Writing in the Sand (13 page)

Mrs Kelly looks at me. “Mission accomplished?”

I assume she means the vet. “Yes.”

Eyeing the colourful paper bag, Mum says, “Just what have you two been up to?” Which shows how seldom I come into the house with anything more exciting than eggs or milk.

Then the penny drops. Mrs Kelly has only just realized Mum didn't know where we'd been. Her shiny bob falls forward and she hides a smile.

Mum narrows her eyes at me. “What's the secret? You might as well tell me.”

I stand up and retrieve the paper bag. “I bought you some chocolates, and had Toffee microchipped.”

Mum tries to keep a straight face. “In what order?”

“Toffee first.”

“Oh well, what's done is done,” says Mum, and I think she's relieved. This way, she doesn't have to decide whether I was right to go to the vet.

Kirsty's mum says the tide's right out, so why don't Kirsty and I take Robbie out for a breath of sea air, plus Toffee can let off some high spirits.

I open the front door while Kirsty pushes the buggy over the step. A breeze whips up and we leave our mums' voices behind. Toffee, full of beans – and his invisible identity chip – heads for the dunes and the beach.

On the dunes the buggy acts up like a wonky supermarket trolley, so we carry it between us – Robbie making happy noises – until we reach the beach. Even here though, the damp sand is rutted from where the tide pulled out. Robbie is quite content; it agrees with him, being jiggled along, avoiding puddles and piles of seaweed. We've gone quite a long way, when Kirsty says, “How about we swap and you push the buggy?”

I keep my voice even. “Yeah, okay.”

So here I am, pushing my baby son along the beach – like a young mum on holiday.

What if I was never allowed to do this again? I get a lump in my throat, thinking of not being there to help Robbie build sandcastles, or make him picnics for when he goes paddling. I think about him being old enough to collect shells, or lie on his tummy and gaze at reflections in rock pools. Who will answer his questions? It's so hard, not being able to share my thoughts – especially with Kirsty. So hard not to be able to say
my baby – my son – my kid.
I try not to look too far ahead, to a time when he might not be with Mrs Kelly.

Kirsty charges around, zigzagging in all directions, getting Toffee to chase her.

After a while I say, “D'you think we should go back?”

She says, “Okay,” and I turn the buggy round.

Kirsty sees a stick, picks it up. I think she's going to throw it for Toffee, but instead she stops. “Look, Robbie,” she says, “this is your name.” And slowly, with sweeping lines and curves, she writes ROBBIE in the sand. I tip the buggy slightly so he can see what she's doing. His eyes follow her. “It'll stay there,” she tells him, “till a ginormous wave comes along and washes it away.”

Last night I dreamed about Robbie. We were living with Mum in a house that was meant to be this house, yet wasn't. Robbie could talk – though not very much. Then, Mum suddenly went away and Shaun was there, hurrying towards me, smiling a big smile. In the dream I knew I was dreaming. But when I woke up it was as if I was still in the dream, trying to recapture the happiness I'd felt when Mum laughed at the way Robbie had begun to talk.

Whenever I'm over at Kirsty's I try not to seem too fond of Robbie. Sometimes – acting like he's not my favourite – I wonder if I pay too much attention to the other kids. It's not easy, because when I go round he's incredibly sweet – putting his arms out to me when I come in the room. One day, when Mrs Kelly said, “Go on, Amy, pick him up – he adores you!” I found it hard not to burst into tears.

Every now and again it comes up in conversation: the fact that no one is any the wiser about Robbie's mother. Mr Kelly describes her as having “disappeared off the face of the earth”. Then I remember it's me they're talking about and I think,
No she hasn't, she's here, standing right in front of you.

Robbie's little arms and legs are starting to look a tiny bit podgy, and it's really getting to me: not him getting fatter, but me not knowing how much longer he'll be around for me to watch him develop. In twenty years' time I could sit next to him on a bus, or in a cafe, and not know he's my son.

I don't know how long the authorities wait before they assume “the birth mother” won't be claiming her child. Sometimes I'm so churned up I don't know if I can bear it. But I have to. I've got no choice.

It's nearly the end of exams. In fact, it's final English Lit revision this morning and the exam –
my
last one – this afternoon. I'm alone in the form room, thinking about Robbie, and trying to make sure I've got everything I need for the exam. This is the one where I ought to do really well.

I try out two biros. Make sure they're both working.

There's a touch on my shoulder. “Amy?”

It's Kirsty and I say, “What're you doing, creeping up on me?”

She's grinning. “I wasn't ‘creeping up on you' – but, hey, listen.”

I slip the pens into my bag.

She says, “You're to promise not to say anything.”

“Okay.”

“No,
really
promise.”

“Cross my heart.”

She says, “You'll never guess.”

“Well, I won't if you don't tell me.”

She looks round to make sure no one's come in. “Mr Smith and the Ice Queen have asked about adopting Robbie.”

There's a pain in my chest.

She mouths in my ear, “Sounds like they're hoping the birth mother won't turn up.” She's clearly waiting for something from me, but I can't speak.

It's a relief when the form room fills up and Mr Smith appears. I sit down and Kirsty slides in beside me. “Are you all right?”

“I'm okay.”

She looks awkward. “Don't tell anyone, will you?”

I manage to look her in the eye. “Of course not.”

“Mum'd kill me if it got out.”

I take a breath. “When will people know?”

“They'll never know if it doesn't come to anything.”

Not unkindly, Mr Smith says, “Amy?”

“Sorry, sir?”

“Is there something you'd like to share with us?”

If only he knew. “No, sir.”

“What about you, Kirsty?” he says.

She tugs on her ponytail. “No, sir.”

“Right then, shall we get on?” He opens
To Kill a Mockingbird
. “I think we've done enough practice papers, so let's just chat through the text before your exam.”

Now it's like he's asking himself a question. “I wonder,” he says, “why this is the only book Harper Lee wrote.”

Kirsty puts up her hand.

“Yes, Kirsty?”

“Perhaps she put everything she knew into it – and…sort of drained herself.”

Mr Smith considers this. “I've wondered about that,” he says – and Kirsty blushes with pride.

Cherie says, “Perhaps she wrote other stuff but nobody liked it.”

Mr Smith sighs. “We'll probably never know that for sure.”

Half sitting on the edge of his desk, he stretches out his long legs. Zara, who's clearly got the hots for him, can't possibly know how silly she looks with her mouth hanging open. I look at him, imagining him as Robbie's father. It's like he reads my mind. “As the father,” he says, “do we agree that Atticus comes across as pretty well perfect?”

I spot Neil Betts making a face like he couldn't care less about Atticus.

Atticus, the father, is great – always patient with his kids. (Mum's in love with him. She's seen the film with Gregory Peck.)

Mr Smith looks across at me. “Amy,” he says, “how do you see Atticus? Any particular thoughts?”

I'm usually keen to join in, but right now my mouth's dry and it's like I've literally lost the plot. Kirsty elbows me as if I might have forgotten Mr Smith is waiting for an answer. “Well,” I say, “nobody's perfect…” Then it starts coming back to me. “But even though Atticus works full-time as a lawyer, he seems to be coping well as a single parent. As far as we know, he's fair and straightforward with his kids and…”

I trail off, and when Cherie Dewhirst butts in with “Sir, sir!” I'm relieved.

Mr Smith says, “If you calm down, Cherie, we'll hear what you have to say.”

As usual, her voice is breathy and excited. “I think he
is
pretty well perfect. But do his principles put his family at risk?”

Mr Smith says, “In what way?”

“Well,” she says, “he stands up for people who have bad luck, or are born unlucky.” She gets into her stride: “He doesn't mind making a show of himself.”

“That's interesting,” he says. He pauses for a moment, and I understand him wanting us to get the most out of the story. “How do we mainly perceive Atticus?” he says. “As a father, or as a lawyer? Or do we find it hard to differentiate between the two?”

Shooting her hand up, Zara burbles on about Atticus Finch's brilliance until Mr Smith, tactfully cutting her short, draws Shaun into the discussion. Shaun, though he's not the greatest reader in the world, makes comparisons between today's racial attitudes and those in the book. Mr Smith nods vigorously. “Well done, Shaun.”

This session ought to be right up my street. I only wish I could make the most of it, like I would if I could stop thinking of Mr Smith taking Robbie to his first day of school; taking him out at weekends; teaching him to swim. I'm starting to wonder what Mrs Smith is really like, when the bell rings and we all head for the door.

Mr Smith says, “Good luck, everyone.”

Lunchtime. I hurry home as usual, but I can't eat a thing; it's like a membrane is stretched across my throat. And Mum – because she's not too well – doesn't feel like eating either. But I mix her a cup-a-soup anyway, because she must get some nourishment. If I don't eat, it won't matter, but with Mum, it's important she keeps up her energy, or at least hangs on to what little she's got.

If she doesn't perk up, we'll have to go to the surgery. I hinted at this yesterday, but she won't have it. She insists she'll be better soon.

She's worried about me not wanting anything to eat. I can't cope with a “discussion”, so I say I've been daft and ate a Mars bar Shaun gave me. I put Mum's soup and a small piece of bread on her little table, then go up to my room.

I sit on the bed. Try to get a grip. I go to the bathroom and sit on the loo – my arms round my knees – but that's no help at all. Coming back to lie on the bed, it's like I'm watching a film. Mr and Mrs Smith pushing Robbie in his buggy. Wheeling him up their front path, wherever it is they live. Giving him his tea, putting him into a cot in his cute nursery. Putting a teddy bear by his feet for the night. Switching on a wall night-light shaped like a crescent moon. Saying “sweet dreams” and creeping out of the room.

How am I going to cope with English Lit this afternoon? I think about staying at home but Mum would worry, so I have to go back.

Somehow, I get my act together. I have to, this exam is so important. Among the muddled thoughts spinning in my head, I know that even though Mr Smith wouldn't know I was the mother of his child, I can't let him down.

We're in the hall, sitting in rows behind each other. Mrs Hart, who's invigilating, says. “You may turn over your papers.”

There's a moment's rustling, then utter quiet as we lower our heads and read through the questions.

They're good. Even the ones on
The Merchant of Venice
. I can cope.

Each morning when I wake up it takes a few seconds to sink in – the fact that my GCSEs are actually over. The relief is enormous. Now, mid-afternoon, the mist that hung about until lunchtime has cleared and it's turning out to be a gorgeous, sunny day. But Mum's uncomfortable in the heat. It's rotten for her, not being able to go down to the sea on the spur of the moment. There are beads of sweat on her forehead. I dab them with a cold flannel. I wipe her hands as well, and leave the flannel on a plate with ice cubes to keep it cool. It's clear she's in pain, but she pretends it's nothing much. “Damn headache, that's all – but I've had my ration of painkillers until later.” She smiles. “You go out. Get down on the sand with that hound.” Toffee springs to attention. He knows exactly what she's said, even though she hasn't mentioned his name.

The sea is magic. It's sparkling, the tide's half-out and there's just enough air to ruffle my hair. Suddenly he's beside me. Shaun. How does he work out where I'll be? With one hand behind his back, he looks like he's hiding something. He nods at Toffee. “D'you know what I've got?”

In all honesty, I want to be alone. I need thinking time. I say, “I've no idea.”

“It's a frisbee. I got it in a charity shop.”

“Oh, Shaun, that's so kind – Toffee'll love it.”

He says, “Shall I throw it for him?”

“Yes – go on!”

He flings the frisbee. It whirls higher and higher before landing quite a way off. Like a greyhound, Toffee races to bring it back. Shaun and I, we spend a good ten minutes giving Toffee the time of his life.

I look at my watch. “Isn't it nearly your teatime?”

Shaun says, “Yeah, better go,” and hands me the frisbee. He turns, then looks back over his shoulder. “Careful you don't get sunburnt!” He walks a little way, then turns again. “Let me know if you want your hair trimming.”

“Yes, I will. Thanks.”

He's already jogging when the idea hits me.

“Shaun!”

He stops dead. Spins round. Comes running back. Skids to a stop in the sand. “What?”