Sinful Nights(61)

Would she have approved of her? Claire's soft mouth twisted in a tight  grimace. Probably not. She had learned over the years that people drew  their own conclusions about young girls alone with a baby to support,  and that they were not always the right ones. It had been hard work  bringing Lucy up alone, but once she had been born there was nothing  that could have induced her to part with her. The love she felt for her  child was the last thing she had expected  …  especially  …

Mummy, please let Heather come back with us.' Lucy tugged on her jeans, demanding her attention.

Not today,' she responded firmly, smiling at Heather to show the little  girl that her refusal held nothing personal. I'm sure that there's  someone at home waiting for Heather who would be very worried if she  didn't arrive, isn't there, Heather?'

Only Mrs Roberts,' the little girl responded miserably. And she won't  let me have soldiers with my boiled egg. She says it's babyish.'

Compassion mingled with amusement as Claire surveyed the childish pout.  Boiled eggs and soldiers were one of Lucy's favourite treats.

Mrs Roberts is Heather's daddy's housekeeper,' Lucy told her mother  importantly. He has to go away a lot on-on business-and Mrs Roberts  looks after Heather.'

She doesn't like me.'

The flat statement was somehow more pathetic than an emotional outburst  would have been. And the little girl did look unloved. Oh, not in any  obvious way-her clothes were expensive and clean, and she was obviously  healthy-but she was equally obviously unhappy. But surely the blame for  that rested with the child's father, and not with the housekeeper?  Perhaps he was too involved in his business-whatever it was-to notice  that his child was miserable.

It was the look of stoic acceptance on the child's face as she took Lucy's hand and started to walk away that decided her.

Perhaps, if Heather doesn't live too far away, we could walk home with  her and ask Mrs Roberts if she could come to tea,' she suggested.    

 



 

Two small faces turned up towards her, both wearing beaming smiles.

What manner of father was it who would allow his five-year-old daughter  to walk home unescorted? Chadbury St John was only a small village, but  it was also a remote one. Children disappeared in Britain every day  …   were attacked in the most bestial and horrible of ways  …  She  …  Claire  shivered suddenly, things she didn't want to remember obliterating the  warm autumn sun. She had been eighteen when Lucy was conceived. An adult  legally, but a child still in so many ways, the adored and protected  daughter of older parents who had never taught her that the world could  be a cruel and hard place.

They had been killed in a road accident shortly after her eighteenth  birthday. She had lost everything then-parents, security-everything.

It had been their intention that she would go on to university after  school, but her father's pension had died with him, and the small house  they lived in had had to be sold to pay off their small debts. There  hadn't been much left. Certainly not enough for her to go to university,  even if that had still been possible, but an eighteen-year-old girl  struggling with the knowledge that she was an orphan and pregnant  doesn't have much time or energy to expend on studying.

Of course she could have had an abortion. That was the first thing the  doctor had told her after he had got the truth from her. She had wanted  to agree-had intended to-but somehow, when it came to it, she couldn't.

And she had never once regretted her decision to bear and then keep  Lucy. Of course, pressure had been put on her to give her up, but she  had withstood it. In those early days she had still had some money left  from the sale of the house, but that hadn't lasted longer than the first  twelve months of Lucy's life.

The council flat they had been given, its walls running with damp, its  reputation for violence and vandalism so frightening that some days  Claire had barely dared to go out-these were all in the past now. She  felt as though she had stepped out from darkness into light, and perhaps  it was her own awareness of what suffering could be that made her so  sensitive to the misery of the little girl standing at her side.

The three of them walked to the end of the village, Heather hesitating noticeably once they had left the main road behind.

Heather lives in that big house with the white gates,' Lucy informed her mother importantly.

Claire knew which one Lucy meant. They had walked past it on Sunday  afternoons when they explored their new environment. It was a lovely  house, Tudor in part with tiny mullioned windows and an air of peace and  sanctuary. One glance into Heather's shuttered, tight face told her  that the little girl obviously didn't find those qualities there.

They walked up the drive together, but once they were standing outside  the rose-gold front of the house, Heather tugged on Claire's sleeve and  whispered uncertainly, We have to go round the back. Mrs Roberts  doesn't let me use the front door.'

There could be any number of reasons for that, but even so, Claire frowned slightly. It was, after all, the child's home.

They had to skirt well-tended, traditional flower borders and walk along a pretty flagged path to reach the back door.

There was a bell which Claire rang. They waited several minutes before  it was answered by a frowning, grey-haired woman, her lips pursed into a  grimace of disapproval as she opened the door.

Mrs Roberts?' Claire began before the other woman could speak. I'm  Claire Richards. I've come to ask if it would be all right for Heather  to come home with us and stay for tea.'

The frown relaxed slightly. I suppose it will be all right,' she agreed  grudgingly, summing up Claire's appearance. Her faded jeans and  well-worn tee-shirt didn't make her look very motherly, Claire thought  wryly. She had been working in their small garden this morning, and she  suspected that some of the dirt still clung to her jeans. Mind you, her  father's expected back this evening, so she mustn't be late.'

Oh no  …  of course not. He'll want her to be here when he gets home.'

Oh, it isn't that,' the housekeeper contradicted with what Claire  thought was an appallingly callous lack of regard for Heather's  feelings. No, he'll be bound to be busy when he gets back and he won't  want to be bothered with her  … ' her head jerked in the direction of  Heather. Course, her mother should have taken her really, but her new  husband didn't want her it seems, so Mr Fraser got lumbered with her.  I've told him more than once that she's too much for me to cope with,  what with the house as well. He should get married again, that's what he  should do. He needs a wife, a man like him. All that money  … ' she  sniffed and glowered at Heather. Still, I suppose it's a case of once  bitten, twice shy. Nuts about that wife of his, he was. Neither of them  had much time for her  … ' Again she jerked her head in Heather's  direction, and Claire, who had been too appalled by her revelations to  silence her before, placed an arm protectively around each child and  stepped back from the door.    

 



 

I'll bring her back after tea. If her father returns before then I live at number five, the New Cottages.'

She was shaking slightly as she bustled the girls away. Both of them  were subdued. Claire glanced briefly at Heather. The little girl's head  was turned away from her, but Claire was sure she could see tears in her  eyes.

Of all the thoughtless, cruel women! And by all accounts Heather's  father was no better. Oh, she could imagine that it was hard for a man  to be left alone to bring up his child, but that did not excuse his  apparent lack of love for her. Mrs Roberts had described him as wealthy,  and certainly Heather's home had borne out that assertion. If that was  the case, why on earth didn't he hire someone who was properly qualified  to look after the child?

They were half way back towards the village when Heather said suddenly  in a wobbly little voice, It isn't true what Mrs Roberts said. My daddy  does love me. She only says that because she doesn't like me. My mummy  didn't love me, though. She left me.'

Claire had absolutely no idea what to say. All she could do was to  squeeze the small hand comfortingly and say bracingly, Well, you and  Lucy are in the same boat, aren't you? You don't have a mummy and she  doesn't have a daddy.'

She had little idea, when she made the comforting remark, of the  repercussions it was to have, and if she had she would have recalled it  instantly. Instead, she saw to her relief that Heather seemed to have  taken comfort from her words, and by the time they had reached the  cottage both little girls were chattering away so enthusiastically that  she couldn't get so much as a single word in.

She let them play in the pretty back garden while she watched from  inside. A bank statement which had arrived that morning lay opened on  the kitchen table, and she frowned as she glanced at it. Her inheritance  meant that she was no longer eligible for state benefits, and her small  income barely stretched to cover their day-to-day living requirements.  Next year she would have rates to pay, and the old stone cottage needed  new window frames; there was also, according to her next-door neighbour,  a problem with the roof. If only she could get a part-time job? But  doing what exactly? She was not trained for anything, and even if she  had been, there were no jobs locally; she would have to travel to Bath.