Writing in the Sand

by Helen Brandom

  “This is my wife, Gina,” he says. For a quick moment she smiles at me, but really she’s only got eyes for Robbie. Mr Smith asks how Mum is.

  “She’s coming on all right, thank you.”

  He says, “That’s good. Toffee not with you this afternoon?”

  “He’s in the garden, I say, “helping Mr Kelly with the little ones.”

  Mrs Kelly smiles. “Gina, would you like to finish feeding Robbie?” Gina’s fair skin turns pink, and I notice how the freckles merge. Robbie hangs onto his bottle so tight I almost have to unscrew the teat from his gums. I hand the bottle to Mrs Kelly, then stand up with Robbie. Mrs Smith sits in my chair and I put Robbie in her arms. Still flushed, she crosses her legs, then tries them uncrossed. Mrs Kelly hands her the bottle. When Robbie’s hands reach out like he wants to grab it for himself, Mrs Smith looks up at all of us. “Did you see that? Isn’t he clever?”

  I think of other clever things he’ll do. And it’s suddenly all too much. My mind rushes ahead. Me not there to hear Robbie’s first words, watch him take his first steps. Not there when he runs out of school with a swimming certificate. Not there when he gets ten out of ten for spelling.

  With Mrs Smith’s head bent over him, he sucks away. But she’s holding the bottle awkwardly and he’s sucking air. I don’t think she’s got the experience to notice. Mrs Kelly hasn’t noticed either, unless she just doesn’t want to say anything in front of me.

  She goes to the window. “Amy, love, would you mind popping into the garden? Ask the kids which they’d rather have with their fish fingers – baked beans or spaghetti hoops? Oh – and give Frank a hand for a few minutes.” Frank. Funny that, I mean, I do know he’s called Frank but to me he’s always been Mr Kelly.

  She wasn’t exactly subtle, Kirsty’s mum. It’s obvious they want to talk confidentially. About fostering. Or adoption?

  I wander over to the sandpit. Toffee leaps up, pleased to see me. The two boys and a girl all choose spaghetti hoops. I help with the sand, tipping bucket-loads into the wooden-sided pit. The kids chatter non-stop, showing how bright they are; or they ask questions – which Mr Kelly only answers if they seriously seem to need an explanation.

  Slowly pouring sand and smiling, but with cold fingers clutching somewhere inside me, I wonder what sort of mother Mrs Smith would make for Robbie.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I saw Mum earlier. She’s not too bad, but there’s no definite date for her coming home. The blood tests seem never-ending.

  It’s been dull all day. Nothing like the gorgeous day when Shaun carried Mum down to the sea. I’m watching TV, hardly noticing what’s on. Mum’s constantly on my mind – added to which, I can’t get that image out of my head: Mrs Smith with Robbie in her arms.

  Tears wet my cheeks. I don’t ask Liam to come into my head, but he’s suddenly here. Me without Liam, me without Robbie. Me without Mum is so unbearable I scramble out of my chair, go into the backyard and take deep breaths to release some of the tension.

  Indoors again, I flop down and blow my nose. On the second blow, looking away from the TV, I nearly jump out of my skin! Someone – ginger-haired – is walking past the kitchen window. Toffee barks like a mad thing. It’s a bit of luck, him sounding like something the Dangerous Dogs Act wouldn’t stand for. I lean across the sink, craning my neck to see if I can spot where they’ve gone.

  Now there’s banging on the front door, and my heart’s bursting in my chest. I slip into the hallway. If only we had a spyhole…especially now I’m on my own. Toffee charges ahead of me.

  The voice is raucous. “Amy! I know you’re in there! For God’s sake open this bloody door!” It’s Lisa, and my knees go weak with relief.

  “Hang on!” I push up the latch.

  She’s dyed it ginger – her short, spiky hair. It looks dreadful. She bends down to pick up two of the plastic bags at her feet. Toffee sniffs the third, and I bring it inside. I can’t stop staring at her hair.

  She eyes me like I’m poison. “Don’t look like that.”

  “I’m not looking like anything.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “Honestly, Lisa, I’m not. I’m pleased to see you. It’s just you gave me a shock, skulking about like that.” I lead the way into the kitchen. “Are you stopping?”

  She chooses one of her smiles, the one she uses when she realizes she could have been nicer. “I thought with Mum in hospital you might want a bit of company.”

  It’s enormous, the relief flooding through me. No more lying. Lisa’s really here! I say, “I’d love it if you’d stay.” It’s easy to guess the real reason she’s here. I reach for the kettle. My heartbeat settles down and I give a little laugh. “Darren’s not on his way too, is he?”

  “He’s gone.”

  So I’m right. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she says. “He’s a shit-faced filthy liar.”

  “Oh well, you’re better off without him.”

  “That’s something we can agree on.”

  I make tea for me, and a mug of coffee for Lisa. Since I was nearly caught out by Mrs Wickham I’ve stocked up on instant.

  I ask Lisa how many times she’s been to see Mum. Though really I know. She says she thinks it’s twice. Then again it might be once. I say wouldn’t it be a good idea if she goes tomorrow afternoon and I go in the evening? I’d go as late as possible, which I like because I can help settle Mum down for the night.

  She says, “I’ll think about it…I told you I hate hospitals.” I tell her Mum’s not wild about them either, and – to be fair – she looks guilty for a moment. But then she says do I think the way I forced Mum to paddle caused her collapse. I’m not rising to this. Instead I fill Toffee’s pie dish with fresh water.

  “I can have Mum’s room,” she says, and I say, “Just so long as you leave it really nice for when she comes home.”

  She says, “Then I suppose we’ll have to share again.” She opens a cupboard and makes a face at what’s not in it. “I’ll go to the chippy.”

  “Have you got any money?”

  Surprisingly she has, so she goes out and comes back with fantastic fish and chips and two bottles of Fanta. Our mood takes a turn for the better and she talks like a train, mostly about how horrible Darren is. How he’s double-crossed her and how nobody, but nobody, is ever going to do that to her again.

  I practically have to force Lisa to visit Mum. But she does, which I know will make Mum so happy. When she gets back I ask how Mum seemed. She doesn’t answer at once; just fiddles with her ginger spikes in the tiny kitchen mirror. Eventually she says, “Good, yeah, she’s good. D’you think I suit this colour?”

  “I asked you how Mum is.”

  “The nurse with the big boobs says she’s doing okay.”

  “She’s the Ward Sister. She’s nice – very kind.”

  “Right.”

  Later on this evening, I visit Mum. There’s a sparkle in her eyes. Seeing Lisa has made all the difference.

  Today is brighter than yesterday, and I think it would be a good move to take Lisa across to Kirsty’s. I have to bribe her: if she comes with me I’ll cook tea for the next two days.

  She says, “Do we have to take the tatty mongrel?” I ignore her, and fetch the collar and lead I bought for Toffee last week.

  We could do with washing up before we leave, or at least wiping the crumbs off the table. But in Lisa’s eyes the mess doesn’t matter. Or doesn’t exist.

  With the front door clicking shut behind us, I say, “When we’re at Kirsty’s do not forget you live with me and Mum. You always have done.”

  “Since when?”

  “Li-sa. Since for ever.”

  I’ve reckoned without Shaun. We run into him outside the Kellys’. He doesn’t wait for me to say who Lisa is, just pats her on the head, flicks a ginger spike, and says, “Not good on you, that tone. Too harsh.”

  She backs away. “Who are you, for God’s sake?”

  “Someone who
knows a disaster when they see it.”

  I say quickly, “Lisa, this is Shaun – who lives with the Kellys. You know? Shaun who carried Mum to the beach and—”

  She gives him a look. “So we’ve got you to thank, have we?” She turns to me. “Do we really have to go in?”

  Kirsty opens the door. “Hi!” she says. “And hi, Lisa! Great to see you!” She’s only saying this for my sake. Still, she leads the way indoors.

  I say quietly to Lisa. “Shaun’s got a few problems, but he’s fantastic with hair.”

  She raises an eyebrow at mine. “Is that right?”

  Kirsty says, “Everyone’s in the garden. Come through.”

  Toffee accepts the invitation and races towards the back door. Because I don’t like him rushing up to the little ones, I call, “Toffee! Stay!”

  The same three kids are here. The girl, Sammie, runs up to me. “Amy! Amy!” I tell Lisa to say hello to her. “Hi,” she says, like the kid’s seventeen.

  Kirsty’s mum makes out she’s thrilled to see Lisa. Perhaps she is. I don’t know. I can’t tell what Mr Kelly’s thinking, though he nods pleasantly. “Susie went to see your mum yesterday – says she’s coming along nicely.”

  Lisa says, “Yeah, she’s good.”

  Kirsty brings out a large sponge cake and a tin of biscuits, and Mrs Kelly goes back indoors for mugs of tea and drinks for the children.

  There’s no sign of Robbie. I look back at the house. What if he’s not here? What if the authorities have decided it’s all right for the Smiths to have him on a trial basis or something – and not wait until they’re certain the birth mother won’t turn up. Make certain I won’t turn up and wreck everyone’s plans.

  I say casually to Mrs Kelly, “No Robbie today?”

  “He’s gone down for his sleep. A nap around this time seems to suit him best.” I feel the grin spread across my face. Lisa doesn’t ask who Robbie is. Why would she? She’s not interested in anything much, except the sponge cake. Me, I need to talk about him. I tell Lisa that Robbie’s been here for quite a while. Looking at me like I’m a saddo for mentioning it, she curls her tongue to catch a mouthful of strawberry jam oozing from the sponge.

  Shaun says, “Found on the doorstep. Middle of the night.”

  Lisa licks her jammy lips. “In a shoebox, I suppose.”

  Mrs Kelly raises an eyebrow. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  Lisa says, “Funny how there’s always one handy.”

  Kirsty says, “Actually, most babies – even newborn – wouldn’t fit into a shoebox.”

  It’s time I said something. “Unless it was for very big shoes. Pippa Chislett’s dad takes thirteens.”

  Kirsty hands milk to Sammie and one of the little boys. She says to Lisa, “Robbie was premature. Everyone was dead worried – he was in hospital for a few weeks.”

  Mrs Kelly asks Lisa if she’d like more cake. She says she would, and no one notices when Taylor, the other little boy, sneaks into the sandpit; not until he gets sand in his eye and starts screaming his head off. For the time being, Robbie and the shoebox are forgotten.

  So I don’t get to see Robbie today. It leaves me feeling rather down, makes me realize how much it means to me: having him close, giving him a cuddle. Plus, nowadays, changing him and giving him his bottle.

  We get back home and Lisa turns on the TV. There’s something she likes – a game show where contestants nearly win a huge sum, but usually don’t.

  I snap my fingers. Toffee wags his tail. “Right, Lisa,” I say, “I’m off out.” Then I add, “I told Mum you’d visit soon.”

  “Okay…anyway, this is only a repeat.” To my surprise she stands up and switches off the TV. “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “Nowhere in particular – just out,” I say.

  But there is somewhere in particular. I take the frisbee with me and choose a stick from the dunes on our way. Once on the sand, I let Toffee off the lead. Like Mr Jackson said, it doesn’t look like our “mutt” is going anywhere. I throw the frisbee and stand, watching Toffee tear after it.

  The tide is a fair way out, with the sea looking perfect for the sailing boats rising and falling on the blue-green swell. They could be starting a race, but Croppers Rock blocks my view. I won’t be able to wait and see. I’d have to be here for ages to watch them go behind the rock and come out the other side.

  Toffee is a long way off, just a dot in the distance. Waving my arms, I call him. He knows to come back, and starts careering towards me.

  The sand is just right. I take my stick and draw a large heart pierced with a cupid’s arrow. Under it I write AMY LOVES ROBBIE. Crazy to get back to me, Toffee puts on an extra spurt, nearly reaches me, splays his legs out like a dog in a cartoon and skids to a stop just short of my artwork. “Okay,” I say, “feeling left out?” I write AND TOFFEE. He sniffs it and sits back. It’s like we’re both thinking about it. I hunker down beside him, pull him close. He licks my ear and I laugh: “That tickles!” Pushing myself up, I look at the love heart once more before kicking over the traces.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I can see Mum’s a whole lot better today. Great news – she’s not going to need the gallstone operation after all.

  She’s fed up of being in bed, and sits in a chair as often as possible. She’s reading a thriller Mrs Kelly brought her. Showing me its lurid, fake bloodstained cover, she says, “This is absolutely gripping!” Then, though there’s no one within earshot, she lowers her voice: “If I can’t sleep tonight I’ll be reading it under the bedclothes.”

  “Aren’t you allowed to read whatever you like?”

  She laughs. “Of course you can, but they probably think someone as poorly as me – as I was – shouldn’t be risking nightmares.”

  We start giggling – which makes me feel ridiculously happy. Mum gives a little gulp. “Oh dear, we really must learn to behave.” I’m on the opposite side of the bed from her chair, and walk my fingers across the bedspread.

  “Lucky you’ve got a room to yourself.” I pause for a few moments. “When d’you think they’ll let you come home?”

  Teasing, she says, “Have you got room for me?”

  “Room?”

  “With our Lisa back home?”

  “We’ll share again. It’ll be perfect. The three of us – not worrying about anything.”

  Mum looks serious. “Don’t let her take advantage of you. Make sure she does her own washing.”

  I think of the load I’ve already done. “No problem.”

  “Well – just so long as she does.” She reaches into the locker for her purse. “Can you get me half a dozen second-class stamps, love? I’d like to thank folk for sending me cards.”

  I take the coins. “I’ll get them tomorrow.” I look at the Get Well cards. I’ve seen them before but I look again. There aren’t many – I suppose because we pretty much keep ourselves to ourselves. There’s one from Mr and Mrs Kelly, and a separate one from Kirsty. And one from Shaun! Today there’s a new one that wasn’t here yesterday. Mum says, “Look who it’s from.” I open it. Quite a flowery poem, and a note saying, Good to see you looking so much better. All best wishes from Irene Wickham. Mum says, “Nice of her really.”

  The nurse I think of as the shouty one comes into the room. She beams at Mum. “Hello, my love!” She’s wheeling a machine for testing blood pressure and taking temperatures. She clips something onto Mum’s middle finger and presses a button on the machine. Numbers appear – and change – on a screen. They don’t mean anything to me, though I’d like to know more. I ask the nurse if they’re normal. “They look fine to me!” she says, and puts a thermometer in Mum’s ear for a second. She makes a note of the result, leaves two painkillers on the bedside locker and shouts, “See you later!”

  In the corridor, afternoon visitors are on their way out. It’s time for me to go too. I so hate leaving Mum, even though I know she’s well looked after. Plus she has a good book. If you like that sort of thing.<
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  I lean over her, support myself on the arms of the chair, and kiss her on both cheeks.

  “There’s no need to come again today,” she says.

  I grin. “Don’t you want me to?”

  She says, “That’s not the point. You need a bit of time to yourself.”

  I walk to the door and, after I’ve closed it, take one last look through the glass pane. She blows me a kiss, and I mouth, “See you tomorrow.”

  I start walking towards the Way Out sign, but I’ve only gone a few steps before I stop dead. Mr and Mrs Smith are stood at the nurses’ station. For a moment I think of saying hello. But I don’t, because the Ward Sister – the one with glasses, not the busty one – has on a sad face and is saying something Mr Smith is clearly finding upsetting. He glances briefly at Mrs Smith, who puts her arm around him and, listening to what the sister says, nods several times.

  I slide quietly behind them, but then I look back and catch sight of Mr Smith. He looks devastated.

  Back home Lisa takes one look at me and reckons I’m in a mood. “What’s that face for? Something up with Mum?”

  “Like you’d care.” I know I shouldn’t have said it. Now I’m not the only one in a mood.

  I tell her Mum’s all right, and suggest we go out together: take Toffee for a walk. But she’d rather watch another time-wasting TV show. This one’s about people having their stomachs stapled, so they won’t want to stuff their faces. I thought she didn’t like hospitals, and can’t think why she wants to watch this.

  I only need to raise an eyebrow for Toffee to come running. I don’t bother with a lead. I walk fast, only slowing for a minute when the dunes hold me up. When we’re both down on the sand, I throw the frisbee. Every minute though, with the tide coming in, we’ve less beach to play on. Play? The way I’m feeling at the moment, I don’t count myself as part of Toffee’s happy world. The sky has turned to a purplish violet, painting the last strip of sand an eerie mauve. Even Toffee looks a different colour.

  I can’t get to sleep. I keep seeing Mr Smith’s face. Finally, I drift off, but I wake late with Toffee pawing at my door.