Bad Little Girl(57)

Claire leaned forward and plucked one wrist to safety. ‘I won’t leave you. I won’t.’ She put two fingers firmly on the girl’s chin and forced it up so she could see into her eyes. ‘I promise you.’ Lorna’s mouth tried to smile while her damp eyes pleaded. Claire said again, ‘I won’t leave you. We’re together now, Lorna. Nothing bad will ever happen to you again, I promise. I won’t let it happen.’ With each firm phrase, she felt her resolve harden further, her determined hope rise; she willed, and saw, trust fill the girl’s blank, shocked eyes. Each word Claire uttered seemed to bring her back from some terrible brink, and breathe life into her. And so she carried on talking, outlining their future together. She spoke of holidays, of pets, of the beach in the summer time; she spoke of music, of dancing, of talent and dreams, and soon the girl stopped shivering, uncurled like a flower in the sunshine, and began asking questions, giggling softly, clinging closer to Claire even as she relaxed.

When Claire thought about that evening, as she did so many times afterwards, she fell into confusion when she tried to remember how exactly it had all ended with them making gingerbread again, eating ice cream and watching Singin’ in the Rain. It seemed improbable; almost callous. But there it was, it happened that way. They stayed up until midnight and left the kitchen in a mess, and slept together in the big bedroom because Lorna didn’t want to be alone.





22





Claire woke up cold. All the windows were open, and Lorna was nowhere to be seen – not hunched in front of the TV, or up to her elbows in pancake batter, or drawing pictures with chalk outside on the badly tarmacked drive. It was strange.

‘Lorna?’ called Claire, as she put the kettle on. ‘Lorna? Have you had breakfast? Come in if you’re out, it’s too cold.’

She turned on the radio – the news would start in a few minutes. There was bound to be something about the fire . . .

‘Boo!’ Lorna was behind her. She had her head cocked to the side, her eyebrows raised.

‘Oh, Lorna! Where’ve you been? I was a bit worried!’

‘What’s strange?’ She smiled enigmatically.

‘Oh did I say that aloud?’

‘Only nutters talk to themselves. Mad people.’

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘What’s strange?’

‘Oh, I was thinking about . . . oh golly, I can’t even remember now.’ She turned the radio off.

The girl wobbled on one leg and scratched one bare, dirty sole. ‘Why did you open all the windows?’

‘What? I didn’t.’

Lorna gazed at her, stopped scratching and put both feet on the floor, wriggling her toes. ‘I’m cold. Why’d you do that?’

‘I didn’t. You must have . . .’ began Claire, but the sentence petered out. Perhaps Lorna got a little warm in the night, what with them sharing a bed, and had done it herself, half asleep. And now she was probably a bit embarrassed. ‘I might have done it in my sleep.’

‘Like a sleepwalker?’ Lorna grinned now, and put both arms stiff out in front of her, scrunched her eyes shut, and wandered about moaning, ‘I’m asssleeepp . . . I’m sssleeeeepingg!’

‘Maybe. Or you might have done it in your sleep?’

‘Oh no.’ The girl was grave again. ‘I sleep like a baby. I never wake up. It was you.’

Claire, smiling, agreed that it must have been. Just let her get away with this one, she needed to be right about little things. Making up a silly story and sticking to it, well, it must have been the only small power she had, growing up in that terrible environment. The circus story, and the fictional auntie with the spare room just for her; just whimsical lies that illustrated her need for certainty, and a sense of her own specialness. It was something she’d grow out of, once she felt genuinely protected, genuinely safe at last.

The frigid air promised sleet, and Lorna announced her intention of watching TV all day. She plopped herself down on the sofa, still in her pyjamas, and spooned ice cream out of the tub while flicking through the cartoon channels. Claire cleaned the kitchen, turned the radio back on, but not too loudly, so as not to perturb Lorna. The kitchen was badly in need of work. The grouting around the tiles was black, and she saw silverfish around the bottom of the sink. Still, it was a cheerful, sunny room, at least when the sun was shining. Claire rubbed the tiles around the sink with bleach, tutted at the ingrained dirt around the taps, and dabbed, sceptically, at the worn lino. Perhaps they could go to Ikea; get one of those new, white kitchens that Mother had sneered at – ‘They always look good in the shop, but modern kitchens are so flimsy.’ White, and something bright for the tiles. Blue maybe, or a nice, cheerful yellow. The oven would do, she supposed, but wouldn’t an Aga be nice? And again, Norma’s voice piped up – ‘An Aga she says? Getting a bit Jilly Cooper in your old age, aren’t you?’ – but surely it’s important to look at some things and feel happy, not because they’re practical, but because they’re beautiful. These things matter. And if we stay here, it has to be lovely for Lorna . . .

She really ought to put Mother’s house on the market. Ask Derek for advice? Leave it a week, she bargained with herself, leave it a week or so and then call him. She shouldn’t have told him she was coming to Cornwall; that had been stupid, stupid. What if he took it into his head to visit? Check up on her? She should have said she was going on holiday or something. A long cruise. But then he would have expected postcards . . . What time is it? I’ve missed the news anyway . . . try to relax, Claire. You’re no use to anyone in this state. And she found a classical-music station, sat down and took some deep breaths. It was syrupy Italian opera, the kind that she had always, secretly, enjoyed. She turned it up, flicked her tea towel and sang along, until a bellow of annoyance from Lorna in the living room made her remember herself and turn it down again. ‘Sorry!’ she called through the doorway, and sang under her breath. ‘Tutto e follia, follia nel mondo, Cio che non e piacere . . .’ Weak sunlight filtered through the dirty windows. She closed her eyes and smiled at the tiny warmth. Today I will think good thoughts . . . the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. They would make jam tarts. And how about a roast for lunch?