“Not really. Though definitely not anything to do with figures.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your maths.”
“I know, but I’d hate to be stuck in accountancy or something like that.” I chased around in my brain for something positive to say. I wanted to tell him I’d like to be a writer and that I sometimes write short poems, but I thought it might sound too ambitious. Then I thought I’d go for it anyway. “I’d like to write.”
He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Well then – how about journalism?”
I thought for a few moments, imagining standing outside a court, taking notes in shorthand; or pushing a microphone in the face of a grieving relative. I shook my head. “I don’t think I could intrude into people’s lives.”
He seemed to be thinking for a moment, then he said, “I know what you mean. I don’t think I could do that either.”
We both laughed, and I decided I’d better stand up. Look like I was ready to go home.
He stood up as well. “There’s still time to think.” He smiled. “If you ever want to discuss anything, my door’s always open.”
I’d walked home that afternoon, happier than I’d felt for ages. Me at college? But I didn’t want to say too much to Mum. The trouble is, with my worries over leaving her, I never look much further than the next set of exams.
I pull myself back to the present just as Mr Smith returns.
He hasn’t forgotten who was about to read. “Neil,” he says, “if you’d carry on, please – where Kirsty left off.” I glance sideways at Neil’s sulky profile. I bet his mind was a million miles away from Lord of the Flies. Mr Smith waits a few moments. “Bottom of the page, Neil. Come on.”
Neil says, “Oh, yeah,” and reads painfully slowly until Mr Smith says, “All right, Neil, thank you very much,” and Neil slumps back in his seat.
When I give Mum’s note to Mrs Goodge in the post office, she says, “You’d like me to copy this onto a proper postcard, pet?” I think for a moment, because Mrs Goodge – so small that Kirsty and I call her “The Borrower” – has awkward, very loopy handwriting and shocking grammar. She’s got a thing about labels – they’re everywhere: Sweets for Those with Nut Allergy’s; Photo-copying, Just Ask; Post Office closes 12 Saturday’s; Childrens SAFE felt-tip pen’s.
But it’s kind of her to offer, and I say, “Thank you. Can you copy the words exactly, please.”
She takes two felt pens from behind the till. “Which colour, pet?” She holds out red and brown. I choose brown because it won’t hit folk in the eye like red.
As I leave the shop, I look hungrily at snacks in the chill cabinet and think how good it must be to have no money worries; if you could just choose your favourite sandwiches – tuna mayonnaise, cheese and pickle, free-range egg and cress. I’d have a mound of poached salmon in seeded bread with wild rocket. (Mrs Goodge doesn’t sell that but I saw the idea in a magazine.)
Back home, Toffee’s all over me. First I make a fuss of him, then sort out a pot of tea and peanut butter on toast.
I help Mum upstairs to the loo. While she’s in there, she says, “Did you take my ad to the post office?”
I lean on the door, waiting for her to finish. “Yeah – hope nobody reads it!”
Chapter Eight
Last night I felt like I was coming down with something. Mum says it’s times like this she wishes, more than ever, that she wasn’t sick. “If only I had my health,” she says.
I wonder if I should call Lisa – warn her we might need her.
Lisa? Have I gone mad? At the worst, I’ve only got a bug. We’ll muddle through. Anyway, if I’m not better quickly all I need do is call Kirsty and ask her to get another bag of dog food. I’ve got cash put by. I’m sure to be okay by Friday and we’ve got enough food for ourselves to last till then, at least. It’s Fridays I go to the supermarket and get stocked up. It takes me ages because I look for all the Whoops! labels – pointing out reduced items. It’s time-consuming but you can save money.
I’ve got definite cramps this morning – and some bleeding. So finally my period’s decided to put in an appearance. It’s a relief in a way; proof that my pains before were nothing to worry about.
Though I tell Mum about my period, I don’t make too much of the cramps. They can’t be as bad as her arthritis and she doesn’t need anything else to worry about.
I don’t tell Kirsty, but she spots me wincing. “I hope you’ve not got that stomach bug going round.”
I tell her I’m sure I haven’t and leave it at that.
It’s just a period, no big deal – I don’t need to spell it out.
End of the afternoon, and we’re halfway through a Geography revision session, discussing farming in rural areas. So far Shaun hasn’t said a word. Miss Havers picks on him. “Shaun, isn’t it? Can you tell us the difference between sedentary and nomadic farming?”
Shaun says, “Yes,” and Miss Havers waits for him to go on. But he doesn’t.
She gives a big sigh and looks across at me. “Amy?”
I’m aware of the question but my cramps suddenly get so bad I ask Miss Havers if I can leave the room. I sense Kirsty looking at me. “Shall I go with her?” she asks Miss Havers.
Miss Havers says, “Thank you, Kirsty, but I think we can be fairly certain Amy can manage on her own.”
I’m halfway to the door when Kirsty says, “But what if she’s got this bug?”
I don’t hear Miss Havers’s reply because I’m out of the door and heading down the corridor. I’m feeling so awful, all I want is to double up on the loo.
It’s quiet, thank goodness. No giggling Year Sevens, skiving in a cubicle. I sit down. Put my head on my knees – or as near as I can. I’m feeling bloated. But that’s okay; I know some girls get like this every month. Until how old? Fifty?
I’ve sat here for about ten minutes. Miraculously, the pain’s going away. I don’t need the spare pad I’ve got rolled up in a hankie in my pocket. In fact, there’s not much more blood than there was earlier on.
I wash my hands and look in the mirror. Normally I’ve got a pinkish sort of complexion – rosy – but today I look pinched and pale. My hair looks a darker brown. It’s curlier than usual because it wants washing. I meant to do it first thing this morning, but with the way I was feeling, it was the last thing on my mind.
When I get back, it’s noisy in the classroom. Miss Havers has left, and everyone’s packing up their stuff, ready to head home.
With my belly settling down, I feel quite euphoric at the absence of cramps. They seem to have gone completely.
By bedtime it’s pouring with rain. I give Mum her sleeping pill, put a glass of water on her bedside table and tuck her in. Toffee curls up on an old quilt at the end of her bed. All of a sudden, thinking of someone reading the card and claiming him, I find it hard not to cry.
Mum mistakes the look on my face. “Still having those cramps?”
“Kind of.”
“They’ll have worn off by tomorrow.” She reaches out for my hand. I sit on the bed and stroke her hair. Her breathing deepens. She’s asleep.
Chapter Nine
I go downstairs to make sure the back door’s bolted. I check the front too. Then I draw back the curtain over the sink – I hate coming down to a dark kitchen in the morning. The rain has stopped and there’s a full moon. Clouds are scudding across the sky. Every now and then the moon disappears.
I head back upstairs. It’s weird; I haven’t drunk more than usual this evening – just a mug of tea, then a couple of glasses of water – but I can’t stop going to the loo.
Now I’m not sharing with Lisa, I love my bedroom. When she was here it was a complete tip. For Mum’s sake I’d be prepared to share again, but I’d rather not. I get into bed and read for a bit, though the trashy romance Kirsty lent me isn’t really my bag. I’ll find something else when I go to the library for Mum. She needs topping up with a fresh pile of thrillers. Gory murders with too many b
odies and too much information. Strange how Mum gets such a kick out of stuff like that.
It’s the pain that wakes me. I rub my belly, trying to soothe it. Wow, where’s this come from? The cramps are worse, much worse. The pain’s excruciating! What if I’ve got a superbug as well as a period? I want to cry out, but no way can I wake Mum. On a scale of ten, the pain is fifteen. Should I try to get out of bed? I try rolling onto my side…it’s fractionally more comfortable. But here it comes again! I pull the pillow over my head. If only I could scream, but I mustn’t, I mustn’t. Instead I bite the pillow. Bite it and bite it. Rub my face from side to side.
If it carries on like this, I could be forced to go into Mum…
…Now though, thank goodness, it’s not quite so bad. In fact, it’s kind of fading away. And it’s gone…
…Even so, I hold my breath: it was so awful I’m half expecting it to come back. I start to relax. Is that it? I take a breath so shallow you could hardly call it a breath…Good. Everything’s calmed down. I roll onto my side, but still I’m not risking anything; I’m dead careful how I breathe… Ah, that’s better… I so need to get some sleep.
It’s like my insides are pulled in tight and I’m awake again. I know I must have slept because I dreamed Toffee could talk. It was so sweet…
Oh, please no – there’s another niggle. More than. God! Nearly too late. I desperately need the loo, and I don’t mean for a wee. Can I get there? I have to – I can’t make a mess in the bed. I lower my feet to the rug. I’m better standing up. I go to the door, lean on it. The harder I lean, the more the pain eases…
No! It’s on me again – this massive urge. I open the bedroom door. With my hands between my legs, I scurry along the landing. I sit on the lavatory seat. Nothing happens and the pain lessens. Perhaps if I sit here long enough it’ll go away altogether. I want to moan, partly with relief. But I can’t because I’m nearer to Mum now than in my own room.
Without warning I need to throw up. I slide off the seat, swivel round and hang my head over the pan. I retch and vomit. Tears stream down my face.
I creep back to my room, crawl into bed and lie as stiff as a board, listening for every creak in the house. I pray Mum didn’t hear me in the loo. The exertion of the pain has wiped me out. So much – it’s left me gasping for breath. I’m practically panting. In fact, if I carry on breathing this way, it feels possible the pain might ease off. Careful of every move I make, I dare to stretch out. I don’t trust my own body. I feel floaty. And so hot I throw off the duvet.
It’s back – the pain. Back with a vengeance, and I don’t care what mess I make in the bed. All I want is to get rid of whatever’s causing this bloody agony. It’s like I don’t recognize this is me. Me and my body pushing hard, again and again, down into the bed. My lungs struggle for the deepest breath I ever took. Which I hang onto…until something slithers – out of me – onto the sheet.
A baby.
I’m paralyzed with shock, and for a moment stop breathing altogether. At first I daren’t touch anything: not the duvet, not my nightie, not my own flesh. My arms lie rigid. I stare at the ceiling, half blind, while a mad drummer beats inside my chest and a slippery warmth squirms between my legs.
My arms loosen, and I move my hands up and down over the baby. It’s a boy. Somehow I grasp his wetness and pull him onto my stomach. He cries a tiny cry. My voice shakes in a whisper: “Oh my God, what are you doing here?”
Chapter Ten
Stunned, I feel something else finding its way out. I don’t have to wonder what this is: it’s the placenta. From Biology I know what it looks like. Liver. With me not even knowing a baby was inside me, this is what’s kept him alive, and it’s still attached to his belly button by the umbilical cord.
In the half-light I reach into my bedside drawer and fumble for my nail scissors. I’ve seen births on TV and know what the cord is like. Ugly. Grey and twisted. I’m glad I can’t see it clearly. But I have to see it better than this, so I turn my bedside light on. The idea of cutting through the cord near his tummy is scary, so I start separating it close to the placenta instead.
Though I’m sure it can’t be hurting him, I keep saying I’m sorry: “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” It takes for ever, and when I’ve finished, I lay the cord across his middle and push the placenta aside. I hope I haven’t done the wrong thing.
We haven’t moved. We’re lying on the bed, while I think what to do. God – what am I going to do? The baby turns his head, nuzzling. He’s so small. Not even a normal doll size. His lips move, but his eyes are mostly shut. I turn off the light because I think if it’s dark he’s less likely to cry and wake Mum.
It’s like my brain aches, trying to work something out. This baby, he can’t stay here. Tears roll down my cheeks. Gradually, it comes to me. There’s only one place I can go.
I prise open the tiny fingers that grip the little finger of my left hand, move him to the safety of the middle of the bed, and tell myself I’m strong enough to stand up.
Careful not to make even the slightest sound, I draw the curtain back. It hits me then – how just a few hours ago, when I closed this old blue curtain, I was still me, with just my GCSEs to worry about and the same old day-to-day stuff. Now I’m another me. Numb, scared witless. With a newborn baby.
I won’t talk to him any more. It’s best if I don’t.
I won’t talk to him. But I know what to do.
In my wardrobe, on the floor at the back in a plastic bag, there’s a cardigan I got at the hospice shop in town. I bought it for Mum’s next birthday. Looks like it’s never been worn. Perhaps someone died, or it didn’t fit or they didn’t suit red. I pull out the soft cardigan and spread it on the duvet. I fish under the bed for the shoebox I keep socks in, tip them out and put the box on the bed. I unfold the cardigan and lay the baby on it. I have to hold his arms and legs down so I can wind the soft red woolly stuff round and round him and the cord. Once I’ve wrapped him up he doesn’t move. For one short moment, when moonlight touches the bed, I think he looks at me. I place him, swaddled up, into the shoebox. My knees feel weak and it’s like I’m looking down on myself, looking at the Amy who’s so keen on packing things neatly. Who parcels things up for Mum when her crooked fingers won’t fold paper.
You read about mothers putting a note in with the baby. Perhaps the baby’s name and a message: Tell him his mum will always love him. Something like that. But I don’t know what I’d call him. I haven’t had long enough to think about it. Or anything else. I don’t even know if I love him. It’s better if I don’t. There’s no point. I tell myself again – don’t talk to him, try not to even look at him.
It’s hard work, getting dressed, and I’m bleeding. I put on some knickers, take a pad from my drawer, pull off the sticky strip. Wobbling, I place the pad between my legs. My jeans feel stiff and it’s painful getting them on. I pull on two sweaters. I feel hot, too hot, but reckon on taking one off if the baby looks like he needs more covering. The beauty of the red cardigan is that no one has ever seen it. Anyway, not on Mum.
Though I think I’ve done everything, I nearly forget the placenta. I know it shouldn’t, but it disgusts me. Scooping it into the plastic bag, I’m shaking like a leaf. I hold the bag like it’s shopping, and slide my other hand under the shoebox on the bed.
On the landing, willing the baby not to cry, I stand stock-still outside Mum’s bedroom. Not a sound. I creep to the top of the stairs. Then he snuffles. Not the baby – Toffee in Mum’s room. He’ll know something’s up. I bend down, put the baby on the floor. Quieter than I would have thought possible, I open Mum’s door a fraction. No sound from her, but Toffee’s nose pushes through the crack. I open it enough to let him onto the landing. I grab one of his ears. He goes still. He understands. Even when he gets the scent of the baby, he controls himself, just sniffs it up and down. He’s more interested in the contents of the plastic bag, and I push him off before grappling with the shoebox again.
Dow
nstairs, when I put the baby on the kitchen table, he lets out a squawk and tries to turn his head. I need to get out of the house fast, but first I have to write a note. I grab a pencil from the jam jar beside the draining board.
Dear Mum, Toffee needs to go out, hope he didn’t wake you. Won’t be long.
Love A XXX
I’m so careful. Every step is a considered move. I have this baby in a box. I must not trip. We leave by the front door, and start off towards the dunes. Toffee goes ahead, looking back every now and then to make sure I’m keeping up.
If the clouds would clear I’d be able to see better. Thank goodness, though, that I know almost every centimetre of this path. Starting down the slope towards the beach, I dig my heels in, steady myself by leaning back. It’s an incoming tide, and all I can hear are waves crashing against Croppers Rock.
We’re on the flat, and here’s where I’ll throw the placenta into the sea. With the baby under my other arm, I give the plastic bag a feeble swing into the surf. In the murk, I watch it disappear. What’s the betting it’ll wash up somewhere further along the coast? Too late, I think how it would have been better if I’d taken it out of the bag.
Stopping for a second on the strip of beach, I push my face into the box. He’s so still and quiet, I’m scared he’s stopped breathing. I begin to wonder if the shock of being born has been too much for him. I grope under the red cardigan to see if I can feel his heart. I can’t, but he gives a little splutter. He’s alive.
Writing in the Sand Page 5
