Bad Little Girl

by Frances Vick

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I mean it. You can’t, ever. I might tell you more later. But you understand, don’t you? You said the same thing had happened to you. That’s why I know I can trust you not to tell.’

  ‘All right my darling.’

  ‘Where’s Johnny?’ The girl looked suddenly panicked. ‘Where is he? Is he OK?’

  ‘Oh darling. He – I should have told you – he passed away. More than a month ago now. I’m sorry, I know how much you loved him.’

  ‘Poor Johnny,’ Lorna whispered. ‘Poor old Johnny.’

  The fire banked down, the girl’s flushed face drooped and she fell asleep. Claire picked her up with great difficulty – the child was small for a ten-year-old, but still a sprawling, heavy girl, all sharp limbs and elbows – and placed her ever so gently in the spare room. Then she stayed up for the next few hours, staring at the fire, thinking and not thinking. She looked at pictures of the house in Cornwall, pictures Mother had taken on the day after Aunt Tess’s funeral. It was like Mother to be practical. ‘I’ll just take some photos now. I can get a better idea of how much it’s worth. Do some research. Put it up for sale?’

  Claire arranged all the photos on the desk. A mean little fireplace, scorched at the edges, that Mother hoped might be a ‘feature’ once they cleaned it. A large, wild garden, sloping down to the brushlands near the sea. Three bright, high-ceilinged bedrooms with tall cupboards in sombre wood that rattled in the wind. There was a cellar, too. Useful for storage. From a distance it looked gorgeous, tucked away, with its slate roof, climbing roses around the door, a winding yellow stone path to the cheerful front door. It was only when you got close to it that you saw that the paint was peeling, the roses blowsy, the path full of weeds.

  Claire drank brandy. She found the good atlas, and turned to the page for Cornwall. A pink Post-it was positioned over the location of the house. Mother’s handwriting.

  Mrs Philpott’s husband does chimneys. Also gardening.

  In book under Tess.

  I could call, thought Claire. I could call Mrs Philpott and tell them I’m coming down to stay. Ask them to clear the chimney and get in firewood. Tell them I’m bringing my niece. I could do that.

  She got out the address book, found Aunt Tess’s number (practically scored through by Mother’s red pen) and gazed at the address. No number, just a name: Howell House, Bushton Hill. She looked at the atlas again. There was nothing near it for five miles. It was perfect.

  * * *

  Claire left the Cornwall photos spread out in a fan on the kitchen table when she went to bed. She woke up, later than usual, with a brandy-coated tongue and aching head. Tea. Tea, that’s the ticket, and she passed the door to the spare room on tiptoes so as not to disturb Lorna. The clock in the kitchen said eleven. Lord! So late! She sat down with one foot tucked under her (‘Bad for the posture, Claire. Makes you slump,’ Mother would have said) and looked at the photos again while she drank her tea in hot little sips. It wasn’t really that bad a place at all. Not luxurious, but who needed it to be? Nice big rooms, with fireplaces. Central heating too, as far as she could remember. A garden big enough for a vegetable patch, some swings maybe. The cellar could be a playroom! Claire shook her head and blinked. Shower. Shower and a brisk walk. Nice day. Not raining. Yes, a nice lunch and then a nice walk. Get some colour in the girl’s cheeks.

  After her shower, Claire went to the corner shop to buy nice things for breakfast, some of those sweet bagels that Lorna liked so much, and some chocolate milk too. She sauntered home, calm, content. It was as if, in her sleep, something had formed into a whole, fitted into place. She felt, very strongly, that everything was going to be all right. It was the first time she’d felt like that in months. Years, maybe.

  Back in the kitchen, she put the radio on, and toasted bagels while half-listening to some consumer programme about ISAs. Lorna was still sleeping. She must need it. But at the same time, if they wanted to have that walk . . . Claire took the bagels upstairs to the spare room.

  ‘Knock knock!’ The door squeaked as she pushed it open a few inches. ‘Knock knock, Lorna! Breakfast!’

  But there was no-one there.

  The bed was made little-girl nicely, the top sheet smooth over the rumpled bottom. A tiny indentation on the pillow, and in it a piece of paper. A note? No. A picture.

  Two figures, one big and one small, holding hands under a rainbow. In the background there was a house with roses around the door, cheerful smoke coming from the chimney; and, behind that, a hint of a beach, of sea.

  ‘Lorna?’ Claire rushed to the bathroom, but she wasn’t there. Neither was she in the living room, the garden; she’d gone. Where? Not home, surely? Not there? Oh God. Oh Christ! And I can’t call the police, I can’t. She said not to! And if I could, what would I say? Oh, I had a ten-year-old girl stay over at my house several times. No, her parents didn’t know she was there. She told me she was being abused and I didn’t tell anyone about it. Yes, I saw bruises, yes I saw bite marks, and no, I didn’t do a thing about it! She told me not to, you see.

  All day, Claire didn’t dare leave the house in case Lorna came back, and all day she berated herself for sleeping, for going to the shop, forever letting the girl out of her sight. God alone knew what was happening to her. TV was unable to calm Claire down; the daytime listings all seemed to be about murder.

  Lorna came back that evening. She waved off Claire’s questions, limped silently to the front room and knelt, trembling, in front of the fire. She took a roll of banknotes from her pocket, and dropped it on the rug.

  ‘Took it from Pete. I suppose I could have got a taxi. But I didn’t want to get you into trouble. He found out about you, that you’ve been taking care of me. Found out I’d told you things, that he’d done. To me, I mean.’ She blushed. ‘And then he went bad again . . .’ Her face crumpled. Her voice began to hitch. ‘And he said – he said this time I was fucking dead!’ She sobbed, gasped, in Claire’s arms. Her hair and skin gave off a strange odour, faint but familiar. ‘He said that now his ex would get the kids and it was my fault!’

  ‘Where’s your mum?’

  ‘There! And Carl.’ She raised her head, tearful eyes staring wildly. Her fingers tightened painfully on Claire’s arms. ‘You have to help me!’

  ‘The police,’ Claire said weakly. ‘I’ll call them now, and I’ll tell them about Pete, and Mr Pryce too—’

  ‘Mr Pryce? What?’ Lorna turned dull eyes on her. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I know! I know what he’s like, and that he’s been, you know.’

  Irritation passed over Lorna’s face. ‘Don’t call anyone,’ she commanded. ‘He’ll get you. He’ll . . . he’ll come round here and get you.’

  ‘But he doesn’t know where I live?’

  The girl hesitated. ‘He’ll find out,’ she said finally.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he will.’ Lorna stood and wiped her face. The tears were beginning to stop. ‘We should go to that house. The one you told me about. The one near the sea.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I brought clothes with me. I put them by your car. You can pack, and we can leave tonight.’

  ‘I can’t leave, though, I mean—’

  ‘WE CAN! We’ve GOT to! If it wasn’t for you!’ The girl began to cry again. ‘If it wasn’t for you . . .’ Her sobs became ragged.

  ‘If it wasn’t for me, none of this would have happened, I know, I know!’ wailed Claire. ‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Lorna!’

  ‘I only have you now, I only have you! You’ve got to look after me now! You have to!’ She shook her head, and again, that smell, that chemical smell . . . it came off her hair, her fingers, everything. ‘He put lighter fuel on me and said he’d burn me! He held a match up and I ran!’

  ‘How did you get time to pack a bag?’

  ‘You don’t believe me.’ Lorna began to shake apart in front of her. ‘He said no-one would believe me and they don’t
.’

  Grim guilt hit Claire like a two-by-four, because Lorna was right. All her life she’d been crying out for help, and all her life people had told her she was lying. Even those who did believe her, Claire included, had pussyfooted around the issue, worried about their own reputation, gone with their head and not their heart. Now though, she had a chance to put it right. She took a deep breath. She stood up straight.

  ‘Lorna, I want you to put on some warm clothes. I’m going to pack the car.’

  ‘You believe me?’ the girl whispered.

  ‘I do,’ said Claire firmly. Lorna rushed at her, buried her head in Claire’s midriff and wrapped her arms around her. ‘It’s all right. I’ll make it all right. I’ll pack.’

  Lorna trotted up the stairs smiling through her tears. That was the smell, lighter fuel. Threatened to burn her alive? Dear God! Passport? Where’s my passport? Warm clothes, lots of them. Where are my welly-boots? Gardening things? No, no, this will take too long, and Lorna said we had to leave soon.

  She threw clothes into two suitcases and quickly stripped two beds of bedclothes, putting them in a bin bag. Towels, towels. ‘Lorna? Can you get as many towels as you can out of the airing cupboard?’ What else? Kitchen things – food? Was there a shop nearby? Bound to be on the way. Plates? Yes! And cutlery. Turn the boiler off. Where are the keys to Tess’s house? The drawer in the sitting room. And here was Lorna, stumbling under a mound of towels. ‘Leave them there, darling. I’ll sort them out. Can you get dressed?’ And finally, books. Mother’s Dickens. Famous Five for Lorna.

  They worked together quietly, quickly, and by nine were driving towards Derek’s house, the front door key in a lavender envelope, with a note:

  Gone to Cornwall. Boiler off, but if you could keep an eye on the house that would be wonderful. Claire.

  She could imagine his incredulity, his red face. ‘Pip!’ he’d shout over his shoulder. ‘Pippa. She’s gone to Cornwall after all! Ye gods!’

  ‘Ye gods!’ giggled Claire under her breath as they sped away from Derek’s cul-de-sac. ‘Look what she’s done! Ye gods!’

  18

  All night they drove, through ghostly villages and skirting dark towns. The girl eventually propped her head against the window with a blanket and slept, while Claire stared unseeingly out of the windscreen, driving by instinct. She thought of Derek pressing her to sell; she imagined calling James, telling him that Christmas had been hard, and she didn't feel strong enough to come back just yet after all, and him saying, ‘We have to unpack this a bit more; of course we want you back, Claire, but we can’t wait for ever.’ But she felt their grasp on her lessen the further she drove. It was as if she’d been impaled on a long needle all these years, and was finally wriggling herself free. It all crumbled against the implacable fact of Now. Now I am driving away. Now I am no longer a teacher. Now I have decided, and having done so, acted.

  Lorna was asleep; it was safe to turn on the radio. Not the World Service – something less sleep-inducing, less familiar. Radio 2, that will do. The news. Someone arrested on terrorism charges in London. Something about climate change. Something about a fire. Lorna groaned, muttered in her sleep, and Claire quickly turned it off. Don’t disturb her, let her sleep. She would stop soon, and get a coffee, but not just yet. Only three hours to go, by the atlas. Only three hours and they’d be – there. She nearly thought ‘home’.

  The actual house had merged in her mind with the image of it she’d constructed with Lorna. A friendly, cosy cottage, with climbing roses around the door. A garden filled with toys. A path to the beach. Perfect for a kiddy. And Lorna would be home-schooled; if they got an internet connection, it should be easy enough to follow the curriculum. She was such a bright girl after all, and, in the right environment, she would be so eager to learn. She could learn so much through doing – gardening, baking, poking around rock pools on the beach. They could write stories together, like a game of consequences. They could even have a pet. Something that Lorna could care for, something quiet, compliant and clean. A cat, maybe, or a guinea pig.

  Soon, although her mind was racing, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She pulled into a service station, closed her eyes – just to rest them for a minute – and slept like death.

  * * *

  It was a cold, drizzly dawn when she woke, her neck stiff and one leg numb. She wasn’t sure where she was, and then she heard Lorna snuffling, still asleep, and it all came back. She felt old, confused. She peered through the gloom at the service station entrance, but it wasn’t a name she recognised.

  ‘Where are we?’ Lorna sighed from the back seat. ‘Are we at the sea?’

  ‘No.’ Claire unstrapped herself. ‘No. Not yet. I’m not sure. I’m going to go in and freshen up a little bit.’

  ‘Can I have a bag of crisps?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Crisps. I’m hungry.’

  They trotted over to the bright, chip-smelling foyer.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Lorna said again, so they sat down in the empty canteen and ordered bacon sandwiches.

  While her body was battered by fatigue, Claire’s brain, fully awake now, turned on her. This was insane. What was she thinking, taking a child? Even if the child wanted to be taken? She gazed at Lorna’s bowed head, her round little cheeks, her furrowed brow. The girl had found some coloured pencils and was carefully drawing on a napkin – a car filled with happy people and hearts coming out of the exhaust pipe. Claire gathered up some courage, made herself smile. I’m doing what I had to do, she told herself. I’m doing what took courage, and we’re both going to have the life we deserve.

  But still, the cold fingers of panic, of doubt, prodded at her. Rabbit Girl, despite her inadequacies, must soon realise that Lorna was missing – not just late coming home, but actually missing – and she was bound to be distraught, bound to try to find her, maybe even go to the police? On the other hand, the family must be scared of the police, considering what Pete had been doing to Lorna (it made Claire sick to think about that). In that case, Pete might take it on himself to find the girl, and wouldn’t Claire’s be the first place he’d look? After all, he’d met her, he’d even threatened to report her to the police for hanging around the house. To make matters worse, Claire herself had brought the police into it, not officially of course, but all those calls to PC Jones, all her high-profile worries at school, her very visible concern about Lorna . . .

  When their breakfast arrived Claire was so tense that she only managed a few bites, passing over the rest to the girl, who drowned it in ketchup and swallowed it in three gulps. Then she wanted a Coke.

  ‘I always have Coke in the morning, it wakes me up.’

  ‘It’s not good for you. Not good for your teeth. All that sugar . . .’

  ‘Red Bull then?’

  ‘Oh, that’s worse! No, really . . .’

  ‘Just today, then? A Coke? I was up so late?’

  Claire smiled. ‘Not good for your teeth, my love.’

  ‘OK.’ Lorna gave in. ‘I’ll get water, then.’

  As the girl trotted off, Claire caught sight of the muted rolling news on the huge screen in the foyer. It was too far away to see much, but there’d been some fire somewhere – and it was still burning. Wasn’t there something on the radio about that? Yes. At least two kiddies in the house, trapped, maybe dead. Claire shook her head sorrowfully. It’s a hard world for little things. Neighbours had tried and failed to rescue the children and were being given first aid themselves. There was worry that the fire would spread to engulf the whole street – they were all cheap little houses, prefabs, in some estate. All those estates look the same. Claire shook her head at the TV. Horrible. And just after Christmas too.

  Lorna sidled up beside her, watching the screen. She was wide-eyed and still.

  ‘We’d better get going, sweetheart. Lorna?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Don’t look. Horrible thing. A house fire.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I
don’t know. Wait a minute, it’ll say in a minute—’

  ‘I want to go.’

  ‘Are you all right? Lorna?’

  ‘I ate too quickly.’ She smiled wanly.

  ‘Do you need the loo?’

  ‘Yes . . . come with me?’

  ‘All right.’

  Lorna dashed to the toilet and Claire loitered outside, looking at her watch. They might be there by ten. They could get some groceries, see what they could do about firewood; make the cottage nice and cosy.

  When Lorna came out she was kittenish and giggling. They walked back to the car arm in arm, Lorna singing some nonsense rhyme she’d just made up. In the foyer they passed the screen, just as the roof fell in on the ruined, blackened house.

  * * *

  At a garage on the outskirts of Truro, Claire finally found a phone box to use. She had Mrs Philpott’s number written on a Post-it note. It was eight am. Was that too early to call? People got up early in the country, didn’t they? Claire’s knowledge of the countryside was limited to the novels of George Eliot and half-remembered trips to see cantankerous Aunt Tess, when they’d all got up and out of the house early just to avoid her. She prodded at the numbers and held it gingerly to her ear, expecting a Cornish bark of anger. Instead, a tired-sounding Northerner answered.

  ‘Philpott.’

  ‘Mrs Philpott?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘My name’s Claire Penny. I am, was I mean, Theresa Craze’s niece?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I’m here. In Cornwall I mean. For a break. And I thought I’d take a look at the house. And, well, I seem to remember you and your husband being able to provide firewood?’

  ‘You want to look at the place? Why? To sell it?’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe stay in it for a while.’

  There was a pause. ‘It’s a bit out of the way.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But that’s really what I want at the moment. The quiet.’