Writing in the Sand

by Helen Brandom

  “Don’t I have rights not to tell him?”

  She says, “Won’t Social Services want to contact him?”

  “Even if they do, they’re not likely to recommend him as a better parent over me.” A weight settles in my chest – how unsuitable we both must look.

  I let my forefinger doodle on the table. With every second it gets clearer. Robbie has to stay with me… Though if anyone wants to fight me for him, I suppose Liam might have rights. But would he want to parent a child he’d known nothing about? I’m more or less dead certain he wouldn’t.

  Kirsty looks sad. “Liam was so nice.”

  I pick up the envelope of her blouse pattern, blink back more tears and put it down again. “I know, and I want to remember him that way.” Thoughts that have lain quiet bubble to the surface. “Later on – if Robbie asked me about his dad – I’d want to tell him the good things.”

  “Of course you would.”

  “Like he was—” I can’t help it: my shoulders start shaking. I put my head on the table and sob.

  I feel Kirsty’s hand on my back. “Like he was…?”

  I grab enough air to speak. “That he was very young, that he tried to understand about Mum and me… That he was a lovely guy.”

  Kirsty says, “I suppose your mum realized Liam’s the dad.”

  I nod, then tell her how her own mum shocked me rigid by assuming Robbie was Lisa’s baby. She lets this sink in, then folds her fabric pieces and puts the loose pins in a small blue box.

  I tell her Mum’s coming home tomorrow and that I need everything to be calm.

  She sighs. “Your poor mum.” She gets up, goes to the fridge and takes out a carton of fruit juice. “Amy, I don’t want to sound unkind or anything, but if you don’t have Robbie adopted or – God forbid, and I hate saying this ­– see him put on a plane for Australia…who’d look after him? You can’t, because of school and your mum and – well, you just can’t.”

  I swallow hard. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  She slowly pours orange juice into two glasses. “Did you know, if there’s someone in the family who’d like to look after Robbie, they could apply to be a special guardian, and you’d be able to—”

  I cut her off. “There isn’t anyone. No one except Lisa, and I can’t see that working out…” I watch her replace the top on the juice.

  She turns to me. “There’s something Mum and Dad were talking about last night after you’d gone home. Mum’s friend knows about a kid in Morpeth whose gran has applied to be his special guardian.”

  “Can’t she simply look after him without being a guardian?”

  “There’s more to it than that. I think the mother’s a bit unreliable.”

  I give a short laugh. “Like she’s sixteen and a complete mess.”

  Kirsty says, “Actually, she’s fourteen.”

  I ask if she knows why the kid’s not being adopted, and she says the family wants him to stay with them.

  Something happens inside me. An explosion of hope. This sounds so perfect, it’s like I’m suddenly on a high after too much black coffee. Pictures crowd in on me, and I imagine Mum and me looking after Robbie together. And as well – because it can’t only be Mum – the guardian: someone, a vague figure – who only takes a moment to morph into Mrs Kelly. The thought – the fantasy – moves me so much I’m almost blubbing again.

  Kirsty pushes a glass into my hand. It’s icy cold.

  When I get home, Lisa’s faffing about, making a big deal out of washing up a couple of plates and a bit of cutlery. For once I’d rather she left it to me. I ask her if Mum’s room is ready.

  “I’ll do it in a minute.”

  I shout at her, “Do it now!”

  “Okay, okay,” she says, and goes upstairs. Very slowly. To be fair, when I check, she’s tidied up properly and moved her piles of stuff into my room. (Our room.) All I have to do is remake Mum’s bed with clean sheets.

  Later, I tear up my letter to Kirsty.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  When Mum arrived home, and almost before she’d had time to get used to it, Mrs Wickham called to say she’d like to come round for a chat. I worried like hell, praying she wouldn’t sway Mum towards it being best for Robbie to be adopted. One minute I was in the depths, preparing for a life without him; the next I was on cloud nine, thinking about the baby in Morpeth staying with its family – and praying something like that could happen to us.

  As it happened, Mrs Wickham didn’t want to talk about Robbie. Not her department, she said. She’d come to talk about getting more help for Mum. At first this freaked me out. What did more help mean? Here in the house, or in a care home where nurses dispensed drugs and I’d get on a bus to visit Mum with an armful of library books? It was an enormous relief when Mrs Wickham – getting me sat down first – said there’d be no question of Mum living anywhere else.

  “Amy,” she said, “you’ve got a lovely little house here. With a bit of extra help – someone coming in, say, once a day – you and Lisa would manage that bit easier than you are at the moment.”

  When I collapsed in tears, embarrassingly, she put the kettle on, then went upstairs to tell Mum I was happy with the idea. Happy!?

  A really nice person started this week – Mrs Dundas, who lives ten minutes away by car. She’s friendly, but I can’t help wondering – when we chat about how Lisa and I (ha!) help Mum – what she secretly thinks of me. Whether she goes home and tells her family I look quite ordinary. Not the sort you’d think would have the town in an uproar by running off with her own baby.

  Now the dust has settled, I feel most guilty for being such a disappointment to everyone. I feel awkward with Mum, even though she’s acting like I haven’t done anything wrong. Funny really – Lisa’s the only one I’m almost relaxed with.

  With Mum so relieved to be home, and more than happy to have help in the house, I’m looking for a time when I reckon she can cope with knowing more about everything. Leaving her in the dark makes me feel like I’m treading on eggshells in a maze of dead ends.

  We’re in the kitchen, and out of the blue she says, “Amy, love, there’s no need to pussyfoot around. I’m back, I’m better, we’ve got help. I don’t need special treatment.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you with stuff.”

  She puts out a hand. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “It’s just I need to talk about Liam.” She waits. I can see she doesn’t want to put pressure on me. I take a quick breath. “He didn’t know I was pregnant.”

  She almost smiles. “If you didn’t know, it’s hardly surprising that he didn’t.” She closes her eyes, takes long moments to voice her thoughts. “I suppose you’re worried about telling him. About Robbie, I mean. Or does he already know?”

  “No, he doesn’t, and that’s what I’m afraid of.” I sink to the floor, put my head in her lap. “I’m terrified of losing Robbie. I don’t think I could cope.”

  Letting her in on my worst fear, I think of those months with Liam and wonder if I should have been more open with her. Had she felt left out? Thinking back to how I felt at the time, I was probably afraid of her guessing how much our feelings were deepening.

  It’s a bit late but I start making excuses. “You know, I used to worry when I was out with Liam. I worried that you’d be upset if I was late home.”

  “I’m a mother,” she says. “We’re put on this earth to be upset.”

  Then I tell her how perfect it felt, being with Liam. I smile, remembering the happiness: “You know – walks on the beach and in the woods… But, Mum – it had to end. Australia’s too far… Anyway, he’ll find someone else.” I glance up at her for a second. “I’m not kidding myself.”

  She strokes my hair. “Oh, Amy. When did you get to be so grown up?”

  “Doing what I did doesn’t seem very grown up.”

  Her hand moves down to the nape of my neck. Massaging me gently, it’s like her crooked fingers are untangling my
lies, breaking down my pent-up feelings. It’s an enormous relief to tell her even the smallest things, and to know she understands.

  I kneel up, gently pull her towards me. “You don’t know what it means, talking to you like this.” I look into her eyes. “It means everything.”

  I feel practically light-headed, until she says, “Liam and his parents will have to know.” She pauses. “It’s probably something best dealt with by Social Services.”

  It’s left like that – in the air – with neither of us saying any more about Australia.

  I’m dying to talk to her about the baby in Morpeth and the guardian idea. I keep thinking how Mrs Kelly would be the ideal person to be Robbie’s special guardian. It’s so obvious. Or that’s how it looks to me. She’s already caring for him, she really loves him. Wouldn’t it be the perfect solution?

  After Robbie had been checked over by a doctor – I suppose they have their reasons – he was allowed to stay with Mrs Kelly, and I’ve been seeing him every day. Kirsty and I have been to the cinema with Jordan. Shaun nearly came, but at the last minute thought the film might not be for him. Mrs Kelly warned him it was about a kid doing a runner to punish his parents for splitting up. All through teatime he thought about it, but in the end he came across to see Mum and Lisa instead. More Mum really, because Lisa has started taking Toffee for walks. There’s an ulterior motive, of course. She goes to the smokehouse where she’s keen on a lad. We now have kippers for breakfast, dinner and tea. Mum says we’re in danger of smoking ourselves to death.

  I’m filling every minute of the day – hoping it’ll help me get through. I’m looking after Mum of course, plus I’m still going out with Kirsty every now and then. Even if she’s with Jordan, she asks me to come. I thought she was just being kind at first, but I’m starting to wonder if she’s been asked to keep an eye on me.

  There have been official meetings about Robbie and me, and our future. I was asked to attend one, where we all sat at a long table. Though I was prepared for almost anything, I felt sick when they said they hoped I understood that if Mr and Mrs Smith adopted Robbie he would have excellent opportunities in life. I said I realized this, and that I knew Mr Smith would make the best dad in the world. After I said this, a bald-headed man next to Mrs Wickham said, “Do you know Mr Smith well?”

  “Yes,” I said, “he was my form tutor.” Then it occurred to me he might have some crazy idea about me and Mr Smith. Laughable, really. Mrs Wickham whispered something to him, after which he looked relieved, rubbed his hands over his gleaming head and sat back.

  It’s Saturday morning and I’m taking away Mum’s breakfast tray. I don’t get further than the door. “Amy,” she says, “we need to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “Put the tray down for a minute, love.”

  I end up sitting on her bed with the tray on my lap. She says, “Look at me, Amy,” and I realize I’ve been avoiding her eyes. She says, “We can’t put off talking about Robbie.”

  “What is there to talk about? I’ll either be able to keep him, or someone’s going to tell me I can’t.”

  She eases her position and stretches out her arm.

  Her voice is quiet, steady. “It’s not that simple, Amy.” She won’t let me look away. “There are still choices to be made.” She lifts her hand. I take hold of it, and she says, “Sadly, you’ve not got the sort of choice you’d have if I was well. If that were the case, it would be a very different story. I’d be looking after Robbie, leaving you free to get on with your life.”

  I imagine a more hopeful vision of me in three or four years’ time. “Mum – if someone could look after Robbie I’d be able to go to college.” Her hand is just bones. No strength in it. I say, “D’you think that can ever happen – me going to college?”

  Instead of answering, she asks a question of her own. “Who is the most important person in our world?”

  “Robbie…of course.”

  “Exactly.” Her fingers move in my grasp. “It’s Robbie’s future we have to think about. Which doesn’t mean I don’t understand the huge importance any decision will make to your life.”

  There’s a lump in my throat the size of a rock. “Don’t you think his mum’s the right person to look after him?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes. But they’re not normal, are they? And above everything else, we have to think what’s best for Robbie.” She begins to bite her bottom lip, and I think I know where this is heading.

  She says, “Amy, love, how do you feel you’d cope with putting Robbie up for adoption – hopefully giving him a really good start in life?” She licks the dent in her lip. “Once he was settled, you’d be able to carry on with AS and A Levels.”

  Who is this about – Robbie or me? Has stuff been going on behind my back? Has Mum been onto Social Services? Are they so bloody blind they can’t see what’s best for Robbie?

  I let go of Mum’s hand. The tray tips on my lap. Milk left in the cereal bowl spills onto the duvet. I start to cry.

  Mum says, “Please, love, don’t cry.”

  But I can’t stop, and through a film of tears I see the torture ahead of me. Robbie – not mine, but Mrs Smith’s. Me in an empty world, wondering what he’s doing, what his favourite toy is. Whether he likes music. Or football.

  I swallow hard. “Are you saying I should give Robbie up?”

  “Sweetheart – I’m trying to take the long view. I’m looking at the situation purely and simply from the point of view of what’s best all round for everyone.”

  I want to look away, but she won’t let me. “Amy, love – Robbie’s my grandson and, believe me, it’s dreadfully hard for me to say this…but would it be best if you made a clean break?”

  “No!”

  The tray crashes to the floor. Lisa comes flying up the stairs. She pushes open the door. “No!” I yell, and shove her back onto the landing. “Not now, Lisa!” I slam the door in her face, and listen to her running back downstairs.

  I drop to my knees beside the bed. “Tell me I can keep him.”

  “Amy, I wish I could. You don’t know how much I wish I could.”

  It’s like I’ve used everything up. I push my face into the duvet, feel the damp from the milk. The only sound is the TV downstairs.

  Mum’s weightless hand touches the top of my head. “Robbie will be able to stay with Mrs Kelly for a while,” she says. “Well…until something definite…”

  She winds my hair round her fingers. It’s soothing. Positive thoughts about the Morpeth baby float into my head. I don’t voice them – not this second. I want to give the idea a chance. I don’t want Mum to say it can’t happen. But if I don’t say it now, when will I say it?

  I lift her hand from my head, pull myself up and go to the window. “Mum?”

  “Yes?”

  I turn round. Take a breath. “Kirsty’s mum really loves Robbie… Do you think she could be his guardian?”

  Mum frowns. “Guardian? What do you mean?”

  I steel myself. “Mum, there are people called special guardians. It might mean Robbie could live with Mrs Kelly.” I pause. “There’s an arrangement Kirsty told me about.”

  Shocked, she pushes herself up in the bed. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what the Kellys do for us – especially for you – but that’s a big decision, Amy. Have you discussed this with anyone? Does Mrs Kelly have any idea what—”

  “I haven’t discussed anything! It was just something Kirsty said… Apparently her mum knows about a kid whose grandmother is his guardian.”

  “I’d do that if I could… And for heaven’s sake, I wouldn’t need to be Robbie’s guardian.” She controls her trembling mouth. “I’d only need to be me.”

  I can see she’s getting upset, but I have to go on: “Mum, this is some different kind of arrangement, for when a kid’s mother can’t look after her baby, but the family doesn’t want it to be adopted.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of that.”

  I pick
up the tray. “Can you ask Mrs Kelly about it?”

  She’s still uptight. “What exactly am I meant to ask?”

  It comes back to me: the day I sat in the Kellys’ kitchen – the day the Smiths visited. Mrs Kelly clearly so fond of Robbie. Stroking his toes.

  I say to Mum, “Ask if she’d consider being Robbie’s special guardian.”

  “Don’t you think she’s got enough responsibilities?”

  My heart sinks. “I don’t know – perhaps.”

  But what I do know is, I want something decided by me. Robbie is my baby. What happens next is down to me. Or should be.

  One minute I’m telling myself I mustn’t get too hopeful about the idea of Mrs Kelly being Robbie’s guardian, the next I’m excited when I remember her telling me she’d once been tempted to adopt. I think about the first time I saw him at their house – when she called Robbie a little star. It was obvious she thought he was special.

  For what seems ages, Mum and I are lost in thought: me looking out of the window, Mum leaning back with her eyes closed. Then she agrees to call Mrs Kelly. We don’t say much while I help her dress and take the damp duvet cover off the bed. There’s not much to say at this stage.

  Once we’re downstairs I give Mum the phone so she can call Mrs Kelly. I’m such a big coward I hunch up on the settee in the front room and pull a cushion round my ears.

  Eventually, when I risk listening, it’s gone quiet and I go back into the kitchen. “Well – did you ask her?”

  “Partly.”

  “How d’you mean – partly?”

  “She wouldn’t give much away, though I get the feeling she and Frank have been discussing Robbie.” She sighs, like everything’s too much effort. “I found the whole thing extremely awkward.”

  “You mean you didn’t actually ask her.”

  “I touched on it…but it’s such a huge thing to ask of anyone. To find the right words.”

  “Mum. Having Robbie adopted would be a huge thing.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I know that.” Tears fill her eyes. “Susie – Mrs Kelly – admitted she’s very fond of Robbie.”

  This is getting nowhere. “Mum,” I say gently, “d’you think she’d mind if I go across to talk to her. Would you mind?”