Writing in the Sand (11 page)

Mr Kelly pops into the front room to check the younger ones are behaving.

Shaun takes two heaped tablespoons of carrots, then eyes me across a portion of peas large enough for three people. “Has that man been in touch about Toffee?” His words hit their target like bullets. I know he doesn't mean to sound the way he does. It's obviously not his fault he finds it hard to smile – and comes out with stuff that's the last thing you want to hear. I shake my head.

Robbie, full of milk, is falling asleep. Mrs Kelly eases him into a carry-seat beside her chair. “Ah, well,” she says, “no news is good news.” Straightening up, she leans over to touch my hand.

Back from the front room, and sitting down again, Mr Kelly says, “All quiet on the Western Front.”

Kirsty turns to me. “He's a got a saying for everything, my dad.”

Just as we're finishing our apple tart and custard, I get an itch behind my ear. I give it a discreet scratch, but a wayward strand of hair (
all
my hair is wayward) escapes and flicks across my spoonful of custard. I'm trying to separate a ringlet from the custard when Kirsty laughs.

“See, I told you you need a haircut. Shaun could do it after tea, couldn't you, Shaun?”

Mrs Kelly pretends she hasn't noticed the trouble I'm having. Head on one side, in a model pose, she pats her shiny bob. “Shaun cut mine. What d'you think of the new me?”

I nod enthusiastically. “It looks great. Really great.”

Shaun says, “So I'll cut yours, Amy. Right?”

Mr Kelly seems surprisingly keen on the idea. “I'll set up the salon, shall I?” He takes his own chair into the utility room at the back of the kitchen, and calls, “Are those hairdressing scissors still in the drawer, Susie?”

“Right-hand side at the front! And take a clean tea towel from the bottom drawer.” She looks at me. “Just to keep the worst of the hair off that nice top.”

Shaun laughs. Explosively.

Kirsty says, “What's so funny?”

“The
worst
of the hair? Amy's not got any worst. It's simply the best!”

Mrs Kelly says, “You're absolutely right, Shaun. It's hair to die for… No pun intended.”

Shaun frowns deeply, and Mrs Kelly says, “I wasn't meaning you'd want to
dye
it.”

Serious, he says, “No self-respecting colourist would want to dye Amy's hair.”

Shaun waits patiently for me in the utility room while Kirsty helps her mum clear the table. Robbie sleeps, oblivious to everything.

I make a face at Kirsty, pull my hair back. “What d'you think?”

“Live dangerously,” she says.

Her mum nods vigorously. “He's really good – though you must tell him what you want.”

“I don't know what I want.”

Kirsty grins. “Just tell him you don't want it getting in the custard.”

I have to admit I'm nervous, sitting here while Shaun drapes a Robin Hood's Bay tea towel round my shoulders. “How would you like it?” he says.

I try to play it safe. “Take off about five centimetres?”

“How about ten?” He reaches for a bottle that looks like it could be used for weedkiller. “I'll dampen it first,” he says.

I say, “Okay,” and he moves around my head, squirting the spray until my hair's quite wet.

There's no mirror in here, but I can feel him starting to twist and separate my hair into bunches. “It's great hair,” he says, “in really good condition.” For a long moment he steps back, then walks round, looking at me from all angles. Now he starts cutting, and I'm no longer scared of what he's decided to do.

We're silent – must be for about ten minutes – then, waving his scissors, he points out my curls piling up on the floor. Which, from where I'm sat, are starting to form the shape of a poodle fast asleep. He says, “Would you like to save some?”

“What would I do with it?”

“Stuff a cushion?” he says. And I don't think he's joking.

Kirsty looks in. “It's looking good, Amy. Ve-ry good.” The doorbell rings. I haven't asked any more about Jordan and wonder if this might be him. I look at Kirsty, who's making out she couldn't care less who's at the door.

Her mum calls out, “I'll get it!”

There are voices in the hallway, then Mrs Kelly comes in. She gazes at me. “Wow! That's starting to look terrific.” She turns to Kirsty. “There's someone to see you.”

Kirsty blushes. “Me?”

Her mum says, “Now then…did he say Gordon?”

Kirsty takes a breath. “You mean Jordan?”

“Oh, that was it, was it?”

“Where is he?”

“In the living room.”

Kirsty looks furious. “What! Not with those kids?”

“Yes, with the kids.” She glances at me, like I'll share the fun of winding Kirsty up. “Last seen, he was playing with Lego.”

Kirsty dashes off. She can't get there quickly enough. You can understand how she must be feeling: someone you're dead keen on arrives, and your mum gets him stuck into Lego with a bunch of three-year-olds.

Alone again, we're quiet. I don't dare have a feel of my hair, not while he's still snipping away. How much shorter will ten centimetres look? “Is our school okay for you, Shaun?”

He stops mid-snip. “S'all right, no worse than most.”

“Mr Smith's great.”

“Yeah, he's okay.”

“We're lucky to have him. As our form tutor, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“You know you can go to him, if you need to.” Then I add, in case he might not like Mr Smith as much as I do, “Or Mrs Hart. She's Pastoral Care.”

“I'm all right.”

He puts the scissors on the draining board and starts running his fingers over my scalp. I tell myself this is what professional hairstylists do, to encourage a good shape. I can feel what his hands are up to and only wish there was a mirror so I could see his face. I move my head, and he takes his hands away. I look up at him. He looks perfectly normal. Normal for Shaun.

“Have you been to many schools, Shaun?”

“Quite a lot.” Perhaps I shouldn't keep digging. But I do. I start cautiously. “Mrs Kelly's lovely.”

“Yeah.”

“And Mr Kelly.”

“Yeah.”

I ask where he was before he came here, and he reels off places I've never heard of. Some of them must be children's homes. Maybe I'm going a bit far, but I ask him about his family. Like, is he in touch? He picks up a pair of clippers I'd not noticed. When he clips near the back of my neck, I start worrying I might end up looking like a hedge. He says, “I haven't got a real family…not that I know of. No brothers or sisters. Not like you.”

“Like me?” I look into my lap while he very gently smooths the clippers from side to side. “Oh, you must mean Lisa… She's not really around that much. I mean,” I hesitate, “she's at work during the day.” I change the subject quickly. “Did you know your mother?” This is what I most want to know, but said like that it sounded so blunt.

He's not offended. “I don't remember her…” He pauses. “She put me up for adoption.” He brushes hair off my neck. “I've seen photographs.”

“Do you take after her?”

“Photographs of
me
, not my mum. They wasted their film, though – no one wanted me.”

I don't dare turn my head to look at him. “Why not?”

“I was that weird-looking. You couldn't blame anyone for not wanting a kid like me about the place. What would the neighbours think?”

I wonder if he's being funny, but decide he's not. He bounces my hair up with the palms of his hands. Now he's taken some of the weight out of it, I love the feel. He says, “Later it was foster homes. Lots. But I never fitted in.” He touches my shoulder lightly. “Let it dry
au naturel
?”

“Yes, fine.” Then I say, “But you like it here?”

He says, “Yeah…it's great.” I can't tell if he's smiling.

Kirsty comes in. “Oh! That's fab, Shaun. Honest – she's going to look a million dollars.”

I look at her delighted face. “Really?”

“It's a brilliant cut.”

I put out a hand to Shaun, but don't quite touch him. “Thanks, Shaun, I'm really grateful.”

“Not a problem. Any time.” And we watch him walk out of the little room.

There's quite a bit of chat coming from the kitchen. I push my chair back; I want to find a mirror. “Kirsty, where's the nearest mir—”

She interrupts, almost in a whisper, “Amy – he's adorable round Robbie.”

I pretend I don't know what she's on about. “Who?”

“
Jor-dan.
”

I still need to find a mirror, but she nudges me into the kitchen, then through into the living room. It's not exactly bedlam in here, but almost. Even with Mrs Kelly looking on, the little kids are jumping about, two of them bouncing on the sofa. And, by the window, Jordan makes goo-goo noises at Robbie, who he's holding in his arms.

An image swims in front of me: Liam cradling a baby. I scrub it out. My head doesn't want to make space for these kind of thoughts.

“Wow –
love
the hair,” says Jordan, dropping the babytalk. But not for long; he's got Robbie's full attention and is making the most of it. “Aren't you a great little guy?” he says. “They don't find one like you on the doorstep every day of the week.”

It makes Mrs Kelly laugh when he says, still in a “did-dums” voice, “Did they put out a note?
Thursday. Four pints semi-skimmed, two double cream – and a baby
.”

I say, “It was a Wednesday.”

Mrs Kelly says, “Goodness, Amy, you've got a good memory.”

Why did I open my big mouth? I lick my dry lips. “I remember because it was when I wasn't feeling well – and I remember Kirsty calling to tell me about Robbie. I didn't go into school for a few days… It was a virus or something – I even missed my Maths exam, so I could hardly forget.”

Mrs Kelly says, “Even so, Amy, I could do with a memory like yours.”

Kirsty says, “She's got a
phenomenal
memory. She writes poems and remembers them all.”

I manage a laugh, try to look modest. “There are lots of important things I don't remember. Historical dates and stuff.”

Mrs Kelly touches my hair. “I told you Shaun was good.”

It's dusk, and cool air wafts across the back of my newly smooth neck. We're walking along The Promenade, which is a posh name for the paved roadway on top of the sea wall.
We
means Shaun and me. Mr Kelly insisted Shaun walk me home. Like I haven't walked it a hundred times before. Now, with the tide coming right up, it's
me
fussing about Shaun getting too close to the edge.

But neither of us plunges into the waves. And as we reach Dune Terrace, a car draws up outside our house.

I stop dead.

“What's wrong?” says Shaun.

“That car.”

“What's the matter with it?”

“Nothing's the
matter
with it.”

He says, “There might be, only it's getting darker and it's, like, maybe you wouldn't notice something wrong.”

I hiss, “Shaun, shut up…” Then I remember my haircut and feel sorry. He can't help stating the obvious. “Sorry. It's just – you know.”

He says, “I don't know.”

“No all right, you don't know.”

The car headlights are switched off. The interior light comes on and the driver pushes open his door. Though I can't see much, I notice him sliding papers into a briefcase, which he locks before bringing it out of the car. He slams the door shut, goes round to the boot, slides the briefcase inside and clicks the remote. He looks at the house for a moment, and makes for our front door.

Shaun says, “He's going to yours.”

“I can see that.”

Shaun calls out, “Hey!” and I feel embarrassed. The man turns quickly and comes towards us. Shaun says, “Is there anything I can help you with?” Like he works in Currys selling fridge-freezers.

The man seems pleasant. “Help me? You might be able to.” He's plump, nearly bald, wearing a smart suit and striped shirt, but no tie. He's nothing like as tall as Shaun, and has to look up to him. He points to the front door. “Do you two live here?”

“I do.”

He eyes me. “Then I think it's you I need to talk to.”

My mouth goes dry. It all adds up. The air of authority; removing confidential papers from public view; the decent car – more than a few steps up from Mrs Wickham's; arriving without warning; wanting to see
me
. Somehow he knows. Knows about Robbie. In our silences on the way home, I've been thinking and thinking about my baby. About his tiny mouth, his wisps of hair, his brilliant blue eyes, the weight of his head, his beating heart, the little hand grasping my finger.

“Mind if I come in?” says the man.

Fumbling for my key, I turn to Shaun. “I'm okay now. Thanks for coming.”

“You sure you're all right?”

“Absolutely,” I say. The man smiles reassuringly, and Shaun walks away.

In those few moments, after the man said he needed to talk to me, I've made my decision to tell Mum. I hadn't wanted it to be this soon; it will be terrible for Mum and I've no idea what the outcome will be. I can't imagine I'll be allowed to look after – to keep – Robbie. Not after I risked his life. Abandoned him on a wet night.

I open the front door and call out, “Mum!” The man follows me into the kitchen. Mum, shifting in her chair, doesn't seem surprised to see him. But she's looking deadly serious. “Mr Jackson?”

“Call me Ken.” He leans over, about to shake her hand, but she covers it with the left one. Perhaps he notices her twisted fingers. Whatever – he pats Toffee on the head several times. Nodding at Mum, he seems slightly nervous. “Very pleased to meet you,” he says.