Bad Little Girl(84)

‘Oh my God—’

‘And I want ballet lessons.’

‘What?’

‘BALLET LESSONS.’

‘Lorna?’

‘Go to bed now.’ The girl lay down and turned her back. ‘Go away now.’

And Claire did go. She drifted downstairs, walking glaze-eyed into the kitchen where Marianne was waiting.

‘Did she ask you about ballet lessons? She’s so keen. And I’ve seen a decent-looking school in Truro.’

‘Yes, yes, she asked.’ Claire sat down, dazed, nearly missing the chair.

‘And?’

‘Yes. Yes, she can have ballet lessons.’

‘Oh, that’s grand! Brilliant! She has such ability, and I really think it will help her confidence.’

‘Marianne?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you have any of those sleeping pills handy? I think I might take one tonight after all.’





29





The next day, Claire woke late, with a sleeping pill hangover. The TV was on downstairs but the house was empty. There was no milk in the fridge, no bread in the cupboard. A trail of jam and crumbs led from the table to the sofa, where Lorna had left a chewed crust on the arm next to the remote control. Claire hunted around for paracetamol, found none. Pills. Why had she taken the pills? Marianne’s craggy face as she handed them over, reproachful. She shuddered. Lorna’s anger and bunched-up fists, her threats. Claire sat down on the sofa, fingers tentatively tapping the remote control. Of course she’d been angry, overhearing her that way, about to tell Marianne something. Stupid. Stupid thing to do. Lorna had every right to be angry. Every right. But the rest of it . . . ‘I will tell,’ she’d said, as if she’d reached into Claire’s brain and plucked out its biggest fear with her dirty fingers. Claire, taking a child. But Claire, starting the fire? Surely not? The hatred in the girl’s face, the contempt.

Her tired brain swung from dread to dissonance; from fear of the girl to overwhelming protectiveness of her. She had learned viciousness from that terrible family; it was an animal-like defence mechanism, that was all. After a few more months of nurture and comfort, that inner armour would be finally, properly, cracked. Maybe it was Marianne that was throwing her off, delaying the healing process? It was a lot for a small child to take in, after all, first one then another adult playing Mother. No wonder she was confused, talking about moving away! This idea of performing, of dancing school, what was that but a pre-adolescent desire for escape and autonomy? It was a pipe dream, but a telling one. Perhaps Lorna didn’t feel worthy of the attention she was getting from Claire, and so, in some psychologically perverse way, was pushing her away? That seemed logical. And, all her drinking, all her pill-taking, it must have seemed to the poor girl that Claire was abandoning her, didn’t want to spend time with her, and so she was more or less forced to throw in her lot with Marianne. It made perfect sense when you thought about it. She made herself a cup of tea without milk and put on the radio, listening out for the girl’s return.

They clattered back to the house late in the afternoon, laughing, but stopped as soon as they saw Claire. Marianne coloured, looked down and grinned nervously at the floor.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Claire tried to keep her face humorous, kindly.

‘Nowhere,’ muttered Lorna.

‘Let’s get those boots off,’ said Claire, trying not to notice Lorna’s look of contempt as she kicked them off before she could help.

‘Did you go to town?’

‘Just a trip to the shops. And we went into the library, didn’t we, Lo, to see if there were any classes we could take. The dancing school isn’t taking anyone new until the summer term.’

‘Any luck at the library?’

Marianne rolled her eyes. ‘Knitting. Local History.’

‘All boring stuff,’ murmured Lorna, dragging a half-eaten packet of crisps out of her pocket.

‘Lauren, don’t eat those. Look, I made jam tarts!’ Claire exclaimed brightly.

‘Me and Auntie May had McDonald’s.’

‘Well, I’m sure you have enough room for one of my jam tarts!’

‘I had ice cream. I’ll be sick if I have anything else.’

‘You’re not too sick to eat the crisps though, are you?’ Claire felt Marianne’s eyes on her as she put a plate on the table. ‘Dig in, I’m sure you can manage one or two.’

Lorna looked at Marianne. ‘Tell her, will you?’

‘She has eaten a lot a lot a lot. Hollow legs, this one.’

‘I’ll be sick,’ the girl muttered.

Claire took the plate off the table again. She caught Lorna and Marianne eyeing each other in a tired, knowing way.

‘Don’t be like that, Claire. We’re just full, that’s all. I can manage a cup of tea and that’s about it,’ Marianne sighed.

‘I’m not being like anything,’ said Claire in a tight voice.

‘Oh God, here, I’m taking one.’ Marianne shoved the whole thing in her mouth, talking through the crumbs. ‘Mmmmm!’ Her eyes widened in exaggerated appreciation. ‘Gorgeous!’

Lorna laughed. She picked up a tart and nibbled the edge. ‘Mmmmmmm! GORGEOUS!’ and threw it on the floor for Benji.