Writing in the Sand (18 page)

I slide quietly behind them, but then I look back and catch sight of Mr Smith. He looks devastated.

Back home Lisa takes one look at me and reckons I'm in a mood. “What's that face for? Something up with Mum?”

“Like you'd care.” I know I shouldn't have said it. Now I'm not the only one in a mood.

I tell her Mum's all right, and suggest we go out together: take Toffee for a walk. But she'd rather watch another time-wasting TV show. This one's about people having their stomachs stapled, so they won't want to stuff their faces. I thought she didn't like hospitals, and can't think why she wants to watch this.

I only need to raise an eyebrow for Toffee to come running. I don't bother with a lead. I walk fast, only slowing for a minute when the dunes hold me up. When we're both down on the sand, I throw the frisbee. Every minute though, with the tide coming in, we've less beach to play on. Play? The way I'm feeling at the moment, I don't count myself as part of Toffee's happy world. The sky has turned to a purplish violet, painting the last strip of sand an eerie mauve. Even Toffee looks a different colour.

I can't get to sleep. I keep seeing Mr Smith's face. Finally, I drift off, but I wake late with Toffee pawing at my door.

I can't get into the bathroom; amazingly, Lisa is up and washing her hair. I don't care too much. I need to call Kirsty, and with Lisa splashing about it gives me time.

I dial, and Kirsty picks up. “Hello?”

“Hi. It's me.”

“Hello you – how's your mum?”

“She's okay – looking better.”

“That's good. I hope—”

I interrupt. “Kirsty.”

“What?”

“I saw Mr Smith and his wife at the hospital.”

She says, “His mother's very ill.”

“Right… He looked terribly upset.”

“Yeah, well…they've been back again… Mrs Smith's been confiding in Mum.”

“What about?”

I hear Kirsty's slow intake of breath. “You won't tell anyone?”

“Do I ever?”

“Just don't say anything.”

“I promise.”

“She thinks that because Mr Smith's mother is so ill they ought to let her go.”

“
Die
, you mean?”

“Yes—”

“But that's dreadful—”

“No, listen, Amy. They know she wouldn't want to be resuscitated if—”

I say, “It sounds as if it's more what Gina Smith wants… You've never liked her, have you?”

“Well…” She pauses. “But that's not what this is about. This is about Mr Smith's mother having another heart attack, or a stroke. If she did – and apparently it's highly likely – it could be massive and her life might not be worth living.”

“Only
might
not? Has anyone thought what Mr Smith might want?”

“That's part of the problem. He's not ready to let his mother go.”

“Doesn't that just go to show what a lovely man he is. Sensitive and caring.” I swallow – try to moisten my mouth. “Would you let your mum go?”

“Of course I wouldn't, but she's not old…or seriously ill.”

We're both silent for a moment, then I say, “Well, I think it's appalling.” My voice sounds shaky and I wish it didn't. I don't think I can say much more without bursting into tears.

“You all right, Amy?”

“It's just that…well, you only get one mother.” Thinking of my place in Robbie's life I'm unable to speak.

Kirsty says, “Are you still there?”

I turn away from the phone to take a breath. “Sorry – yes. What d'you think's going to happen?”

“I don't know. Mrs Smith might come round tomorrow. She's here an awful lot. Dad says she might as well move in.”

We say goodbye and Kirsty's phone clicks off. I feel weak and sink into Mum's chair. While Lisa's hair-washing water gurgles upstairs, my eyes follow fast-moving clouds through the window. Thoughts chase around in my head. The one frightening me most is Mrs Smith as Robbie's mum. The last day or two I'd begun to talk myself into this possibility, consoled by the certainty that Mr Smith would make a fantastic dad. But now, hearing
she
is actually going against his wishes, I don't know what to think.

Lisa's used all the hot water, so I have what Nana Kathleen called “a lick and a promise”. Next I take Toffee out, and waste what's left of the morning torturing myself with what it would be like if Mum didn't get better after all.

I lighten up a little when I decide to run along to the post office for Mum's stamps, until I remember I haven't brought any money with me. I glance at my watch. If I run home, I could get there before lunch. Just. Then I think of Lisa agreeing to do some ironing, and panic in case she scorches my one decent top. I yell for Toffee and we head on home.

Lisa has forgotten about the ironing; says she'll do Welsh rarebit to make up for it while I watch the lunch time news. I look at her fiddling about with bits of cheese and wish I could talk to her.

I can't say more to Kirsty – though I long to tell her everything, and imagine the two of us sitting cross-legged on her bed, me pouring my heart out, even having the courage to show her the letter I wrote.

Right now I miss Mum desperately. How I wish Lisa was the sort of sister I could look up to. Who'd understand, who'd be able to put herself in my place. Who I could talk to.

It's while I'm having an imaginary conversation with this “other Lisa” that a voice in my head says,
Shaun
. Of course… Shaun, who's already dealt with so much in his life. He even
looks
like there's a box in his head marked “Secrets”. Not that I want to confide in him; anyway that wouldn't be fair. It's just I need to be with someone who's easy to be with and who, if ever I
did
want to say something, would probably listen. Which is funny, when you think how awkward he was when we first met. How he could only relate to Toffee.

After we've eaten the Welsh rarebit, which is stringy but quite nice, I call the Kellys, and Mr Kelly puts Shaun on. “Amy!” he says, and I hold the phone away from my ear. “Hi, Shaun.”

“Hi, Amy.”

“Shaun?”

“Amy?”

“Shaun, d'you think you could help me do a bit of weeding?”

“Where?”

“Round at ours – the bit of garden at the front. It's a right mess.”

I tell Lisa Shaun's coming round. She says, “What for?”

“We're going to do some weeding.”

She laughs. “I hope you're not expecting me to help.”

I say, “Of course not. Isn't it your programme?” I'm safe with this; there's always something she wants to watch, or needs to catch up with.

There are times you'd think Shaun's got wings. Not because he's angelic, but because he arrives at such speed. He's knocking on the door before I've had a chance to put old clothes on – well, even older clothes. I open the door. He fills the space. He's got his back to me, looking at the front. I won't say “front garden” because it's hardly that. It's just a small flattened patch. More weeds than grass.

He swings round. “Better crack on,” he says, “look at it!”

“Yeah, it's a disgrace. I don't know how I let it get like this.”

We've not got any proper gardening tools, so I've raked around in the kitchen drawer and come up with two old forks and a vegetable knife. “Sorry,” I say, “we'll have to make do.”

“S'okay,” he says, and soon we're on our haunches, digging around, making little piles of weeds. He's so strong we'll have it done in no time.

My head is bent over a patch of chickweed. “Shaun?” I say, and he tugs on a tough-rooted dandelion.

“Yep?”

I come out with it. I have to. “Are Mr and Mrs Smith still interested in Robbie?”

“Yep.” The dandelion comes up, root and all. He shakes the dry earth off it. “Mrs Smith likes the idea of fostering kids.” He looks at me for a moment. “They lost a baby. It died.”

It's as if the breath is knocked out of me. How dreadful. What could be worse? After a moment I say, “How do you know that, Shaun?”

“I overheard stuff.” He pulls a face. “I'm not supposed to know. You won't tell.”

“Of course I won't.”

Not looking at me, he wiggles the old fork about. “You're good at keeping quiet.”

What does he mean? That he knows I won't repeat things?

He says, “Little Robbie might do okay,” and waves a weed at me. “Groundsel, this.”

I'm shaking at the thought of Mrs Smith's baby and hardly trust myself to speak. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Rabbits like it. I was with a family kept rabbits.”

I say, “Were you?” but I can only think of the baby dying.

“Yeah. Not for long, though.” He tickles the root until the earth falls off. “Not every kid strikes lucky.” He chucks the groundsel aside. “Can you imagine how good it would feel, having someone like Mr Smith for your dad?”

While he pulls the blade of his knife across a stone, I pile up my straggly pieces of chickweed. I take a controlled breath. “Mrs Smith might not be the mum you hoped for.” Then I add, “Not that I'm talking about you personally.”

He wipes sweat from his forehead. “Mr Smith'd not marry anyone who weren't dead nice.”

“Some folk may seem very nice, Shaun, but they can sometimes have another side to them.” I force my fork into the ground and the prongs bend.

His eyebrows knit together. “How d'you mean?”

“Well, they're not always lovely – and nice.”

“She's lovely, is Mrs Smith. Beautiful.”

“Being beautiful doesn't necessarily make her a good person.”

Shaun stands up. Rubs his back. “How d'you mean?”

What do I mean? I think hard. “She's not like us – or at any rate, not like me. She's prepared
not
to save a life.” I take a deep breath. “For her, life's not sacred.”

“She's not a Buddhist then.”

“This isn't about religion, Shaun. It's about Mr Smith's mother.”

“You mean the business about not resuscitating her.” He gives me a long look. “Some people, like Mrs Smith, send out the wrong vibes. Me, I'm like that. I'm not great at showing my feelings. To be honest, I'm often confused about them myself.”

We scrape and scratch in the earth, till what little grass there is stands more chance than it did before.

Lisa's watching
Embarrassing Bodies
. I can't stand another minute of it, and fetch Toffee's lead.

She says, “You'll walk that dog off its feet.”

“You mean paws. Anyway, he doesn't mind how often he goes out.”

She sighs. “If you say so.”

Though I'm tired, I walk fast, trying to shake off my mood. I feel bad about Shaun, who'd love to have a dad like Mr Smith. I take deep breaths; try to relax. But I only end up more tense than ever. I let myself think of Nana Kathleen, and how different it would be if she was still here. This chokes me up like it always does, and I start to cry.

Robbie is larger. Much
too
large. Gross, even. He's in a state-of-the-art buggy. I'm chasing Mr and Mrs Smith. They're racing each other. She's pushing the buggy and winning. Mr Smith can't catch her up, and my legs won't move fast enough to run beside him. Robbie bounces up and down in the buggy. But he's not strapped in properly. He's laughing, but Mr Smith doesn't think it's funny. Neither do I. We both fall further and further behind. Mrs Smith is sprinting like she's going for gold. She heads for the harbour. Mr Smith calls out, “We don't want your kippers!” and waves at the man in the smokehouse behind the harbour wall. Mrs Smith whips the buggy round, nearly tipping Robbie out. Three people come running. One of them grabs Robbie. Now he's half in, half out of the buggy. I'm nowhere near him—

I wake up, my heart pounding. I lie still, dry-mouthed. The house is silent so I can't have been shouting, which I sometimes do when I'm dreaming. If I'd called out or made a noise, Toffee would have barked.

There's a howling wind in the chimney, and rain spitting huge drops onto the fan of pleated newspaper in the little grate. As usual I left the window open last night. I rush to shut it before the curtain gets any more soaked. Toffee gives a stretch, and exercises his funny early-morning voice. It's like he says “Hello” – which usually I laugh at and say hello back. But this morning I'm still half in my nightmare. I look at the alarm clock. I hadn't thought it could already be morning. But it is. It's the weather making it so dark outside.

I wash and dress, and think how life will be when Mum's back and I'm making her breakfast again.

I go into her room. It's already a tip. Even worse this morning, with Lisa dead to the world on top of the bedclothes. I don't bother about being quiet. I pull back the curtains – dry because she didn't open the window. She moans, “Do you have to? It's the middle of the sodding night.”

“No it's not – it's half eight.”

I run downstairs and let Toffee out. I force down a piece of toast and leave bread and cereal on the table for Lisa. There isn't much left in the packet. I'll buy cereal when I get Mum's stamps. Toffee comes back in, wet already, and I shake food into his bowl. He gobbles it up.

It's still bucketing down, and I probably wouldn't go out at all if I wasn't determined to bring Mum her stamps this afternoon. I leave the house, hood up, and for once – though he's whining to come – I don't take Toffee because of having to dry him off when we get back. I feel mean.

The teeming rain and near-black sky don't do anything to cheer me up. Dark thoughts and the nightmare are still fresh, like a horror film you knew you shouldn't have watched. It's frightening, all this vile stuff sloshing around in my head. What are dreams for? Do we hope we can dream our way out of trouble? Or do they flag up how awful our lives really are?