Surprisingly, this seemed to have an effect on Melanie. She unwrapped her body like a stiff uncurling fist, and tumbled from the car. Kit, having warned her about the sea breezes, had brought along a spare jacket of her own. She tried to put it around the child’s shoulders. Melanie bellowed, “Get off me.
“Not quite,” Kit said. “Not yet, but don’t try me, honeybunch, I’m bigger than you and if I wallop you round the head you’ll know about it.”
Anna shivered. She had abdicated to Kit now, lost control: she was terrified by the thought of what she had said to Melanie, the ease with which it might seep from that pale inarticulate mouth.
Kit took Melanie by the arm. What a formidable wardress she would be, Anna thought; very strong and very sure, with that hand that sinks into the tender female flesh above the elbow joint. She felt that bruises might blossom out again, on her own flesh. She asked herself, have I something for which I must forgive Kit? Have I forgiven her for living?
They headed off into the town. Kit released her prisoner, and strode out smiling equably. Melanie slouched, sullen and furious, her green-twig arms whipped by the wind. Anna had made a move to pick up the coat, for use when Melanie changed her mind; but Kit, almost imperceptibly, shook her head at her, and Anna let it lie on the front seat of the car.
An hour later they had managed, after a fashion, to get Melanie equipped. They had to apologize for her rudeness to the people in the shops, and received commiserating smiles. “They think she’s my retarded little sister,” Kit whispered.
Melanie at least was willing to carry her own parcels. The day darkened, there was drizzle on the wind; now, while the trippers turned blue and rubbed their hands, the local women leaned into the squall in their quilted jackets and wool scarves. Anna swept her collar up to her throat, and glanced at Melanie’s white arms. Norfolk may teach forethought, in a way London never does.
“Look!” Kit put a hand on her shoulder. “Mum, look at that washing machine!” She arrested her before the electricity showroom. “Sixteen cycles! Just think!”
Anna said, “Yes … but you know, with the twin-tub still going strong—”
“Going strong?” Kit was outraged. She glanced over her shoulder, to ask Melanie—their relationship had flourished in the last half hour—if she’d ever heard of such a thing as a twin-tub washing machine, where you hauled the sodden shirts with tongs and rubber gloves from … but Melanie wasn’t there. Kit spun around. Her long hair flew out in the wind. “Run,” she said. “It’s thirty seconds since I saw her, so how far can she have got?”
They gaped up and down the street. No trace, no sign. “In a shop,” Kit said. “Quick.”
They put their heads into the neighboring shops, gabbling questions, apologies: “Have you seen a young girl, short reddish hair, jeans, pink T-shirt? The queue turning: what, your daughter is she, how old would she be? A woman behind a counter stood with her hand poised, ready to drop Norfolk shortbread into a paper bag. Blank faces. “Sorry, my dears,” the woman said.
“We’re wasting our time. Where would she go?”
“Anywhere,” Kit said. “She doesn’t know her way about, so she’d go anywhere.”
They looked into each other’s faces. “I don’t want to sound like a silly film,” Kit said, “but why don’t you go that way and I’ll go this way? And if you see her, grab her, don’t hesitate, just hold on to her, okay?”
“Where will I meet you?”
“Here,” Kit said. “By the washing machine. Give it ten minutes, then start walking back. I’ll see you in fifteen, twenty. If we don’t find her by that time we may as well give up, she’ll probably have got on a bus and gone somewhere. Has she any money?”
“A fiver,” Anna said.
“Oh, right, a fiver.” Kit pounded off down the street, her head turning from side to side. Anna watched her for a moment and then skittered awkwardly in the opposite direction, high heels uncertain over the paving stones. She hadn’t known it would come to this, or she’d have dressed for it.
A few minutes, and her efforts were over. She leaned against a wall. I can’t run, she thought; never could. Still, she had done what her heart allowed, her ribs heaving and her chest sore, her head swivel-ing from side to side to see if she could catch a glimpse of Melanie’s orange hair. Surely, she thought, if she tries to hitch a lift out of town, no one will give her one? She’s too peculiar, she looks deranged. Unless, perhaps, they take pity on her. For people do, of course. They do the most amazing things; prisoners escape, and people give them lifts, and every runaway gets money and shelter somehow.
Fifteen minutes later, distressed, her lips almost blue, she was back with Kit before the washing machine shop. Kit put her hands on her mother’s shoulders, then under her elbows to hold her upright. “Are you all right? I didn’t say kill yourself.”
“Fine,” Anna said. “I’m fine.” She pulled back and held her midriff, one thin hand folded protectively over the opposite wrist.
“We’ve lost her. I questioned bus queues, in a melodramatic fashion. Ought we to go to the police?”
“No. She’s not done anything wrong.”
“But she might. Or something might happen to her.”
Anna straightened up. Breath was coming back. “Nobody’s obliged to take their holidays with us,” she snapped.
“No, but—”
“Kit, if we get the police involved it is almost sure to land her in some sort of trouble. And what would your father say? She’d never trust us again. We should give her—I don’t know—we should just stand here for a quarter of an hour. She might come back.”
“She won’t be able to find her way back.” Kit rubbed her hands together, to warm them. “Okay, but we should let someone know—I don’t suppose you’ve got Dad’s number in Norwich?”
“No.”
