Writing in the Sand

by Helen Brandom

  “Thank you.” Mrs Hart is Pastoral Care, but I’ve never imagined opening up to her.

  He stands up slowly.

  “Look, I’m sorry not to have more time. I’m due in a meeting,” he says.

  I get up too. “I’m sorry – that I’m so pathetic.”

  “Amy, that’s the last thing you are.” He ushers me to the door, and for a moment I feel his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be hard for you if Toffee’s owner comes along, but you will get over it. I promise you.” He pauses. “Where should you be next?”

  “Revision – Geography. The exam’s this afternoon.”

  He smiles. “Good luck.”

  After break we’re back in revision with Mrs Grant.

  Kirsty passes me a note. He’s asked me out.

  I write back: Who? She writes: Who do you think? I write: Dunno, I’m not a mind reader. She writes: HE is Jordan Mantle!

  Mrs Grant gets wind of what we’re up to and comes marching over to us. Kirsty doesn’t hide the note quickly enough. Mrs Grant reads it with deep scorn, screws it up and says, “May I remind you this is your final revision session. Make the most of it.”

  Everyone turns to look at us, while I concentrate on a giant bluebottle on the ceiling and Kirsty works at controlling what could be a fit of the giggles. I follow the fly with my eyes. When it zooms towards the window I think how Toffee would make a futile leap at it. Already the thought of life without him is like a knife in my heart. Tears spring to my eyes, and I can’t stop them trickling out. What’s the matter with me? I never used to be like this.

  Back at her desk, Mrs Grant looks my way. “Amy – for heaven’s sake.”

  It’s not too bad, the Geography exam… Just as well, the way my mind keeps switching backwards and forwards between the questions and what might turn out to be Toffee’s fate. I finish, put my pen down and look across the hall. Kirsty’s already sitting back, her arms crossed. I won’t get an A but I should be all right.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Grinning, Kirtsy comes up to me after the exam. “How did it go?”

  “Okay.”

  “Only okay? I thought it was pretty good.”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  We walk to the school gates. “See you in a bit!” she says.

  This is how I imagine stage fright. I’ve stood in the wings for days, waiting to make my entrance. I’m not great at acting, but I give her a cheery wave and start walking home.

  I change out of my school things. Mum eyes me up and down. “You look very nice,” she says. “Have a lovely time… Now listen, you’re not to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  I won’t be able not to worry about her. She won’t have a proper tea till I get back…though I admit she didn’t manage too badly when I was feverish after Robbie.

  I say the sort of thing she’s expecting me to say: “I can’t wait to see the baby. Kirsty swears you can almost watch him grow… And everyone says he’s amazingly responsive.”

  Mum says, “Sounds like he had bright parents.” She pauses. “Whoever they were.”

  I nod a couple of times. “Yeah… Well, I’d best be off.”

  Kirsty’s waiting for me at her front gate. She leads the way up the path, and my heart beats faster. With Robbie away in hospital, I was never this nervous. Right now, I’m petrified.

  Kirsty pushes the door open and I go into the hallway ahead of her. My heart thuds at the sound of a baby crying. Is it Robbie?

  It must be him. The other little kids staying here, three of them, aren’t babies. My mind skates from one thing to another – anything to help push back the rising panic I feel at the thought of coming face-to-face with my child.

  Kirsty cocks an ear. She grins at me. “Sounds like they’re in the living room.”

  There’s a little choky sound, and after that the crying turns to hiccups. We follow the sound and find Mrs Kelly hoisting a very small baby onto her shoulder and patting its back. “Hello, Amy, love.” She turns the baby round. His mouth puckers, then relaxes. She says, “Meet Robbie, our little star.” She kisses the back of his head. “You are, aren’t you?” she says. “A real little star!”

  Kirsty laughs. “As you can see, Mum’s besotted with him.”

  Her mum kisses Robbie’s head again. “Who wouldn’t be?”

  I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m trying to relate him to the red-wrapped scrap I carried along the beach in a shoebox. Though he’s still very small, my baby is now a real little person. I smile. Which is an effort, because my skin’s tightening like I’m turning into a waxwork. I will the smile to reach my eyes, and crinkle them up. “Oh, isn’t he gorgeous!” At the sound of my voice, he fixes his attention on me. His eyes are the brightest blue.

  I need to say something else. “Incredible eyes!”

  “Like forget-me-nots,” says Mrs Kelly. “They might stay blue, but you never can tell.” She strokes his sparse covering of flaxen hair. “He could go darker, of course, but on the other hand he might always be fair.” She shifts him into a half-cradling position and looks into his round pink face. “Trouble is, we’ve nothing to go on.” She gives him a little tickle. “We don’t know what his mummy and daddy look like.” She tickles him again. “We don’t, do we?”

  Me – dark curly hair, greenish eyes. Liam – light brown hair and blue eyes.

  I smile at Robbie. Though he’s still a tiny little person, I’ve changed. I’m not the same Amy I was before he was born, and that evening with Liam feels like a lifetime away.

  Kirsty sniffs the air. “Lush smell, Mum.”

  “Oh my giddy aunt – buns!” Mrs Kelly puts Robbie into Kirsty’s outstretched arms, then runs towards the kitchen.

  Kirsty lowers herself onto the sofa, and I sit beside her. She wipes a bubble of dribble from Robbie’s chin with her fingertip. She smiles. “Would you like to hold him?”

  It was inevitable, this moment. It’s the moment I knew was coming, yet I’m still unprepared for it. “Go on,” she says, “have a cuddle. He won’t bite ­– he’s all gums.”

  I know I must. I edge closer to Kirsty and she lifts him sideways into my arms. I sit stiffly, trying to ease him into a position he’ll be happy with. “Don’t worry,” she says, “he’s tougher than you think. You can’t break him – not unless you try really hard.” I push back into the cushion behind me. His head rolls slightly, and I feel the weight of it through my sweatshirt. Kirsty says, “Being premature, he’s small for his age – still a bit wobbly.” She gives him a big smile. “Never mind, he’ll soon make up for lost time.” She looks serious for a moment. “Mum’s incredibly fond of this little guy.”

  I say, “That’s nice,” and, looking at him in my arms, I’m so glad that Mrs Kelly is really fond of him.

  “I think it’s because he came here as a newborn. She was at the hospital every minute she could spare – usually evenings when Dad got back from work.”

  “That often?”

  “Yeah – one set of parents in the Prem Unit thought she was Robbie’s mum!”

  For a few seconds we don’t talk, then she looks at her watch. “What d’you make the time?” But I can’t see my watch, not without disturbing Robbie. She says, “I think mine might be slow.” She’s hugging her knees, but moves an elbow to nudge me. She says quietly, “I’m half expecting Jordan to come round.”

  I take my eyes off Robbie for a second. “You didn’t say anything. I thought it was just me.”

  “I wasn’t sure till I got his text.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really? And there’s me thinking you were only half expecting him.”

  She says, “Sorry – you don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  Actually I’m glad. It might stop me imagining that Robbie and I are the centre of attention.

  I try to look relaxed, but when I lean forward my hair flops onto Robbie’s head.

  Kirsty scoops it back. “You could do with a trim.”

  “I have
n’t had the time.” I don’t add, or the money.

  She says, “Did you notice Mum’s hair? Shaun cut it. You ought to let him cut yours. He adores doing hair.”

  Mrs Kelly’s hair had been the last thing on my mind, but I pretend I’d noticed. I’m not sure about Kirsty’s suggestion. What with Shaun seeming keen – and the flowers on the doorstep – letting him loose on my hair might be risky. He could start getting the wrong idea. I make sure I look interested, but not in Shaun. Not that way. “How does he know how to cut hair?”

  She laughs. “He cut his own fringe when he was four. Apparently it gave him a taste for it, and he’s been doing it ever since.” She giggles. “I don’t mean his own fringe.” She pauses. “No – actually he taught himself. Looking at videos online.”

  There’s activity and noisy chatter coming from the kitchen – kids and grown-ups. Mr Kelly is home, giving Kirsty’s mum a hand with the tea.

  I sit here on the sofa, holding my baby. In the odd state I’m in – where everything, including this child, is alien – the swirly-leaf pattern on the carpet feels like the only piece of reality.

  Kirsty says that when the young ones have finished eating, they’ll watch a bit of kids’ telly while we have our tea. For the first time, I register the toys scattered around.

  Robbie holds my little finger, the finger he held so tightly the night he was born. Today I leave it where it is.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The kids tumble in and plonk themselves in front of the telly. Kirsty takes Robbie from me and we go through to the kitchen. Mrs Kelly has made a fish pie. There are vegetables to go with it. Shaun’s already here. He moves his chair. Is this because he wants to sit next to me? He gives me one of his strange stares. Mr Kelly sorts us out, deciding where we’ll sit – me between him and Kirsty – while Mrs Kelly sits with Robbie in her arms, a bottle of formula on the table in front of her. The teat of the bottle barely touches Robbie’s lips before his eager mouth fastens onto it. He sucks noisily, gazing into space. I wonder what he sees. Kirsty doles out the fish pie, and we help ourselves to vegetables.

  Mr Kelly pops into the front room to check the younger ones are behaving.

  Shaun takes two heaped tablespoons of carrots, then eyes me across a portion of peas large enough for three people. “Has that man been in touch about Toffee?” His words hit their target like bullets. I know he doesn’t mean to sound the way he does. It’s obviously not his fault he finds it hard to smile – and comes out with stuff that’s the last thing you want to hear. I shake my head.

  Robbie, full of milk, is falling asleep. Mrs Kelly eases him into a carry-seat beside her chair. “Ah, well,” she says, “no news is good news.” Straightening up, she leans over to touch my hand.

  Back from the front room, and sitting down again, Mr Kelly says, “All quiet on the Western Front.”

  Kirsty turns to me. “He’s a got a saying for everything, my dad.”

  Just as we’re finishing our apple tart and custard, I get an itch behind my ear. I give it a discreet scratch, but a wayward strand of hair (all my hair is wayward) escapes and flicks across my spoonful of custard. I’m trying to separate a ringlet from the custard when Kirsty laughs.

  “See, I told you you need a haircut. Shaun could do it after tea, couldn’t you, Shaun?”

  Mrs Kelly pretends she hasn’t noticed the trouble I’m having. Head on one side, in a model pose, she pats her shiny bob. “Shaun cut mine. What d’you think of the new me?”

  I nod enthusiastically. “It looks great. Really great.”

  Shaun says, “So I’ll cut yours, Amy. Right?”

  Mr Kelly seems surprisingly keen on the idea. “I’ll set up the salon, shall I?” He takes his own chair into the utility room at the back of the kitchen, and calls, “Are those hairdressing scissors still in the drawer, Susie?”

  “Right-hand side at the front! And take a clean tea towel from the bottom drawer.” She looks at me. “Just to keep the worst of the hair off that nice top.”

  Shaun laughs. Explosively.

  Kirsty says, “What’s so funny?”

  “The worst of the hair? Amy’s not got any worst. It’s simply the best!”

  Mrs Kelly says, “You’re absolutely right, Shaun. It’s hair to die for… No pun intended.”

  Shaun frowns deeply, and Mrs Kelly says, “I wasn’t meaning you’d want to dye it.”

  Serious, he says, “No self-respecting colourist would want to dye Amy’s hair.”

  Shaun waits patiently for me in the utility room while Kirsty helps her mum clear the table. Robbie sleeps, oblivious to everything.

  I make a face at Kirsty, pull my hair back. “What d’you think?”

  “Live dangerously,” she says.

  Her mum nods vigorously. “He’s really good – though you must tell him what you want.”

  “I don’t know what I want.”

  Kirsty grins. “Just tell him you don’t want it getting in the custard.”

  I have to admit I’m nervous, sitting here while Shaun drapes a Robin Hood’s Bay tea towel round my shoulders. “How would you like it?” he says.

  I try to play it safe. “Take off about five centimetres?”

  “How about ten?” He reaches for a bottle that looks like it could be used for weedkiller. “I’ll dampen it first,” he says.

  I say, “Okay,” and he moves around my head, squirting the spray until my hair’s quite wet.

  There’s no mirror in here, but I can feel him starting to twist and separate my hair into bunches. “It’s great hair,” he says, “in really good condition.” For a long moment he steps back, then walks round, looking at me from all angles. Now he starts cutting, and I’m no longer scared of what he’s decided to do.

  We’re silent – must be for about ten minutes – then, waving his scissors, he points out my curls piling up on the floor. Which, from where I’m sat, are starting to form the shape of a poodle fast asleep. He says, “Would you like to save some?”

  “What would I do with it?”

  “Stuff a cushion?” he says. And I don’t think he’s joking.

  Kirsty looks in. “It’s looking good, Amy. Ve-ry good.” The doorbell rings. I haven’t asked any more about Jordan and wonder if this might be him. I look at Kirsty, who’s making out she couldn’t care less who’s at the door.

  Her mum calls out, “I’ll get it!”

  There are voices in the hallway, then Mrs Kelly comes in. She gazes at me. “Wow! That’s starting to look terrific.” She turns to Kirsty. “There’s someone to see you.”

  Kirsty blushes. “Me?”

  Her mum says, “Now then…did he say Gordon?”

  Kirsty takes a breath. “You mean Jordan?”

  “Oh, that was it, was it?”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the living room.”

  Kirsty looks furious. “What! Not with those kids?”

  “Yes, with the kids.” She glances at me, like I’ll share the fun of winding Kirsty up. “Last seen, he was playing with Lego.”

  Kirsty dashes off. She can’t get there quickly enough. You can understand how she must be feeling: someone you’re dead keen on arrives, and your mum gets him stuck into Lego with a bunch of three-year-olds.

  Alone again, we’re quiet. I don’t dare have a feel of my hair, not while he’s still snipping away. How much shorter will ten centimetres look? “Is our school okay for you, Shaun?”

  He stops mid-snip. “S’all right, no worse than most.”

  “Mr Smith’s great.”

  “Yeah, he’s okay.”

  “We’re lucky to have him. As our form tutor, I mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know you can go to him, if you need to.” Then I add, in case he might not like Mr Smith as much as I do, “Or Mrs Hart. She’s Pastoral Care.”

  “I’m all right.”

  He puts the scissors on the draining board and starts running his fingers over my scalp. I tell myself this i
s what professional hairstylists do, to encourage a good shape. I can feel what his hands are up to and only wish there was a mirror so I could see his face. I move my head, and he takes his hands away. I look up at him. He looks perfectly normal. Normal for Shaun.

  “Have you been to many schools, Shaun?”

  “Quite a lot.” Perhaps I shouldn’t keep digging. But I do. I start cautiously. “Mrs Kelly’s lovely.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Mr Kelly.”

  “Yeah.”

  I ask where he was before he came here, and he reels off places I’ve never heard of. Some of them must be children’s homes. Maybe I’m going a bit far, but I ask him about his family. Like, is he in touch? He picks up a pair of clippers I’d not noticed. When he clips near the back of my neck, I start worrying I might end up looking like a hedge. He says, “I haven’t got a real family…not that I know of. No brothers or sisters. Not like you.”

  “Like me?” I look into my lap while he very gently smooths the clippers from side to side. “Oh, you must mean Lisa… She’s not really around that much. I mean,” I hesitate, “she’s at work during the day.” I change the subject quickly. “Did you know your mother?” This is what I most want to know, but said like that it sounded so blunt.

  He’s not offended. “I don’t remember her…” He pauses. “She put me up for adoption.” He brushes hair off my neck. “I’ve seen photographs.”

  “Do you take after her?”

  “Photographs of me, not my mum. They wasted their film, though – no one wanted me.”

  I don’t dare turn my head to look at him. “Why not?”

  “I was that weird-looking. You couldn’t blame anyone for not wanting a kid like me about the place. What would the neighbours think?”

  I wonder if he’s being funny, but decide he’s not. He bounces my hair up with the palms of his hands. Now he’s taken some of the weight out of it, I love the feel. He says, “Later it was foster homes. Lots. But I never fitted in.” He touches my shoulder lightly. “Let it dry au naturel?”

  “Yes, fine.” Then I say, “But you like it here?”

  He says, “Yeah…it’s great.” I can’t tell if he’s smiling.