Writing in the Sand (3 page)

When we've finished, I take her plate and wipe crumbs off the worktop.

She smiles at me. “Thanks, love, that filled a little corner.”

I count out the pills she takes after meals, and hand her a glass of water. She's hardly given me back the glass before she's ready for sleep. I can reckon on her having a good nap for at least an hour. Her eyes close, and I look at her. Peaceful and pretty – letting go of those ideas about me doing too much for her. I stop and think for a moment. How would I feel if I was a sick mum relying on my kid for support? I might feel the same. A bit guilty.

Toffee seems to sense we need to be quiet, but it doesn't stop him pawing at the back door. The house is so clean and tidy I think it's best not to stay in and mess it up. I collect my belt from the hook and open the door. He makes sure I'm following him, then rushes into the yard.

I squat down, buckle him up with my version of a collar and lead, and we go round to the front lane.

There's no view of the sea from downstairs in our house. The dunes, pillow-shaped, get in the way. Toffee tugs on his “lead”, and I risk letting him run on his own. Leaping through the tufts of marram grass, he throws up puffs of fine soft sand. I hurry to keep up with him and now, reaching a ridge of sand, we see the sea. The tide's out, though it's on the turn.

Toffee runs and runs. Trying to keep up with him, I think how this must be great for burning calories. They're on about it all the time on the news – obese teens not getting enough exercise. (Not that I'm obese.) Plus, we apparently live on a diet of Mars bars… Well, not in our house, we don't; there's no spare cash for treats. So looking on the bright side, my limited access to chocolate must give me a head start. All I need to do is take exercise more seriously.

Toffee could be the answer. Taking him for a run two or three times a day could help me lose weight. With a bit of luck, I'll soon be as skinny as I was at thirteen. Though don't get me wrong, I wouldn't ever want to be that flat-chested again.

I'm looking into the distance. There's a figure jogging towards us, and I squint as the sun comes out from behind a cloud. She – it's Kirsty – comes closer. Toffee shows interest and I hold him by the scruff. I wave, and after a few seconds she waves back; she's short-sighted but doesn't like to admit it. Besides, she's not expecting I'd be here with a dog. I'm pleased to see her. Nearly an hour with Mrs Wickham has made me feel I've lost sight of reality.

And it's not just today – I've felt a bit jittery these last couple of days. Mum's noticed, even though I didn't mean to make anything of it. She says it's my hormones – which seems to be her answer to everything. Still, it would be a relief if it meant I was finally settling down. Kirsty and I are the same age, but she came on three years ago and is as regular as clockwork. Not like me; I'm all over the place. I started the summer before last, but it's utterly unpredictable – in fact, a complete pain. A while back, because I never know when it's coming – and just in case there was something wrong – I saw a woman doctor at the practice. She said it isn't unusual for periods to be irregular for the first three to four years.

Kirsty pounds up to us. “Hi!” She leans forward, bending over in an n-shape to get her breath back. Toffee wags his tail. Surprised to see him, she says, “Who's this?”

“Toffee.”

She looks puzzled. “He's not yours, is he?”

“For now he is.”

“How d'you mean?”

“It's not definite.” I curl my fingers in his scruff. “But it's possible he'll stay.”

“When did you get him?”

“Yesterday.” I make it sound like you get a dog every day.

“After you were round at ours?” She gives me a look. “I didn't know you were thinking of getting a dog. You didn't say anything.”

I pat Toffee. “He's a rescue dog. You don't always know when they're going to turn up.” I'm not sure why I don't just tell her exactly what happened.

“Great,” says Kirsty, “think of all the exercise you'll get!”

It was the way she said it. I could virtually read her mind. Here she is, jogging along, delicately pretty, ponytail as blonde as the beach, legs to die for, sun-kissed midriff taut as a drum. And here's me stood beside her, taller but a bit of a podge. I stand up straight and tug my plaid shirt so it covers my bum. “I won't need to go to the gym – not with Toffee keeping me toned.”

“
You
were going to the gym?”

I laugh. “As if!”

She strokes Toffee from his shoulders to his tail. “He's a real sweetie.”

“Glad you like him.”

“He's beautiful.”

I look at him. I love him already, but I can't honestly say he's beautiful. “Don't you think he's more cute than beautiful?”

She looks him up and down, like she's judging at a dog show. “No – he's too big for cute.” She nudges me. “Come on, race you to the rock!”

We start running towards Croppers Rock. Toffee alongside Kirsty. Me miles behind.

I get a stitch and stop for a few seconds. Toffee must sense I'm not running. He skids to a halt in the wet sand and looks round. Which makes Kirsty turn.

“You okay?”

“Just a stitch!” The sharp pain eases off, but I realize I'm not feeling too clever; plus I really do need a new bra. Running in this old thing's making me sore – and I'm puffing like I'm eighty. Toffee rushes back towards me.

I think I must be worn out from getting the house ready for Mrs Wickham. Kirsty looks at me like she's surprised at my pathetic performance, but she doesn't comment on it. Instead she says, “Everything all right at home today?” She pauses. “Mum said to make sure I ask.” She strokes Toffee. “Which I am doing.”

“We're fine. We had a Mrs Wickham round this morning. She's new – from the Social. She seemed pleased with Mum. You know – the way she's managing.”

She pulls a face. “Don't you mean, the way
you're
managing? With or without Lisa's help.” Kirsty knows my sister well enough to realize she won't be pulling her weight, even if she's not aware that Lisa's actually left home altogether.

Kirsty says she'd better be heading back. “It's hell on wheels at ours.”

“They've arrived then?”

“Yeah – teenage lad from a children's home. And twins of eighteen months – boy and girl.”

Mum wonders if Mrs Kelly fosters kids because she can't have more of her own; though we don't know that for certain. She's the sort who'll take a kid in, any hour of the day or night, if their family can't cope.

Kirsty jogs off like she hasn't a care in the world, and I'm glad for her. It was a different story in January when she split up with Harrison – just when I was so blissfully happy with Liam.

Even though Kirsty was the one who ended it, it still upset her. Looking back, I probably wasn't much help, being so wrapped up in Liam. She'd been totally into Harrison – crazy about him, in fact – though I don't know if he really cared that much about
her
. If you
really
love someone, you don't keep trying to force them to do things they're not ready for. Which was what he was doing. I'm just glad she didn't give in.

Unlike
our Lisa, who's more than happy to throw herself at anyone who turns up. Currently Darren Baines. Though you can never quite tell what's happening with those two – one minute he's a waste of space, the next she's bending over backwards for him. I only wish she'd spare me the graphic details.

When she's gone a little way, Kirsty turns round to blow Toffee a kiss. I love that. Now, watching her get smaller, I picture her mucking in to help her mum with the new intake of kids. It'll be all go. Busy and noisy.

Liam arrived at the Kellys' last summer. I remember thinking it must be humiliating, finding yourself in care at fifteen. He was in a bad place when we first got together. He didn't want to talk about it, but from what I gathered, his mum was in hospital with depression after his dad began a fifteen-year sentence in a high-security prison. I was shocked, but Liam tried to play it down, saying his dad had been a rotten husband and his mum was better off without him. It was pretty obvious he hadn't been much of a dad either.

I don't like myself for thinking this…but if his life hadn't all been so awful, Liam and I would never have met. I know it's not a good thought, but it doesn't change how I felt about him.

I think I was about eleven when I asked Mum how I'd know when I was in love. “You'll just know,” she said. And she was right.

Those early days were wonderful. Mum – glad that I'd found “such a nice lad” – encouraged me to get out and enjoy myself. If I ever looked doubtful, she'd say, “I'll be all right, love. Go on, make hay while the sun shines!” I knew it wasn't easy for her, and cracks of guilt opened up when I worried I might be betraying her trust. One minute I'd be lying in Liam's arms, thinking,
If this is making hay, it's all I've ever wanted
– the next I'd ask myself whether I was still giving Mum the care she needed. Most of the time I made doubly sure I was doing just that, then suddenly I'd realize we were out later than I'd promised and my stomach would seize up with worry. I don't think Liam always understood why I was in such a rush to get home. If I got anxious, he'd say, “It's not like we're out that often.”

The months we were together, I lived in a world I hadn't known existed. Sometimes I literally caught my breath at the thought that this was happening to me, that I'd met someone I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. Being so much in love felt like a dream I could never have imagined, like it had fallen out of the sky. Quite how it was for Liam, I couldn't be sure. If I ever tried asking him how he felt, he'd clam up and I wished I hadn't said anything.

Mum says one of the ways I'm so different from Lisa is having my head screwed on. Not always, though. Looking back, it was stupid to imagine a future with Liam, free as a bird – travelling the world. Weekends in Paris. I got carried away. Mad really.

I was happy for Liam when his mum came through the breakdown. But at the same time – loving each other the way we did – it felt like fate had played a mean trick. When the Australia thing came up, I had to come to a decision. Putting thousands of miles between us had never been part of the deal.

Kirsty hardly believed I could be so cool. In my heart though, I just never believed that once Liam got to Oz we'd be able to stay together. All the same, I cried buckets. It was hard, very hard. I guess Liam took it pretty well – which I was thankful for, but it hurt too. Kirsty had already been through it – splitting up with Harrison – and when I found myself going through the same thing, I felt guilty for not totally understanding how bad it must have been for her. Although I did think it was a bit different for me and Liam. Kirsty and I, we're as close as you can get, but I don't think I ever really told her just how special Liam was. He wasn't like Harrison, and I'd been sure he wanted me for myself. It had felt so right. All of it.

At the beginning, when Liam and his mum flew to Oz for a short visit – wanting to make sure living with her sister would work out – it was kind of exciting. Liam called twice, putting on an Aussie accent. It didn't feel real, not like they'd make up their minds to live there permanently. As it turned out, they fell in love with Australia, and decided to make the move. (I reckon leaving his dad locked up on this side of the world had a lot to do with it.) When they flew back to London for a week, I talked to Liam on the phone but we didn't see each other. Then they were gone for good.

Though I'm glad for him – really glad – that his life has turned round, it doesn't stop me missing him. Ever since I saw a programme on TV, one fact has been at the back of my mind: that one in three British families looking for a new life in Australia comes back.

Toffee's pleased with himself. He's found a stick. He lollops towards me and drops it at my feet. Bending to pick it up, I breathe in the salty smell of wet seaweed. Then I move to where, very soon, the sea will slide in and wash away the oversized capitals I'm scratching in the sand.

LIAM.

Saturday, and we've got to think of getting in some proper dog food.

Mum's had tea and cereal. She's still in bed and I'm down here, listening to Radio 1. Funny how something in the background helps you concentrate.

I've seen the dried stuff Toffee needs. Beef and vegetables. In two sizes. More economical to buy the big one. In itself it's not too expensive. The problem is it'll be every week.
A dog's not just for Christmas,
etc.

I stare into space, waiting for the DJ to play something different.

With a high-pitched twang, the intro to a new song starts. The solution hits me.

Lisa…

…Who can't hold down a job for five minutes. Who you can bet right now is scrounging some sort of benefit. What does she ever contribute? Nothing. She'd argue she doesn't live here any more, so she doesn't owe anything. Wrong. She owes Mum – who gave her everything. When Dad walked out, though I don't remember what that hard time was actually like, Mum held the family together. Although she was already getting sick, she made sure we had balanced meals and clean clothes. She kept the house looking nice even though we never had anything new. She came to parent-teacher evenings and carol services. She did all those things.

And then – with Mum worse, despite what she lets the Social think – Lisa falls for that pig-headed Darren and announces she's leaving. No apologies for not pulling her weight. Just the opposite: she said she was doing us a favour – one less mouth to feed and more space. Perhaps she meant it.