The frigid air promised sleet, and Lorna announced her intention of watching TV all day. She plopped herself down on the sofa, still in her pyjamas, and spooned ice cream out of the tub while flicking through the cartoon channels. Claire cleaned the kitchen, turned the radio back on, but not too loudly, so as not to perturb Lorna. The kitchen was badly in need of work. The grouting around the tiles was black, and she saw silverfish around the bottom of the sink. Still, it was a cheerful, sunny room, at least when the sun was shining. Claire rubbed the tiles around the sink with bleach, tutted at the ingrained dirt around the taps, and dabbed, sceptically, at the worn lino. Perhaps they could go to Ikea; get one of those new, white kitchens that Mother had sneered at – ‘They always look good in the shop, but modern kitchens are so flimsy.’ White, and something bright for the tiles. Blue maybe, or a nice, cheerful yellow. The oven would do, she supposed, but wouldn’t an Aga be nice? And again, Norma’s voice piped up – ‘An Aga she says? Getting a bit Jilly Cooper in your old age, aren’t you?’ – but surely it’s important to look at some things and feel happy, not because they’re practical, but because they’re beautiful. These things matter. And if we stay here, it has to be lovely for Lorna . . .
She really ought to put Mother’s house on the market. Ask Derek for advice? Leave it a week, she bargained with herself, leave it a week or so and then call him. She shouldn’t have told him she was coming to Cornwall; that had been stupid, stupid. What if he took it into his head to visit? Check up on her? She should have said she was going on holiday or something. A long cruise. But then he would have expected postcards . . . What time is it? I’ve missed the news anyway . . . try to relax, Claire. You’re no use to anyone in this state. And she found a classical-music station, sat down and took some deep breaths. It was syrupy Italian opera, the kind that she had always, secretly, enjoyed. She turned it up, flicked her tea towel and sang along, until a bellow of annoyance from Lorna in the living room made her remember herself and turn it down again. ‘Sorry!’ she called through the doorway, and sang under her breath. ‘Tutto e follia, follia nel mondo, Cio che non e piacere . . .’ Weak sunlight filtered through the dirty windows. She closed her eyes and smiled at the tiny warmth. Today I will think good thoughts . . . the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. They would make jam tarts. And how about a roast for lunch?
Lorna was steadily and impassively scanning through the channels now, Claire could hear little snatches of music, gardening shows, old sitcoms and Westerns.
‘Can’t you settle, Lorna?’
‘It’s all boring.’
‘I thought I’d make a roast dinner today, what do you think? With roast potatoes?’
‘Are they the ones like big chips?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t like them.’
‘But you’ll try them, though?’
‘Mmmm.’ Click click click through the channels and now the news. Halfway through the headlines: ‘A twenty-nine-year-old woman has been arrested in connection with the fire. Local people have named the woman as Paulette Coulson, mother of Peter Marshall’s two children, though we have had no statement as yet from the local police.’ Lorna turned up the volume. Her expression didn’t change. ‘Further doubt has been cast on the source of the blaze. A fire brigade source told Sky News that it was looking increasingly unlikely that the upright storage heaters were to blame, and that petrol has been found in the drains and hallways of this small terraced house—’
‘Lorna.’ Claire hovered by the door.
‘Watching.’
‘Lorna, is this good for you, though?’
‘Watching.’
‘All right.’ But she stayed in the doorway, watching the light from the TV on the girl’s face. The same close-ups of flowers, that same charred door. And now a photo of a young woman hugging two children, their faces pixelated out.
‘That’s her. That’s his ex, the one who said she’d stop him seeing his kids,’ Lorna said tonelessly, staring at the screen. ‘They’ll find out she did it, I bet you.’
Claire sat down beside her on the sofa and took her slack hand. ‘Did you know her?’
‘No. But Pete talked about her all the time. Said she was a psycho. She once smacked Mum in the town.’ She wiggled her feet. ‘Cold.’
‘I’ll get you some socks in a minute.’
‘I’m cold though! Please?’
Up in the girl’s room, Claire took socks and a duvet. On the floor was a Famous Five book, one of the ones that Claire had given her. The cover was folded in half, and Anne’s head had been ripped off. Lorna really ought to be more careful about things, but then, one had to learn to be careful, and nobody had taught her. But now, look at that . . . George’s eyes all gouged out and the face coloured over with black . . . that was just, well, not destructive exactly, but . . . Claire had had that book since she herself was a child, and it had survived forty odd years with no damage, not even the spine had been cracked. And now, in the space of a few weeks, Anne was headless and George had fangs. She needs, what does she need? Boundaries? Yes. But she mustn’t be made to feel as if she is being told off. Gentle guidance, that was the way forward. But harming books, wilful destruction, it made Claire’s heart hurt. She folded the cover back on itself to make the crease even out and hunted around for Anne’s head, but it was nowhere. She sighed, walked down the stairs, and paused just at the bottom, looking at Lorna’s back.
She was jiggling one foot up and down on her knee and picking her nose. Sky News had a helicopter's view of the house; a white forensic tent covered where the kitchen and living room had been – ‘. . . possibly asleep when the fire took hold, and fire services say . . .’ – Lorna began to hum tunelessly – ‘. . . feared three dead, as we said earlier, but not all of the bodies have yet been accounted for.’ Lorna, sighing, dug a thumb up one nostril. ‘Police have another forty-eight hours to question the twenty-nine-year-old woman arrested in the early hours of this morning.’ Lorna sang, ‘Gimme gimme gimme what I a-a-sk for,’ as a police chief made a statement: ‘. . . early stages of our inquiry, which is complex, and will be going on for some time to come. But please don’t see the arrest we have made as being the end of our inquiry, and I ask anyone out there in the community who may have any further information to contact us, bearing in mind that three people, a mother and two children, lost their lives in this fire. Peter Marshall remains in a critical condition, but police are hopeful that he will be able to help us with our inquiries when he recovers enough to do so.’ Lorna stiffened. A reporter asked, ‘Is Peter Marshall a suspect of this crime, or a victim?’ The police chief hesitated. ‘That is something that we are trying to ascertain.’ Lorna turned the TV off and Claire handed her the duvet and socks.
‘What’s “ascertain” mean?’ The girl was still staring at the blank TV screen.
‘It means to make sure.’
‘They’re not sure he’ll die?’ Lorna was snuffling into a piece of kitchen roll, she turned around and tears were starting.