Claire let herself back in the dark house, shivering with cold. She’d left the car at Derek’s – too much Liebfraumilch to drive – and had walked home, despite Derek’s admonishments – ‘Go back in the morning! We have the study – won’t take long to get the camp bed in there!’ – and despite Pippa’s raised eyebrows and pursed lips.
Riven with tension, she sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, and tried to put her mind into some sort of order. She daren’t call again. Oh God, why had she left the car? It wasn’t as if she was really drunk. She could have driven past Lorna’s house, looking for signs of life . . . slept in the car if necessary . . . She put on her coat to walk back to Derek’s to collect it. But then realised they’d see her. Derek and Pippa were curtain-twitchers at the best of times; someone starting a car in their quiet cul-de-sac on Christmas night would be sure to arouse their interest. And once they realised it was Claire, she’d never hear the end of it – ‘You storm off and then don’t have the decency to pop back and say goodbye properly? After all Pippa’s hard work?’ She shuddered. And then, what if, while she was out, Lorna did call? Or even came over, cold, frightened, injured maybe, and found no-one home, no-one to take care of her? No, no. Best just to sit tight here. Sit tight and wait.
17
Lorna did arrive, shivering, that evening. She still wore her school shoes with no socks, but now had a hoodie over her pyjamas. She said she’d walked the whole way. That was all she said.
Claire put some more wood on the fire, brought down a quilt, and wrapped it around the child, who stared quietly at the TV, ignoring Claire’s timid questions. After a while, she stopped shaking, and allowed Claire to take off her shoes, run her a bath. While she soaked, Claire pressed her lips together into a hard white line, and cried, silently, behind the door so that Lorna wouldn’t see her.
After half an hour, Lorna got out of the bath like a somnambulist, wide-eyed and slow, accepted the too-big robe, and sat in front of the fire, letting Claire brush her hair. The robe slipped down, and Claire could see more bruises – older, and faded to yellow – on the nape of her neck and shoulders. When Lorna silently allowed herself to be dressed in one of Claire’s shirts, what could be a half-healed bite revealed itself on one buttock. Claire, blushing, holding back tears, gave her some leggings to put on, the waistband cinched in with a safety pin. She sang half-remembered lullabies to her, brushed her hair until it dried, and kept on brushing it until it crackled with electricity. They sat together, staring at the flames. Time ticked.
‘It’s not fair,’ whispered the girl. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘When I was little. Smaller. When I was little, I had a made-up friend. When I closed my eyes, she would come and wrap her arms around me and take me away.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘We went to the clouds. We went where there wasn’t anybody. Just me and her.’ Claire tightened her hold around Lorna’s waist. ‘And when we were together, I was happy. But it only worked sometimes. Did you have a friend? Someone made up like that? Or real?’
‘I had Mother, I suppose. She was my best friend,’ Claire murmured.
‘That’s what a mum should be.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she take you places?’ Lorna asked.
‘We went to the seaside.’ Claire’s voice was dreamy, sleepy. ‘We went to Cornwall.’
‘And were there lots of people there?’
‘No. Not many. Not where we went.’
‘Were you safe there? And happy?’ Lorna whispered.
‘I was. We were.’
‘Will—’ and then Lorna stopped.
‘Will?’
‘Will you always be my friend?’
‘Yes,’ said Claire, slowly, dreamily. ‘I will always be your friend.’
‘Will you – not – ask me questions. Too many? And no more police. You can’t tell them. Ever.’
‘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.