Writing in the Sand (12 page)

I swallow hard. “Mum, there are things to talk about.”

“I realize that,” she says, and her sad eyes lock with mine. I'm overwhelmed with guilt. What must she be feeling, knowing how badly I've let her down?

Mr Jackson glances at me. “Me and your mum, we spoke on the phone.”

Toffee dances a couple of silly circles in front of me, then paws Mr Jackson's trousers. Mr Jackson bends down, takes Toffee's head between his hands. “Hi there, fella,” he says, “how're you doing?”

My world stands still.
This isn't about Robbie.
Mr Jackson is the man Mrs Kelly saw at the post office.

And Toffee is his dog.

I find my voice. “You must have come about the card in the post office.”

“I certainly have. Like I told your mum.”

The three of us look at each other. I can't think of anything to say. Mum just looks resigned.

I pull myself together. “Who'd like a cup of tea?”

“That'd be nice,” he says, “but first off, where's this brown dog?”

There's a long pause, while I stand with my hand out for the kettle and Mr Jackson looks towards the back door, then towards the door leading to the hallway and front room. Toffee sits back on his haunches and scratches his right ear. I leave the talking to Mum. She frowns.

“Mr Jackson, you're looking at him.”

“This mutt?” The man's face is a picture. It would be funny if he wasn't so bitterly disappointed. “You call that
brown
?”

“It is a sort of brown,” I say. “That's why we called him Toffee.” I don't fill the kettle.

Mr Jackson feels for the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulls a photo from his wallet. “I brought this with me as proof of ownership,” he says, and hands the photo to Mum.

“What a beautiful dog,” she says, and passes it to me. The dog is about the same size as Toffee, with a glossy chestnut-brown coat and friendly face. I ask his name.

“Smartie,” he says. “From a pup, you could tell he was super-intelligent.”

I feel awful – him losing his beloved dog. “I hope you find him soon. Is he microchipped?”

“He certainly is.” He runs his hand over Toffee's head. “I suggest you check to see if this one is. Or have you done that already?”

Mum says, “We haven't, though we ought to of course.”

“Do that,” says Mr Jackson, “and it's possible the owner might come forward.” He touches the bare patch on Toffee's tail. “Though I wouldn't hold your breath.”

I say, “We thought he could've been dumped. You know, out of a car or something.”

I'm starting to feel relieved we can't afford a visit to the vet (until I remember the PDSA is free) when Mr Jackson – putting Smartie's photo back in his wallet – fishes deeper into it. Taking out three twenty-pound notes, he says, “I seriously doubt he's been done – I mean microchipped or vaccinated – so have this with my best wishes.” Before Mum or I can say anything, he adds, “And no arguing.”

I suspect the poor man's going to lose it if he doesn't get out of the house fast. I feel the lump in his throat like it's my own, and follow him to the front door.

Who would have guessed, fifteen minutes ago, that he'd be shaking my hand? “Take care,” he says, and hurries along our uneven path to his car.

If Toffee could climb into Mum's lap, he would. As it is, his head is against her thigh and she's stroking him under his chin.

We don't say anything for a bit. Just look at each other, and at Toffee. We know what the other's thinking: how wonderful it is that we're not parting with him.

Mum says, “We mustn't look too far into the future.”

“Try not to.”

“I did notice straight away,” she says.

“Notice what?”

She laughs. “You silly kid! Your hair, of course. It's absolutely lovely.”

“Shaun did it.”

“Really? Well, he's made a good job of it. He should go into business when he's old enough.” She grapples with the glass of water beside her, and I realize she's due her medication. I push two pills out of the blister pack and drop them into her palm. “Thanks, love,” she says and swallows one. Though not easily. Even with all the practice she's had, she can still get one stuck in her throat.

“Now then, Amy. Tell me everything.”

It's like I've switched heads – back to my old one, still aching with its awful secret. I hesitate: “Well…there's quite a houseful at the moment. There's—”

She interrupts. “How about the doorstep baby?” She downs the second pill without too much trouble. “I can't begin to imagine,” she says, “what the circumstances can have been…for a mother to—”

“He's fine, Mum!” I lose eye contact with her, and turn away to wipe the draining board. “He's fine. A lovely-looking baby. Very, very sweet.” Next I make a little drama out of the kids bouncing on the furniture and Kirsty being horrified about Jordan playing with Lego. Mum laughs. And I giggle. Like it was the funniest thing.

There's a mirror on the window sill by the sink, but it's too small to see my whole head. I go upstairs to the bathroom, turn on the light and look in the mirrored-door of the medicine cabinet. I see the really great haircut, but try not to look too hard at the face it frames.

I feel so on edge I don't go downstairs immediately. I go to my room, find a piece of paper and rough out the letter I've been thinking about. It takes for ever. But eventually I put down what I want to say:

Dear Kirsty,

I won't blame you if you think I'm cowardly and worthless. I'm
the only one to blame. I hardly know where to start, except to say there's no way of telling this, except the truth. This afternoon, with your family being so kind, I'm finding it twice as hard to tell you what, for Mum's sake, I've had to hide.

I can't make this less awful than it is, so I'll come straight out with it. Robbie is my baby.

Please believe me when I say I had no idea I was pregnant. You'll say, how could I not know? Believe me, I didn't.

One of the things eating away at me is that I've not confided in you. I hope one day I can forgive myself for this, and that you'll also forgive me. I didn't tell you, mainly because I didn't want to put you under pressure. Like worrying about whether to tell your mum she's caring for my child. Also – to be honest – I've been afraid you might never forgive me. That you'll be ashamed of me. Ashamed for me. For abandoning my baby – though I knew, at the time, that taking him to your mum was the best I could do for him.

I'll completely understand if you feel I've failed you as a friend. I know we've never felt we needed to swap details about every single thing – stuff we want to keep private – but it doesn't change the fact that I've lived a lie in front of you.

What I have to tell you is that seeing Robbie today was shattering, and I don't know how much longer I can keep up this pretence. Can you imagine what it's doing to me? If I didn't think you might still be there for me, I don't know what I'd do.

With all my love,

Amy.

I read it through for about the tenth time and look at my watch. Poor Mum, she'll wonder what I'm doing up here. I fold the letter, stuff it at the back of my drawer and wonder if I'll ever send it. I wish I believed in miracles. Like I'll wake up one morning and…

…And what? Find I don't have these feelings for Robbie? Find I don't long to feel the warmth of his little hand clutching my finger, don't want him to meet my gaze with his blue, blue eyes. I hope they stay blue. They're wonderful.

Snap out of it, Amy.

I run downstairs. Mum's dozing. Toffee looks up expectantly. I shake a few dried biscuits into his bowl, and take fish fingers from the freezer compartment. I say softly, “Mum?”

She opens her eyes. “I wondered where you were.”

I say lightly, “On that other planet?”

She chuckles. “Situation normal, then.”

“How many fish fingers?”

“Two?”

“You can't manage three?”

She shakes her head. “I don't think so.”

I get busy grilling the fish fingers with a sliced tomato. I butter a slice of brown bread and arrange it all on her favourite plate: our last remaining one with a blue rim. I make it look appetizing by tearing up a lettuce leaf as garnish. I put the tray on her lap, and she smiles. “Thank you, love. It looks delicious.”

Luckily there's no trouble finding a vet. Kirsty looks in Yellow Pages and off we go with Toffee and Mr Jackson's sixty pounds. I'm relieved Kirsty offered to come. I'd have been uneasy going on my own.

I don't tell Mum where I'm going, in case she convinces me of some ethical reason why I shouldn't go ahead. Like Toffee not strictly belonging to us.

There are “Lost” notices on the waiting-room wall. Two dogs, a cat and a tortoise. I force myself to read them and look at the photos. Kirsty looks at them too, though casually. I sigh with relief: neither of the dogs looks remotely like Toffee.

Now it's our turn to go in, and the vet, Mr Fulwith – sporty-looking and friendly – says, “So who's this nice chap, then?”

I tell him he's called Toffee. “He's a rescue dog, so we don't actually know much about him. We've no idea how old he is, but I'd like him to have an identity microchip, please.”

“Right you are,” he says, and types my name and address into his computer. “First – let's see if he already has one.” He reaches for a gadget on the shelf behind him and runs it over Toffee. I hold my breath. What if he is
already
microchipped? This could be the end. Just a phone call away from finding his owner.

But it's all right. No sign of anything!

Kirsty says, “Can you tell how old he is?”

Mr Fulwith takes hold of Toffee's wolf-like jaws with both hands and examines his teeth. “Hard to say.” He touches the bald patch on his tail. “Not very old,” he says, “even if he does look as if he's been through the wars.”

Kirsty persists. “So what would you guess – about four?”

Mr Fulwith shakes his head. “Not even that. He's quite a young dog.”

I find myself beaming, thinking of all the years ahead. The Toffee years.

One little click with a small hypodermic needle between Toffee's shoulder blades, and the microchip with its identity number slips under his skin. The vet tells us there's a special offer on this week, so Mr Jackson's sixty pounds pays for the microchip
and
the vaccination Mr Fulwith says Toffee needs. There's even a little cash left over, which I can put towards dog food and a proper collar and lead.

When we're outside again and on our way home, Kirsty says, “Where did Toffee really come from?”

“He just turned up.” I eye her. “You knew that.”

“Yeah, just making sure.”

“Like I spotted him in someone's garden and thought, there's a nice dog – think I'll nick him, along with a couple of gnomes.”

Kirsty gives me a punch on the arm. “Don't be ridiculous.”

I punch her in return. “Precisely.”

We must look like a couple of kids.

On the way home we stop off at the post office. I really ought to get something as a thank you to Shaun for cutting my hair. I know Mrs Goodge has a shelf of cut-price chocolates. They're probably past their sell-by date, but Shaun won't curl up and die.

Kirsty stays outside with Toffee, and I go inside to look along the shelves for the best bargain. I choose a double-layer box of dark, milk and white chocolates with mixed centres. “Treating Mum?” says Mrs Goodge, and I think: Of course – I
must
.

I hesitate. “How long out of date are they?”

“Hardly at all,” she says. “Less than a week past their best before date.”

“Great. That's brilliant.” I hand over a fiver. “I'll have another box of the same, please.”

She puts the two boxes in a green and purple paper bag. “They're a right good buy, are these. It's not often you can buy two boxes of chocolates and get change from a fiver. When I were a lass there were all sorts you could buy for sixpence, and
still
get tuppence change.”

I say, “Wow,” though I've no idea how this compares with today's money.

She says, “Did he get in touch – the man who'd lost his dog?”

“Yes – wasn't his though.”

Toffee jumps all over me when I come out of the post office. You'd think I'd been gone for weeks. Kirsty says, “What a shame. He had to hurry off.”

“Who?”

“Mr Smith. He made a terrific fuss of Toffee.” She makes a little face. “
She
was with him – the Ice Queen.”

I give her a look. “What is it with you and Mrs Smith?”

“Nothing – I just think she's a bit stuck-up.”

“Did you tell them we'd been to the vet?”

“Yes, Mr Smith thinks you've done the right thing, having him microchipped.”

I say, “Oh, good.”

She looks at Mrs Goodge's brightly-patterned bag. “So you got some.”

“Two boxes. One for Mum as well.”

By the time we're back at Dune Terrace, Kirsty is desperate for the loo. Toffee, mad keen to get indoors, charges ahead of us, and Kirsty runs upstairs.

Mum isn't alone. “Hello!” she calls. “Look who's here!”

Mrs Kelly is in the kitchen with Mum. And beside Mum's chair, Robbie's in a buggy, kicking his little legs.

I'm dizzy at the thought of Mum having no idea she's with her grandson for the first time. I kneel beside him, head down, my face on fire. When Mum touches Robbie's hand, it's like my thumping heart must visibly be shaking my body. I stay here on the floor, looking into his little round face. While I tickle him gently, Mum and Mrs Kelly chatter until Kirsty comes back down. Getting up from the floor, I realize I'm still clutching the chocolates. I put them on the table.