by Frances Vick
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.’
‘I’m not being horrible. I just want you to stop making that noise. And, listen . . .’ Claire took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘You shouldn’t have pinched that boy. I just saw him and his mum, and it’s a horrible bruise, all up his arm—’
‘I didn’t—’
‘You did, Lauren. No more nonsense. I saw you.’
‘I DID NOT!’ she bellowed. ‘He kicked me and I didn’t do anything, did I Auntie May? Did I?’
‘I didn’t see you do anything, lovely.’ Marianne kept her eyes on the road, her voice low.
‘See? Mum? I didn’t. Auntie May believes me. He kicked me for no reason. ’Cause he was jealous ’cause the rabbit liked me best. And then he lied. And you’re taking his side!’ She began to cry large, messy sobs. Marianne glanced at Claire in the rear-view mirror, eyebrows raised, accusation in her eyes, while Claire, her exhaustion overwhelming her, stayed silent, helpless. The sobs continued for some time before Marianne swung the car over into a layby and stopped. She unbuckled herself and pulled the girl forward, squeezing her and cooing. Lorna’s face, mashed into Marianne’s old-fashioned shoulder pad, was as red and wrinkled as a baby’s, and she lay supine, weak, crushed under the weight of parental injustice. After a long time, with no sign of Lorna’s tears abating, Marianne swapped shoulders, frowned at Claire and mouthed, ‘Say sorry.’
Claire looked at them both, so in tune with each other, so close. Dizzying jealousy opened her mouth. She said, ‘I’m sorry.’ And Lorna stopped crying and sat upright, choking and shivering. She tried to smile at Claire, but broke back into tears, and Claire pushed her thin body as far into the gap between the two front seats as she could, prying the girl from Marianne’s arms. ‘I really am sorry, my love. Don’t cry. I just got a bit confused, that’s all. Don’t cry, darling.’
‘’S all right,’ the child managed; she looked soulfully into Claire’s eyes, and whispered, ‘I forgive you.’ There was a silence.
‘I have an idea.’ Marianne used her best coaxing voice. ‘How about we go to the cinema tonight? There’s that film you wanted to see, Lauren, the one with the dancing?’
‘Mum says I can’t see it. She says it’s too old for me.’ Lorna smiled sadly.
‘Oh, I’m sure Mum will change her mind, no?’ Marianne smiled at Claire ‘After the day you’ve had, you deserve a special treat, surely. And it’s a 15. Not like a really adult film or anything.’
Claire stared helplessly at Marianne. Marianne nodded, firmly.
‘Please Mum, it will help me with my dancing.’
‘It’s meant to be really very good,’ said Marianne.
‘And you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I mean, you’re still a bit poorly. Your leg.’ Lorna blinked and wiped away the last of her tears.
‘Oh no, Mum does
n’t have to come. You’ll be perfectly safe with Auntie May, won’t you? What do you say, Claire? It’ll be a nice thing for her. It’d make up for today.’
‘Please Mum?’
‘I think it’s too – adult, I saw the trailer—’
‘Oh, Claire, with the internet and all, kids see all sorts of things we didn’t when we were young. Come on now.’
Claire sank beneath the pressure. ‘But no sweets.’
‘Oh, you can’t go to the cinema and not have sweets!’ Marianne wheedled, her face mirroring Lorna’s exactly, and Claire gave in again.
‘But not too many. Don’t let Marianne spoil you, Lauren.’
‘She’s too sweet to spoil,’ Marianne said fondly, and she and Lorna chatted away all the way home.
Later that night, alone, Claire took the opportunity to watch the news. Here was the now familiar footage of the house, the same police chief, the same briefing room. But new news. Peter Marshall had died from his injuries earlier that day.
28
Marianne and Lorna came back from the cinema late – way after Lorna’s bedtime – giddy and full of new, lewd dance moves. They bumped and ground their way through the house, ending in a hilarious conga up the stairs. Claire trailed after them.
‘Me and Auntie May, we’re having a sleepover!’ Lorna announced, all pink cheeks and cheer.
‘I’m going to camp on the floor next to Lola’s bed, and we’ll make a real girly night of it!’
‘It’s too late! Lorna? It’s past your bedtime—’
‘Oh, Claire, relax a little. Seriously! She’ll be fast asleep in no time; we just thought it’d be fun to camp out together, that’s all!’
‘Mum, come on,’ Lorna laughed.
‘Yes, come on, Claire!’
‘No.’
‘Mum?’ Lorna peered at Claire, concerned. ‘Are you OK?’
Marianne hovered, taking her cues from Lorna. ‘You do seem peaky, Claire. Can I get you painkillers? A drop of something?’
‘I need to talk to you, L— Lauren,’ Claire managed.
‘Auntie May, can you get Mum those things?’ Lorna was brisk.
‘Yes Ma’am,’ saluted Marianne. ‘And I’ll give you two some space. But, Claire, really . . .’
‘Painkillers Auntie May.’ And Marianne skipped back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Lorna took Claire’s hand and led her to her room. They sat on her unmade bed. Lorna took her hand carefully, gently. ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’
‘Pete . . .’ – she looked at the girl for some kind of reaction, but there was nothing save for a little eye widening of impatience – ‘Pete, he died. Today.’
The girl let out all of her breath, slumped until her chin was practically on her knees. Claire squeezed her hand, and got a tiny echo squeeze back. There was a pause. ‘That means,’ Lorna said, in a tiny voice, ‘that we can leave here. That’s what it means, isn’t it?’
‘Well, what it means is that we’re safe, in a way, I mean, the police won’t know about me. But still, Lorna . . .’ Claire looked at the door, paused delicately, ‘they still haven’t found a third body.’
‘My body you mean?’ Lorna’s voice was still tiny, toneless.
‘Well, yes, I . . . Oh, it’s so awful, and I was in two minds about telling you—’
Lorna cut through. ‘And if they haven’t got a third body, then they’re not sure if I’m alive or dead?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Please, keep your voice down though, Marianne—’
‘But maybe we could do that thing?’ Lorna asked. ‘That thing I was on about, about the babies and the birth certificates and all that? And then we could live anywhere. London even.’
‘London? Oh, Lorna, I really don’t know if that’s possible.’
‘In London I could go to school – like a stage school? Learn dancing and acting and stuff,’ Lorna said urgently.
‘London though—’ Claire began.
‘Knock knock!’ Marianne was at the door with pills, whisky and a Coke for Lorna. ‘What’s this about London?’
‘I was telling Mum about being a dancer in London.’ Lorna was sitting fully upright now, pert and smiling. ‘Because, Mum, Marianne used to be a dancer, I told you, didn’t I? And she still knows people too.’
Marianne blushed slightly, laughed. ‘Well, that was many moons ago, but—’
‘Wouldn’t it be great, to learn dancing, and all that stuff? Mum?’
‘I tell you Claire, it’s been London, London, London with this one lately. And, yes, I might still have some contacts. But, listen, let’s talk about this another time. We have to get our sleepover started. Claire, shut your ears!’ And Marianne continued in a stage whisper, ‘I have lots of sweeties too. We can have a midnight feast!’
And Lorna stamped her feet with glee.
They hustled Claire out of the room, after making sure she took her pills. She could still hear them both, giggling, while she waited for the pills to work, and she imagined herself being questioned. ‘How was it that this stranger moved in with you? How was it that this odd family went from pair to trio?’ And her inadequate, true reply: ‘It just happened that way, that was all’; she had no control over it. Marianne came, and never really went away; she did all the shopping, all the cooking, devised Lorna’s amusements, while Claire, supposedly recuperating – ‘ankles are tricky . . . take some painkillers and rest up’ – grew weaker, and more passive.
* * *
Somewhere along the line, Lorna had abandoned her allegiance to George from the Famous Five, and now wanted to be a princess. She muttered darkly about hair extensions and pretty dresses.
‘I have to ask, Claire, why did you cut her hair off in the first place?’ Marianne asked. ‘You can tell that naturally she has the most beautiful hair. Such a shame.’ And Claire, thinking about Lorna’s lank, mouse-coloured tresses, had no answer except for the truth.
‘She thought it would be a good idea.’
Marianne pulled her mouth down into a tragedy mask grimace. ‘Such a pity.’
Lorna drifted about the house in Marianne’s various robes, jangling with jewellery and smeared with lipstick. She spent a lot of time practising dance steps outside on the cracked tarmac of the drive, singing snatches of lyrics and posing.
‘Of course I am a natural dancer,’ Claire overheard her saying to herself one day, ‘but I had to train myself. And my life only really began once I moved to London—’
London. Now that Pete was dead, now that the threat of him talking to the police about Claire was gone, they could move. In theory. But what would they do for money? Claire would have to work, and she’d have to sell both houses . . . But Lorna, well, what to do about her? No birth certificate. A recognisable face. A city of nine million people who might recognise her. It was impossible. It was impossible to go anywhere. But she didn’t dare tell Lorna that.
On the rare occasions that Marianne stayed away, Lorna drifted about, bereft. She took to kicking at a little stone wall at the end of the garden. It must have stood there for two hundred years. Within three weeks Lorna had reduced it to rubble. She was bored. She was so bored! And with boredom came anger. She didn’t want to learn anything. No! No lessons. No maths, no writing, no science. It was all boring, it was all silly. When she knew that she was going to be a dancer.
‘Marianne – about this dance idea she has . . .’
‘Mmmmm?’
‘Well, it’s not terribly practical . . .’
‘Oh, Claire. Talent is talent. And we ought to get her to some modelling agencies, once her hair grows a bit more. In London. The best ones are in London.’
And Claire, scared, would retreat. She wished that she could confide in Marianne, have her take some of the burden. The girl might listen to Marianne, and give up this absurd idea about dancing school. But imagine it . . .
‘You see, Marianne, the girl became very attached to me, and when her parents were murdered, I took her away without telling anyone. Yes, I gave up
my job, my home. And now I have nothing but her and no way of rejoining the world. That makes sense, doesn’t it? You’d have done the same, wouldn’t you? Now, what can we do about it?’
Hardly.
Adding to Claire’s isolation was that unspoken ban on the news in the house. Thankfully Marianne showed no interest in current affairs. But sometimes, when they were out, Claire would hesitantly scroll through the networks, looking for updates on the fire investigation, and ‘new lines of inquiry’ about a certain teacher. She was always careful to change the channel back when she’d finished; it wouldn’t do for Lorna to see what she was looking at. Anyway, the world was full of unsolved crimes. Mysteries. Why shouldn’t this fire be one of them?
And maybe there was some way of changing your identity – getting another birth certificate or something, like Lorna said – and they would be able to leave Cornwall, give the child more of a life, an education. But then how to explain the name change to Marianne? You’re getting ahead of yourself, Claire. Who’s to say any of this can happen? And why would Marianne be with us if it could?
It made her – it kept her – exhausted. She slept so much nowadays, eating less, speaking less. As spring advanced, she became more and more desiccated, and the grey at her temples spread in thick, untidy waves. And she knew that Lorna was growing tired of her. The less she did with her, the less Lorna loved her. It was all Marianne nowadays. Marianne had all the ideas, all the energy. They loved each other, they had their own language. And when Marianne wasn’t there, Lorna took it out on Claire.
‘Well, if you’re too tired, then we won’t . . .’, ‘There’s no-one here. There’s no-one to play with.’ She hung about the kitchen, her now downy legs dangling from the work surface, trailing toes on the floor. ‘It’s boring. It’s boring here. You said we’d go to the beach every day.’
‘We used to but you said it was too cold. It was, too. And you told me you were bored of the beach.’