Bad Little Girl(35)

‘I’ll stay in the house, Derek, until I work out what to do with it.’

‘Sell it! That’s what you’re going to do with it!’ He rubbed his hands on the seat of his trousers and went off to see what he could liberate from the shed.

And Claire thought of the house, the shining woodwork, the mellow gold of the polished floors. The silver-framed pictures, the quiet tick of the grandfather clock and thought, no, sell? No! Johnny whined at the door. Claire wandered into the garden.

‘It’s time for Johnny’s walk. I have to go now.’

‘Claire, listen, I know what I’m talking about. And I have a lot of contacts through the Rotary Club – estate agents, financial advisors. What I’m saying is, you’re not on your own.’ Derek was wearing one of Claire’s father’s fishing hats. The hooks attached to it wiggled with every solemn incline of his head.

‘I’ll be sure to ask your advice, Derek, but I really have to take Johnny out now.’

‘You’re a sitting duck in this house, Claire, I’m telling you.’



* * *



Derek stayed for lunch and didn’t leave until she promised to talk to an estate agent about putting the house up for sale. ‘Pronto, Claire! Pronto! The market’s teetering on a knife edge, and if you don’t do it now . . .’

The council offices had closed by the time he left; she’d missed her chance to call about Mervyn Pryce, but the library was open late tonight, so she could still do some more internet research. Struggling to edge her car out from between two needlessly large four-by-fours, she heard a tap on the window, and there was Lorna, in a spectacularly dirty pink anorak, waving and smiling.

‘Lorna!’ Claire exclaimed as the car stalled.

‘Miss.’ She curtseyed. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m getting a bit better. How are you? Did you get home all right?’ Claire re-parked the car and got out.

‘Yeah. Look. I brought you this. The present?’ She dug into her rucksack and came out with a small box, wrapped in trembling paper. ‘Sorry, I didn’t have any Sellotape.’

‘What is it?’

‘Open it! Open it and see!’ Lorna was skipping with excitement.

Claire carefully opened the paper and prised open the box. It contained a snowglobe with an impossibly beautiful plastic princess, dressed in blue, poised to whisk off into a waltz. Lorna flicked a switch on the bottom, and the princess moved in soft circles to tinny music, the snow drifting down like magic dust.

‘You like it, don’t you?’ Lorna asked anxiously.

‘It’s a lovely thing, Lorna. Beautiful.’ Claire smiled. She could feel tears building.

‘I got it for you,’ the child beamed,.

‘It’s really so lovely. So thoughtful of you.’

The girl hopped a little on one leg bashfully. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to the library, and then I’ll go home – well, back to my flat to pick up some things.’

‘I thought you lived here though?’

‘No. Well, I do, I suppose. Now. But I officially live somewhere else.’

‘What’s “officially” mean?’

‘It means properly.’

‘Can I come? To your officially place?’

‘What? No. No, it’s long after hometime, isn’t it?’

‘I’m good with ill people.’

‘Lorna, it’s so sweet of you, but I’m not ill. I’m . . . it’s complicated.’

‘Your house is really nice.’ Lorna turned to take it in. Claire imagined what it must seem like to the girl – so large, so neat, so incredibly middle-class. ‘I like the flowers over the door. They’re really pretty.’

‘Thank you. They’re called forsythia. My mother loved them.’

‘Did you grow up here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lucky. I hope you get better soon.’

‘I – I shall. It’s more of a – I’m more sad than ill. It’s difficult to explain. My mother just died, and there are a lot of things to sort out, and it’s all been a bit . . . tough. But I’m OK. I am. I might even take a little break. To the seaside.’ She spoke without thinking.

‘The seaside?’ The girl cocked her head to the side and squinted through her fringe.

‘Yes. My aunt – she’s died now – my mother’s sister, she had a cottage. In Cornwall. And, well, it’s mine now, I suppose. So I thought I might have a little holiday. Maybe that will sort me out.’ Never in her life had Claire shared anything personal with a child. But there was something about Lorna, about the way she gazed at her with such sympathy, with such understanding . . .

‘I bet the seaside would be nice,’ said Lorna, sitting down on the wall of the front garden. She threw her bag behind her onto the flagstones. ‘Will you go with someone?’

‘No. No.’

‘You’re lonely.’ The girl’s eyes widened with sorrow. ‘You’re crying.’ Claire flapped a hand at her, dabbed at her eyes, but that just made it worse. Lorna peered at her with concern. ‘I get lonely, too.’

‘No, no, I’m fine. Don’t pay any attention to me, really.’