Lorna turned mournful, stricken eyes on Feras. Claire felt immensely sorry for her, and simultaneous irritation towards the boy twitching at her side. ‘I’m asking you to go and get your picture, and stop being silly.’ Surprisingly, he ducked his head, sped to the drying rack, and plucked up his picture without saying a word.
‘Glitter?’ Feras liked glitter.
‘If I open it for you, do you promise not to use a lot?’
His vague gaze drifted down to his glitter-crazed picture. ‘Promise. Red?’
Talking Feras down from his inevitable glitter high took some time; it was a while before Claire realised that Lorna wasn’t in the room any more, but in the toilets, twisting paper into little pellets, her face as smooth and inscrutable as an egg. She was more than usually unkempt today. Her hair was matted at the roots and she wore the same grimy polo shirt she’d had on the previous week. The floor was littered with paper, but half of what she was ripping up remained in her hand – her Christmas picture. A puppy sat next to a tree, ringed by a smiling family and painstakingly coloured hearts. Claire watched as Lorna’s dirty, chewed fingertips ripped the puppy’s head off and began methodically screwing it up into a ball.
‘Lorna! Your beautiful picture! You worked so hard on it!’
The girl started. Her eyes widened and her lips pulled back into a nervous smile.
‘It’s shit.’
‘We don’t use that language, Lorna. And it certainly isn’t – rubbish! It’s a beautiful picture! Look at all those pretty hearts, and all those lovely smiles. It’s very cheerful!’
The girl’s face darkened. ‘It’s rubbish.’ But she stopped ripping it up.
‘Well, I think it’s lovely. Why destroy it?’
‘Don’t like it.’
‘I’d love you to draw another one? But I’m worried that it won’t be ready for when Christmas comes.’ The girl smiled again, but her eyes took on a dull sheen that Claire recognised all too well. ‘Lorna? Don’t cry, now.’
She knelt down, took one of the child’s hands, and a wave of unbearable empathy washed through her for this lonely girl, staggering towards her now, clutching at Claire’s cardigan, kneading it with her hands, crying, choking. Then her chest heaved and she began to cough. Claire knew that cough, and deftly steered her towards the toilets, just before the vomit came. There was nothing in the girl’s stomach, it seemed, except the milk she’d drunk at break time. When she stopped choking, Claire scooped the dangling ropes of spittle and snot away with a wet wipe. She carefully washed her hands and led Lorna to the Calm Down Corner.
‘Lorna, did you eat your lunch?’
‘No.’
‘Why not, poppet?’
‘Didn’t like it.’
Lunch had been pizza and chips. What were the odds Lorna hadn’t liked it? ‘Really? Lorna? Did you feel poorly then too?’
‘No.’
Claire tried to remember seeing Lorna at lunch. She was on first sitting. They sat on tables according to surname. Who else began with a B? ‘Do you sit next to Shane Briggs?’
‘No. Caitlyn Carr.’
Caitlyn Carr. Troublesome girl. Bit of a pincher. ‘Are you friends with Caitlyn?’
‘No.’
‘Did Caitlyn say anything a bit unkind to you today at lunch?’
‘Can’t remember.’ But Lorna shook suddenly and a few more tears leaked out.
‘You must tell the teacher, Lorna, if someone – anyone – is being unkind to you.’
‘None of them like me.’
‘Oh, Lorna, I’m sure that’s not true.’ Claire knew it was true. Poor little lamb. A year had done nothing to rehabilitate her.
‘I’m going to be sick again.’ Lorna got up and wandered towards the toilets.
‘When Mummy comes to pick you up, I’ll tell her that you’re feeling poorly,’ Claire called to her back.
The girl turned dull eyes on her. ‘No.’
‘Sweetheart, if you have a poorly tummy then Mum can make you feel better.’
Lorna closed her eyes and looked, suddenly, so weary: a much older child. She came back and sat down. And then Feras, over by the door started up his chatter, ‘Hometimehometimehometime!’ and Claire peered at her watch – four thirty.
‘I’ll go and get you some water, Lorna. You sit tight here, sweetheart.’ Fergus Coyle was bellowing something about a poison dart frog and Claire gently steered him away from the Calm Down Corner, and drew the jigsaw-printed curtains around it. ‘Lorna is feeling a little bit poorly, Fergus, can we keep it down? Miss Montgomery is opening the door now, look.’ When she came back with water, Lorna gazed up at her from the depths of a beanbag, tired eyes in worn sockets.
‘Mum will be here soon, Lorna. In the meantime have a sip of water and a few deep breaths.’ She felt the girl’s forehead. No fever. ‘Do you still feel sick?’ The girl shook her head. ‘Dizzy? Cold? Here, look, take my cardy while you’re waiting. It’s nice and warm.’ She put it around Lorna’s shoulders, wrapping the sleeves around her neck like a scarf. ‘There we go. Nice and cosy. Have another little sip? You have a bit more colour in your cheeks now. What was that?’ The girl had whispered something.
‘Can I go home with you?’ She said it all in a rush. She looked so desperate, panicked.
Claire tried to smile. ‘And what would your mum have to say about that? Taking her lovely daughter away? She’d have something to say about that, wouldn’t she?’
But Lorna just looked confused. ‘I want to come home with you.’
‘Lorna . . .’ Claire’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Why?’
The girl hesitated, and then turned her head away. ‘I don’t really. I don’t know.’
‘Is everything all right at home? Lorna? Please tell me if you’re worried . . . or, or scared?’
‘I’m OK.’ Her face was blank now. Her voice a monotone.
Outside, Miss Montgomery was failing to hold the fort at the door. Fergus Coyle wasn’t letting the subject of poison dart frogs lie, and Feras was punching him rhythmically on the back. It was beginning to unravel out there.
‘I’ll dash out now, but I’ll be back in a minute. Do you want a book to look at?’
‘No.’