Bad Little Girl(48)

‘Boring for children. Doesn’t really pick up till the summer. It’s lovely then.’



* * *



Lorna clambered into the front seat and they drove off again, the girl looking wanly out of the window.

‘Can’t see the sea.’

‘No, it’s on the other side, my side. I think once we turn, you’ll be able to see it then.’

‘Hope so.’

‘You will, soon. Honestly.’

‘I can! No, it’s road. No! It’s the sea!’ And it was. A flat, grey worm on the horizon, practically inseparable from the sky. ‘It’s a bit dark.’

‘Well, it’s a dark, miserable day. When it’s summer, it’ll be sparkly and blue.’

‘I didn’t know the sea could be dark. It doesn’t look like that on telly.’ Lorna hunched down in the seat, sucking at the long tendrils of fringe. One knee bounced, jittery, by the gearbox. ‘Do you promise? That it will sparkle?’

‘I do.’ Claire smiled.

It was another hour of winding roads and sudden dead-ends before they found the house, and, to Claire’s relief, it didn’t look too bad. Even Lorna perked up. The windows were clean, and the lilac trees had been cut back. Somewhere along the line, someone had painted the front door a cheerful red, and weeded the path. The weather had turned, and while it was still cold, the bright winter sunlight filled the low-beamed kitchen, making the wooden cupboards and table glow. Lorna ran straight to the living room, and from there, up the creaking stairs to the bedrooms. Claire could hear her stumping about upstairs, exclaiming at the view from the window, opening the shuddering cupboards, and she felt a sudden throb of joy. Of hope. It could work. No! No, think more positively, Claire: it was going to work. They would be a family.

The cellar stairs were just behind a door that looked like a large cupboard. A secret door to a secret room! Lorna would get a kick out of that! Claire tried the oven and the hob; both fine. There should be quilts in the airing cupboard, but they would need freshening up. Well, they’d brought bedding with them anyway. The cutlery looks all right. Any tins of food? No. Well, they had to go to the shops anyway . . . Mrs Philpott had said that there was a supermarket a few miles away, hadn’t she? If they got a move on, they’d be able to get there before it closed.

That hope, that contentment stayed with her. There’d be time to think, really properly plan, once they’d settled in. For now, she kept herself busy, opening windows, checking on the firewood, running her fingers over the piano keys to see if it was in tune. ‘Now we begin,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Now I start again.’ And, hearing Lorna’s joyful shout – ‘I CAN see the sea! And it’s GLITTERING!’ – she smiled, closed her eyes and repeated to herself, ‘Now I can begin to live.’

‘Come HERE!’ the girl cried, and Claire scurried up the stairs. Lorna grasped her hand tightly and led her to the window.

‘Look! The sea!’ A glorious sun burned through the clouds, trailing with it a gorgeous blue sky – the bluest Claire had ever seen. Cheerful seagulls called to them over the lap and hiss of the waves.

Lorna’s sticky fingers laced with Claire’s, and her dark-circled eyes were sheened with tears. ‘Thank you!’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for bringing me here!’





19





That night, after a hearty meal of sausage and mash, Claire tucked Lorna up in the bedroom with the lilac-flowered wallpaper, the one facing the sea. Then she sat in the kitchen, drinking cocoa, feeling content. The shopping expedition had been a success. The cupboards were full, Lorna had some new clothes, and Claire had some information on one of those big-screen TVs the girl was so keen on. Tomorrow they would go to the beach. Earlier, she’d steeled herself to listen to the news, but, unless she’d missed it, there had been no item about a missing child. After all, children run away a lot, and only parents who care about them call the police.

‘And they won’t call. I know they won’t,’ Lorna had said.

Outside, a sudden gust of wind rattled branches against the windowpanes, and Claire froze, waiting for a cry from Lorna, but there was nothing. She’s a hardy little soul, she thought, smiling again. She’s a survivor.



* * *



That first week was magical. Claire thought about it so much afterwards that it was as if all its rough edges were smoothed out, and it shone – like a tumbled pebble plucked from the sea. The smell of sheets dried crisply in the wind; woodsmoke; baking muffins and warm skin. The laughter in the days and the creaks of the old house in the night, and faintly, faintly, the calming tide.

And how Lorna loved the sea! On the first full day there, Claire found her leaning as far out of her window as she could, elbows on the sill, gazing at the silver line beyond the dunes. She was singing softly, a tuneless whisper, something she’d made up herself. Claire edged behind the door again, so as not to disturb her, but Lorna, without taking her eyes from the view, held out a hand and beckoned her over. They looked out together. Lorna’s singing coalesced into muttered syllables – ‘It . . . Is . . . So . . . Nice’ – that she emphasised by gently pressing on each of Claire’s knuckles in turn. ‘It is so perfect.’

‘Would you like to go to the beach, Lorna?’