Claire put on the radio and closed the door. Elgar surged through the kitchen as she scrubbed the surfaces, gouged grime from the grouting, changed light bulbs, cleared bugs off the sills. Enough, enough of the filth. Fingers stinging with bleach, cuticles red, knees aching, teeth gritted, she attacked the kitchen ruthlessly, like an enemy. She was still at it when Lorna and Marianne came back, and by that time it was nearly dark.
‘Jesus, Claire.’ Marianne dropped a bag of doughnuts on the floor. ‘Stinks of bleach in here. Open a window, Lauren? Can you open a window? Or the door?’ Lorna slunk in, retrieved the doughnuts from the floor and went straight to the living room. Marianne took a boot off and propped the door open with it. Her sock made little sweaty prints on the floor. Benji pushed his way past her, padding mud and seawater. Claire, her mouth set in a hard line, leaped forward with a cloth to wipe up the smears. Marianne stared, chuckled, and eventually, when amused censure didn’t work, said: ‘Seriously, Claire, you’re making me tired doing all that. Sit down. You look poorly. Ankle playing up? Do you need me to get a repeat prescription or anything?
‘She looks fine to me.’ Lorna was leaning in the doorway, picking apart a doughnut. ‘Looks all right.’
Claire straightened up. ‘I’m feeling much better.’
Lorna smiled, turned her eyes to the doughnut. ‘Really?’
Something had changed in the atmosphere.
Marianne dropped the concerned look and stared impassively at Claire. ‘That’s great. Good news,’ she murmured.
‘It is, isn’t it? So, no more pills,’ Claire answered. Lorna looked up. There was a smear of jam on her lip like a bloody fang. Claire kept her gaze ‘No. No more nonsense like that.’
Now Claire did want to sit down; this open rebellion was enervating. But she didn’t. Put some steel in your spine, Claire! Don’t let them see you cracking. There was a long silence. Marianne glanced at Lorna questioningly. Lorna sneered through the doughnut, but backed away into the living room. Claire tried to keep the shudder from her voice. ‘And you, Marianne? How are you feeling? After your long night’s sleep?’
Claire saw the woman try on various expressions: bland, arch, stubborn, saw her falter and lapse into confusion, and she felt a surge of victory.
‘Maybe you’re sickening for something. You need to sit down, you look peaky.’ She put more syrup in her voice, and leaned in to take her hand. ‘How about a drink?’ Marianne pulled her hand away, straightened up. Her mouth hardened, and they stared at each other. The wind howled through the door, and Benji licked doughnut crumbs off the floor. They stayed that way until Lorna shouted from next door.
‘It’s finished. I’m watching it now. Bring the biscuits!’
Marianne put a smile on her face, looked down and strode into the living room ‘Jammie Dodgers or those big choco-chip ones?’
‘Both! Shut up, it’s on, it’s on!’
They’d recorded a countdown show, the kind that cable TV channels use as fillers – The Hundred Most Shocking Soap Opera Moments! – and it lasted for two hours. Lorna had kicked off her shoes and socks and was staring, rapt, at the screen, as a series of half-known comedians on the up or on the slide trotted out their scripted puns. Lorna snorted, groaned and hid her eyes at the kissing. Marianne perched next to her on the edge of the sofa, so she could dash away when the girl hollered for more biscuits, Coke, a blanket.
‘Move up a little, Lauren.’ Claire poked at the girl’s foot. ‘I need to sit down too.’
Lorna glanced at Marianne. Her mouth twisted. Marianne kept her face immobile, though one eyebrow twitched.
‘You don’t like these kind of things. Countdowns,’ Lorna said flatly. ‘You say they’re rubbish.’
‘Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I want to try something new.’ Claire picked up Lorna’s legs and placed her feet firmly on the floor, then sat down. ‘Move further into the middle, won’t you? Then poor old Marianne can have a seat instead of sitting there looking like she’s about to topple over.’
Lorna’s body was rigid. She cut her eyes at Marianne, who leapt off the sofa as if she’d been scalded, heading back to the kitchen.
‘I’m making tea. Anyone want tea?’
‘That’d be lovely. Lorna? Tea?’
‘I want everyone to shut up. Can’t hear the programme,’ the girl hissed.
‘You can pause it, can’t you? Till everyone’s settled?’ Answering back filled Claire with anxiety and exhilaration. She nudged the girl’s feet again. ‘Seriously, move up a bit, Lauren. The sofa isn’t just for you, you know.’
Lorna gaped melodramatically, turned to the kitchen door, but Marianne wasn’t there. ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.
‘Watching TV with my daughter,’ Claire answered complacently. Lorna dug her sharp toenails into Claire’s arm. Claire smiled, shifted her arm slightly. ‘We really ought to trim those nails, Lauren. Why don’t you start biting them instead of your fingers? Try something new too?’
The girl swung her body around to face Claire, and her eyes were shiny with tears. She hugged the blanket to herself, cold and pitiful. ‘Why’re you being so horrible? Mum? This isn’t like you.’
Claire struggled to keep her posture, her remote smile; struggled not to clutch the girl’s hand, be friends once more. ‘I don’t think I’m being horrible. I’m not being horrible at all.’
‘You’re not being like you.’ Lorna narrowed her suddenly dry eyes. ‘At all.’ She let the blanket drop and stared at Claire, her mouth a tight line.
‘Well, that’s not the same thing, is it? Besides, I think I am being like me. I feel more like myself, more than I have in, oh, ages, months.’ She watched Lorna’s eyes narrow again. Her thoughts were scudding across her face like rain-filled clouds. ‘And, you really shouldn’t frown like that, you know. What is it Auntie May says? Frowns are the mother of wrinkles? Or something like that. You don’t want to be the oldest-looking girl in drama school, do you?’
Now Lorna was crying for real, in confusion, in rage. Her face contorted. ‘You shut up about that, you don’t know anything, you don’t know anything about it.’
‘I know that you’re not going to drama school.’ Claire dropped her head conspiratorially. ‘I know that much.’
‘I am!’
‘How?’
‘Marianne’s taking me to London.’