Writing in the Sand

by Helen Brandom

  Kirsty comes in. “Oh! That’s fab, Shaun. Honest – she’s going to look a million dollars.”

  I look at her delighted face. “Really?”

  “It’s a brilliant cut.”

  I put out a hand to Shaun, but don’t quite touch him. “Thanks, Shaun, I’m really grateful.”

  “Not a problem. Any time.” And we watch him walk out of the little room.

  There’s quite a bit of chat coming from the kitchen. I push my chair back; I want to find a mirror. “Kirsty, where’s the nearest mir—”

  She interrupts, almost in a whisper, “Amy – he’s adorable round Robbie.”

  I pretend I don’t know what she’s on about. “Who?”

  “Jor-dan.”

  I still need to find a mirror, but she nudges me into the kitchen, then through into the living room. It’s not exactly bedlam in here, but almost. Even with Mrs Kelly looking on, the little kids are jumping about, two of them bouncing on the sofa. And, by the window, Jordan makes goo-goo noises at Robbie, who he’s holding in his arms.

  An image swims in front of me: Liam cradling a baby. I scrub it out. My head doesn’t want to make space for these kind of thoughts.

  “Wow – love the hair,” says Jordan, dropping the babytalk. But not for long; he’s got Robbie’s full attention and is making the most of it. “Aren’t you a great little guy?” he says. “They don’t find one like you on the doorstep every day of the week.”

  It makes Mrs Kelly laugh when he says, still in a “did-dums” voice, “Did they put out a note? Thursday. Four pints semi-skimmed, two double cream – and a baby.”

  I say, “It was a Wednesday.”

  Mrs Kelly says, “Goodness, Amy, you’ve got a good memory.”

  Why did I open my big mouth? I lick my dry lips. “I remember because it was when I wasn’t feeling well – and I remember Kirsty calling to tell me about Robbie. I didn’t go into school for a few days… It was a virus or something – I even missed my Maths exam, so I could hardly forget.”

  Mrs Kelly says, “Even so, Amy, I could do with a memory like yours.”

  Kirsty says, “She’s got a phenomenal memory. She writes poems and remembers them all.”

  I manage a laugh, try to look modest. “There are lots of important things I don’t remember. Historical dates and stuff.”

  Mrs Kelly touches my hair. “I told you Shaun was good.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It’s dusk, and cool air wafts across the back of my newly smooth neck. We’re walking along The Promenade, which is a posh name for the paved roadway on top of the sea wall. We means Shaun and me. Mr Kelly insisted Shaun walk me home. Like I haven’t walked it a hundred times before. Now, with the tide coming right up, it’s me fussing about Shaun getting too close to the edge.

  But neither of us plunges into the waves. And as we reach Dune Terrace, a car draws up outside our house.

  I stop dead.

  “What’s wrong?” says Shaun.

  “That car.”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  “Nothing’s the matter with it.”

  He says, “There might be, only it’s getting darker and it’s, like, maybe you wouldn’t notice something wrong.”

  I hiss, “Shaun, shut up…” Then I remember my haircut and feel sorry. He can’t help stating the obvious. “Sorry. It’s just – you know.”

  He says, “I don’t know.”

  “No all right, you don’t know.”

  The car headlights are switched off. The interior light comes on and the driver pushes open his door. Though I can’t see much, I notice him sliding papers into a briefcase, which he locks before bringing it out of the car. He slams the door shut, goes round to the boot, slides the briefcase inside and clicks the remote. He looks at the house for a moment, and makes for our front door.

  Shaun says, “He’s going to yours.”

  “I can see that.”

  Shaun calls out, “Hey!” and I feel embarrassed. The man turns quickly and comes towards us. Shaun says, “Is there anything I can help you with?” Like he works in Currys selling fridge-freezers.

  The man seems pleasant. “Help me? You might be able to.” He’s plump, nearly bald, wearing a smart suit and striped shirt, but no tie. He’s nothing like as tall as Shaun, and has to look up to him. He points to the front door. “Do you two live here?”

  “I do.”

  He eyes me. “Then I think it’s you I need to talk to.”

  My mouth goes dry. It all adds up. The air of authority; removing confidential papers from public view; the decent car – more than a few steps up from Mrs Wickham’s; arriving without warning; wanting to see me. Somehow he knows. Knows about Robbie. In our silences on the way home, I’ve been thinking and thinking about my baby. About his tiny mouth, his wisps of hair, his brilliant blue eyes, the weight of his head, his beating heart, the little hand grasping my finger.

  “Mind if I come in?” says the man.

  Fumbling for my key, I turn to Shaun. “I’m okay now. Thanks for coming.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. The man smiles reassuringly, and Shaun walks away.

  In those few moments, after the man said he needed to talk to me, I’ve made my decision to tell Mum. I hadn’t wanted it to be this soon; it will be terrible for Mum and I’ve no idea what the outcome will be. I can’t imagine I’ll be allowed to look after – to keep – Robbie. Not after I risked his life. Abandoned him on a wet night.

  I open the front door and call out, “Mum!” The man follows me into the kitchen. Mum, shifting in her chair, doesn’t seem surprised to see him. But she’s looking deadly serious. “Mr Jackson?”

  “Call me Ken.” He leans over, about to shake her hand, but she covers it with the left one. Perhaps he notices her twisted fingers. Whatever – he pats Toffee on the head several times. Nodding at Mum, he seems slightly nervous. “Very pleased to meet you,” he says.

  I swallow hard. “Mum, there are things to talk about.”

  “I realize that,” she says, and her sad eyes lock with mine. I’m overwhelmed with guilt. What must she be feeling, knowing how badly I’ve let her down?

  Mr Jackson glances at me. “Me and your mum, we spoke on the phone.”

  Toffee dances a couple of silly circles in front of me, then paws Mr Jackson’s trousers. Mr Jackson bends down, takes Toffee’s head between his hands. “Hi there, fella,” he says, “how’re you doing?”

  My world stands still. This isn’t about Robbie. Mr Jackson is the man Mrs Kelly saw at the post office.

  And Toffee is his dog.

  I find my voice. “You must have come about the card in the post office.”

  “I certainly have. Like I told your mum.”

  The three of us look at each other. I can’t think of anything to say. Mum just looks resigned.

  I pull myself together. “Who’d like a cup of tea?”

  “That’d be nice,” he says, “but first off, where’s this brown dog?”

  There’s a long pause, while I stand with my hand out for the kettle and Mr Jackson looks towards the back door, then towards the door leading to the hallway and front room. Toffee sits back on his haunches and scratches his right ear. I leave the talking to Mum. She frowns.

  “Mr Jackson, you’re looking at him.”

  “This mutt?” The man’s face is a picture. It would be funny if he wasn’t so bitterly disappointed. “You call that brown?”

  “It is a sort of brown,” I say. “That’s why we called him Toffee.” I don’t fill the kettle.

  Mr Jackson feels for the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulls a photo from his wallet. “I brought this with me as proof of ownership,” he says, and hands the photo to Mum.

  “What a beautiful dog,” she says, and passes it to me. The dog is about the same size as Toffee, with a glossy chestnut-brown coat and friendly face. I ask his name.

  “Smartie,” he says. “From a pup
, you could tell he was super-intelligent.”

  I feel awful – him losing his beloved dog. “I hope you find him soon. Is he microchipped?”

  “He certainly is.” He runs his hand over Toffee’s head. “I suggest you check to see if this one is. Or have you done that already?”

  Mum says, “We haven’t, though we ought to of course.”

  “Do that,” says Mr Jackson, “and it’s possible the owner might come forward.” He touches the bare patch on Toffee’s tail. “Though I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

  I say, “We thought he could’ve been dumped. You know, out of a car or something.”

  I’m starting to feel relieved we can’t afford a visit to the vet (until I remember the PDSA is free) when Mr Jackson – putting Smartie’s photo back in his wallet – fishes deeper into it. Taking out three twenty-pound notes, he says, “I seriously doubt he’s been done – I mean microchipped or vaccinated – so have this with my best wishes.” Before Mum or I can say anything, he adds, “And no arguing.”

  I suspect the poor man’s going to lose it if he doesn’t get out of the house fast. I feel the lump in his throat like it’s my own, and follow him to the front door.

  Who would have guessed, fifteen minutes ago, that he’d be shaking my hand? “Take care,” he says, and hurries along our uneven path to his car.

  If Toffee could climb into Mum’s lap, he would. As it is, his head is against her thigh and she’s stroking him under his chin.

  We don’t say anything for a bit. Just look at each other, and at Toffee. We know what the other’s thinking: how wonderful it is that we’re not parting with him.

  Mum says, “We mustn’t look too far into the future.”

  “Try not to.”

  “I did notice straight away,” she says.

  “Notice what?”

  She laughs. “You silly kid! Your hair, of course. It’s absolutely lovely.”

  “Shaun did it.”

  “Really? Well, he’s made a good job of it. He should go into business when he’s old enough.” She grapples with the glass of water beside her, and I realize she’s due her medication. I push two pills out of the blister pack and drop them into her palm. “Thanks, love,” she says and swallows one. Though not easily. Even with all the practice she’s had, she can still get one stuck in her throat.

  “Now then, Amy. Tell me everything.”

  It’s like I’ve switched heads – back to my old one, still aching with its awful secret. I hesitate: “Well…there’s quite a houseful at the moment. There’s—”

  She interrupts. “How about the doorstep baby?” She downs the second pill without too much trouble. “I can’t begin to imagine,” she says, “what the circumstances can have been…for a mother to—”

  “He’s fine, Mum!” I lose eye contact with her, and turn away to wipe the draining board. “He’s fine. A lovely-looking baby. Very, very sweet.” Next I make a little drama out of the kids bouncing on the furniture and Kirsty being horrified about Jordan playing with Lego. Mum laughs. And I giggle. Like it was the funniest thing.

  There’s a mirror on the window sill by the sink, but it’s too small to see my whole head. I go upstairs to the bathroom, turn on the light and look in the mirrored-door of the medicine cabinet. I see the really great haircut, but try not to look too hard at the face it frames.

  I feel so on edge I don’t go downstairs immediately. I go to my room, find a piece of paper and rough out the letter I’ve been thinking about. It takes for ever. But eventually I put down what I want to say:

  Dear Kirsty,

  I won’t blame you if you think I’m cowardly and worthless. I’m the only one to blame. I hardly know where to start, except to say there’s no way of telling this, except the truth. This afternoon, with your family being so kind, I’m finding it twice as hard to tell you what, for Mum’s sake, I’ve had to hide.

  I can’t make this less awful than it is, so I’ll come straight out with it. Robbie is my baby.

  Please believe me when I say I had no idea I was pregnant. You’ll say, how could I not know? Believe me, I didn’t.

  One of the things eating away at me is that I’ve not confided in you. I hope one day I can forgive myself for this, and that you’ll also forgive me. I didn’t tell you, mainly because I didn’t want to put you under pressure. Like worrying about whether to tell your mum she’s caring for my child. Also – to be honest – I’ve been afraid you might never forgive me. That you’ll be ashamed of me. Ashamed for me. For abandoning my baby – though I knew, at the time, that taking him to your mum was the best I could do for him.

  I’ll completely understand if you feel I’ve failed you as a friend. I know we’ve never felt we needed to swap details about every single thing – stuff we want to keep private – but it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve lived a lie in front of you.

  What I have to tell you is that seeing Robbie today was shattering, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep up this pretence. Can you imagine what it’s doing to me? If I didn’t think you might still be there for me, I don’t know what I’d do.

  With all my love,

  Amy.

  I read it through for about the tenth time and look at my watch. Poor Mum, she’ll wonder what I’m doing up here. I fold the letter, stuff it at the back of my drawer and wonder if I’ll ever send it. I wish I believed in miracles. Like I’ll wake up one morning and…

  …And what? Find I don’t have these feelings for Robbie? Find I don’t long to feel the warmth of his little hand clutching my finger, don’t want him to meet my gaze with his blue, blue eyes. I hope they stay blue. They’re wonderful.

  Snap out of it, Amy.

  I run downstairs. Mum’s dozing. Toffee looks up expectantly. I shake a few dried biscuits into his bowl, and take fish fingers from the freezer compartment. I say softly, “Mum?”

  She opens her eyes. “I wondered where you were.”

  I say lightly, “On that other planet?”

  She chuckles. “Situation normal, then.”

  “How many fish fingers?”

  “Two?”

  “You can’t manage three?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  I get busy grilling the fish fingers with a sliced tomato. I butter a slice of brown bread and arrange it all on her favourite plate: our last remaining one with a blue rim. I make it look appetizing by tearing up a lettuce leaf as garnish. I put the tray on her lap, and she smiles. “Thank you, love. It looks delicious.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Luckily there’s no trouble finding a vet. Kirsty looks in Yellow Pages and off we go with Toffee and Mr Jackson’s sixty pounds. I’m relieved Kirsty offered to come. I’d have been uneasy going on my own.

  I don’t tell Mum where I’m going, in case she convinces me of some ethical reason why I shouldn’t go ahead. Like Toffee not strictly belonging to us.

  There are “Lost” notices on the waiting-room wall. Two dogs, a cat and a tortoise. I force myself to read them and look at the photos. Kirsty looks at them too, though casually. I sigh with relief: neither of the dogs looks remotely like Toffee.

  Now it’s our turn to go in, and the vet, Mr Fulwith – sporty-looking and friendly – says, “So who’s this nice chap, then?”

  I tell him he’s called Toffee. “He’s a rescue dog, so we don’t actually know much about him. We’ve no idea how old he is, but I’d like him to have an identity microchip, please.”

  “Right you are,” he says, and types my name and address into his computer. “First – let’s see if he already has one.” He reaches for a gadget on the shelf behind him and runs it over Toffee. I hold my breath. What if he is already microchipped? This could be the end. Just a phone call away from finding his owner.

  But it’s all right. No sign of anything!

  Kirsty says, “Can you tell how old he is?”

  Mr Fulwith takes hold of Toffee’s wolf-like jaws with both hands and examines his
teeth. “Hard to say.” He touches the bald patch on his tail. “Not very old,” he says, “even if he does look as if he’s been through the wars.”

  Kirsty persists. “So what would you guess – about four?”

  Mr Fulwith shakes his head. “Not even that. He’s quite a young dog.”

  I find myself beaming, thinking of all the years ahead. The Toffee years.

  One little click with a small hypodermic needle between Toffee’s shoulder blades, and the microchip with its identity number slips under his skin. The vet tells us there’s a special offer on this week, so Mr Jackson’s sixty pounds pays for the microchip and the vaccination Mr Fulwith says Toffee needs. There’s even a little cash left over, which I can put towards dog food and a proper collar and lead.

  When we’re outside again and on our way home, Kirsty says, “Where did Toffee really come from?”

  “He just turned up.” I eye her. “You knew that.”

  “Yeah, just making sure.”

  “Like I spotted him in someone’s garden and thought, there’s a nice dog – think I’ll nick him, along with a couple of gnomes.”

  Kirsty gives me a punch on the arm. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I punch her in return. “Precisely.”

  We must look like a couple of kids.

  On the way home we stop off at the post office. I really ought to get something as a thank you to Shaun for cutting my hair. I know Mrs Goodge has a shelf of cut-price chocolates. They’re probably past their sell-by date, but Shaun won’t curl up and die.

  Kirsty stays outside with Toffee, and I go inside to look along the shelves for the best bargain. I choose a double-layer box of dark, milk and white chocolates with mixed centres. “Treating Mum?” says Mrs Goodge, and I think: Of course – I must.

  I hesitate. “How long out of date are they?”

  “Hardly at all,” she says. “Less than a week past their best before date.”

  “Great. That’s brilliant.” I hand over a fiver. “I’ll have another box of the same, please.”

  She puts the two boxes in a green and purple paper bag. “They’re a right good buy, are these. It’s not often you can buy two boxes of chocolates and get change from a fiver. When I were a lass there were all sorts you could buy for sixpence, and still get tuppence change.”