Bad Little Girl(78)

No. She knew that instead, she would find Lorna and Marianne, listen to whatever their narrative was, and spend the rest of the day biting her tongue and trying to rationalise it.

She thought of Nikki. Now-dead Nikki saying, years ago now: ‘She makes things up. I don’t know why she does these things.’ But, after all, every child struggles with impulse control. Come on, splash some water on your wrists, Claire. Wake up, stand tall. You can’t stay here for ever. You have to face them.

She found them in the café. Lorna was sullenly dabbing up the crumbs at the end of her crisp packet. Marianne, foot tapping, nails drumming, was still angry.

‘Can you believe that? Can you believe what just happened?’

Claire eased herself into a moulded plastic seat. ‘Um—’

‘I mean, the gall of that woman. To accuse Lola of pinching her little cherub for no reason! Without even getting the whole story? I mean, my God. Really.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘I mean, a boy that small picking on a big girl, it really doesn’t bode well. Does it? Intimidation starts early. My God! Don’t you think?’ She took out a cigarette. ‘Unbelievable. Unbelievable.’

‘That sort of thing always happens to me. Always,’ muttered Lorna, mournfully.

Marianne clutched her hand. ‘Some people, some mothers, are just blind. That’s all. They can’t see their own children’s behaviour clearly. But mark my words, Lola, that boy is going to have a very hard life. Very hard. Bullies never prosper.’

Claire, heart pounding, sat on her hands so nobody would see them shake. ‘Did he really kick you, Lauren?’ she murmured.

The girl turned hurt eyes on her. ‘You saw him, Mum,’ she whispered. ‘You were standing right there.’

‘We all saw it.’ Marianne blew furious smoke over her head. ‘We all saw it, and we were all shocked.’

‘And it really hurt, too,’ Lorna whispered. ‘He probably broke the skin. I might need a bandage.’

‘You really shouldn’t have pinched him though.’ Claire could hear her own voice, tiny, inconsequential. The effort of speaking exhausted her.

‘I don’t think that happened either. I mean, I didn’t see a pinch? Did you? Claire?’ Marianne huffed. ‘OK, OK, for God’s sake, yes.’ A waitress had come over to tell her to put out the cigarette. ‘Look’ – she squashed it under one worn-down kitten heel – ‘see? Out. Finished. And so are we, I think. Let’s go, whole afternoon ruined. God! Only in the bloody provinces would anything like this even exist!’ She stood up, wrapped her chaotic scarves around her neck and, clutching Lorna’s hand, swept out of the café, once again leaving Claire, embarrassed and tongue-tied, in her wake.

‘I’m really very sorry.’ She got up hurriedly, and whispered to the waitress, ‘I-I don’t know them very well.’ And she promptly got lost in the warren of play areas, ball pits and dank-smelling corridors lined with bird cages. If she could just find the gift shop, that was the way to the car park, she was sure, but God knows how to get there. She scuttled about, wiry and vague, until she literally bumped into the little boy Lorna had hurt. Still red and blotchy around the eyes, he was nevertheless enjoying an ice cream. His mother, though, was strained and tearful herself. She touched Claire’s arm.

‘I have to say sorry. Look, I don’t know what happened, I’m sorry your girl was hurt. But, look at his arm.’ She pulled up the child’s sleeve; a livid red mark spread from elbow to shoulder. There were clear marks where Lorna had dug her nails in and twisted.

‘I can only say sorry too,’ said Claire. ‘I mean, she’s not my daughter, but . . .’ She felt a little rush of elation and fear.

‘Oh, that makes sense, she’s the other woman’s kid. Well, look, tell her from me that she’s not doing herself any favours. I know no child is a saint, but that girl, she’s dangerous. And it’s no good believing everything they say.’ The woman was getting riled up again. Her little boy looked up from his ice cream solemnly.

‘I can only apologise,’ started Claire weakly.

‘That kind of – violence – I mean—’

‘Like I said, she’s not my daughter.’ Claire spied the gift shop in the distance. ‘But I can understand how you feel.’ But the woman was walking away now, trailing the boy with her, towards the soft-play area.

She found the car, folded herself uncomfortably into the back seat, and they drove off without a word. Lorna clutched a toy guinea pig that squeaked when pressed. She stared out of the window impassively, squeezing it every ten seconds or so, eking its high-pitched squeal out slowly, before starting all over again. After about ten minutes Claire asked her to stop. Marianne half turned her ragged profile towards the back seat, while Lorna turned all the way round, wide-eyed and tearful.

‘What did I do?’

‘It’s just that noise. Again and again. Where did you get it from anyway?’

‘Auntie May got it for me while we were waiting for you. We were waiting for ages for you, and she wanted to get me a treat because the day was all ruined. I’m just playing.’ Her voice fractured into sobs. ‘Today was meant to be nice but you’re being horrible. First that boy, and now you. You’re being horrible.’