Writing in the Sand (5 page)

She's been working up to the question: “You saw our Lisa all right?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“She sends her love.”

“Is Darren still hanging around?”

“Seems like it.” All the way to the supermarket I'd been telling myself the four pounds was his, not Lisa's.

For apparently no reason she says – and it's not quite a question – “I suppose you've not heard from Liam lately.”

I nearly tell her about his birthday, but something stops me. “No,” I say – and then, like I don't care, “There'd be no point.”

“That lad singing,” she says, “put me in mind of him.” Wincing, she eases her shoulders. “I hope he's happier now.”

Sunday. Mum's voice, amused, breaks into my thoughts. “Are you going to sit reading all morning?”

She can't have noticed that I've barely turned a page. I've been dreaming the dreams I usually save for when I'm staring out to sea – where only the sand reads my thoughts about Liam. Millions of billions of trillions of grains of sand, all washed away in one powerful frothy suck. I know one day there'll be someone else. There has to be. This can't be it. I'm sixteen.

I stand up and lean against the sink. Through the window I watch a family carry picnic things towards the dunes. The mum looks fed up, and I want to call out and tell her how lucky she is. Mum hears their voices. “Why don't you get some fresh air?” she says. “Take Toffee out.”

I turn away from the window. “Okay.”

“You could go and see those twins at Kirsty's.”

Yes, I think. I'll do that.

Weekends at the Kellys' are the same as any other day. Like Mrs Kelly says, “No peace for the wicked!” The house is a complete contrast to ours. I think of Mum: quiet, longing for a nap that will take her somewhere pain-free. Today at Kirsty's, with these twins, it's non-stop jabbering. Mind you, I've heard it noisier than this. While Liam was here, there was a kid who could only talk at full volume; shouted every word. Turned out his mum was going deaf and he'd forgotten how to speak normally. He wasn't here for long. His dad got back off the oil rig, and his mum came out of hospital.

Good as gold, Toffee sits beside me while I help Kirsty give the twins their dinner. I'm feeding the little boy while Kirsty feeds the girl. My toddler, Aidan, is easy to deal with – apart from grabbing the spoon and wanting to feed himself.

Mrs Kelly checks a tin of roast potatoes in the oven, then folds flour into the buns she's making. “Amy, love, let Aidan try on his own.” I do what she suggests, but the spoonful of pasta in tomato sauce flies over his shoulder. Toffee catches it in mid-air, and we all double up laughing. The other twin, Eleanor – food smeared over half her face – beams at me. While she's still grinning, Kirsty manages to slip a spoonful of pasta into her mouth, instead of onto her eyebrows. Kirsty and I plough on, until Mrs Kelly says she thinks we've done our bit with their first course. Pudding is easier. Little pots of fruity yogurt quickly vanish.

Sunlight from the door into the hallway is suddenly blotted out. I look up. This must be the teenager. Wow, he's big… Not actually fat, just man-sized. Shoulders like he's built for American football. Kirsty waves a little plastic spoon at him. “Hi, Shaun – this is Amy.” He pulls out a chair and sits at the table. “What've you been doing?” she says.

He shrugs, and biceps like a weightlifter's bulge out of his short-sleeved grey T-shirt. “Nothing.”

I want to tell him he must have done
something
, even if it's only breathing, but that would be cruel because he doesn't look happy.

Kirsty and I exchange glances. We carry on making a fuss of the twins, and she says, “Shaun's coming to our school.”

He looks at Mrs Kelly and says, “Am I?”

How weird – him not knowing which school he's going to.

Mrs Kelly stops stirring the bun mixture. “Yes, you are…I thought I told you.”

I look at Shaun's big round face. Something that, to me, would be so important, doesn't seem to mean much to him.

Kirsty tries getting his attention. “I don't envy you, Shaun, having to sit in our revision classes. Still,” she says, “it'll give you a head start for when you come back in September.” I take a quick look at her. Surely he's older than us?

He glances at the twins for a second. Then his eyes, kind of grey, slide away. He makes a point of not looking at me. Like I'm not here. But he notices Toffee and rubs the fur under his chin.

Our eyes meet again, Kirsty's and mine. The little downturn of her mouth tells me she reckons Shaun's a lost cause.

Mrs Kelly puts a mug of coffee and a slice of cake in front of me. “You look a bit tired, Amy. Everything all right?”

Toffee wants to nose my cake. I push him away. “I'm fine, thanks, just wishing it wasn't Monday tomorrow.” This isn't strictly true. The only thing I don't like about Mondays is leaving Mum alone after the weekend. And it's not like we've even got an exam tomorrow, just revision for English Literature, my favourite subject.

I stop my mind from drifting. Lick my finger and press it into the cake crumbs on my plate. I could easily have eaten another slice. “Lovely cake, Mrs Kelly.”

She smiles, pleased. “I got the recipe off the telly.” I'm surprised she ever has time to watch.

When she gives Shaun a slice, Toffee sniffs at it. For the first time Shaun looks at me. “Can he have a bit?”

“Better not,” I say, “I don't want him getting into bad habits.”

Shaun nods, and finishes his cake in two mouthfuls.

There's the sound of Mr Kelly knocking mud from his boots on the back step. He comes in. Spots Toffee. “Hey, who've we got here?” He pulls off his socks. “And hello to you too, Amy.”

“His name's Toffee,” says Kirsty. “He's a rescue dog.”

I'm surprised when Shaun says, “A rescue dog?” like he wants to know more.

Mrs Kelly says, “A dog without a home.”

Shaun pushes back his chair. “Like me,” he says, and leaves the room.

While Mrs Kelly pretends to shoot herself, Kirsty's dad says, “You can't watch every word, Susie.”

I take a few sips of coffee but, unusually for me, I don't want the rest. Mrs Kelly goes to the cake tin. “D'you think your mum would like a piece?”

“Oh, she'd love one. Thank you.” Kirsty's mum never misses a chance to pop something in a bag for Mum.

Before I leave, Mr Kelly gives me two freshly-picked lettuces to take home. “A bit of a glut out there,” he says. “Hope you can make use of them.”

“Oh great, thanks.” I try to sound matter-of-fact. I don't want him to know I think he might look on Mum and me as a charity case.

The tide's half in when I make my way back from Kirsty's across the sand. Toffee is so obedient I don't need to bother with my old belt. But I know I must get a real dog collar soon, and – positive thinking – put his name and our phone number on it.

It's a beautiful day and the sea is mirror-calm. Just a few sailing boats bob about, waiting for the wind to whip up. There are couples strolling; other people on their own, some with dogs. Toffee eyes the nearest – a posh-looking white poodle – then decides staying with me is a better bet. Gazing out to sea, I pick up on a daydream – me, Liam and Toffee racing about on a beach in Australia.

“Ow!” I'm brought down to earth by the real Toffee crashing into the backs of my knees. “That wasn't
funny
!” I tell him. He drops a stick at my feet, like this makes up for nearly sending me flying.

The sand is perfect, just damp enough for drawing. But I keep getting a low-down stabbing pain, and feel it again when I bend over for the stick. It starts to subside, so I decide to forget it and draw an oval in the sand. I give it eyes and a nose, then the mouth. Now some hair and ears, flat to the head. Toffee puffs around. I keep pushing him away from my work of art. I look at it. It's the best I can do for now. To be honest, I'm a rubbish artist. I brush sand off the stick. Slowly, carefully, I write
LIAM
. For a second I stare at it, then promise myself it's the last time I'll do this.

“What does that say?”

My heart lurches. It's Shaun. I hadn't heard him creep up on me. “Hey, you made me jump!”

He says, “Why's that?”

“I didn't know you were on the beach.”

Toffee, wagging his tail in wild circles, tries to get at the plastic bag Shaun's holding. Shaun raises his arm, keeping the bag out of Toffee's reach. He jerks his head towards the cliffs. “I came down from the top,” he says. Which amazes me because it's practically a sheer drop that must have landed him between a stretch of rock pools and Croppers Rock.

“What? You
slid
down that?”

Shaun doesn't seem to think this is anything much. Telling him he's lucky not to have two broken legs, I shove my toe into the sand and scrub out LIAM.

When he says, “What did that say?” most of his attention is still on Toffee and he sounds only half interested.

“Nothing, really.”

“It must've said something.”

So he is interested. “Didn't you see?”

He says, “No.”

My laugh is too loud. “Len – it said
Len
.”

“Who's Len?”

“My grandad.” (My grandads, both dead before I was born, were Ted and Maurice.)

He says, “Have you got a gran?”

“I did have. Nana Kathleen, Mum's mum. But she died four years ago.” The familiar pang hits me as I realize for the thousandth time how much Mum and I miss her. She was everything to us. I think how different things would be if she was still alive. How she'd be dealing with Lisa.

She loved both us girls to bits, but she was firm with Lisa in a way Mum never is. It's always felt like Mum's scared of Lisa, scared she'll take offence. When she was just a kid, Lisa would threaten to run away. She'd yell, “Then you'll all be
sorry
!” and go to the door – to make sure it wasn't raining. Nana Kathleen didn't stand for any of her nonsense. “What're you going to do for money?” she'd say, and watch Lisa stomp up to our room.

I bring myself back to the present, point to the dunes – a signal to Toffee that we're going home. I smile at Shaun. “See you later.”

Deadpan, he says, “When? How much later?”

“I don't mean anything definite. I mean I'll see you sometime. Like I'll see you at school tomorrow.”

Suddenly I want to be at home with Mum. I've hurried a little way off when Shaun calls out, “Amy!”

I turn round. He's following me, dangling the plastic bag. Mr Kelly's lettuces! I think of the cake for Mum at the bottom, turning to crumbs. “Thanks, Shaun.”

He says, “See you later then.”

Was that a smile? If it was, it must have been meant for Toffee.

Monday morning, and Mum gives me the
Found – Brown dog
note she's written for the post office window. “You can ask Mrs Goodge to copy it onto a card for you,” she says. This makes me feel really down. I'd been thinking she feels like me – that Toffee is here to stay, that it's not entering our heads he might belong to someone else. It's not like we enticed him, even
found
him. He found us, and any fool can see he wants to stay.

There won't be time to take the card to the post office before school. I'll go on my way home at lunchtime.

I settle Mum in the kitchen, with stuff she might need. Give her cushions for support, and put hot water in a flask for her mid-morning drink. I leave her sticks handy, so she can make it to the back door to let Toffee out into the yard. And I remind her, like I always do, to be very, very careful if she wants to go upstairs to the loo. Which she might want to. I know she'll try to hang on until I get back, but if she gets desperate she'll make her way upstairs, crawling. I think she's probably entitled to a kind of portable toilet that could be kept downstairs behind a screen, but making enquiries might open a can of worms we don't need.

If we could truthfully say Lisa lives here permanently, maybe we'd relax a little. Age-wise, though sadly not in any other way, she almost classes as a responsible adult. Me, I've only got a couple of years to go – though sometimes I feel about thirty-five.

It's the first day back after half-term, and the racket outside school is even more ear-splitting than usual. Maybe I've got used to the calm while on study leave. Like me, Kirsty usually walks to school, but this morning – I suppose because Shaun is starting today – her dad drops them off at the gates. She gets out of the car, followed by her dad and Shaun, who gets some odd looks. Although he's not smiling, he's pleased to see me. When he says loudly, “Hi, Amy,” I notice his voice doesn't have much of a range. It's like it's all on one note. Pupils swarm about, in and out of small groups. Three giggly Year Ten girls nudge each other and give me a look.

I say, “Hi, Shaun,” and glance sideways at the girls. One, a redhead with way too much make-up, raises her eyebrows at me.

Kirsty joins me while her dad makes for the main door with Shaun. With a warm smile, Mr Smith, our form tutor, comes out of the building and holds the door open for them. I can't hear what he says but it's clear he's directing them towards the Head's office. I wonder what Shaun will make of Mr Wilson – who's not what you might think of as a typical head teacher. Liam described him as
dead casual
,
like he's on another planet
. That's the impression he gives, but Mum and the Kellys think he's brilliant. Mr Kelly says he gets what he wants out of his staff. Well, most of them.

Mr Smith crosses the playground and pushes between knots of students to get to his car. Kirsty watches as the Year Ten redhead sidles up to ask him something. He answers while moving round to the boot. She follows, then looks disappointed when he taps his watch. She joins her friends, who are giggling, and they make their way into school.