Writing in the Sand (9 page)

Four a.m. and I still ache all over. Like flu.

I get up at five and go to the loo – which hurts. Not surprising when you consider what my body's been through. Most mothers don't take their newborn baby for a walk, with the tide coming in fast and a dog rushing about. Mostly, they don't dump it on their best friend's doorstep and try not to think about drowning themselves on the way back. Most of all, though, they know they're pregnant, not like Number One Idiot, Amy Preston.

I'm having to miss Maths. Mum called school to explain, and now Dr Finch is here. I'm in bed, dripping in sweat. Mum says, “She's burning up.” She clears her throat. “And she's got her period.”

Dr Finch doesn't pay much attention to Mum's remark, and there's a nice cold feeling as he puts a thermometer in my ear. “Mmm…” he says, “thirty-nine. A bit on the high side.” He touches my shoulder gently. “Now then, young lady. Have you any pain? Tummy? Or anywhere else?”

I close my eyes and think for a moment. “I've got a bit of tummy ache, but not too bad.” I wish I could tell him about my painful breasts leaking watery stuff under the pashmina. “I've got awful earache.”

Mum says, “You didn't say.”

It's hard, looking into her worried eyes. “I've been aching all over, but that's where it's settled – where it's worst.”

Dr Finch fishes in his bag. “Which ear, Amy?”

I choose the one he put the thermometer in. “This one.”

“Let's have a little look,” he says, and puts an instrument – also wonderfully cold – in my left ear. He's leaning over me, and I imagine him squinting, deep inside my ear.

“Nothing to see,” he says, “but all the same I'll put you on a course of antibiotics. We need to hit this on the head.” He pats my hand. “Not literally, I hasten to add.”

I look up at him. “Mum won't be able to go to the chemist.”

“No problem,” he says. “We'll have them delivered.” His hand rests on my pillow for a second. “Are you allergic to anything, Amy? Penicillin?” I tell him I don't think so – and Mum says she's sure I'm not. He writes out a prescription, ticks one of the boxes, and slips it into his bag. “It's very important,” he says, “to complete the whole course of tablets.”

Mum says she realizes this, and thanks him for coming out so quickly. He leads the way downstairs. I'm conscious of Mum's painful footsteps following his firm tread. He stays in the kitchen for a while, and I listen to the murmur of their conversation.

The front door closes, and Mum starts up the stairs. I struggle out of bed and onto the landing. “Don't come right up, Mum.”

“I wondered if you wanted anything. A drink?” She hesitates. “D'you need that sweater on over your pyjamas? I did wonder if that's why you're so hot. I mentioned it to Dr Finch.”

“Oh, you didn't! Honestly, Mum, I'd rather be too warm than too cold. I was shivering earlier.”

She looks awkward, and I assume Dr Finch didn't go along with her. “Well all right,” she says, “but how about that drink?”

“I've got water up here. I'll try to sleep this off – whatever it is.”

She's holding onto the banister. “You'll notice a difference once the penicillin hits the spot.” She smiles up at me. A reassuring smile. “We'll make it through the rain.”

I try not to sound too tired. “Yep – we always do.”

I was in bed for two days, with Toffee dozing beside me a lot of the time. Now I'm starting to get up and determined to get back to normal. Unfortunately it's not as easy as I hoped. I thought once my temperature came down, I'd get my strength back. Wrong. I'm still quite weak, and sore. And feeling more than a bit low. I don't suppose my hormones will settle down in five minutes. Having said that, I'm not leaking like I was. I've unwound the pashmina, though I've kept a sweater on over my shirt.

I'm still bleeding. Mum's noticed all the empty pad wrappers and is worried in case I haven't got enough to last through my “period”. She hasn't got that many herself and she obviously can't get out to the shops to buy any. I tell her not to worry, I've got enough for both of us. (Each time I'd hopefully bought them over the past year, I had no idea how thankful I'd be to see so many piled up in my drawer.)

I come downstairs. Mum's at the front door – she's let Toffee out and isn't sure which way he's coming back in. Now she's gazing down at the front doorstep. “Heavens!”

By this point I'm on my way to the back door where Toffee's pawing to come in. I call out, “Heavens
what
?”

“Flowers…” I can hear the discomfort in her voice as she stoops to pick them up. “There's a note.”

I go through the hallway. “Can I see?”

She hands the flowers to me, and we go back into the kitchen. I look at the note, stuck in the middle of a not-very-big bunch of cornflowers and grasses.

To Amy, hop your feelin betta. Hop to see you sune. Yors trly, Shaun.

Mum reads it too. She tries to hide a smile. “Shaun?”

“You know, the big lad at Kirsty's.”

“Big or not, he can't spell for toffee.” At his name, Toffee thumps his tail.

I say, “He's dyslexic.”

Mum says, “That's a word I bet he can't spell…a very kind thought, though.”

Physically, I'm a lot better, and I think I look more or less my normal self. Mum's said, more than once, that whatever was wrong, I'm on the mend. But she can't see into my head. Emotionally, I'm one big wobble. (Not a brilliant word – more applicable to a jelly – but it's the best I can come up with.)

Kirsty phoned to find out how I am and to give me the latest on Robbie. It's like I'm tied to him with an invisible thread: each time I hear her voice my heart beats faster. Supposing it's bad news? At this rate I'll turn into a full-blown bag of nerves.

When I'm not worrying about Robbie, my mind chases around thinking about Liam. Which I don't want to do; I need our clean break to remain just that. My really massive worry is what would happen if Mum found out.

Nana Kathleen had a saying:
least said, soonest mended.
But this isn't like I've broken a favourite jug. I've destroyed more than that.

It's not easy back in revision sessions – struggling to get my act together so I can prepare for my last few exams. I'm hardly in the form room one morning before Nell Somers – bulging eyes and hair like she's had an electric shock – comes up to me. “Did you hear about that baby left at Kirsty's?”

I say yes I know all about it, but this doesn't stop her gabbling on with a list of ridiculous details I know aren't true.

Sophie Hardy chimes in, “The mother just shoved it under a bush, then someone else found it and left it on Kirsty's front step.” She pauses for effect. “The
cord
was still
attached
.”

Zara Mills says, “
And
it had hardly any clothes on. Hospital tests showed it was born outside in the rain. Totally irresponsible. It could have died, you know. If it was winter, it would've done.”

This is typical Sophie and Zara talk. If they can get it wrong, or exaggerate, they do. It's sickening for me, having to listen to all this stuff. Sometimes it's like it didn't happen to me at all, then the next minute my heart's pounding and I have to stop myself from running home. Some of it's nearer the truth, mainly thanks to Shaun being on hand to put things straight. He stands there, ultra-serious, telling them the baby was left on the doorstep in a shoebox, wrapped up very warm. He knows this, he says, because he lives at the house.

When a group gathers round him, I feel quite ill; they've got it into their heads he knows more than he's letting on.

Zara says, “Did you see something? You did, didn't you, I can tell from your expression.”

Sophie gives a cruel giggle. “Shaun doesn't do expression.”

He says, “Nobody saw anything, we were all asleep.” I remember the small lit window and think: somebody wasn't asleep. Probably Mr Kelly, him being the first to come down. Whoever it was can't have seen me. If they had, they'd have knocked at our door by now.

Sophie says, “Fancy dumping a
premature
baby.”

Shaun says, “Perhaps the mother didn't know it was premature.”

“Er, right. Like it's
this
tiny and she thinks that's normal?” says Zara, holding her hands out to indicate how small.

Sometimes, listening to stupid talk about Robbie, I can hardly breathe. But the rubbish has a plus side – like it not looking suspicious when I ask Kirsty questions. I reckon if I don't ask her about him at least once a day, it'll look odd. Though if I say too much, that might also look odd. Which is what happens on our way home today.

Apparently I've asked her the same thing twice: about the colour of Robbie's hair and eyes. She says, “What's wrong with you? You were the same yesterday. Like you've got this baby on the brain.”

My heart thumps. Why can't I keep my mouth shut? Tears well up and my voice falters. “I didn't realize I was getting on your nerves.” She can't begin to imagine how I envy her for being the one who's free to ask about Robbie whenever she likes.

She puts her arm round my shoulder. “
Amy
, I didn't mean anything.”

I blow my nose. “I know.” I try to laugh. “I'll stop pestering you.”

We link arms and she chatters away – making a point of telling me about her mum's visits to see Robbie. I decide it's best if I don't refer to him by name. Calling him “the baby” makes it sound less like I think he's special. She doesn't notice, and answers my questions like they're quite natural, even passing on the progress report following Mrs Kelly's latest visit to the hospital.

“He's putting on weight,” she says, “and he's a real favourite with the nurses!”

Suddenly I'm down to earth with a bang, and thinking even harder about what I've done. Well, I know what I've done. I had a baby and abandoned it…how could I have done that? Then, remembering Mum, I ask myself what else I could have done.

What would it do to Mum now, though, if she found out I not only had sex, got myself pregnant, and had the baby in our house while she was asleep…but that I also took it to somebody else to look after?

Two more exams out of the way: Chemistry and Food Tech –
plus
I've heard Robbie's got on better than anyone thought he would, and now weighs enough to leave hospital and come home! Home to Mrs Kelly's.

The twins have moved back to their previous home. Apparently the Social made arrangements with a relative to help look after them. “Not before time,” says Mrs Kelly. “Wouldn't you have thought their gran would have stepped in from the word go?”

I think: poor Mum, she wouldn't be able to step in; there are times she can hardly stand up. She'd feel awful, not being well enough to look after her grandchild. I tell myself it's best she doesn't know. She'd feel so useless. I feel useless too; more and more each day. My waking thought is Robbie and what he's doing, what he looks like.

By chance, I'd been at Kirsty's a few times after Mrs Kelly had visited Robbie in hospital. At the beginning, when he was still very small, his health had apparently caused some scary moments. At times like that Kirsty had been able to show her feelings, even having a cry when Robbie's breathing was a concern. Me, I had to make it look like I was very sorry, but not so much that I might break down. Mrs Kelly was always good with me. She didn't seem to think it odd if I asked questions about Robbie – even medical ones. In a way I found it easier to talk to her than to Kirsty.

Having thought so hard about my baby, and wondering what (or even who) he looks like now, I can hardly believe I'll be seeing him again.

But now it's a reality, the invite I've more than half dreaded. The one where Kirsty says I must come and see Robbie. Though I've
ached
for this, I'm worried sick over how I'll cope. Just thinking about it sends shudders through me. I tell myself there's no reason why anyone would look at us together and realize I'm the birth mother, and in my saner moments I know this won't happen. But it doesn't stop my imagination going into overdrive.

It'll be one day this week. Friday probably, after GCSE Geography. She'll let me know.

We bought drinks in the dining hall and now we're sitting in the sun. Kirsty says, “You won't
believe
how much Robbie's changed!”

I manage a laugh. “You forget I've never seen him, so I won't notice any difference.”

“Sorry, course you won't,” she says. “Even if you hadn't been poorly that next day, you'd have missed him. He was in hospital before you could turn round.”

Now it's like she's suddenly remembered something. “Hey, did I tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“It was on telly, on
Your North
. The doctors say he was probably in hospital within three hours of being born. Or even less.”

“He was lucky then.”

“Dead lucky. He could have been a dead baby if the mother had decided to leave him somewhere else.”

“Good job she didn't then.”

Kirsty says. “She must have known about Mum being a foster carer.”

“That's obvious,” I say. “I mean you're not exactly central. She must have made a special effort, going to yours.”

“Unless she lived nearby.” She goes quiet. “Don't think so, though. There's been all sorts of talk, but no one remembers a girl being pregnant.”

I have to say something, because it feels unnatural not to. “Why does it have to be a girl? Why not a woman?”