Writing in the Sand (10 page)

“Older women don't dump their babies, do they?”

“I don't know.”

“Well they just don't, do they?”

“How should I know?” It's like I'm snapping at her. “It's not exactly my specialist subject.” Then I say, “Don't mind me – stuff to think about.”

“Your mum okay?”

I say, “Not too great,” which feels like I'm using her as an excuse. “Anyway,” I say, spewing out a big fat lie, “our Lisa's being helpful for a change.”

Kirsty looks surprised. “That must be a relief.”

Shaun has spotted us. I'm still waiting for that first real smile, a smile that's not for Toffee. Even when I thanked him for the flowers I only got a flicker.

He says to Kirsty, “Have you told her?”

His frown worries me. “Told me what?”

Kirsty's lips tighten, and Shaun says, “She ought to know, it's
her
dog.”

I'm quick. “What about my dog?”

He says, “Yesterday, Mrs Kelly saw a man looking at the card in the post office window.”

I go cold; I knew we should have taken it down by now. “He could've been looking at any of the cards. Couldn't he?”

“No,” says Shaun. “Mrs Goodge got the card out and he took it.”

The way I start rushing towards the toilets gets me a few odd looks, but I want to be on my own. An arm goes out to slow me down. It's Mr Smith, coming out of the staffroom. “Amy? Are you all right?”

I wipe my hand across my face, feel the silly tears. I'm sixteen, for heaven's sake. “Sorry, sir.”

“What's wrong?”

I swallow, but words won't come.

“Something you'd like to talk about?”

I nod.

“Come along,” he says. “We'll find a quiet spot.”

We're sat in the school secretary's office. After a barely noticeable signal from Mr Smith, Mrs Roper has left the room.

Mr Smith finds a box of tissues in the desk drawer and pushes them across to me. “Now then,” he says, “what's the problem?”

I take a tissue and blow my nose. “It's Toffee—”

He nods. “The dog. I remember.”

“Someone's interested in the card we put in the post office window. A man.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“Shaun Baxter knew. Kirsty's mum told him.”

“Told him what?”

“That this man took the card.”

Mr Smith's blue eyes show concern. “It was always on the cards – sorry – I mean it was always possible Toffee's last owner would see the card and hope it's their dog.”

I start crying again and feel so stupid. Mr Smith pushes the tissues nearer. “These things happen, Amy.” He pauses. “How long is it since you found him?”

“He found us.”

“How long ago?”

“I'm not sure…” Though I am sure because it must be about a week less than how many weeks Robbie is now. I say, “No, wait a minute – May the twenty-seventh. About then, anyway.” If only I could pour everything out. If I could tell anyone, it would be Mr Smith.

My nose is running and I grab a tissue. I feel ashamed, and try to pull myself together. “I'm sorry.”

He rests his chin on his hands; he's so patient. “Is there something else – other than Toffee?”

I nod, then wish I hadn't.

“Do you want to tell me?”

Words start to come together in my head, but they don't feel right. “It's nothing really.” I hesitate. “I think I'm just feeling a bit fed up.”

“Is everything all right at home?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Well, I'm here if you want to talk some more. And don't forget you can always see Mrs Hart.”

“Thank you.” Mrs Hart is Pastoral Care, but I've never imagined opening up to her.

He stands up slowly.

“Look, I'm sorry not to have more time. I'm due in a meeting,” he says.

I get up too. “
I'm
sorry – that I'm so pathetic.”

“Amy, that's the last thing you are.” He ushers me to the door, and for a moment I feel his hand on my shoulder. “It'll be hard for you if Toffee's owner comes along, but you will get over it. I promise you.” He pauses. “Where should you be next?”

“Revision – Geography. The exam's this afternoon.”

He smiles. “Good luck.”

After break we're back in revision with Mrs Grant.

Kirsty passes me a note.
He's asked me out
.

I write back:
Who
? She writes:
Who do you think?
I write:
Dunno, I'm not a mind reader
. She writes:
HE is Jordan Mantle!

Mrs Grant gets wind of what we're up to and comes marching over to us. Kirsty doesn't hide the note quickly enough. Mrs Grant reads it with deep scorn, screws it up and says, “May I remind you this is your final revision session. Make the most of it.”

Everyone turns to look at us, while I concentrate on a giant bluebottle on the ceiling and Kirsty works at controlling what could be a fit of the giggles. I follow the fly with my eyes. When it zooms towards the window I think how Toffee would make a futile leap at it. Already the thought of life without him is like a knife in my heart. Tears spring to my eyes, and I can't stop them trickling out. What's the matter with me? I never used to be like this.

Back at her desk, Mrs Grant looks my way. “Amy – for heaven's
sake
.”

It's not too bad, the Geography exam… Just as well, the way my mind keeps switching backwards and forwards between the questions and what might turn out to be Toffee's fate. I finish, put my pen down and look across the hall. Kirsty's already sitting back, her arms crossed. I won't get an A but I should be all right.

Grinning, Kirtsy comes up to me after the exam. “How did it go?”

“Okay.”

“Only okay? I thought it was pretty good.”

“Yeah, it was.”

We walk to the school gates. “See you in a bit!” she says.

This is how I imagine stage fright. I've stood in the wings for days, waiting to make my entrance. I'm not great at acting, but I give her a cheery wave and start walking home.

I change out of my school things. Mum eyes me up and down. “You look very nice,” she says. “Have a lovely time… Now listen, you're not to worry about me. I'll be fine.”

I won't be able not to worry about her. She won't have a proper tea till I get back…though I admit she didn't manage too badly when I was feverish after Robbie.

I say the sort of thing she's expecting me to say: “I can't wait to see the baby. Kirsty swears you can almost
watch
him grow… And everyone says he's amazingly responsive.”

Mum says, “Sounds like he had bright parents.” She pauses. “Whoever they were.”

I nod a couple of times. “Yeah… Well, I'd best be off.”

Kirsty's waiting for me at her front gate. She leads the way up the path, and my heart beats faster. With Robbie away in hospital, I was never this nervous. Right now, I'm petrified.

Kirsty pushes the door open and I go into the hallway ahead of her. My heart thuds at the sound of a baby crying. Is it Robbie?

It must be him. The other little kids staying here, three of them, aren't babies. My mind skates from one thing to another –
anything
to help push back the rising panic I feel at the thought of coming face-to-face with my child.

Kirsty cocks an ear. She grins at me. “Sounds like they're in the living room.”

There's a little choky sound, and after that the crying turns to hiccups. We follow the sound and find Mrs Kelly hoisting a very small baby onto her shoulder and patting its back. “Hello, Amy, love.” She turns the baby round. His mouth puckers, then relaxes. She says, “Meet Robbie, our little star.” She kisses the back of his head. “You are, aren't you?” she says. “A real little star!”

Kirsty laughs. “As you can see, Mum's besotted with him.”

Her mum kisses Robbie's head again. “Who wouldn't be?”

I can't take my eyes off him. I'm trying to relate him to the red-wrapped scrap I carried along the beach in a shoebox. Though he's still very small, my baby is now a real little person. I smile. Which is an effort, because my skin's tightening like I'm turning into a waxwork. I will the smile to reach my eyes, and crinkle them up. “Oh, isn't he gorgeous!” At the sound of my voice, he fixes his attention on me. His eyes are the brightest blue.

I need to say something else. “Incredible eyes!”

“Like forget-me-nots,” says Mrs Kelly. “They might stay blue, but you never can tell.” She strokes his sparse covering of flaxen hair. “He could go darker, of course, but on the other hand he might always be fair.” She shifts him into a half-cradling position and looks into his round pink face. “Trouble is, we've nothing to go on.” She gives him a little tickle. “We don't know what his mummy and daddy look like.” She tickles him again. “We don't, do we?”

Me – dark curly hair, greenish eyes. Liam – light brown hair and blue eyes.

I smile at Robbie. Though he's still a tiny little person, I've changed. I'm not the same Amy I was before he was born, and that evening with Liam feels like a lifetime away.

Kirsty sniffs the air. “Lush smell, Mum.”

“Oh my giddy aunt – buns!” Mrs Kelly puts Robbie into Kirsty's outstretched arms, then runs towards the kitchen.

Kirsty lowers herself onto the sofa, and I sit beside her. She wipes a bubble of dribble from Robbie's chin with her fingertip. She smiles. “Would you like to hold him?”

It was inevitable, this moment. It's the moment I knew was coming, yet I'm still unprepared for it. “Go on,” she says, “have a cuddle. He won't bite ­– he's all gums.”

I know I must. I edge closer to Kirsty and she lifts him sideways into my arms. I sit stiffly, trying to ease him into a position he'll be happy with. “Don't worry,” she says, “he's tougher than you think. You can't break him – not unless you try really hard.” I push back into the cushion behind me. His head rolls slightly, and I feel the weight of it through my sweatshirt. Kirsty says, “Being premature, he's small for his age – still a bit wobbly.” She gives him a big smile. “Never mind, he'll soon make up for lost time.” She looks serious for a moment. “Mum's incredibly fond of this little guy.”

I say, “That's nice,” and, looking at him in my arms, I'm so glad that Mrs Kelly is really fond of him.

“I think it's because he came here as a newborn. She was at the hospital every minute she could spare – usually evenings when Dad got back from work.”

“That often?”

“Yeah – one set of parents in the Prem Unit thought she was Robbie's mum!”

For a few seconds we don't talk, then she looks at her watch. “What d'you make the time?” But I can't see my watch, not without disturbing Robbie. She says, “I think mine might be slow.” She's hugging her knees, but moves an elbow to nudge me. She says quietly, “I'm half expecting Jordan to come round.”

I take my eyes off Robbie for a second. “You didn't say anything. I thought it was just me.”

“I wasn't sure till I got his text.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really? And there's me thinking you were only
half
expecting him.”

She says, “Sorry – you don't mind, do you?”

“Of course I don't.”

Actually I'm glad. It might stop me imagining that Robbie and I are the centre of attention.

I try to look relaxed, but when I lean forward my hair flops onto Robbie's head.

Kirsty scoops it back. “You could do with a trim.”

“I haven't had the time.” I don't add,
or the money
.

She says, “Did you notice Mum's hair? Shaun cut it. You ought to let him cut yours. He adores doing hair.”

Mrs Kelly's hair had been the last thing on my mind, but I pretend I'd noticed. I'm not sure about Kirsty's suggestion. What with Shaun seeming keen – and the flowers on the doorstep – letting him loose on my hair might be risky. He could start getting the wrong idea. I make sure I look interested, but not in Shaun. Not that way. “How does he know how to cut hair?”

She laughs. “He cut his own fringe when he was four. Apparently it gave him a taste for it, and he's been doing it ever since.” She giggles. “I don't mean his own fringe.” She pauses. “No – actually he taught himself. Looking at videos online.”

There's activity and noisy chatter coming from the kitchen – kids and grown-ups. Mr Kelly is home, giving Kirsty's mum a hand with the tea.

I sit here on the sofa, holding my baby. In the odd state I'm in – where everything, including this child, is alien – the swirly-leaf pattern on the carpet feels like the only piece of reality.

Kirsty says that when the young ones have finished eating, they'll watch a bit of kids' telly while we have our tea. For the first time, I register the toys scattered around.

Robbie holds my little finger, the finger he held so tightly the night he was born. Today I leave it where it is.

The kids tumble in and plonk themselves in front of the telly. Kirsty takes Robbie from me and we go through to the kitchen. Mrs Kelly has made a fish pie. There are vegetables to go with it. Shaun's already here. He moves his chair. Is this because he wants to sit next to me? He gives me one of his strange stares. Mr Kelly sorts us out, deciding where we'll sit – me between him and Kirsty – while Mrs Kelly sits with Robbie in her arms, a bottle of formula on the table in front of her. The teat of the bottle barely touches Robbie's lips before his eager mouth fastens onto it. He sucks noisily, gazing into space. I wonder what he sees. Kirsty doles out the fish pie, and we help ourselves to vegetables.