There’s no hint in her voice of me being the cause of what she suffered yesterday, and it’s a second or two before I say, “He’s fine.”
“How many bottles a day is he having?”
I wish I actually knew. “I’m not sure – as many as he needs.”
“I’ve been thinking about how he’s growing out of everything. Vests and babygrows, and so forth…”
“He’s all right, he’s got loads of stuff.” My God, I sound like a sulky kid.
She says kindly, “I don’t suppose your mum knits, does she?”
“Not much.” Mum was never a knitter. Nana Kathleen was. If she was here she’d be knitting day and night.
“I’m knitting him a little waistcoat,” she says. “It’s red, in a blackberry stitch. Very sweet.”
I feel sick. I ask her to stop the car. She slows down. Stops. I get out and lean against the door.
Looking worried, she switches off the engine. “Are you all right, Amy?”
“I’m not too good in cars. I sometimes get sick.”
“Poor you – take a few deep breaths.”
Staring through trees at a wildflower meadow, I tell her I’ll be okay. Then I get back in the car.
“Better?” she says, and lets the handbrake off.
We leave the shady lane behind, and now there’s open country with just a cottage here and there. We pass a church; now we’re into a village – quite small. “Here we are,” says Gina. “Won’t be a tick.” And she gets out to unlatch a gate. She swings it wide open, gets back in the car and parks up in front of a double garage.
She comes round to my door. “Welcome!” she says. “Chez nous!” I think this might be the name of their pretty house with lattice windows. (Rather like Nana Kathleen calling her bungalow Bide-a-While.) But it’s not. The name over the door says Orchard Cottage.
I get out. There’s nothing for it – I have to follow her to the house. She unlocks the front door. “Come in, Amy,” she says, “there’s something I want to show you.”
All this is more than strange. Not telling me why I’m here, and she’s acting odd – like she can’t decide what voice to use. One minute she’s edgy and tense, the next she’s relaxed and happy.
“First though, come into the kitchen and I’ll make some coffee.”
I wait while she fills a kettle. She presses the button, then says, “Come upstairs, Amy.” She smiles. “I’ve been longing to show it off… I’m so glad it’s you.”
She leads the way and I guess, from the number of doors on the landing, there must be three bedrooms. One of the doors is open. She says, “You’ll love this,” and I follow her inside. She waves an arm round the room. “The minute we moved here,” she says, “we knew this was the right room for a nursery. It’s not finished of course.” She hesitates. “We played safe with colours.” She gives a little laugh, looks me in the eye. “We started before we knew the sex of the baby.”
Pots of pastel-coloured paint are stacked up, and rolls of nursery wallpaper lean against a wall. One is partly unwound and I see pictures of Jack and Jill and Little Bo-Peep. I’m not sure who I pity most. Me or Mrs Smith. Does she think this room will make me change my mind?
She smiles. “Don’t you think any baby would be happy in here?”
You’re not talking about any baby. You’re talking about Robbie.
“Have a look,” she says, “there’s a lovely view from the window.” I look out at a lawn, flower beds and, at the end of the garden, a small orchard. Beyond it there’s a wood.
“Come downstairs,” she says, which I think is a bit odd as we haven’t been up here long. Still, perhaps that was all. She’s shown me the room and I have a good idea of how it’ll look when it’s finished.
“We’ll have a cafetiere for two,” she says, and runs down ahead of me. She glances over her shoulder to make sure I’ll follow. She smiles like she’s a bit nervous, and I start coming down. In the kitchen she warms the glass jug and spoons ground coffee into it.
She lowers her voice. “I bought a carrot cake,” she says, as if this is especially significant. She pauses. “Andrew’s simply mad about it, but he won’t begrudge us a couple of slices.” She places pottery mugs ready on a tray, and pours hot water onto the coffee. Next minute, I’m following her back upstairs.
In the nursery, she puts the tray on the floor. “Would you close the door, please, Amy?” I do what she says, and we sit side by side on a roll of blue carpet. There’s a brightly-coloured paper bag beside her. When she feels inside it, a jack-in-the-box jumps out. It’s like one on TV that used to frighten me when I was little. She laughs. “Cute, isn’t it!” she says, and pours me a mug of coffee.
When she starts cutting the carrot cake, the sight of the frosting makes me nauseous and I don’t take the slice she offers me. However I have to do something, and though there’s no sugar on the tray, I start sipping my coffee.
Like she’s read my thoughts, she says, “Oh, sorry! Do you take sugar?”
“It’s okay, thank you. I quite like it without.”
We’re silent for a few moments before she says, “Amy, I know this is difficult for you.”
I want to tell her my mind’s made up – as much as I’m allowed to make it up. But I know she won’t want to listen. She confirms my thoughts: “I’ve asked you here,” she says quietly, “to what would be Robbie’s nursery, to show you what a happy, tranquil start in life he’d have with me and Andrew.” She looks around the room, then at me. “How does this feel?”
The midday sun fills the room, making diamond patterns on the floorboards. I imagine it shining on the nursery-rhyme wallpaper. I can hardly trust myself to speak. It’s all I can do to say, “It’s a really sweet room, Mrs Smith—”
She says, “Please. Call me Gina.”
“It’s lovely.”
Her hand is on my arm. “Amy, I want to make you a solemn promise.” She takes two slow breaths. “Andrew and I would love your little boy for the rest of our lives.”
“Mrs Smith, I—”
Her beautiful eyes are fixed on me. I can’t speak. She says, “Andrew and I – we’d never blame you. Not for anything.”
“I had to—”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to explain.”
I need her to understand. “I took him because I love him!”
She puts an arm around my shoulders, turns me to face her. “Of course you did. That and the love you’ve shown him on your visits to the Kellys’ will stay with him for ever.” Her eyes don’t leave my face. “What better gift could you pass on…” She pauses. “…Before you give him up?”
This is more than I can cope with. Tripping over the jack-in-the-box, I stumble across the room and out onto the landing.
“Amy, love! I didn’t mean to—”
I don’t care what she did or didn’t mean. I’m out of here.
I’m halfway down the stairs, and she’s leaning over the banisters. “Amy—?”
I reach the bottom and try the front door but it won’t open. I turn back and hurry along the hallway into the kitchen.
She’s coming down the stairs. “Amy—”
I’m already on the back step. “I’m sorry – I need to get some air.”
“That’s all right,” she says. “Of course. Have a look round the garden, it’s Andrew’s pride and joy. It’d be fantastic for Robbie. We’d put up a swing, and—”
Cutting her off, banging the kitchen door behind me, I want to run and keep on running, but I don’t want to let her into my head, so I walk steadily across the lawn. I force myself to look at a vegetable patch and two compost heaps. I stop for a moment, take a deep breath of air – full of the scent of grass cuttings – then I walk, quite slowly, through the small orchard. Before I reach the wood at the end, I turn to look at the house. Mrs Smith is standing at the kitchen door. Even from here I can see the tension in her body.
She calls, “Amy! I—” but then I’m into a copse – running, and o
ut of earshot before I hear what else she has to say. I swish through long grass, damp from yesterday. On the edge of the actual wood, the huge trees and ferny ground draw me in. Low-growing branches whip my jeans as I push my way through. I don’t care if it’s cool and sunless; it feels good here – away from Mrs Smith and her promise of Robbie’s perfect future.
There’s a rustle of leaves, but I can’t see any sign of a bird and wonder what small animals live here. I imagine the wood coming alive at night with owls and badgers. The earth smells of walks I had with Liam – one especially, where we climbed a tree and sat hand in hand with our backs against a knobbly trunk. I was wearing a thin blouse, and sore marks showed up on my skin. Which afterwards he kissed. Remembering this blurs my eyes with tears.
I walk a little way along a barely visible narrow track. It’s muddy, as if the sun never reaches it. When it comes to an end I stand still for a moment.
Just as I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been stupid enough to get lost, I hear Mrs Smith calling. Her voice is thin, like it can’t find its way through the trees. “Amy! Where are you, Amy?” I stand stock-still and she stops calling. No way am I letting her take up where she left off; I can’t cope with another word on the subject of my love for Robbie. Or his future with her and Mr Smith.
I push my way forward. The wood is getting darker, like the sun might have gone in. Brambles scratch my hand and I suck at beads of blood I can hardly see. For a few moments, while I don’t move, it’s wonderfully quiet. So peaceful. Until – quite close, though I can’t see her – Mrs Smith calls again. “Amy! We need to talk!” Her voice causes a bird, high up, to squawk in panic and flap wildly in the treetops.
I hear her again, though not what she’s saying. She’s talking in an undertone. Twigs snap underfoot. Footsteps, but not my feet. Now, dammit, I’ve got something in my eye, and the footsteps keep on coming.
I squint with my good eye, and she appears in my line of vision. “Amy!” Holding back waist-high branches and lit by a freak ray of sun, she would look – if it wasn’t for the mobile phone clamped to her ear – like a statue growing out of the greenery. She talks into her phone. “It’s all right, I’ve found her.”
I blink, and my eye clears.
She shakes her head at me. “You had me worried.”
I try to smile. “Sorry. I lost sight of you. I had something in my eye.”
“Let me have a look.”
“It’s okay, it’s gone now.”
“Good, then let’s get you back to the house.”
I’ve got no choice, and follow her back through the wood while she talks excitedly about rabbits and foxes. I traipse after her, hoping she won’t tell me she’s bought Robbie a box set of Beatrix Potter tales.
We sit at the kitchen table, and she tells me she just spoke to Mr Smith. “He’s been to the funeral director’s,” she says.
“I’m sorry. It’s very sad.”
After a moment she says, “His mother had looked forward to grandchildren for years. She would have loved Robbie.”
I think of Mum and how fond she is of Robbie. And how, for his sake, she might be unselfish enough to let another granny take her place. Grief wells up in me, and I feel my face distorted by hot tears. Before I know it Mrs Smith is behind me, her arms falling over my shoulders and her hands turning my head so my nose is pressed into her breast.
She strokes my hair back from my face. “Amy – dear Amy – I promise you faithfully – Andrew and I…” Her arms stiffen and she trails off, listening. My neck hurts, and just as I have difficulty taking another breath, I hear it. A key in the front door.
I want to speak, but I can’t. Someone else does, though – and he’s standing in the doorway. “Oh, Gina,” he says. She lets go of me and he comes across the kitchen to take her in his arms.
Holding her close, Mr Smith looks at me over her head of shining hair. His voice is full of pain. “Amy, I’m so sorry.”
I can’t quite believe I’m with Mr Smith, in his car, on my way home. It’s almost surreal and I wonder if I’ve been given this space to think again. He and Mrs Smith in each other’s arms in the kitchen. Robbie’s nursery, the lovely garden. What am I doing, depriving him of this kind of life? Wouldn’t everyone’s troubles be over if I let go? Mum’s, Mr and Mrs Smith’s, Mrs Kelly’s? Mine? And Robbie’s – though for now he’s perfectly happy and doesn’t know the meaning of trouble.
Unexpected rain hits the windscreen, and I glance at Mr Smith’s tanned hand flicking the wipers on, and at his clean-cut profile. I think how distressed he was for his wife. How loyal. Could I give Robbie up? Could I make this sacrifice?
We’re home. He stops the car and comes round to open my door. I say, “Thank you for the lift, Mr Smith.” Our eyes meet for a moment; his are so kind.
“You’re welcome, Amy…and I’m sorry you’ve had what must have been…” He gropes for the words. “…A stressful time.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but I can sense him watching as I turn my key in the lock.
Chapter Thirty-four
Home at last, and indoors I make a sandwich each for me and Lisa, then I call Kirsty to say I need to come over. She doesn’t say much – just, “Okay then, see you in a bit.”
I tell Lisa where I’m going, and ask her to keep an eye on Toffee. The tide’s coming in, and it’s quite blowy. I wish it would clear my head of Gina Smith and the pretty nursery. I’d love to talk to Kirsty about it, though I don’t know if I’d be able to put into words how I feel. How painful it is.
Shaun’s in the garden with the kids, helping Mr Kelly clear up after a messy picnic lunch. Robbie’s having a nap upstairs and Kirsty and I are in the kitchen. For a time it’s awkward. She sits down at the table and carries on with what she was doing when I arrived – pinning a paper pattern onto some blue and white striped material. I ask what she’s making.
She pulls a face. “A blouse. I hope.”
“You don’t do sewing.”
“I know, but I thought I’d give it a try. Jordan likes blue.”
I can’t meet her eye, but I touch the material. “It feels nice.”
She says, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
How can I ever explain? I rub my forehead, like I can rub out my frown. “I wrote you a letter.” I pause. “But I didn’t send it.”
“Why not?”
“Mostly because I didn’t want to put you in a difficult position. You know, feeling you had a duty to tell someone.” I pause. “I wrote it after I saw Robbie here. The afternoon Shaun cut my hair… I didn’t think you’d ever speak to me again.”
“You should’ve known me better than that. We could have talked about it. You might have felt better.”
I’m with my best friend, yet my mouth is like sandpaper. “I know. I’m sorry.” I watch her sticking pins through the paper pattern into the stripy stuff. “I lied from the beginning. I had to, because of Mum. Then somehow, I don’t know, I couldn’t undo them – the lies.”
Kirsty pricks herself. “Ouch!” She sucks the speck of blood off her finger. She takes a breath and says, sounding almost like her mum, “D’you want to talk about it?”
I’m not sure if I do, and the next thing I know I’m losing it. Tears squirt out of my eyes and I start making silly squealing noises. Kirsty leaps up, her chair crashing to the floor. Her arms go round me. Arms I know and love. Not Gina’s.
I lick the tears off my lips. “I was such an idiot.”
She lets go of me, pulls sheets off a kitchen roll, stuffs them into my hand. “Robbie’s dad…” She puts her head on one side. “I don’t have to ask.”
I very nearly smile. She rights her chair and we both sit at the table. “Amy – you and me, we don’t have secrets. Why didn’t you tell me when you first knew you were pregnant?”
“I didn’t know.”
There’s disbelief in her eyes. “You must have.”
“I knew what I’d done, of course I did; I’m not that stupid. I even
thought afterwards how mad I’d been to let it happen, that I hadn’t meant to do it until I was on the pill. It just kind of happened. You know – in the heat of the moment?” Our eyes meet. “You think you’re in control…” She waits for me to go on. “It’s…overpowering.”
“Didn’t you wonder, when you missed a period?”
“No, because I’d been all over the place for ages. And anyway I thought—” I stop there; I don’t want to admit how thick I must have been. “You know? I just didn’t think I could get pregnant… Not the first time… How daft was that?”
“Amy?”
“Yes?”
“Mum was out when I got back.” She glances out of the window. “Dad hasn’t given me any details.” She pauses. “So who knows about Robbie?”
I feel awkward, take a breath. “Well – your mum and dad, of course… The Smiths. Lisa, Shaun, my mum. Probably Mrs Wickham by now. Bloody everybody.”
“Shaun knows?”
“Honestly, Kirsty, it’s like he’s got some sort of sixth sense.” Then I think, no more lies, and say, “He saw me leave Robbie here.”
The back door opens and Mr Kelly looks in. “Ah – I thought I heard voices.” He looks at me. Perhaps he notices my eyes are red. “Everything all right?”
Kirsty says, “Fine. We’re good – just talking.”
He nods and goes back into the garden.
We’re quiet for a moment, then Kirsty says. “That was quite a list of names…but no Liam.”
I shake my head. Chew my cheek and break the skin.
She frowns. “Shouldn’t he know?”
I shrug, though her question deserves more than that. Then I say – like I’ve told myself a thousand times – “I bet he’d rather not know.”
“Amy, you can’t be sure.”
“One thing I am sure about: I don’t want Robbie ending up in Australia.”
She looks thoughtful, then voices my dread. “They might want to come back if they knew about Robbie.” Clearly, my face says it all, and she touches my hand. “Would that be so terrible?” She pauses. “Apart from anything else, doesn’t Liam have rights?”
Writing in the Sand Page 18
