Bad Little Girl(64)

Claire’s stomach turned over. Lorna, scared and alone in the bright kitchen. Lorna, about to be discovered. She raised herself up painfully.

‘Yes. My daughter will be waiting. I think I’ll be OK getting in myself, she’s a little nervous of strangers, so it’s best if I go alone. But thank you so much—’

‘No, no you can’t go alone. At least let me get you settled.’

‘Really, really, I’m fine. I am. I don’t want to inconvenience you any more—’

But she found herself heaved up again; leaning heavily on the woman’s arm, hopping to the door. Inside the car the dog began to bark hysterically, pressing its wet nose against the glass.

‘Shut UP, Benji,’ shrieked the woman, and at that, the kitchen light went off.

‘She’s very, very shy, my daughter. She really can’t – that’s why I have to –’ think quick think quick, Claire – ‘I’m home-schooling her. That’s why we moved here. And I’m home-schooling her.’

The woman paused to alter her steps to Claire’s hops. Claire couldn’t see her face as she answered, ‘Home-schooling is fascinating. I did a research paper on that once upon a time.’

They reached the door and Claire fumbled for her key. How to dismiss the woman now? How to stop her from talking to Lorna? Oh God, please let her take the hint and go! Before she could open the door, she heard the latch, and there, out of the dark, Lorna’s cropped head shone. The kitchen had that sweet, intense odour that Lorna exuded, that filled a room if she was in it for any length of time: bubble gum and indifferently brushed teeth.

‘Don’t worry, darling!’ trilled the woman. ‘My silly puppy crippled your mum, but she’ll be all right!’

Lorna jumped back and ran up the stairs as Claire and the woman lurched into the living room towards the sofa.

‘Where’s your kettle?’

‘Oh, I don’t really think I can manage a coffee or anything,’ said Claire faintly.

‘Well, can I? I’ll need to steady my nerves for the long drive back.’

‘Oh, of course. Let me—’

‘No, no, I’ll look around for things. Don’t worry. Unless your daughter could give me a hand?’

‘Oh.’ Claire tried to laugh dismissively. She could sense Lorna on the bottom stair, listening. ‘She’ll be upstairs listening to her music by now. She’s very timid around strangers.’

‘How will she look after you? Get to the shops?’

Oh God, will she just leave! What’s wrong with this woman? ‘I’ll be OK. Bit of rest. Aspirin. It was so kind of you to drive me. Benji sounds frantic without you.’

But again the gambit was ignored. The woman was rooting about the drawers and the cupboards in the kitchen. ‘Ah! Honey!’ She dolloped most of the jar into a mug and filled it with hot water. ‘This kind of weather gives my throat all sorts of problems. And I’m a singer. Blues, jazz, you know. So a certain amount of raspiness is fine, but not too much.’

Despite herself Claire asked, ‘You’re a singer?’

‘Oh. Yes.’ She smiled at something just a few inches above Claire’s head.

‘And you’re an academic?’

‘What?’

‘The paper. The paper you did on—’

‘Oh, the home-schooling paper. Yes. Yes, I do a lot of things. Stop studying, Marianne! You have so many talents, you need to focus on one thing. That’s what I was always told. But what’s a life worth if it’s led in monotony?’ Claire heard Lorna shift behind the door, as if she’d sat down to listen. ‘Anyway, I must go. You’re right, Benji will be tearing up the car.’ She gulped her drink and rattled her car keys. ‘Listen, feel better! I’m so sorry. Let me give you my number so I can run a few errands for you while you’re recovering.’ She threw a business card onto the kitchen table. ‘And tell your daughter that I hope to meet her some time when she feels a bit more confident. I don’t bite, little one!’

The wind outside carried the dog’s furious howls to the open door, and when the woman finally left, Claire heard Lorna sigh.

On the table, her card had landed in a splotch of honey. Claire limped into the kitchen and picked it up.

[BCT]Marianne Cairns. Wordsmith and Dreammonger[BCT] it said. Blue on cream.

As soon as the sound of the car and the barking died away, Claire heard the creak on the stair and felt Lorna behind her. She reached for the child’s reddened fingers without turning round.

‘Don't be scared. Some silly dog knocked me over on the beach and that lady gave me a lift home. That’s all.’

The girl shifted, coughed. ‘I wasn’t scared.’ She peered at the business card. ‘What’s a Wordsmith?’

‘Oh, it’s a silly way of saying writer.’

‘What’s a’ – the child frowned – ‘Dreammonger?’

‘It’s . . .’ Claire stopped to think. Pretentious? Whimsical? But the thought of defining these made her tired. ‘It’s just another silly thing. It means someone who makes dreams come true.’

Lorna dropped the card abruptly, as if it was hot. ‘People can do that?’

‘No. No. Not really. It’s just a silly joke.’