Bad Little Girl

by Frances Vick

  ‘Well, the wood’s already there. We got a load in for Tess last year, when we thought she’d be out of the hospital. It’s all there, under a tarp in the shed. Chimneys should be all right. We had a look at them a bit ago.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, thanks!’

  ‘What? What’s wonderful?’ said Lorna, sleepily, rearing up from the back seat.

  ‘Who’s that you’ve got with you, then?’ Mrs Philpott sounded suddenly sharp.

  ‘My niece,’ Claire replied glibly. ‘She’s with me.’

  ‘It’s not a great place for children you know. How old is she?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Boring for a ten-year-old I’d say. No TV, no computer.’

  ‘No TV?’ mouthed Lorna anxiously.

  ‘Well, we can see if there’s a TV point. Maybe even get the internet.’

  Mrs Philpott carried on, doubtfully. ‘And you’ll need shopping. There’s an Asda ten miles north. Might be open today. Then there’s the village shop about five miles away but that won’t be open for a few more days. Not many buses any more, so I hope you have a car.’ It seemed even more isolated than Claire had remembered. Lorna fidgeted behind her, pulling at strands of hair and putting them in her mouth, solemnly studying her; it wouldn’t do to seem nervous in front of her. Stay positive. ‘Yes, yes, we have a car. And as for all the rest of it – I’m sure it’ll be fine. Thanks so much!’

  ‘I can drop in a few things for you, if you want? Tea, milk . . .’

  ‘Oh no.’ The last thing we need is a nosy neighbour, thought Claire. No-one can come until we think of a plan. Shouldn’t have said niece . . . should have said it was an echo on the line or something. ‘No, thanks, I’ll enjoy exploring the area myself.’

  ‘Boring for children. Doesn’t really pick up till the summer. It’s lovely then.’

  * * *

  Lorna clambered into the front seat and they drove off again, the girl looking wanly out of the window.

  ‘Can’t see the sea.’

  ‘No, it’s on the other side, my side. I think once we turn, you’ll be able to see it then.’

  ‘Hope so.’

  ‘You will, soon. Honestly.’

  ‘I can! No, it’s road. No! It’s the sea!’ And it was. A flat, grey worm on the horizon, practically inseparable from the sky. ‘It’s a bit dark.’

  ‘Well, it’s a dark, miserable day. When it’s summer, it’ll be sparkly and blue.’

  ‘I didn’t know the sea could be dark. It doesn’t look like that on telly.’ Lorna hunched down in the seat, sucking at the long tendrils of fringe. One knee bounced, jittery, by the gearbox. ‘Do you promise? That it will sparkle?’

  ‘I do.’ Claire smiled.

  It was another hour of winding roads and sudden dead-ends before they found the house, and, to Claire’s relief, it didn’t look too bad. Even Lorna perked up. The windows were clean, and the lilac trees had been cut back. Somewhere along the line, someone had painted the front door a cheerful red, and weeded the path. The weather had turned, and while it was still cold, the bright winter sunlight filled the low-beamed kitchen, making the wooden cupboards and table glow. Lorna ran straight to the living room, and from there, up the creaking stairs to the bedrooms. Claire could hear her stumping about upstairs, exclaiming at the view from the window, opening the shuddering cupboards, and she felt a sudden throb of joy. Of hope. It could work. No! No, think more positively, Claire: it was going to work. They would be a family.

  The cellar stairs were just behind a door that looked like a large cupboard. A secret door to a secret room! Lorna would get a kick out of that! Claire tried the oven and the hob; both fine. There should be quilts in the airing cupboard, but they would need freshening up. Well, they’d brought bedding with them anyway. The cutlery looks all right. Any tins of food? No. Well, they had to go to the shops anyway . . . Mrs Philpott had said that there was a supermarket a few miles away, hadn’t she? If they got a move on, they’d be able to get there before it closed.

  That hope, that contentment stayed with her. There’d be time to think, really properly plan, once they’d settled in. For now, she kept herself busy, opening windows, checking on the firewood, running her fingers over the piano keys to see if it was in tune. ‘Now we begin,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Now I start again.’ And, hearing Lorna’s joyful shout – ‘I CAN see the sea! And it’s GLITTERING!’ – she smiled, closed her eyes and repeated to herself, ‘Now I can begin to live.’

  ‘Come HERE!’ the girl cried, and Claire scurried up the stairs. Lorna grasped her hand tightly and led her to the window.

  ‘Look! The sea!’ A glorious sun burned through the clouds, trailing with it a gorgeous blue sky – the bluest Claire had ever seen. Cheerful seagulls called to them over the lap and hiss of the waves.

  Lorna’s sticky fingers laced with Claire’s, and her dark-circled eyes were sheened with tears. ‘Thank you!’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for bringing me here!’

  19

  That night, after a hearty meal of sausage and mash, Claire tucked Lorna up in the bedroom with the lilac-flowered wallpaper, the one facing the sea. Then she sat in the kitchen, drinking cocoa, feeling content. The shopping expedition had been a success. The cupboards were full, Lorna had some new clothes, and Claire had some information on one of those big-screen TVs the girl was so keen on. Tomorrow they would go to the beach. Earlier, she’d steeled herself to listen to the news, but, unless she’d missed it, there had been no item about a missing child. After all, children run away a lot, and only parents who care about them call the police.

  ‘And they won’t call. I know they won’t,’ Lorna had said.

  Outside, a sudden gust of wind rattled branches against the windowpanes, and Claire froze, waiting for a cry from Lorna, but there was nothing. She’s a hardy little soul, she thought, smiling again. She’s a survivor.

  * * *

  That first week was magical. Claire thought about it so much afterwards that it was as if all its rough edges were smoothed out, and it shone – like a tumbled pebble plucked from the sea. The smell of sheets dried crisply in the wind; woodsmoke; baking muffins and warm skin. The laughter in the days and the creaks of the old house in the night, and faintly, faintly, the calming tide.

  And how Lorna loved the sea! On the first full day there, Claire found her leaning as far out of her window as she could, elbows on the sill, gazing at the silver line beyond the dunes. She was singing softly, a tuneless whisper, something she’d made up herself. Claire edged behind the door again, so as not to disturb her, but Lorna, without taking her eyes from the view, held out a hand and beckoned her over. They looked out together. Lorna’s singing coalesced into muttered syllables – ‘It . . . Is . . . So . . . Nice’ – that she emphasised by gently pressing on each of Claire’s knuckles in turn. ‘It is so perfect.’

  ‘Would you like to go to the beach, Lorna?’

  ‘You can just go to the beach? I mean, you don’t need a ticket or anything?’

  Claire looked at her with amused fondness. ‘No, it’s free. We can go whenever we like.’

  Lorna narrowed her eyes, expecting a joke. ‘Any time we like?’

  ‘Any time. Not that many people want to be there in winter anyway. It’s too cold.’

  ‘Can we go now? Today?’

  ‘Of course!’

  And the child had let out such a yell! Such a joyful whoop as she clattered down the stairs; skipping all the way down the dunes and collapsing, panting, on the sand before the broad sweep of the bay. They had the whole beach to themselves. Lorna found a piece of driftwood and dragged it along the damp shoreline, drawing hearts, flowers and smiley faces. Later they hiked up on the cliffs, the wind whipping their hair back from reddened cheeks.

  ‘Lorna, look! A horse!’ And down below, a child was confidently astride a pony, led by an intrepid-looking mother in wellies. ‘Would you like to do that one day? Horse riding?’

  Lorna blinked. ‘I could do that?
’

  ‘Of course!’ Claire laughed. ‘Anyone can do that!’

  The child shook her head in wonderment, and giggled. ‘Me, on a horse!’

  ‘You can, you know!’

  ‘If you come with me?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘I can do anything if you’re with me.’ Lorna squeezed Claire’s hand. ‘Anything at all.’

  They went to the beach every day, and collected shells: whelks, cowries and periwinkles – ‘Turn them over gently to make sure there’s not a little creature still living in them, Lorna’ – and the girl would peer carefully into the cavity, blow into it gently, and report back, ‘Nothing here, Mum!’

  It was that peculiar dead time between Christmas and New Year and the weather was bright, crisp, the light amber-tinged and clear. The sun shone on Lorna’s hair, turning the mousey tresses gold, putting colour in her cheeks.

  ‘Mum! I found SEAWEED!’

  And Claire hurried over to exclaim, to examine. ‘I really should get a book about all the things we can find on the beach – there’s so much I don’t know.’

  ‘That’d be great! Can we get one soon? Books are better than TV.’

  And Claire’s heart swelled.

  They cooked together. Claire taught the girl how to separate eggs, rub butter into flour, roll pastry, and they sang songs together, campfire songs Claire remembered from her Brownie days – ‘Oh, you’ll never get to heaven . . .’

  ‘Oh you’ll never get to heaven!’ Lorna repeated.

  ‘. . . In a biscuit tin . . .’

  ‘In a biscuit tin!’

  ‘. . . ’Cause a biscuit tin’s . . .’

  ‘’Cause a biscuit tin’s!’

  ‘. . . Got biscuits in!’

  ‘GOT BISCUITS IN!!’

  And at night, Claire would creep into the girl’s room to gaze at the pale face on the clean, white pillow. Sometimes she thought she could see clouds of nightmares scudding across the girl’s brow, then she would hold her hand and whisper, ‘You’re safe. You’re safe with me, my darling’, and the nightmares would go away, the girl sleeping easy once more.

  She called the school and left a short voicemail saying that she wasn’t coming back, she was still sick. She’d resign properly, make it all official later. Later on, when things were more settled. And she didn’t check the news. And she tried not to imagine Pete rounding the corner, and charging down the pretty path to the cottage, finding them, bringing violence, chaos. She tried not to think at all.

  It was the happiest time of her life.

  * * *

  One morning during that first week, Claire woke later than usual. It was ten a.m. by her wristwatch when she hurried downstairs. Music bounced around the low-ceilinged kitchen.

  Lorna was dancing barefoot. She waved a piece of buttered toast around her head, executed a clumsy bump and grind, saw Claire, and fumbled for the volume.

  ‘No, no, you carry on! You’re a very good dancer!’ Claire smiled.

  Lorna smiled too, blushing, and gave a little curtsey. ‘I made toast.’

  ‘So I see! Any for me?’

  ‘Of course! Look.’ She pointed at a tea tray with toast, a mug of orange juice and an empty salt cellar with a plastic daisy stuck in it. ‘I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’

  ‘You can eat it here though.’

  ‘Lovely!’ Claire sat down and nibbled at the toast. Lorna stared at her from underneath her fringe. ‘It’s lovely toast. Really lovely.’ A piece fell onto her lap, butter side down. ‘Oops, a bit crumbly.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s too crumbly.’

  ‘No! Toast is supposed to be crumbly! It’s fine.’ Lorna looked down and said something under her breath. ‘What’s that Lorna?’

  ‘I said,’ the girl’s voice was a little too loud, ‘I wish I’d brought you breakfast in bed. Because that was my plan. And now it’s all ruined.’

  ‘But it’s a lovely breakfast, Lorna, really!’

  ‘Everything’s lovely,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But everything isn’t.’ Her stubby fingers kneaded her forearms, leaving little red half-moons impressed on the flesh. ‘It isn’t really.’

  ‘Sweetheart? What’s wrong?’ Claire took the girl’s hands, and smoothed the gouges on her arms.

  ‘Everything’s nice, and then something always happens to make it not nice again.’ She had started to cry now, in big, ugly hitches of breath, her face dead white except for two hectic spots of livid colour high on her cheeks.

  ‘Nothing’s happened, poppet!’ Claire pulled her close, stroked her back to calm her. ‘Everything’s just as lovely as it always was.’ Lorna mumbled something. ‘What was that sweetheart?’

  ‘I just wish everything was always nice and quiet and no dogs and safe,’ she snuffled.

  ‘Look, look, no dogs here!’ Claire cast a humorous arm around the room. ‘No dog! Can you see a dog here? Behind the sink? In the cupboards, snaffling all your biscuits?’

  Lorna giggled a little, wiped her eyes. ‘No. No dog.’

  ‘You’re safe, my love, I promise you.’ Claire hesitated, and then plunged on. ‘Were you always frightened? Of dogs I mean?’

  ‘Oh no! No. I always liked dogs. I love all the animals.’ Her eyes widened, she stopped crying. ‘Carl. He was the one afraid. He was afraid of everything. And getting into trouble at school. You know.’ She was scornful now. ‘Pete, he was the one who got the dogs, he brought them with him. And Carl got to play with them all the time. ALL the time.’ She spoke dreamily, but her eyes were hard. ‘Mum said it was good for him.’

  ‘When did Pete move in, Lorna?’

  ‘I dunno. I was a Christmas Cracker, I think. Yeah. It was then.’

  ‘And . . .’ Claire kept her voice low, tried to tread delicately. ‘When he moved in, was he nice to you? At first?’

  Lorna snorted. ‘I called him Dad. They wanted me to anyway, and I did for a bit. And then I stopped and Mum was pissed off with me. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t use language like that,’ she sniffed again.

  ‘And your mum, was she, nice?’

  ‘She was! Until Pete came, and the dogs. And then she wasn’t. They all thought I wasn’t. They all ganged up on me. It was awful.’ She looked at Claire directly for the first time. ‘You know.’

  Static interfered with the radio station, and Lorna slapped the off button sharply. Her face was red, her eyes beginning to water. Claire cleared her throat. ‘It’s best to talk about these things, Lorna.’

  ‘These things,’ Lorna muttered.

  ‘It really is.’

  ‘Oh, look, your breakfast is all cold now!’

  ‘That doesn’t matter, Lorna, it really is best to—’

  ‘I’ve ruined your breakfast!’ The girl was getting ready to cry again.

  ‘Lorna—’

  ‘It’s ruined now!’ And she covered her eyes and began to sob.

  Claire stood up straight. ‘Well, listen, how about this? How about I go back to bed, and then you bring me breakfast like you planned? That way nothing’s ruined, and everything’s perfect.’

  ‘Really?’ Lorna’s smile was like the sun coming out. Her eyes glittered, her cheeks flushed. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, if it will make you happy.’

  ‘OK! I’ll make some more toast. Not crumbly toast; toast you like.’

  ‘But I do like crumbly toast—’

  ‘No you don’t.’ Lorna smiled, as if they shared a secret. ‘You don’t really. You just said that to make me feel better.’

  ‘No, really—’

  ‘I know that’s what you did. That’s the sort of kind thing you would do. Now, go back to bed and I’ll bring you a nicer breakfast.’

  Claire did as she was told, and climbed, shivering, back into her rumpled cold bed. She lay looking at the ceiling, needing to use the toilet, but not wanting to get up in case Lorna came, saw
that the bed was empty, and got upset again. Just when she seemed to be feeling more secure. Poor girl, so sure she’s in the wrong, desperate to please. It was so important to tread carefully with her; let her do things at her own pace, and expect set-backs. After all, this sort of thing was so common amongst abuse victims; she knew, she’d completed a fair few one-day training courses after all. A terrible life can’t all be put right in a few weeks. Patience. That was the key. Let her talk when she wants to. Don’t force it, foster trust and let her lead. But make her feel safe. Make her feel loved.

  There was a creak on the stairs. Claire arranged herself on the pillows, and fixed her smile at the door. In came Lorna with her new breakfast, not really toast, more like hot bread, and generously smeared with the cheap, sugary jam Lorna loved. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching Claire with bright eyes, urging her to eat every mouthful.

  They spent the rest of the day planning how they would decorate the house – pink walls and a canopy bed for Lorna's bedroom. A treasure chest and a china tea set. The girl drew plans, made lists and chattered away while Claire thought doubtfully of watching the news. But no. No. A few days’ grace. A holiday. Then we can face the inevitabilities, deal with the fallout. Because, now, look at her! Happy as a lark, drawing in front of the fire, rosy-cheeked and relaxed. It would be a sin to take this peace away from her so soon.

  * * *

  ‘Can we go to the beach today?’ Lorna asked the next morning.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit cold?’ Claire looked at the dark window.

  ‘No. Maybe. We can wrap up, though. I made a picnic.’

  She had indeed; the kitchen was scattered with crumbs and smeared with Nutella. Splashes of sticky juice congealed on the table. Lorna seemed to have taken everything out of the fridge and the cupboards, only to make two modest sandwiches. Claire was about to say something, maybe start cleaning up, but she caught sight of the girl’s happy, proud little face, and couldn’t do it. After all, children make mess. Years of teaching had shown her that, and people had to be taught how to clean, how to look after their environment; she would hardly have been taught any of that by her family, at her home. Still, some kind of look must have betrayed her because Lorna frowned, then smiled bravely.