Writing in the Sand (24 page)

I hear her again, though not what she's saying. She's talking in an undertone. Twigs snap underfoot. Footsteps, but not
my
feet. Now, dammit, I've got something in my eye, and the footsteps keep on coming.

I squint with my good eye, and she appears in my line of vision. “Amy!” Holding back waist-high branches and lit by a freak ray of sun, she would look – if it wasn't for the mobile phone clamped to her ear – like a statue growing out of the greenery. She talks into her phone. “It's all right, I've found her.”

I blink, and my eye clears.

She shakes her head at me. “You had me worried.”

I try to smile. “Sorry. I lost sight of you. I had something in my eye.”

“Let me have a look.”

“It's okay, it's gone now.”

“Good, then let's get you back to the house.”

I've got no choice, and follow her back through the wood while she talks excitedly about rabbits and foxes. I traipse after her, hoping she won't tell me she's bought Robbie a box set of Beatrix Potter tales.

We sit at the kitchen table, and she tells me she just spoke to Mr Smith. “He's been to the funeral director's,” she says.

“I'm sorry. It's very sad.”

After a moment she says, “His mother had looked forward to grandchildren for years. She would have loved Robbie.”

I think of Mum and how fond she is of Robbie. And how, for his sake, she might be unselfish enough to let another granny take her place. Grief wells up in me, and I feel my face distorted by hot tears. Before I know it Mrs Smith is behind me, her arms falling over my shoulders and her hands turning my head so my nose is pressed into her breast.

She strokes my hair back from my face. “Amy – dear Amy – I promise you faithfully – Andrew and I…” Her arms stiffen and she trails off, listening. My neck hurts, and just as I have difficulty taking another breath, I hear it. A key in the front door.

I want to speak, but I can't. Someone else does, though – and he's standing in the doorway. “Oh, Gina,” he says. She lets go of me and he comes across the kitchen to take her in his arms.

Holding her close, Mr Smith looks at me over her head of shining hair. His voice is full of pain. “Amy, I'm so sorry.”

I can't quite believe I'm with Mr Smith, in his car, on my way home. It's almost surreal and I wonder if I've been given this space to think again. He and Mrs Smith in each other's arms in the kitchen. Robbie's nursery, the lovely garden. What am I doing, depriving him of this kind of life? Wouldn't everyone's troubles be over if I let go? Mum's, Mr and Mrs Smith's, Mrs Kelly's? Mine? And Robbie's – though for now he's perfectly happy and doesn't know the meaning of trouble.

Unexpected rain hits the windscreen, and I glance at Mr Smith's tanned hand flicking the wipers on, and at his clean-cut profile. I think how distressed he was for his wife. How loyal. Could I give Robbie up? Could I make this sacrifice?

We're home. He stops the car and comes round to open my door. I say, “Thank you for the lift, Mr Smith.” Our eyes meet for a moment; his are so kind.

“You're welcome, Amy…and I'm sorry you've had what must have been…” He gropes for the words. “…A stressful time.”

He doesn't say anything else, but I can sense him watching as I turn my key in the lock.

Home at last, and indoors I make a sandwich each for me and Lisa, then I call Kirsty to say I need to come over. She doesn't say much – just, “Okay then, see you in a bit.”

I tell Lisa where I'm going, and ask her to keep an eye on Toffee. The tide's coming in, and it's quite blowy. I wish it would clear my head of Gina Smith and the pretty nursery. I'd love to talk to Kirsty about it, though I don't know if I'd be able to put into words how I feel. How painful it is.

Shaun's in the garden with the kids, helping Mr Kelly clear up after a messy picnic lunch. Robbie's having a nap upstairs and Kirsty and I are in the kitchen. For a time it's awkward. She sits down at the table and carries on with what she was doing when I arrived – pinning a paper pattern onto some blue and white striped material. I ask what she's making.

She pulls a face. “A blouse. I hope.”

“You don't do sewing.”

“I know, but I thought I'd give it a try. Jordan likes blue.”

I can't meet her eye, but I touch the material. “It feels nice.”

She says, “Why didn't you tell me?”

How can I ever explain? I rub my forehead, like I can rub out my frown. “I wrote you a letter.” I pause. “But I didn't send it.”

“Why not?”

“Mostly because I didn't want to put you in a difficult position. You know, feeling you had a duty to tell someone.” I pause. “I wrote it after I saw Robbie here. The afternoon Shaun cut my hair… I didn't think you'd ever speak to me again.”

“You should've known me better than that. We could have talked about it. You might have felt better.”

I'm with my best friend, yet my mouth is like sandpaper. “I know. I'm sorry.” I watch her sticking pins through the paper pattern into the stripy stuff. “I lied from the beginning. I had to, because of Mum. Then somehow, I don't know, I couldn't undo them – the lies.”

Kirsty pricks herself. “Ouch!” She sucks the speck of blood off her finger. She takes a breath and says, sounding almost like her mum, “D'you want to talk about it?”

I'm not sure if I do, and the next thing I know I'm losing it. Tears squirt out of my eyes and I start making silly squealing noises. Kirsty leaps up, her chair crashing to the floor. Her arms go round me. Arms I know and love. Not Gina's.

I lick the tears off my lips. “I was such an idiot.”

She lets go of me, pulls sheets off a kitchen roll, stuffs them into my hand. “Robbie's dad…” She puts her head on one side. “I don't have to ask.”

I very nearly smile. She rights her chair and we both sit at the table. “Amy – you and me, we don't have secrets. Why didn't you tell me when you first knew you were pregnant?”

“I didn't know.”

There's disbelief in her eyes. “You must have.”

“I knew what I'd done, of course I did; I'm not that stupid. I even thought afterwards how mad I'd been to let it happen, that I hadn't meant to do it until I was on the pill. It just kind of happened. You know – in the heat of the moment?” Our eyes meet. “You think you're in control…” She waits for me to go on. “It's…overpowering.”

“Didn't you wonder, when you missed a period?”

“No, because I'd been all over the place for ages. And anyway I thought—” I stop there; I don't want to admit how thick I must have been. “You know? I just didn't think I could get pregnant… Not the first time… How daft was that?”

“Amy?”

“Yes?”

“Mum was out when I got back.” She glances out of the window. “Dad hasn't given me any details.” She pauses. “So who knows about Robbie?”

I feel awkward, take a breath. “Well – your mum and dad, of course… The Smiths. Lisa, Shaun, my mum. Probably Mrs Wickham by now. Bloody everybody.”

“
Shaun
knows?”

“Honestly, Kirsty, it's like he's got some sort of sixth sense.” Then I think,
no more lies
, and say, “He saw me leave Robbie here.”

The back door opens and Mr Kelly looks in. “Ah – I thought I heard voices.” He looks at me. Perhaps he notices my eyes are red. “Everything all right?”

Kirsty says, “Fine. We're good – just talking.”

He nods and goes back into the garden.

We're quiet for a moment, then Kirsty says. “That was quite a list of names…but no Liam.”

I shake my head. Chew my cheek and break the skin.

She frowns. “Shouldn't he know?”

I shrug, though her question deserves more than that. Then I say – like I've told myself a thousand times – “I bet he'd rather not know.”

“Amy, you can't be sure.”

“One thing I
am
sure about: I don't want Robbie ending up in Australia.”

She looks thoughtful, then voices my dread. “They might want to come back if they knew about Robbie.” Clearly, my face says it all, and she touches my hand. “Would that be so terrible?” She pauses. “Apart from anything else, doesn't Liam have rights?”

“Don't I have rights
not
to tell him?”

She says, “Won't Social Services want to contact him?”

“Even if they do, they're not likely to recommend him as a better parent over me.” A weight settles in my chest – how unsuitable we both must look.

I let my forefinger doodle on the table. With every second it gets clearer. Robbie has to stay with me… Though if anyone wants to fight me for him, I suppose Liam might have rights. But would he want to parent a child he'd known nothing about? I'm more or less dead certain he wouldn't.

Kirsty looks sad. “Liam was so
nice
.”

I pick up the envelope of her blouse pattern, blink back more tears and put it down again. “I know, and I want to remember him that way.” Thoughts that have lain quiet bubble to the surface. “Later on – if Robbie asked me about his dad – I'd want to tell him the good things.”

“Of course you would.”

“Like he was—” I can't help it: my shoulders start shaking. I put my head on the table and sob.

I feel Kirsty's hand on my back. “Like he was…?”

I grab enough air to speak. “That he was very young, that he
tried
to understand about Mum and me… That he was a lovely guy.”

Kirsty says, “I suppose your mum realized Liam's the dad.”

I nod, then tell her how her own mum shocked me rigid by assuming Robbie was Lisa's baby. She lets this sink in, then folds her fabric pieces and puts the loose pins in a small blue box.

I tell her Mum's coming home tomorrow and that I need everything to be calm.

She sighs. “Your poor mum.” She gets up, goes to the fridge and takes out a carton of fruit juice. “Amy, I don't want to sound unkind or anything, but if you don't have Robbie adopted or – God forbid, and I hate saying this ­– see him put on a plane for Australia…who'd look after him?
You
can't, because of school and your mum and – well, you just can't.”

I swallow hard. “Thanks for reminding me.”

She slowly pours orange juice into two glasses. “Did you know, if there's someone in the family who'd like to look after Robbie, they could apply to be a special guardian, and you'd be able to—”

I cut her off. “There isn't anyone. No one except Lisa, and I can't see that working out…” I watch her replace the top on the juice.

She turns to me. “There's something Mum and Dad were talking about last night after you'd gone home. Mum's friend knows about a kid in Morpeth whose gran has applied to be his special guardian.”

“Can't she simply look after him without being a guardian?”

“There's more to it than that. I think the mother's a bit unreliable.”

I give a short laugh. “Like she's sixteen and a complete mess.”

Kirsty says, “Actually, she's fourteen.”

I ask if she knows why the kid's not being adopted, and she says the family wants him to stay with them.

Something happens inside me. An explosion of hope. This sounds so perfect, it's like I'm suddenly on a high after too much black coffee. Pictures crowd in on me, and I imagine Mum and me looking after Robbie together. And as well – because it can't only be Mum – the guardian: someone, a vague figure – who only takes a moment to morph into Mrs Kelly. The thought – the fantasy – moves me so much I'm almost blubbing again.

Kirsty pushes a glass into my hand. It's icy cold.

When I get home, Lisa's faffing about, making a big deal out of washing up a couple of plates and a bit of cutlery. For once I'd rather she left it to me. I ask her if Mum's room is ready.

“I'll do it in a minute.”

I shout at her, “
Do it now!”

“Okay, okay,” she says, and goes upstairs. Very slowly. To be fair, when I check, she's tidied up properly and moved her piles of stuff into my room. (Our room.) All I have to do is remake Mum's bed with clean sheets.

Later, I tear up my letter to Kirsty.

When Mum arrived home, and almost before she'd had time to get used to it, Mrs Wickham called to say she'd like to come round for a chat. I worried like hell, praying she wouldn't sway Mum towards it being best for Robbie to be adopted. One minute I was in the depths, preparing for a life without him; the next I was on cloud nine, thinking about the baby in Morpeth staying with its family – and praying something like that could happen to us.

As it happened, Mrs Wickham didn't want to talk about Robbie. Not her department, she said. She'd come to talk about getting more help for Mum. At first this freaked me out. What did more help mean? Here in the house, or in a care home where nurses dispensed drugs and I'd get on a bus to visit Mum with an armful of library books? It was an enormous relief when Mrs Wickham – getting me sat down first – said there'd be no question of Mum living anywhere else.

“Amy,” she said, “you've got a lovely little house here. With a bit of extra help – someone coming in, say, once a day – you and Lisa would manage that bit easier than you are at the moment.”

When I collapsed in tears, embarrassingly, she put the kettle on, then went upstairs to tell Mum I was happy with the idea.
Happy!?

A really nice person started this week – Mrs Dundas, who lives ten minutes away by car. She's friendly, but I can't help wondering – when we chat about how Lisa and I (ha!) help Mum – what she secretly thinks of me. Whether she goes home and tells her family I look quite ordinary. Not the sort you'd think would have the town in an uproar by running off with her own baby.