The last time she’d been to the town had been in the middle of winter, and her impression of the place then had been one of gloom and stillness. Today, the spring sun brightened the buildings, emphasised the whiteness of the stone. Narrow, dawdling roads suddenly widened out into quaint squares, and there were people; more people than Claire had seen in one place for months! Children too – why so many? Oh God, it must be school holidays! Easter, already! It must be, the shops have Easter eggs on display. She stopped, saw herself reflected in a window. Thin, so thin, with bags under her eyes and her unkempt hair more grey than brown. She gazed at herself for a long time, long enough so that a passer-by asked if she was all right. Pretty woman, with two small children tugging at her arms.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just trying to remember what I needed!’
‘Oh, OK. You look a bit pale, that’s all,’ the woman’s kind face creased. ‘Not being rude.’
‘I’ve been a little ill, but I’m getting over it now.’ Claire smiled. The woman’s little boy dropped his packet of sweets and it rolled towards the gutter. Claire stopped it with her foot and gave it back.
‘Say thank you to the lady.’
‘Sankoo,’ said the boy.
‘I was wondering, where is the library?’ Claire just wanted to prolong the encounter. She hadn’t spoken to anyone other than Lorna and Marianne for months. The woman had such a sweet face, open, and completely new.
‘If you go down there, and take the next right, you’ll see it, it’s on Union Place.’
Off the main drag, once the crowd thinned out, she became disoriented. Each creamy, stony street seemed the same: grand, angular homes; a vine-covered wall ran down the right-hand side of the road, casting shadow, muting noise. And now, suddenly, there was no-one, no-one at all. She could be the only person on earth.
The road widened suddenly, and large grey gates came into view. A park maybe? Claire eased through a small gap and, with unfocused eyes, walked down a gravel path, towards a bench. If I sit, get my bearings, I’ll be OK. There was something familiar about the place; not a park after all, but a series of low buildings with flat roofs on well-kept grass. And what was that? A sculpture? No, bars. Apparatus! She was in a school! A primary school it looked like. And immediately she began to relax. Schools are all the same, no matter how down at heel or brand new they are, and Claire looked with delight through the windows at the bright murals, the inevitable self-portraits of the infants, the Tudor projects of the Year Fives.
Tears started to form in her eyes as this connection, almost physical, with her old life established itself, made her feel rooted for the first time in months. Here, in this unknown school, she was at home. In what must be the nursery, children had cut around their own painted palm prints, and here they were, colourful bunting, strung across the walls – each with a name. Claire had done much the same with her Foundation classes, except along with the name, she had them dictate a dream, an ambition, a favourite sport, toy or colour. It gave the shyest children something to point at: see, there’s my name, I belong here. She’d done it when Lorna had been in the Christmas Crackers, but Lorna had painted the palm puce, mud coloured. Claire herself had written the girl’s name on it, she remembered, and at the end of term, when all the other children had taken theirs home to be pinned proudly on the fridge, Lorna’s stayed alone, unloved and ugly, staining the wall like a bruise.
Thinking about Lorna clouded things. She could imagine her, sitting with Marianne, concocting their bizarre and unlikely future. Only yesterday Marianne had been speaking confidently about London, about Lorna auditioning for West End musicals. London. Claire doubted sometimes if Marianne had ever been to London; she certainly didn’t seem to know it very well, and batted aside any questions about where and when she’d lived there. She spoke vaguely about Knightsbridge, about spending all her time in the V&A while she was studying fashion. How many things did she claim to have done? She was a singer, a fashion designer, an academic, a screenwriter, a model. And it was all rubbish! Something about being in a space she knew she belonged in gave Claire courage, made her sure of herself. Marianne was a liar, a fantasist, a fraud! God knows where she came from and why she’d attached herself to them, but both she and Lorna seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Both of them, in their unhealthy way, supported each other, propping themselves up on Claire, her money, her home, her goodwill. Her heart was beating quickly again, strongly, excitedly, spurring her on to grope towards the truth, the realisation that they were mad. Lorna was mad. And it had to end. She had to make sure. She had to read about the fire.
A voice from far deep inside her: Where do we go to grow our brains, Claire?
‘The library,’ she whispered to herself. And she began to retrace her steps.
This time she strode purposefully, back straight, eyes forward, seemingly drawn to the library by an uncanny force. There it was, an imposing stone building, like an old-fashioned school house or temperance hall. Inside it was all bright sofas, kids’ collages and reading challenges. Computers could be hired by the hour.
‘Would you like to join the library?’ the sweet-faced girl on the help desk asked. ‘You’re a resident?’