Bad Little Girl(44)

After half an hour, Lorna got out of the bath like a somnambulist, wide-eyed and slow, accepted the too-big robe, and sat in front of the fire, letting Claire brush her hair. The robe slipped down, and Claire could see more bruises – older, and faded to yellow – on the nape of her neck and shoulders. When Lorna silently allowed herself to be dressed in one of Claire’s shirts, what could be a half-healed bite revealed itself on one buttock. Claire, blushing, holding back tears, gave her some leggings to put on, the waistband cinched in with a safety pin. She sang half-remembered lullabies to her, brushed her hair until it dried, and kept on brushing it until it crackled with electricity. They sat together, staring at the flames. Time ticked.

‘It’s not fair,’ whispered the girl. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘When I was little. Smaller. When I was little, I had a made-up friend. When I closed my eyes, she would come and wrap her arms around me and take me away.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘We went to the clouds. We went where there wasn’t anybody. Just me and her.’ Claire tightened her hold around Lorna’s waist. ‘And when we were together, I was happy. But it only worked sometimes. Did you have a friend? Someone made up like that? Or real?’

‘I had Mother, I suppose. She was my best friend,’ Claire murmured.

‘That’s what a mum should be.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she take you places?’ Lorna asked.

‘We went to the seaside.’ Claire’s voice was dreamy, sleepy. ‘We went to Cornwall.’

‘And were there lots of people there?’

‘No. Not many. Not where we went.’

‘Were you safe there? And happy?’ Lorna whispered.

‘I was. We were.’

‘Will—’ and then Lorna stopped.

‘Will?’

‘Will you always be my friend?’

‘Yes,’ said Claire, slowly, dreamily. ‘I will always be your friend.’

‘Will you – not – ask me questions. Too many? And no more police. You can’t tell them. Ever.’

‘All right.’

‘I mean it. You can’t, ever. I might tell you more later. But you understand, don’t you? You said the same thing had happened to you. That’s why I know I can trust you not to tell.’

‘All right my darling.’

‘Where’s Johnny?’ The girl looked suddenly panicked. ‘Where is he? Is he OK?’

‘Oh darling. He – I should have told you – he passed away. More than a month ago now. I’m sorry, I know how much you loved him.’

‘Poor Johnny,’ Lorna whispered. ‘Poor old Johnny.’

The fire banked down, the girl’s flushed face drooped and she fell asleep. Claire picked her up with great difficulty – the child was small for a ten-year-old, but still a sprawling, heavy girl, all sharp limbs and elbows – and placed her ever so gently in the spare room. Then she stayed up for the next few hours, staring at the fire, thinking and not thinking. She looked at pictures of the house in Cornwall, pictures Mother had taken on the day after Aunt Tess’s funeral. It was like Mother to be practical. ‘I’ll just take some photos now. I can get a better idea of how much it’s worth. Do some research. Put it up for sale?’

Claire arranged all the photos on the desk. A mean little fireplace, scorched at the edges, that Mother hoped might be a ‘feature’ once they cleaned it. A large, wild garden, sloping down to the brushlands near the sea. Three bright, high-ceilinged bedrooms with tall cupboards in sombre wood that rattled in the wind. There was a cellar, too. Useful for storage. From a distance it looked gorgeous, tucked away, with its slate roof, climbing roses around the door, a winding yellow stone path to the cheerful front door. It was only when you got close to it that you saw that the paint was peeling, the roses blowsy, the path full of weeds.

Claire drank brandy. She found the good atlas, and turned to the page for Cornwall. A pink Post-it was positioned over the location of the house. Mother’s handwriting.

Mrs Philpott’s husband does chimneys. Also gardening.

In book under Tess.



I could call, thought Claire. I could call Mrs Philpott and tell them I’m coming down to stay. Ask them to clear the chimney and get in firewood. Tell them I’m bringing my niece. I could do that.

She got out the address book, found Aunt Tess’s number (practically scored through by Mother’s red pen) and gazed at the address. No number, just a name: Howell House, Bushton Hill. She looked at the atlas again. There was nothing near it for five miles. It was perfect.



* * *



Claire left the Cornwall photos spread out in a fan on the kitchen table when she went to bed. She woke up, later than usual, with a brandy-coated tongue and aching head. Tea. Tea, that’s the ticket, and she passed the door to the spare room on tiptoes so as not to disturb Lorna. The clock in the kitchen said eleven. Lord! So late! She sat down with one foot tucked under her (‘Bad for the posture, Claire. Makes you slump,’ Mother would have said) and looked at the photos again while she drank her tea in hot little sips. It wasn’t really that bad a place at all. Not luxurious, but who needed it to be? Nice big rooms, with fireplaces. Central heating too, as far as she could remember. A garden big enough for a vegetable patch, some swings maybe. The cellar could be a playroom! Claire shook her head and blinked. Shower. Shower and a brisk walk. Nice day. Not raining. Yes, a nice lunch and then a nice walk. Get some colour in the girl’s cheeks.