Writing in the Sand

by Helen Brandom

  About this Book

  “Amy! Wait till you hear this…”

  I hold my breath.

  “What?” I say.

  “Last night someone left a baby on our doorstep.”

  My heart stops.

  This is it, I think. Now what do I do?

  Sixteen-year-old Amy is used to keeping secrets – about her mum’s illness, her irresponsible sister and about Liam, her ex-boyfriend. But Amy has one secret that cannot be kept. Now she has two choices. Does she tell the truth about the abandoned baby, or keep quiet and live a lie…for ever?

  Contents

  About this Book

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Discussion Questions

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Sneak Preview of How to Save a Life

  More Usborne Fiction

  Copyright

  For Corinne

  Chapter One

  It would be easier if I didn’t have to pretend all the time. I can only imagine what it must be like, not worrying about saying the wrong thing. Not having to tell half-truths.

  I don’t need to pretend to be happy. I am happy most of the time. I’ve got my mum, Kirsty’s a brilliant friend, we live by the sea, GCSEs will soon be over, and it’s nearly summertime. What’s not to be happy about?

  What I’d love most, though, would be to feel normal more often. Like now.

  Revising GCSE Geography might sound boring. But to me, sitting in Kirsty’s bedroom sharing her laptop, it’s a good feeling. It’s what I think of as normal – and I take a moment to let it wash over me.

  Kirsty’s fingers move over the keys and the screen fills with diagrams, then explanations on cyclones. But I’ve stopped concentrating. Screwing my eyes up, the flat yellow and blue in the diagram on screen turns into warm sand and blue sea, and though I ought not to – and only for a moment – I let myself run along a beach in Australia with Liam.

  Kirsty says, “Here, this could be important—” She breaks off. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

  “Sorry.” Then I say, “It’s Liam’s birthday.”

  She pushes the laptop away. “Today? I didn’t realize.”

  I sigh. “No reason why you should.”

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “Not like it did.”

  Kirsty’s fingers hover over the keys, and though I can’t honestly think why he’d email on his birthday, I say, “D’you mind?”

  “Mind what?”

  “Seeing if there’s anything for me.”

  “Sure.” The diagrams disappear and she brings up my email login, keying in my password as if it’s her own. We stare at the empty inbox, and she says gently, “Shall we call it a day?”

  I push back my chair and stretch. “Okay.”

  I’m following her downstairs when she says, “You didn’t send him a card, did you?”

  I shrug. “I thought about it. But we made a clean break, so…” I jump down the last two stairs. “You know what it’s like.”

  She gives a short laugh. “I do.” She gives me a quick hug. “It’ll get better, Amy. Honestly.”

  The house is unusually quiet, with no sign of Kirsty’s parents. I glance towards the kitchen. “I thought your mum and dad would be back by now.”

  “They’re duvet-hunting.”

  I laugh, and she says, “Plus other stuff – in the sales. New kids arriving tomorrow.”

  I often wonder how it is for Kirsty, with her mum’s foster kids needing such a lot of attention. Sometimes it’s like the house is bursting at the seams. A complete contrast to my situation. Just me and Mum.

  “How many kids?”

  She looks mock-guilty. “I forgot to ask.”

  I make for the front door. “Oh well, you’ll soon find out.”

  She puts her head on one side. “Can’t you stop for coffee?”

  “Better not, I left a pile of washing-up. Mum’ll wonder where I am.”

  “She knows where you are.”

  “Yeah, but still…I’d better go.” I pull open the door. “Thanks again. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  She grins. “Any time.”

  Chapter Two

  “Amy?” At Mum’s voice – sleepy, from her chair – I’m back in the real world. The frying pan slips from my hand into the water – scummy and going cold.

  Washing-up (whether it’s lunch dishes or messy bits and pieces left over from last night’s tea) is a good time for sorting my head out. Or trying to. This afternoon I’m not doing too well. My mind wanders – again – thinking about Liam and the party he’s probably having on a beach somewhere. He’ll have made friends in Australia. Girls from school, evenly tanned all over. I never met his mum, but obviously she’d be there. For a few moments I’m there too; I’m slim and wearing a green strappy dress (like the one in a shop window he’d said would look good on me). It’s early evening. The sun’s still beautifully warm and the surf is rolling in. I run down to the sea and pretend I’m surprised when he catches me up and puts his arms round me.

  Mum says, “Did you hear something?” and the dream fades.

  I listen. Yes, I can hear it. A whooshing sound coming through the gap at the bottom of the back door, the gap where we stuff newspapers in winter to keep out the draught.

  I look across at Mum. Her hair, dark like mine but straight, is tied back with a black ribbon. She has brown eyes and skin people envy – they say it’s like porcelain. The time I told her this, she said she didn’t fancy being compared to a teapot. Teapot, cup or saucer, she has to accept the fact: she’s beautiful.

  Beautiful but frail. More than anything, I wish for her to get better.

  She’s been dozing, waiting for the painkillers to work their magic. We hear the whooshing noise again. I wring out the dishcloth and stand still, listening hard. Now though, the only sound is rain splashing off the gutter.

  Then there it is again, a definite snuffling. We both look towards the back door. Mum’s face lights up. “If you ask me, that’s a dog.”

  “Shall I have a look?”

  She eases her position in the chair. “Go on then.”

  I open the back door, and it flies in – a tornado on legs. Quite long legs. It’s shaggy and wet.

  It shakes its head. Droplets hit Mum in the face and she laughs – something I wish she did more often.

  Perhaps it’s lost. Mum and I, we must be wondering the same thing because, with difficulty, she leans forw
ard. “Has it got a collar?”

  When I say, “Come here,” it looks at me like we’ve known each other all our lives. It sits down for a second, head cocked to one side, then stands up again and pads over to where I’m waiting. I feel its neck. No collar.

  “I wonder if it’s a stray,” says Mum. “It’s not much to look at.”

  She’s right. It’s fairly ordinary. Shaggy mid-brown fur. A bare patch on its rough tail. Long claws that go click-click on the lino.

  But its eyes… They’re a deep luminous gold.

  When Mum puts out a hand, it rubs the side of its face against her fingers. She scratches behind its ear and you can see how happy it is.

  I stroke the dome of its head. “What d’you think it is? Boy or girl?”

  Mum says, “Have a look.”

  As soon as I kneel down, it rolls over. I take a quick peek. “It’s a boy.” My mind rushes ahead. I’ve already decided he’s a dog nobody wants, and wonder if we can keep him. Not that it would be exactly practical. With Mum the way she is.

  She’s frowning. “I wonder who he belongs to.”

  “Whoever it is, they’ve managed to lose him.”

  “We ought to notify the police,” says Mum.

  When I need to, I can think at the speed of light. Now is one of those times. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we put a card in the post office window?”

  “Saying what exactly?”

  “Something simple, like: Found. Brown dog. Please enquire inside.”

  My reasoning is that if we stick up a card, there won’t be too many folk finding out about him. But if the police are notified, he could go on a database.

  Mum makes sure she fondles both his ears equally. “That’s not a bad idea.” She leans back, and the dog leans forward. He’s making sure Mum can still get at those ears. She frowns. “He’s not what you’d call small. He must cost a bit to feed.”

  I say, “We’d find a way.”

  “Amy – he seems really sweet, but don’t get too keen; we’re not in a position to—” She breaks off as the phone rings. Irrationally, I panic that someone’s already noticed their dog’s gone missing and has maybe spotted it’s turned up at our house. I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

  Mum watches me. I listen to the caller. I’m nodding. Mum looks worried. Although of course the call isn’t about the dog, I make a face at her. Then I say into the phone, “No, it’s half-term – I go back Monday.” The caller asks if she can visit. I can’t tell her no, so I say, “Yes, okay,” and she tells me what time she’ll be here tomorrow. She has a jolly voice: “I’ll expect to see the kettle on!” We say goodbye, and I put the phone down.

  Mum strokes the dog’s head. “The Social?”

  “The new person. Mrs Wickham – eleven tomorrow.”

  Mum sighs. “Sorry, love, it’s going to mean a tidy-up.”

  Don’t I know it. It means starting upstairs and working down. It means I’ll have to make it look like caring for Mum is a walk in the park. It means she’ll have to try her hardest to look less disabled than she is. It means we’ll have to convince this Mrs Wickham that we manage perfectly well. No way can we let her think it looks like Mum ought to be in residential care. No way can it look like I can’t cope.

  I think of everything I’ll have to do, and wish I had more energy. I wish I didn’t keep getting the sudden stomach cramps I’ve had yesterday and today. Which I wouldn’t dream of worrying Mum about.

  My spirits lift at a sudden thought. A dog in the house… This could be a definite advantage. Maybe it would make us look less like “those poor things on Dune Terrace” and more like a family. Which wouldn’t be a problem if my sister still lived at home. Lisa, she’s called. She lives in town with her boyfriend. Or he lives with her. I don’t know which way round, because I’m not sure who pays the rent. Occasionally she turns up, making out she wants to see how Mum’s getting on, though usually it’s actually because she wants something. A bit of a waste of time, because there’s never much to want round here.

  I can’t say I’m bothered whether she comes or not, except for Mum’s sake. But I wish it wasn’t like this. She’s the only sister I’ve got.

  I touch the bare patch on the dog’s tail. He doesn’t mind.

  If you’re in a family, you need a name. Looking at him, I try the question out in my head. Then I say aloud, “What shall we call him?”

  Mum says, “You choose.”

  I stroke his brownish fur. “Toffee?”

  “That’s good,” says Mum. “I really like that.” She looks into his eyes. “Toffee?” she says, and he wags his tail like mad – his way of smiling. If he could smile, he’d be grinning all over his face.

  Chapter Three

  I started cleaning last night. I dusted and wiped and vacuumed until I was ready to drop. I didn’t get it all done, and in the end I did drop – into bed. But not before I looked in on Mum. Visits from the Social get her worked up, and I crossed my fingers she’d sleep through. Asleep – her dark hair spread out like a fan – she’s so lovely.

  Toffee was asleep too, lying beside her bed. I’d tried organizing a makeshift basket for him in the kitchen, but he knew where he wanted to be. With Mum. I’ll swear she got upstairs more easily with him behind her.

  Early evening I’d taken him out. I’d made a collar and lead from one of the belts I used to wear before what Mum calls my puppy-fat stage (which, annoyingly, I seem to be a bit slow in shaking off). Toffee, on the other hand, doesn’t have any spare fat, puppy or otherwise. Once he’d got over rolling around in the soft sand of the dunes, he was quite a good boy, which made me wonder how old he is. But I suppose it doesn’t matter. All I know is he loved every minute.

  I’m up at the crack of dawn this morning, and Toffee’s eyeing the back door. He already knows my belt’s hanging on the hook with our other outdoor things. I take him down to the beach. It’s not cold out, just fresh – and he races along like he’ll never stop. I wonder where he’s from, where he was born – and if our Northumberland stretches of sand are what he’s used to. Or has he never been here before?

  We can’t spend too long because of the imminent visit by the Social. When I yell, “Toffee!” I think at first my voice has been lost in the wind. But he hears me and it makes me laugh, seeing him whirl round and hurtle back towards me.

  Dog food. It’s been at the back of my mind since yesterday, that we’re going to have to budget for it. Why does money have to be such a worry?

  Back home, I feed him a bowl of cornflakes, moistened with a splash of milk. Not as much as he might like, but I’ve got to watch that last half-pint – what with Mrs Wickham wanting the kettle on.

  I fill a white enamel pie dish with water, and walk round the kitchen – which isn’t much of a hike – looking for a natural place for it. Toffee turns in tight circles, waiting for me to put it down. Then he parks himself firmly beside the washing machine – he’s obviously decided where he’d like it. This is a bit of luck because it covers a missing lino tile – going a little way further to making it look like we’re managing nicely, thank you.

  I pop upstairs. Mum’s in her room, doing her hair. I make sure I sound happy and relaxed. But when I say, “Need any help?” her eyes fill up.

  “Mum, don’t worry. Mrs Wickham sounds okay. Very nice. Quite upbeat, really friendly.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What is it then?”

  Worry lines spoil her face. “I don’t know… It’s just… Sometimes it all comes over me.”

  “What does?”

  “Everything – you doing so much for me, when you ought to be concentrating on school.”

  “Mum, me helping at home is what keeps us together.”

  “Amy love, you do so much more than that. Look at you – you run our home. It makes me feel so damned inadequate.”

  “Well it shouldn’t, it’s not—”

  I was going to say it’s not her fault, but she butts in. “You’re th
e one with your life ahead of you. You’re the one who matters. Look at me, I’m bloody useless – just a washed-up, middle-aged—”

  “Stop it, Mum. I hate you talking like this.”

  “You’d be better off without me.”

  I go cold. “Don’t you go saying stuff like this in front of Mrs Wickham.” I take a breath. “Mum, listen. We manage fine. I’m happy. You’re happy – most of the time. I don’t have problems at school.”

  “I know. It’s just…” She trails off.

  “Just what?”

  “Your last report was so good – I can’t bear the thought of holding you back.”

  “Don’t be daft.” I put on my bossy voice: “Now shut up, and let me tie your ribbon.”

  Afterwards I go downstairs, her words running round in my head. I wish she didn’t feel this unnecessary guilt. I hope she’s not getting mad ideas about what’s best for me. Tough love and all that rubbish. If only she could accept that I need her as much as she needs me.

  For a second I wish Lisa would walk through the door. So I could shake her. Till she rattled. Shake some sense into her, make her see she should be here, backing me up. Trouble is, she acts so thick I’d probably be wasting my energy. I don’t think Lisa’s got a clue what it must be like for Mum, always hoping she will come home. Or maybe Mum thinks Lisa had a right to walk out and lead her own life. What if she believes I should do the same thing?

  I get the niggling doubt I’ve had before. What if I’ve got it wrong? What if Mum would be better off without me? Would she get better medical treatment in a care home?

  I get a cloth from under the sink and polish the draining board until my wrist aches.

  Hearing Mum start to come downstairs a while later, I hurry into our tiny hallway to make sure she’s managing. She is, but all the same I wait at the bottom to see she makes it into the kitchen okay.

  When there’s finally a knock at the front door, Mum – dressed in jeans and a green shirt, is sat at the kitchen table. In front of her there are three mugs on a tray cloth embroidered by her gran. The blusher on her cheeks stands out like two boiled sweets, but she looks better than she did half an hour ago. On my way to the front door, I grab her sticks and shove them in the cubbyhole under the stairs. There’s no need to advertise her walking difficulties.