“Shocking,” he says.
My heart’s still hammering. Has Mrs Smith heard these comments? It doesn’t look like it – she’s still at the back of the shop. Beefy Man steps aside for me. I keep my head right down because I know what I’m going to do, and I also know there’s CCTV in the shop. It’ll have caught me before, when I bought stamps and chose the cereal. That doesn’t matter. It’s now that matters.
At last I’m outside, leaning over Robbie, who’s buffeted by the wind and crying his little heart out under the plastic buggy hood. I don’t risk looking round to see if anyone’s watching. Grabbing the buggy, I let the brake off and start running.
I’m already past the rear end of the Shop-For-Food truck, but the buggy’s wheels have a mind of their own, and I get so close to the road I nearly send both of us careering into the side of a white van. I’m splashed head to foot with spray. With rain hitting my eyeballs, I run until the van – hooting at me – disappears.
I don’t know how my brain keeps ticking over, but it does. It tells me there’s no one nearby. No one’s following me. No one’s staring at me. I spot someone in the chemist, but it’s just the pharmacist reaching up to a shelf. We only have a few shops, and I leave the last one behind – a wool shop that’s closed more often than it’s open.
Water rushes down the road because the drains can’t cope. One’s had its cover forced off. A fountain of water shoots up. It’s like me. Me with my head blown off.
Bumping into a pothole, I’m out of control. The buggy swerves sideways. For a second it’s on one wheel, but I can’t slow down. I daren’t. I’m hanging on for dear life. For Robbie’s life. No way am I letting Gina Smith have him.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Toffee is ecstatic to see me; and to see Robbie – who seems fine after his bouncing ride, and whose bright eyes follow every tail wag. There’s no sign of Lisa. The breakfast table is the same as when I left. And here’s me with a packet of cereal, six second-class stamps and my baby son.
I unclip the see-through hood and lift Robbie out of the buggy. Toffee makes excited noises; he’s discovering he’s mad about this tiny person. Or perhaps he knows it’s the baby he’s seen before. I stand here, brain-dead, like I need winding up but can’t find the key.
Or can I?
Taking a steadying breath, I look into Robbie’s eyes. They lock with mine and it hits me with a glorious soft thud: I’m at home with my baby! Mine, not anyone else’s. I can do this…
…Or I could if I knew where to put him. Somewhere Toffee won’t lick him to bits.
I keep calm. Think for a moment. Of course – the front room. I slip him back in the buggy and wheel him through. When Toffee makes to follow I push him back into the hallway, but he’s not having it and barks non-stop. Robbie stiffens and screams. I look down at the back of the buggy, at a space underneath for shopping. There’s an Asda plastic bag. It’s not just a spare, there’s something in it. I bend down, pull it out. This is almost too lucky – like the last half-hour happened for a reason. Why else would I find a disposable nappy wrapped round a bottle of ready-to-warm formula?
I come to my senses. This isn’t fate. This is Mrs Kelly giving Gina Smith time alone with Robbie. It’s probably all part of the adoption plan.
But where does only one feed and a nappy change leave me? I’ll need stuff, and someone has to get it.
It’s pretty obvious I don’t have an option: she’s not reliable, she’s selfish, she’s lazy – but she’s okay at shopping.
Lisa.
I leave Robbie yelling in the front room, and half fill the kettle. I need to heat up water to stand his bottle in. I turn on the kettle and switch on The Jeremy Kyle Show: I want to drown the manic noise of Robbie crying, just so I can think straight while I get his bottle ready. Waiting for the kettle to boil and shoving Toffee from under my feet, I run in and out of the front room – each time picking Robbie up to give him a quick rock. It must be time for his feed because with every second he’s getting more and more hysterical. Nothing I do – rocking him faster, kissing him – has any effect. Tears spurt from his tight-shut eyes. You’d think all this screaming would tear the skin off his throat. He must know things aren’t right. Does he think I’m not right? No – I was right. I am right. He was desperate out there in his buggy. I had to bring him home.
The kettle boils. I pour water into a mixing bowl and stand the bottle in it. I fetch Robbie and walk round the kitchen with him. I’m frantic, in case the shouting match between the teenage couple on TV – her with hardly any front teeth – will upset him even more. But it’s strange, something in the girl’s voice stops him dead, and he starts watching the screen. All the same, I switch channels to a quiet programme about a family moving to the country, and sit at the table to give him his bottle. I make sure the milk is warm enough, and let him suck. And suck and suck, while his eyes roll sideways towards the TV, like he’s hypnotized by this family moving into a converted chapel.
The whole time he sucks and swallows, I’m more sure than ever I was right. It’s a crazy thing I’ve done, but I had to do it.
I look up. Lisa’s stood in the doorway. Raising a freshly plucked eyebrow, she looks at Robbie. “I’m not imagining it then – I did hear something.”
She picks up the cereal packet, looks at the picture on the front and bangs it down. “I don’t like this stuff.”
I force a smile. “If you hang on, I’ll make some toast.” She pulls two slices of brown bread from the wrapper. “I’ll do it,” she says. Gives me a look: “Seems like you’re a bit busy.” She struggles with our awkward grill pan. “I hate brown bread.”
She’s determined not to actually look surprised. On and off she stares at me, waiting for the bread to toast. She turns it over, then gazes out of the window until it smells burnt. She fishes it out, blows on her fingers and flips a piece onto a plate. She nods at Robbie. “You’ll give it indigestion.”
“No I won’t.”
“You bloody will, you’re shaking like a jelly. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
Robbie burps. Casually, she looks more closely at him. “Anyway, whose is it?”
I don’t answer, and she gets out the margarine. For a moment or two it seems she might not ask again.
She makes a mess spreading jam on her toast. “Does it have a name?”
I pretend I haven’t heard; make it look like I’m too occupied checking the bottle to see how much Robbie’s drunk.
She licks jam off her thumb. “This is well weird, Amy. I come down for something to eat; you’re giving some baby its flippin’ bottle – and you’re not even bothered what it’s called.”
Suddenly I’m crying. “…Lisa…help me.”
She stops, the toast halfway to her mouth. “Help you?”
My nose is running and I give a big sniff. “I need you, Lisa.”
“God, you look revolting. I’ll make you a brew.”
While she turns on the tap, I try to work out what I most need from her. “Promise you won’t lose your rag?” I watch her fill the kettle. “All I want is for you not to say anything.”
“About what?” She nods at Robbie. “Like I need ask. Anyway, who’s wanting to know?”
“Everyone will want to know.” I tug on the bottle to stop Robbie swallowing air. “I…” I search for the words and come out with the truth: “I snatched him.”
She stares at me, her mouth open. “You what? Have you gone completely off your trolley?”
“I didn’t have time to think. It was something I had to do.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“So nobody knows it’s here,” she pauses, “except me.” I can practically hear the cogs grinding. She fumbles for tea bags. Drops one on the floor. Finally she gets one in each mug. She half turns. “I don’t have to stay, you know.”
“Lisa – you’ve got to. You’re going to have to visit Mum instead of me.” Her eye
s avoid mine. “Lisa, look at me – please. You have to stay…” My voice breaks: “If you don’t, how can I look after the baby?”
She shrugs. “I can’t see the problem – seeing as it’s not yours to look after.” She chews the inside of her cheek. “Anyway, what is it – boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“Are you ill or something?”
“No.”
“There must be something wrong. Nobody snatches a kid for nothing.”
“This isn’t nothing. This baby…” I desperately want to tell her the truth. “Lisa—”
She cuts me off and reaches for one of the mugs. “Here – drink your tea,” she says and pushes it towards me. She takes a gulp from her own mug. “Okay, so you need me here.”
Does this mean she’ll stay?
She says, “I’m not promising anything definite.”
“Stay until I’ve got things sorted.” (Until I’m certain Gina Smith can’t ever be Robbie’s mother.)
She fixes me with a stare. “I’ll want to know a few things. You needn’t think you can keep me in the dark while I run your errands—”
I stop her. “I’m not expecting that!” I pick up my purse from the table. “But right now this is urgent – can you go into town, please? Get nappies and formula.” I glance at the bag of dog food and decide we’ve got enough to be going on with.
“How will I know what to get?”
I look at the spare nappy, at the number giving its size – one up from when I last changed Robbie. He’s growing so fast! I know what formula Mrs Kelly uses and tell Lisa I’ll write it down for her.
She shuts the front door behind her. The phone rings. I worry Robbie will cry, but he’s falling asleep, satisfied after his feed. Before I pick it up, I let it ring another couple of times. “Hello?”
It’s Kirsty. “Amy. Something terrible—”
“What?”
“It’s little Robbie – someone’s taken him.”
Careful. “How d’you mean, taken him?”
“Last week Mum arranged for Mrs Smith to take Robbie to the shops today. And what does the idiot do this morning? Leaves the poor little thing outside for someone to run off with! Mum’s beside herself. Well, everyone is.”
“Mrs Smith left him outside?”
“She’s mad.”
“God, Kirsty, this is awful.” And then I say – because Mr Beecroft is bound to describe me, and anyway I’ll be on CCTV – “I was in the post office first thing.”
“Did you see anything?”
I’m wobbling, feeling for the chair behind me. What the hell have I done? I’m the mad one – they’ll never let me see Robbie again. “No, nothing.”
“The police are here – trying to get some sense out of Mrs Smith.”
I hear talking in the background and she says, “Sorry, Amy, I’ll have to go—” And her phone goes down.
I picture the scene at the Kellys’. The police wanting a description of Robbie. Everyone sick with worry. Mrs Smith a gibbering wreck. Thank God she didn’t see me.
I want to change Robbie’s nappy, but it would wake him. I wish I’d remembered to ask Lisa to get baby wipes.
Toffee is keeping me sane. I talk to him all the time. Forcing the words aloud – even softly – is like a pain around my heart. I tell him how awful the Kellys must be feeling. And Mr Smith. He’ll have heard by now, and be feeling terrible for Mrs Smith. I don’t like to think of him suffering again. He’s had enough sadness.
Lisa’s made record time. She’s back with the nappies and formula. Another thing I forgot is something to sterilize the bottle. The one bottle. From now on, I’ll boil it.
It’s like she’s enjoying the drama. “Buying all this stuff – I’m dead sure they were onto me in Boots.”
“Don’t be daft, how could they be?”
“Bad news travels fast. Everybody’s talking in town.” She takes a deep breath, hangs onto my quick glance. We’re eye to eye. “This baby’s the one they found in the shoebox. This is Robbie, isn’t it? The one on the Kellys’ doorstep.” She narrows her eyes. “But you knew that, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
How can I feel physically sick and sound almost normal at the same time? “I’m sorry, Lisa, I wasn’t ready.”
“Wow,” she says, “we gotta watch the local news. It’s bound to be on.” She’s bought a bottle of cider and pours us both a glass. I don’t usually drink but I can do with something right now. Lisa says, “How did you nick him without anyone noticing?”
I drink some of the cider. “I don’t know. It was easy.”
“And no one saw you?”
“I had my hood down. There were some lads outside. It could’ve been one of them.”
She shakes her head, like she thinks I’m dead thick. I say, “Lisa – Robbie’d been left outside in the pouring rain. I acted instinctively!”
“If you were that worried about him getting wet, why didn’t you take him back to the Kellys’? Why bring him here?”
I don’t answer.
“Why here, Amy, and not the Kellys’?”
I drink quite a lot of the cider. “There’s this woman who wants to adopt him. She put him outside the shop. She’s not fit to be a mother. I can’t let her have Robbie.”
Lisa pretends to look thoughtful. “And you reckon,” she says, “if she doesn’t see him for a bit, she’ll go off the idea.”
She’s putting me through it. I look helplessly at her. “I don’t know.”
She drains her glass and pours herself some more. She raises the glass. “Okay – I’ll help you.”
She digs deeper. Why did I bring Robbie here? When I tell her more – how Mrs Smith wants to let Mr Smith’s mother die – she can’t see the connection. “Amy,” she says, “you’ve got to stop spending your life worrying about other folk. Start thinking about Number One for a change.”
“That’s what I am doing.”
“No, you’re not.” She pauses. “Plus, you’re sticking your nose in where it’s got nothing to do with you.”
“It’s got everything to do with me!”
“Like what?”
I hesitate. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Too right I wouldn’t.” She sighs heavily, like she’s doing some serious thinking. “Let’s look at this one more time,” she says, “before you come to your senses and give the kid back to Mrs Kelly.”
“I’ve done it now, Lisa. I abducted him.”
“No you didn’t, you took pity on him because he was out in a storm.”
“It wasn’t exactly a storm.”
“Near enough,” she says, “and afterwards – realizing what you’d done, you just…” She trails off.
“Panicked and forgot to give him back?”
“Yeah, exactly!” she says. “Look – you did what you thought was right, and now you’re in shock.” She scratches her head. “Whatever happens, you’ll only get a caution.”
“I can’t let Robbie go.”
She takes a swig of cider. “For God’s sake, you sound like a bloody song!” She leans over and prods Robbie. “Anyway, what’s the kid to you?”
I pull him closer. “He’s mine.”
She starts using exaggerated, measured words. “You…mean…because you’re keeping this baby out of Cruella de Vil’s clutches…you’re starting to believe he’s yours to keep.” She sniggers. “Like, a baby is for life – not just for Christmas.”
I take a slow breath. “He’s mine, Lisa. I gave birth to him. In my room, in my bed. On June the third.”
“You what…?”
“You heard me, Lisa.”
“But you…” She dries up like she’s forgotten how to speak. A muscle twitches in her jaw. She’s not sniggering now. Her mouth opens like a fish. It’s as if she wants to carry on, but invisible bubbles come out instead of words.
We’re silent. I look out of the window. Two seagulls surf the wind.
She sits down, looks at me like I’m
bound to say something if she waits. But my mouth’s as dry as dust.
Eventually she finds her voice. “…And you never said anything to Mum?”
“No.”
She starts burbling, wants to know everything. When did I realize I was pregnant? When I tell her I didn’t know, she pretends to explode with disbelief: how can anyone be that simple?
She wants every detail, again and again – until I remind her about afternoon visiting; she’ll have to take Mum’s stamps.
I can’t eat anything, but Lisa washes down a bowl of cereal with the last of the cider. I worry about her breathing cider over the nurses, tell her to suck mints from the hospital shop before she goes up to the ward. She can tell Mum I’m not well. Nothing serious; a bug or something.
I make her swear she won’t say a word to Mum about Robbie. I promise her she’s the only one who knows.
“They’ll all know what happened,” she says. “The whole friggin’ hospital.”
Desperation grips me. “But they don’t know Robbie is my baby. And they won’t, unless you shoot your mouth off.”
She says, “Okay, keep your wool on,” and runs her tongue round her lips. “Does the father know?”
“No.”
She says, “Who was it?” I shrug and she says, “Like I can’t guess. That soft kid, Liam.”
Okay, so she knows. But I’m not ready to say his name out loud.
Chapter Thirty
Lisa’s back. Mum has heard about Robbie and she’s deeply upset. Who could do such a terrible thing? Guilt piles up on me. How could I do such a terrible thing? How could I, in the heat of the moment, without stopping to think, do something that’s causing so many people such pain?
Lisa says, “Mum sends her love – says she knows how you must be feeling about Robbie.”
I feel awful all over again. “Poor Mum.”
“Poor Mum nothing, she’s coming home soon.”
“Oh – what a relief!”
“Yeah – well, she can’t stay there for ever.”
Then it all hits me. Robbie and me. Me and Mum. Mum, me and Robbie. It’s like I’m up against a stone wall with Gina Smith sat on top, laughing. If only she’d climb down and walk out of our lives and… And what? That’s the trouble: I don’t know.
Writing in the Sand Page 15
