‘Of course!’ She was indignant.
‘Oh, Benji will be OK for a while without me, with his new little friend. He’ll forget all about me.’ Marianne ruffled Lorna’s hair. The girl’s face flickered briefly into annoyance, then smoothed itself blank.
‘If I have a little nap can you look after Benji for Marianne until she gets back?’
‘OK. Marianne? Can you get a treat at the shops? Like chocolate?’ She said the word as if she was tasting it. ‘I can share with Benji?’
Marianne ruffled her hair again, smirking. ‘You’re sure you’ll share it with poor Benji? You won’t eat it all up yourself?’
Again, contempt crossed the girl’s face, almost imperceptible, gone in an instant and replaced with a smile. ‘I promise promise promise. And Benji told me he likes Mars Bars best.’
‘Did he?’ Marianne raised an arch eyebrow. ‘You two are fast friends, aren’t you?’
The girl nodded, pertly. ‘I’m a friend to all the animals.’
‘I think chocolate is poisonous for dogs though. I think. Isn’t it?’ Claire managed.
‘Oh, well, I’ll just have to eat all of it after all then!’ Lorna beamed.
Marianne let out a laugh. ‘Oh, God she’s just adorable, isn’t she? Sweet as pie! Little Madam! OK, I’ll get some essentials and I’ll be back. With treats, Miss Lauren!’
Something about the artifice of this scene had steadied Claire enough so that when the door closed and Marianne was safely out of earshot, she was able to remain clear-headed. ‘Lauren?’
The girl looked at her slyly, and laughed. ‘It’s what we said, isn’t it? It’s pretty.’
‘It was good thinking.’
Lorna/Lauren flopped down on a kitchen chair. She chewed a finger thoughtfully ‘So, I’ll call you Mum?’
‘It’s probably best to, yes. At least in front of other people.’
The child leaned forward to look her in the eye. ‘Can I call you Mummy?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘You are my mummy now, aren’t you?’
Claire felt oddly detached. The codeine pinned her, supine, to her chair. ‘Do you want me to be?’
‘Mummy.’ Lorna chewed the word over. ‘Mummy. And Lauren. OK.’
‘OK.’
‘Mummy?’
‘Yes Lauren?’
‘Marianne’s a bit silly, isn’t she?’
‘She’s been very kind to us though. I don’t know how we’d have got any shopping without her. Don’t chew your fingers.’
‘Yeah,’ Lorna said, pulling some skin off her lips meditatively, ‘she asked me if I wanted to be a ballet dancer.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I wanted to be famous instead. And she laughed and said, “Don’t we all.” But she did say she’d teach me ballet. But I don’t really want to. But I will if you want me to. Mummy.’ She smiled winningly.
‘I just want you to be happy. But don’t tell her where we came from or anything like that, OK?’
The smile blinked off like a faulty light. ‘I’m not stupid.’
‘No, but you might forget.’
‘I’m not stupid,’ said the girl again, huffily.
‘Lorna—’
‘Lauren you mean. Who’s being stupid now?’ She was working herself up into a rage. Claire closed her eyes so as not to see the child’s contorted face, see that inner animal, confront how young she still was. Younger than ten in a lot of ways. She remembered seeing her once in the playground, not too long ago, spinning a skipping rope in a fury, hitting knees, elbows and faces around her. No teacher could get near to stop her. Claire had watched from the staffroom as the caretaker snuck up behind her in a crouch and grabbed her by the knees, bringing her down in one deft movement.
‘I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me.’ She kept her eyes closed, her voice calm.
‘. . . way you’re speeaaaking to meee.’ Lorna kicked the table leg. Claire heard cutlery hitting the floor. There was a pause, and another kick. A chair fell. Claire kept her eyes closed. ‘You think I’m fucking stupid.’
‘I don’t. You know I don’t. Don’t swear.’ Keep calm, Claire. Keep calm, and she will calm down too. The stress the girl was under, her background . . .
‘FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!’ chanted the girl.
There was a pause. Claire tried not to move. She heard the girl shuffle, heard her pick up the chair.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
Now Claire opened her eyes, and saw faint red welts on the girl’s forearm, carved with those bitten-down nails. She had the same expression on her face as she had when the caretaker had grabbed her: like she was waking up from a furious coma.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘I’m sorry’, and her voice rose to a wail as she collapsed onto Claire’s lap. Her knees jabbed into Claire’s midriff as she climbed up her, straddling her awkwardly, hooking her chin over her shoulder; a big, sprawling girl. Her thin chest caught with choking breath, her fingers twisted into the hair at the nape of Claire’s neck. And then the sobs came, huge and juddering.
Claire held on tight, forced herself to open her eyes to stay awake, wishing she hadn’t taken four of those pills. It might take Lorna an hour to calm down; one whole hour of patient cajoling, stroking, feeble jokes and bribery. A fresh wave of drugged torpor came over her and she groaned.
Lorna/Lauren hiccupped, shifted. The sobs lessened. ‘You’re hurting,’ she said. ‘You’re hurting.’
‘I just need a rest, my love.’
The child scrambled down. ‘You’re hurt, I said.’
‘I am. And I’m tired.’
‘Go to bed then,’ she said coldly.
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘I’m not. Go to bed. If you’re tired.’
‘Are we friends again?’ Claire tried to open her eyes, smile.
‘You’re my mum,’ said the girl flatly. ‘Go to bed. I’ll bring you some more pills in a bit.’
‘I don’t think I can get up the stairs.’
‘I’ll tuck you up, nice and cosy. On the sofa?’ She was solicitous again. The turnaround was dizzying.
‘Yes.’
They struggled to the sofa together.