There was still some whisky in the kitchen. She poured herself a large glass and stalked through the house, clenching and unclenching her hands, loitering in Mother’s room, before dragging out the big suitcase from under the bed.
It was covered in a thin patina of dust. An airport tag was still tied to the handle, with Mother’s name written on it, and inside, it smelled of Chanel No. 5 and Imperial Leather soap. Claire brought her face close to the lining and inhaled, speaking to Mother in her mind. What should I do? What should I do? Help me! But Mother’s scent grew fainter and fainter, until it was indistinguishable from Claire’s own scent of fabric conditioner and herbal toothpaste and Mother wasn’t there. Mother couldn’t help.
The next day, when she drove by, she couldn’t see a crack in the door. Maybe it had been repaired already.
16
Christmas Day, and Claire was at Derek’s. Facing the ransacked carcass of the turkey, and the gaping mouth of Pippa’s mother, she reached for another glass of Liebfraumilch, or some other sweet, sticky wine that claimed to be good for the digestion. Pippa’s silent mother had already gone through most of the bottle. Gentle snores escaped her and her chin bobbed onto her gravy-stained chest. Throughout the lunch, Claire had managed to distract herself by following the conversation intently, showing excessive interest in Pippa’s aches and Derek’s prediction of a housing crash, but now that lunch was over, and there was relative quiet, her mind began to pace feverishly around the fixed point of Lorna. What sort of a Christmas would she be having? With that family?
Derek kept the whisky in the box room he pompously called his study. He might bring it out later; Claire hoped so. She was even willing to withstand his amused barbs. ‘Whisky? For the puritan? Better watch out, Claire, you’ll be having fun before you know it!’ If any evening needed spirits, it was this one.
‘Someone’s had her fill,’ chuckled Derek, nodding at his mother-in-law. ‘Pippa? Eh? Someone’s had her fill! Claire, top-up? Why not. Christmas. Give me your glass.’ Derek was slightly drunk. His shirt cuff trailed in gravy as he passed Claire her brimming glass. ‘Any more thoughts about work, Claire?’
‘I’m back in January.’
‘They’ll be desperate for you back, I’d say.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Desperate, I’d say. You have a way with the horrors. Sometimes, when Pippa feels a bit low about our decision, I tell her, think of the mess, think of the expense. No free time. If you want kids, do a stint teaching, that’s what I say. That should change your mind!’
‘Oh, it’s a lovely job, Derek.’
‘I’m sure it is. Sure it is. But you get paid for it. That’s what I’ve said to Pippa. Claire gets paid for it. No money in motherhood, is there?’
‘Maybe there should be.’ Claire smiled. ‘If there was money in it, perhaps people would be better at it.’
‘Or have even more kids on the public teat. Kids, big screen TVs, fags, holidays. No. We should pay people not to have kids, that’s what I think. Send the sterilising wagons down the estates, a quick tube tie, and buy them off with an Xbox. That’s what I’d do!’
‘Oh Derek—’
‘Well, it’s a solution, isn’t it?’
‘A solution to what?’
‘A solution to the godawful mess this country’s got itself into. Oh, I know you think I’m some kind of – I don’t know – reactionary or something. But I’m a do-er, not a thinker. And that’s what we need more of, do-ers.’
‘I think you’re trying to get a rise out of me, Derek,’ smiled Claire.
‘Well, Claire, I am and I’m not. Come on now. You’ve worked with these kids year after year. You’ve seen what bad parenting has done to them. You know that they’ll end up making exactly the same mistakes. And on and on it goes. See that little smile? You know I’m right. You do, don’t you?’
‘I think that some families need more support—’
‘Support! They want locking up. That little lass the other day, killed by the family dog. Why on God’s green earth would a baby need a pit bull for a pet? And that little girl, the one in your school – Jane?’
‘Jade Wood.’
‘Jade, yes, that was it. Half-starved, and by her own parents!’ He shook his head.
Claire thought of Lorna. Lorna in her house full of dogs, and men, and the smell of chips and damp and dirt. There was no way of knowing how she was, if she was safe. The last two nights Claire had had terrible dreams: the dull, terrible thump of the child's head against the door, the eventual creaking shatter of the glass, and Lorna’s muted, painful grunt as her head appeared, eyes staring, from between the trembling shards. Her staying there, trapped, while Pete ranted, his red face just visible through the frame, and Claire, frozen, staring at the child’s blank eyes, unable to move, unable even to comprehend what she’d seen. That it hadn’t actually happened like that was pure luck; she’d intervened before Pete had managed to put Lorna’s head all the way through the glass. But what if she’d been too late? What if she hadn’t been there at all?
‘There, look, I’ve depressed you now. Sorry, Claire. Silly topic of conversation. At the end of the day, people like you make all the difference. Caring. And I know you’re not a person of faith, but it’s God’s love you’re spreading.’
‘How much have you had to drink?’ Claire smiled.
‘Hand on heart, Claire, I’m a bit pissed. But I mean what I say. You’re a good woman. And here’s to you.’ He extended his glass unsteadily, wine slopping on his mother-in-law’s plate. ‘Any more booze in the fridge, Pip?’
Claire drank the rest of her wine in three gulps. ‘It is a hard job, Derek, though. Teaching. You can get very close to some of the kiddies, they can be so sweet and so trusting. There’s this one girl—’