Bad Little Girl(59)

‘You know what I think?’ Claire said seriously. ‘I think that watching the news about the fire has upset you, and now you’re taking everything much too seriously. No more news for you today. I shouldn’t have let you watch it.’

‘I’m sorry about the book, though.’ Lorna gazed up at her, face blotchy, trying to smile.

‘Darling, it’s only a book, after all. Maybe I shouldn’t be so precious about things. Come on! Let’s get out in the fresh air!’

‘Can we play whatever I want?’

‘Of course we can!’

And so they played games; childish ones like hide and seek. Lorna designed a misspelt treasure hunt that led Claire through the house, and out into the wild garden, making her crawl, painfully, under the car, wiggle through brambles and pick up heavy, mossy stones, before taking her back to the kitchen, to the biscuit barrel, behind which was a home-made card, sticky with glitter glue, with a crooked pop-up heart inside saying Thankyou! For Everything! As a reward, Lorna begged for, and was given, five biscuits. They stopped her from being able to finish the roast dinner, though she made some kind of an effort with the roast potatoes.

Claire managed to keep Pete from her mind all day, until night came, and she was alone. Pete might well recover. The policeman on the TV had almost sounded certain of it. And if he recovered, and if he spoke, how long did Claire and Lorna have before the precious new life they’d built crumbled?



* * *



From then on, there was an unspoken ban on the news, even on the radio. Only once did Claire slip, putting the Today programme on in the morning. Lorna frowned at her during ‘Thought for the Day’ and Claire turned it off. On the one night Claire dared to watch the TV news, positive that Lorna was asleep, and all the doors were firmly closed, the girl had a bad dream just as the headlines started. Claire quickly turned it off and bolted upstairs to comfort her. Now they lived suspended in a cloudless, context-less zone of beach visits, baking and games – board games, consequences, jigsaws, hopscotch, blind man's buff – each progressively more juvenile, wordless, reliant only on gesture, laughter, pointing, nods and grunts. A few times, Claire tried to introduce some elements of education into the games – simple anagrams, multiplication, spelling – but Lorna would become subdued and fretful, and so Claire backed off. After all, it had been only a few weeks since she found out about the fire, and the girl needed time to heal. Perhaps Claire should buy a couple of books on counselling grief-stricken children? It was terrible that she hadn’t thought of that before, really.



* * *



So far, they were surviving on Claire’s savings and the rent from her little flat, but they were going to need money. More money. The confused, insistent idea that somehow, soon, she and Lorna would find a way to escape, properly, and for ever, ran tiredly around her brain. Change their identities . . . live abroad. There must be a way of doing these things? People have done these things. It was possible. Was it possible?

Claire finally called Derek in February. She waited until Lorna was asleep, fortified herself with two brandies, and shakily dialled the number. Derek answered on the first ring.

‘Derek. Claire.’ She wanted to be businesslike, but there was a wobble in her voice.

‘The wanderer! Pip! News from the front! Pip? Oh she’s gone up already.’

He’s drunk, thought Claire. Is that good or bad? She took a deep breath. ‘Sorry to be such a stranger, Derek. I just needed to get away.’

‘Yes. Well.’ There was a clinking sound – definitely he was drunk. ‘What can I do you for?’

‘Well, I’m thinking about the house. And maybe this one too, the one in Cornwall I mean – I’m still here.’ Derek breathed loudly at the other end, but didn’t reply. ‘And, well, I think it’s about time I made some decisions about the place. And don’t you know some people in your Rotary Club? Estate agents? So I can get a bit of advice?’

‘If it’s advice you need, Claire, then you’ve come to the right place.’ Claire clenched her jaw, closed her eyes, and waited for the axe to fall. ‘Just what in hell are you playing at?’

‘I’m not playing—’

‘Oh yes you are! Oh, I beg to differ! All this swanning off to the seaside, at your age. We were happy to put it down to grief, Pippa and me, at first, but how long does grief take? Pippa was back at the bowls club a month after her mother’s funeral. But oh no, you have to go all Bront? on us and run wild in the country.’

‘Derek—’

‘And you have responsibilities, Claire. What about your job? All those kiddies you claim to care about? No, no, it’s not on. You can call it the change of life, or, or, a breakdown, or whatever you want, but I call it irresponsible. One of your kiddies died, Claire. Did you know that? Died.’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘Don’t you even watch the news? One of the kids from your school – Laura something – Pip? No, she’s in bed. Laura . . .? One of them anyway. Died. In a fire.’

‘I hardly think that’s my fault.’ Claire could barely move her lips to get the words out. ‘I’m only a teacher.’

‘Not the way you tell it. Oh no, the way you have it is that you’re a bloody madonna—’