Bad Little Girl(51)
* * *
‘Can we go to the beach today?’ Lorna asked the next morning.
‘Isn’t it a bit cold?’ Claire looked at the dark window.
‘No. Maybe. We can wrap up, though. I made a picnic.’
She had indeed; the kitchen was scattered with crumbs and smeared with Nutella. Splashes of sticky juice congealed on the table. Lorna seemed to have taken everything out of the fridge and the cupboards, only to make two modest sandwiches. Claire was about to say something, maybe start cleaning up, but she caught sight of the girl’s happy, proud little face, and couldn’t do it. After all, children make mess. Years of teaching had shown her that, and people had to be taught how to clean, how to look after their environment; she would hardly have been taught any of that by her family, at her home. Still, some kind of look must have betrayed her because Lorna frowned, then smiled bravely.
‘I’m not very tidy.’ Tears were shining again.
‘Oh, don’t worry, we can get this all cleared up in a jiffy.’
‘I’m messy. I’m a lot of trouble.’ A tear dropped off her lower lashes.
Claire took her firmly by the shoulders, and dipped down to meet her eyes. ‘You’re not any trouble at all. You’re not! You’re a lovely, sweet little girl!’
‘I can’t do anything right.’
‘That’s not true! Lorna, Lorna, look at me.’ She pushed up the girl’s chin with firm fingers. ‘You’re a very capable girl, and I’m very proud to know you!’
‘You don’t mean that. You’re just being nice.’ But she sounded hopeful, and peered out from under her hair, shyly.
‘I most certainly do! Listen, let’s take your lovely picnic and have a walk on the beach. You’re right, it’s not too cold. It’ll do my old bones good to have a stroll.’
‘You’re not old! You’re beautiful and young young young!’ The girl laughed.
‘OK, look, I’ll tidy up. I will! What do you have to do?’
‘We have some spray, here? It smells of lemon. So, you get one of these scrubbers . . . spray the table . . . and . . . give it a wipe. That’s all.’
Lorna smeared Nutella and antibacterial spray in tentative half moons ‘Like this?’
‘Yes – but I think once the sponge gets a bit dirty, you have to wring it out again so things stay clean.’
Lorna wandered to the sink and splashed the sponge under a cold tap. She slapped it back down on the table. The brown smears turned to streams. ‘It’s going on the floor now though.’
Claire leaped forward with kitchen roll to mop up the puddles. Lorna sighed with satisfaction.
‘And now I’ve cleaned up, I can pack the picnic! I made chocolate and jam sandwiches, and a cocktail of juice.’ She waved a Coke bottle filled with murky-looking liquid.
‘Lovely,’ said Claire, thinking longingly of the fresh ham and vine tomatoes Lorna had left in the fridge. ‘Let’s get a move on, before it decides to rain.’
‘Oh it won’t rain,’ Lorna said firmly. ‘Today is going to be perfect.’
But it did rain.
* * *
Lorna didn’t look for shells that day, or make castles, or draw hearts and flowers with a stick on the sand. Today she ran about on the beach like a mad thing, scooping up handfuls of shingle, flinging it, shrieking, at the turbid sea. Her boots slapped and crunched on the shore, and the wind carried odd tendrils of sounds – singing, laughing – to Claire, who huddled nearer the cliffs, away from the oily-looking water. The wind was fierce down here, coming in low, viscous swathes, and burrowing into ears, eyes, between buttons and up sleeves. God knows how the girl could stand it. There she was, coat off now, dancing in the waves, soaked to the knees, screaming and throwing stones. Happy. She’s just happy. Claire rubbed at her chapped knuckles and stamped her feet in her boots to keep warm. A wave soaked Lorna’s trousers. Still she laughed, waved. Claire waved back.
‘Lorna, put your coat on!’
But Lorna, smiling, shook her head and said something, but the wind whipped the words away. She stamped, splashing sandy water in her eyes, and whirled, singing, until she collapsed in a hysterical heap, choking with laughter, the sea lapping around her soaked jeans.
Claire hurried over. ‘Lorna, seriously, you’ll catch your death!’
‘I am cold.’ She was shivering suddenly.
‘Oh Lord, I should have brought some towels, or spare clothes. Come here! Oh Lord, you’re soaked through!’
Lorna’s teeth were chattering now, and her face was pale, jaundiced looking.
‘It’s beautiful, the sea,’ she murmured.
‘It is, but it’s cold. Let’s get back home and get you warmed up.’
‘No, no. Not yet, let’s go and have a drink at that café.’
Claire hesitated. Going to a café together was very public. ‘Lorna, you’re too cold, really.’
‘I don’t want to go yet, please! I won’t stay on the beach, but can we go to the café? It looks so warm. If we go there I promise I’ll go home without any fuss.’
Claire gave in. They’d have to be seen together at some point. She couldn’t keep the girl cooped up at home all the time, it wasn’t fair. ‘All right. But you have to have something warm. A hot chocolate.’