Writing in the Sand (19 page)

My dream can't help me. It only showed what I already know. That I'm worried to death over Robbie's future. What made fate decide to sling all this at me? Like the shock of giving birth to Robbie and having to leave him at the Kellys'. And splitting with Liam, though I knew that had to happen. Weighed against all this, the possibility of Mr Smith becoming Robbie's dad had begun to look like something I could live with.

Not much comfort in that any longer, though. Not with Mrs Smith giving me nightmares. Literally.

There's hardly anybody about. Seems I'm almost the only human being crazy enough to come out in a monsoon. I turn my head, wanting to see how rough the sea is, but my hood doesn't move and I'm left staring at the lining. I'm wet through when I reach the post office.

Little Mrs Goodge isn't behind the counter, or anywhere else. The place looks deserted…until a man with a thick neck, bushy eyebrows and a frown comes from the back and stands behind the glass post office screen. His frown deepening, he eyes me. It's clear he sees me as a total nobody. Or is
he
the nobody – who needs me to think he's important? I don't care either way.

I remember Mrs Goodge is on holiday; she's gone to stay with her daughter on the west coast of Scotland.

Before asking for Mum's stamps I try to dry my hands under my parka. I say, “Six second-class stamps, please.”

He makes a point of peering at the floor, over on my side of the counter. “Do me a favour.”

“Sorry?”

“Go back and wipe your feet on the mat.”

I can't believe he's so rude, but I go to the door and make a show of wiping my feet before I come back to pay him and take the stamps.

I resent giving Mr Beecroft – his name is on a little plastic stand – the satisfaction of selling me anything else, and if there was somewhere else to go for cereal I would. Then I think of Mrs Goodge needing to make a living, and I feel a bit better.

In front of the eggs and milk, there's an abandoned box on the floor. It says
24 x Salad Cream
, and I nearly trip over it. I still can't shake off my sickening dream. Uninvited images swim into my head: Mrs Smith with the real Robbie, not the oversized version in my dream. Mrs Smith, hard-hearted, telling him his granny is dead. And at the funeral, her face stony while Mr Smith's is wet with tears.

I pull a packet of bran flakes off the shelf and turn it over. I check for vitamins and minerals. Will this brand be as good for Mum as her usual cereal? I want to have everything right for when she comes home. Which has to be soon. It
has
to be. Having her live in my head, giving me answers I can't hear her speak, is nothing like enough. The medics can't rush things, I know that – and they're fantastic – but I need her here. To be wise for me.

The post office door opens. I glance sideways. A woman with rain running off the hood of her mac wheels a buggy up to the post office counter. I turn away because I notice Neil Betts and Jez Calvert on the pavement, looking like they might follow her in. The way I feel this morning, they're the last two on earth I want to talk to. I pull my hood right down. The next time I look they're still outside, dripping wet, reading Mrs Goodge's ads in the window. (
Found – Brown dog
isn't there any longer. We never put it back up after Mr Jackson took it down.)

Mr Beecroft leaves the post office area. Puffed up and smug, he points to the buggy. “I'm afraid you can't bring that in here. I'm expecting a delivery.” You can hear the pleasure in his voice – letting the woman know he's got the upper hand.

I feel for her until she says, “Oh, sorry,” and hurriedly pushes the buggy to the door.
Sorry?
I'd tell him to stuff his delivery. Is Mr Beecroft going to help her with the door? No. He goes back behind the post office counter and the parcel he's weighing, and lets her struggle as she manoeuvres the buggy over the step. She parks it close to the wall. I watch her make sure the brake is on – which she's doing at the same time as a Shop-For-Food lorry pulls up outside, darkening the window. Now she's back in the shop looking like she's heading my way towards the cereal. She pushes back her soaking-wet hood. I feel ill – it's Mrs Smith.

I think she'll spot me, but she stops at Baby Products. While she dithers, reading the labels, I pull my hood right down and plunge round the top corner of the aisle. I'm clearly not thinking straight, and as I run towards the door Mr Beecroft barks, “I hope you're going to pay for that!” God – Mum's cereal. Keeping my back to Mrs Smith, I put it on the main shop counter and, my hands shaking, fish out the change from my purse. He checks the coins slowly, so slowly you'd think it was deliberate. My heart is thudding.
That has to be Robbie outside.
I glance through the window at a beefy delivery man hoisting a towering pile of boxes onto his shoulder. Mr Beecroft slides my money into the till. The door opens and the delivery man is inside, seeming to fill the front of the shop. “Where d'you want it?” he says.

“Stockroom at the back,” says Mr Beecroft.

I'm desperate to get out, but the man and his goods are blocking the way. Though I try to get round him, there's not enough room. He's huge, taller even than Shaun. He looks down at me. “That your kid out there, bawling its head off?” He flicks a look at Mr Beecroft. “I wouldn't leave a dog out in this,” he says, and that hypocrite Beecroft raises his eyes to the ceiling.

“Shocking,” he says.

My heart's still hammering. Has Mrs Smith heard these comments? It doesn't look like it – she's still at the back of the shop. Beefy Man steps aside for me. I keep my head right down because I know what I'm going to do, and I also know there's CCTV in the shop. It'll have caught me before, when I bought stamps and chose the cereal. That doesn't matter. It's now that matters.

At last I'm outside, leaning over Robbie, who's buffeted by the wind and crying his little heart out under the plastic buggy hood. I don't risk looking round to see if anyone's watching. Grabbing the buggy, I let the brake off and start running.

I'm already past the rear end of the Shop-For-Food truck, but the buggy's wheels have a mind of their own, and I get so close to the road I nearly send both of us careering into the side of a white van. I'm splashed head to foot with spray. With rain hitting my eyeballs, I run until the van – hooting at me – disappears.

I don't know how my brain keeps ticking over, but it does. It tells me there's no one nearby. No one's following me. No one's staring at me. I spot someone in the chemist, but it's just the pharmacist reaching up to a shelf. We only have a few shops, and I leave the last one behind – a wool shop that's closed more often than it's open.

Water rushes down the road because the drains can't cope. One's had its cover forced off. A fountain of water shoots up. It's like me. Me with my head blown off.

Bumping into a pothole, I'm out of control. The buggy swerves sideways. For a second it's on one wheel, but I can't slow down. I daren't. I'm hanging on for dear life. For Robbie's life. No way am I letting Gina Smith have him.

Toffee is ecstatic to see me; and to see Robbie – who seems fine after his bouncing ride, and whose bright eyes follow every tail wag. There's no sign of Lisa. The breakfast table is the same as when I left. And here's me with a packet of cereal, six second-class stamps and my baby son.

I unclip the see-through hood and lift Robbie out of the buggy. Toffee makes excited noises; he's discovering he's mad about this tiny person. Or perhaps he knows it's the baby he's seen before. I stand here, brain-dead, like I need winding up but can't find the key.

Or can I?

Taking a steadying breath, I look into Robbie's eyes. They lock with mine and it hits me with a glorious soft thud:
I'm at home with my baby!
Mine, not anyone else's. I can do this…

…Or I could if I knew where to put him. Somewhere Toffee won't lick him to bits.

I keep calm. Think for a moment. Of course – the front room. I slip him back in the buggy and wheel him through. When Toffee makes to follow I push him back into the hallway, but he's not having it and barks non-stop. Robbie stiffens and screams. I look down at the back of the buggy, at a space underneath for shopping. There's an Asda plastic bag. It's not just a spare, there's something in it. I bend down, pull it out. This is almost too lucky – like the last half-hour happened for a reason. Why else would I find a disposable nappy wrapped round a bottle of ready-to-warm formula?

I come to my senses. This isn't fate. This is Mrs Kelly giving Gina Smith time alone with Robbie. It's probably all part of the adoption plan.

But where does only one feed and a nappy change leave
me
? I'll need stuff, and someone has to get it.

It's pretty obvious I don't have an option: she's not reliable, she's selfish, she's lazy – but she's okay at shopping.

Lisa.

I leave Robbie yelling in the front room, and half fill the kettle. I need to heat up water to stand his bottle in. I turn on the kettle and switch on
The Jeremy Kyle Show
: I want to drown the manic noise of Robbie crying, just so I can think straight while I get his bottle ready. Waiting for the kettle to boil and shoving Toffee from under my feet, I run in and out of the front room – each time picking Robbie up to give him a quick rock. It must be time for his feed because with every second he's getting more and more hysterical. Nothing I do – rocking him faster, kissing him – has any effect. Tears spurt from his tight-shut eyes. You'd think all this screaming would tear the skin off his throat. He must know things aren't right. Does he think
I'm
not right? No – I
was
right. I
am
right. He was desperate out there in his buggy. I had to bring him home.

The kettle boils. I pour water into a mixing bowl and stand the bottle in it. I fetch Robbie and walk round the kitchen with him. I'm frantic, in case the shouting match between the teenage couple on TV – her with hardly any front teeth – will upset him even more. But it's strange, something in the girl's voice stops him dead, and he starts watching the screen. All the same, I switch channels to a quiet programme about a family moving to the country, and sit at the table to give him his bottle. I make sure the milk is warm enough, and let him suck. And suck and suck, while his eyes roll sideways towards the TV, like he's hypnotized by this family moving into a converted chapel.

The whole time he sucks and swallows, I'm more sure than ever I was right. It's a crazy thing I've done, but I had to do it.

I look up. Lisa's stood in the doorway. Raising a freshly plucked eyebrow, she looks at Robbie. “I'm not imagining it then – I did hear something.”

She picks up the cereal packet, looks at the picture on the front and bangs it down. “I don't like this stuff.”

I force a smile. “If you hang on, I'll make some toast.” She pulls two slices of brown bread from the wrapper. “I'll do it,” she says. Gives me a look: “Seems like you're a bit busy.” She struggles with our awkward grill pan. “I hate brown bread.”

She's determined not to actually look surprised. On and off she stares at me, waiting for the bread to toast. She turns it over, then gazes out of the window until it smells burnt. She fishes it out, blows on her fingers and flips a piece onto a plate. She nods at Robbie. “You'll give it indigestion.”

“No I won't.”

“You bloody will, you're shaking like a jelly. What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

Robbie burps. Casually, she looks more closely at him. “Anyway, whose is it?”

I don't answer, and she gets out the margarine. For a moment or two it seems she might not ask again.

She makes a mess spreading jam on her toast. “Does it have a name?”

I pretend I haven't heard; make it look like I'm too occupied checking the bottle to see how much Robbie's drunk.

She licks jam off her thumb. “This is well weird, Amy. I come down for something to eat; you're giving some baby its flippin' bottle – and you're not even bothered what it's called.”

Suddenly I'm crying. “
…Lisa…help me
.”

She stops, the toast halfway to her mouth. “Help you?”

My nose is running and I give a big sniff. “I need you, Lisa.”

“God, you look revolting. I'll make you a brew.”

While she turns on the tap, I try to work out what I most need from her. “Promise you won't lose your rag?” I watch her fill the kettle. “All I want is for you not to say anything.”

“About what?” She nods at Robbie. “Like I need ask. Anyway, who's wanting to know?”

“Everyone will want to know.” I tug on the bottle to stop Robbie swallowing air. “I…” I search for the words and come out with the truth: “I snatched him.”

She stares at me, her mouth open. “You
what
? Have you gone completely off your trolley?”

“I didn't have time to think. It was something I had to do.”

“
Why?
”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“So nobody knows it's here,” she pauses, “except me.” I can practically hear the cogs grinding. She fumbles for tea bags. Drops one on the floor. Finally she gets one in each mug. She half turns. “I don't have to stay, you know.”

“Lisa – you've got to. You're going to have to visit Mum instead of me.” Her eyes avoid mine. “Lisa, look at me –
please
. You have to stay…” My voice breaks: “If you don't, how can I look after the baby?”

She shrugs. “I can't see the problem – seeing as it's not yours to look after.” She chews the inside of her cheek. “Anyway, what is it – boy or a girl?”