted was everyone else to stop, to go away, and leave Claire to care for her alone? But it was beyond her, she knew that she’d fail without even beginning to try. And the professionals know it too – all of them. They were here to paper over her ineptitude with their expert kindness, their cheerful home modifications and their professional sympathy.