Because they were definitely away for the next few hours, Claire felt brave enough to put on the news, but she kept the volume down so she could hear them coming back. There was nothing on the fire though, and the drab national news leaked seamlessly into the drabber local news. She made herself a mug of hot chocolate. Lorna had drawn a smiley face in the powder; oh, she could be so thoughtful! She tried to keep that feeling close, she’s a good girl, she’s a thoughtful girl. Not, perhaps, an exceptional one. She needs discipline. She has done for a long time. Another failure of Claire’s. And all this reach-for-the-stars propaganda from Marianne wasn’t helpful, but what can I do about it now? Lorna was always a dreamer – what little girl isn’t? But this emphasis on fame . . . It’s not good. It’s corrupting.
Sitting down was making her sleepy. She got up decisively and got the Hoover out of the understairs cupboard to tackle the stairs. Marianne had a habit of tearing the hair from her hairbrush and dropping it in little frizzy clouds, where they drifted into corners, and they both tracked mud into the house. Claire got the worst of the stains up with carpet cleaner, and then began dragging the Hoover up the stairs, balancing it precariously on each. But then, something happened.
She suddenly felt so lightheaded, dizzy. And she must have got her foot caught in the cord or something, because suddenly she felt herself wavering, and too far away from the bannister to prevent a fall. She tumbled down three stairs backwards, before her head hit the newel post at the bottom and stopped her dead. The cord pulled out of the socket, and in the sudden silence, she heard Benji barking.
Dazed, shaken, almost unbearably weary, she put tentative fingers to the back of her head, and was relieved that they came back dry. Keeping her eyes open was hard. Concussion. I must have a concussion. Sit up, Claire! But that was hard too, and her stomach flip-flopped; the taste of the strong cocoa repeated on her. Benji nosed wetly at her splayed fingers.
‘Just had a bit of a tumble, Benji. Have a nice trip, see you next fall!’ she giggled weakly and tried to untwist the Hoover cord from around her ankle. That was a tougher job than it looked; she couldn’t seem to make her fingers work. Shock. It must be. Benji whined and pawed at her shoulder until she managed to raise one hand to pat him. She was so tired.
Suddenly he leaped up and ran, barking, to the door. Marianne and Lorna must be back. Claire struggled to stand up, but failed. She was still spreadeagled and vague looking as they came in.
‘Oh my Lord, Claire, what the – yes, Benji, yes yes, for God’s sake get down!’ Marianne rushed to her side.
‘Mum?’ Lorna was all concern. ‘Mum, what happened?’
‘I took a tumble. Silly. Don’t know what happened.’
‘Can you get up?’ Lorna frowned and passed an arm around her shoulder. ‘Can you try?’
‘Yes, yes, I think so. Just let me take a breath.’
‘Mum!’
‘Darling, don’t be scared, look, I’m not hurt! Just a bit bruised and I feel very silly!’ She gazed at the girl’s loving face, blotched with cold and tears. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not. She’s not! Auntie May, help me!’
Between the two of them, they managed to get her upright, and led her carefully to the sofa, where Lorna insisted she lie absolutely still while she applied an unneeded cold compress to her forehead. Her glazed eyes, beneath the puckered brow, told Claire how concerned she was. ‘Auntie May? Are there any of those codeine pills left?’
‘Lots, yes.’
‘Can you bring some in? And make Mum a strong cup of that hot chocolate she likes? Mum, do you need something to eat? One of your lovely jam tarts?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘It’ll go lovely with the hot chocolate. Go on.’
‘Well, yes then. Yes I will.’
Lorna bounced off into the kitchen, and came back with a tray filled with tarts, a muddy-looking hot chocolate, two Bourbon biscuits and a bag of crisps. And she sat with her, holding her hand, until Claire fell asleep, half the cocoa finished, the neat stack of jam tarts untouched.
Some time in the night, Claire dreamed that they were talking about her.
‘She drinks,’ said Marianne solemnly.
‘I know,’ Lorna whispered back.
* * *
The dizziness and fatigue stayed with her over the next few days. Sometimes she didn’t get out of bed at all, and Lorna, solicitous, would bring her over-salted soup and watch, cow-eyed, as she ate down to the last drop. She chased Benji from the room, shushed Marianne, closed doors soundlessly and squatted on the floor beside the bed, gazing at her. There was always fresh water, with a bendy straw, so that Claire didn’t have to raise her head too high. Hovering close, the girl patted her cheeks, kissed her softly, watched her sleep, which she did most of the time. Sometimes, though too weak to open her eyes, Claire listened. There was a conversation on the landing. Marianne was concerned.
‘She should go to the doctor’s, really.’
‘I know what’s best for her,’ Lorna said flatly.
‘Well, I know that this is what you’re used to, Lo, but you really shouldn’t be taking on all this responsibility. You never should have. You’re not a carer, you’re a child.’
‘But I always have!’
‘I know, poppet, and that’s what I’m getting at. It’s not fair on you. It’s role reversal, it’s bizarre! She should be looking after you!’
‘I try really hard!’ The girl was crying. ‘It’s really hard!’
‘Oh, darling, I know, I know it is. But, look, come here, wipe your pretty eyes. Can’t you see that it’s not right? I mean, I don’t want to make things worse for you . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well. What we said the other night. About the drinking . . .’
‘Oh.’
Claire felt her sluggish heart beat, suddenly, quickly. She shifted her head on the pillow a tiny bit so she could hear better.
‘I know it’s not something that we’re supposed to talk about,’ Marianne was saying. ‘We’re all so bloody English about it, but, really, I mean, it’s not just that, is it?’
‘The pills. I know. It’s not good for her,’ Lorna mumbled.
‘I’ve been missing some pills, I’ve noticed—’
‘I think she hides them.’ Lorna was near tears.
‘Oh darling, look, look at me, it’s not your fault!’
‘I’m trouble. I’m too much trouble for her! I know I am! It’s me that makes her poorly. If it wasn’t for me she wouldn’t have to drink and take all those pills like she does.’ Lorna was sobbing quietly.
‘Well, you’re not too much trouble for me.’ Marianne must have drawn the girl into a fierce hug, because Lorna’s next words were muffled and choked.