Writing in the Sand (6 page)

Kirsty's remark comes out of the blue: “Have you ever seen his wife?”

I follow her glance. “Mr Smith's?”

She nods, and I say, “No. Have you?”

“Yeah, last week. She picked Mum up for a council meeting they both wanted to go to.”

“What's she like?”

“A bit stuck-up. She's a bank manager.” She pauses. “Mum thinks she's lovely.”

“You mean to look at?”

She says, “I suppose so. Though I can't see it.”

“Isn't that a bit mean?”

“I'm only stating a fact.” She changes the subject. “By the way, you've got a secret admirer.”

“What d'you mean?”

“Shaun,” she says, “he fancies you.”

“Don't be daft!”

“He does,” she says.

As he closes his boot, Mr Smith spots us and calls out, “Morning, girls!”

Kirsty hurries towards the car, and I follow. She says, “Can I carry something for you, sir?”

He reaches for a pile of exercise books. “Thanks, Kirsty.” Taking them from him, she gives me the tiniest look of triumph. He says, “You can put them on my desk,” and there she goes, trotting off, her ponytail shimmering in the morning sun.

I get the feeling I'm going to sneeze. I shove my hand in my pocket for a tissue, but there isn't one. Instead, as I pull my hand back out, Mum's note for the post office falls to the ground. I start to bend over for it, but get that low-down twinge again. It must show, because Mr Smith says, “All right, Amy?” and picks it up himself. I tell him I'm okay.

He hands me the note and I say, “It's about a dog we found. He just turned up at our back door.” Mr Smith looks genuinely interested and I show him the note.

He takes it and smiles. “A brown dog, eh? As it happens, I'm very partial to dogs.”

My heart lifts at the thought of someone liking Toffee without even seeing him. “We've called him Toffee because of his colour.”

He grins. “Caramel or treacle?”

“Definitely caramel,” I tell him, and we both laugh.

“And you hope no one's going to claim him.”

I nod.

“Fingers crossed, then.” He hands me the note, and I put it back in my pocket.

Shaun's come to sit in the revision session with us. Mr Smith has put him at the back, probably because he's head and shoulders taller than anyone else.

We're revising English Lit and Mr Smith suggests Kirsty reads aloud from
Lord of the Flies
. Which she does, describing how Ralph courageously searches the island for “the beast”. She reads clearly and dramatically, with real feeling.

Mr Smith says, “Thank you, Kirsty. That was great – very expressive.” He catches Neil Betts yawning; books bore him, even
Lord of the Flies
. To be honest, I'm surprised he bothered to turn up this morning. In a minute, Mr Smith's going to get his own back – he'll ask Neil to read. But Neil's let off the hook because the Head opens the door and beckons Mr Smith. “Can you spare a minute?”

As the two of them leave, to stand just outside the door, a couple of chairs scrape back. A feeling of relaxation runs round the room. Mr Wilson's “minute” could turn into anything up to a quarter of an hour. When Kirsty realizes I'll carry on revising, she draws an imaginary halo over my head. My grin indicates she can think what she likes.

One afternoon last term Mr Smith asked me to stay behind to discuss my homework. Until that moment I'd been thinking I'd done quite well, but now I was starting to think I must have written total nonsense.

I suddenly felt deflated.

The chair he pulled forward for me squeaked in the quiet classroom. “This is a good piece of work, Amy.”

I thought I hadn't heard properly. “Sorry?”

“It's great,” he said. “Sit down for a moment.”

“Thank you.”

He smoothed open my exercise book. “You've given me what I asked for. And no more. No waffle.”

He leaned back, hands behind his head. He smiled at me. “Well done.”

I thought that was all he wanted to say; that I should thank him again and leave. But he didn't seem in any hurry. “You're a clever girl, Amy. Forgetting GCSE results for the moment, what are your post-A Level plans? Have you thought about college?”

Warning bells clanged in my head. College, university. Leaving home. No one to look after Mum. Careful – don't give too much away.

A question mark hung in his voice: “Perhaps you've not thought about it yet.”

Was he waiting for me to say something? “I'm not sure I'd want to move far away.”

He chuckled. “So it won't be Oxford or Cambridge. Do I sense you're a home bird?”

As well as silly dreams about Australia, there
are
times I wonder what it would be like to take off. Go anywhere. Right now I can't, of course. But maybe – if Mum's health improves – one day I might.

I changed the subject. “University costs such a lot.”

“You're right. An arm and a leg these days – though it's possible you'd be eligible for financial support. And loans aren't generally repayable until you're in a good job.” He looked away for a second, like he didn't want to pry into my private life. “But there are other options,” he said. “Higher education colleges and apprenticeships. University needn't be the be-all and end-all.” He paused. “You're still young…but have you thought of what career you'd like to follow?” He raised an eyebrow. “Any burning ambition?”

“Not really. Though definitely not anything to do with figures.”

“There's nothing wrong with your maths.”

“I know, but I'd hate to be stuck in accountancy or something like that.” I chased around in my brain for something positive to say. I wanted to tell him I'd like to be a writer and that I sometimes write short poems, but I thought it might sound too ambitious. Then I thought I'd go for it anyway. “I'd like to write.”

He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Well then – how about journalism?”

I thought for a few moments, imagining standing outside a court, taking notes in shorthand; or pushing a microphone in the face of a grieving relative. I shook my head. “I don't think I could intrude into people's lives.”

He seemed to be thinking for a moment, then he said, “I know what you mean. I don't think I could do that either.”

We both laughed, and I decided I'd better stand up. Look like I was ready to go home.

He stood up as well. “There's still time to think.” He smiled. “If you ever want to discuss anything, my door's always open.”

I'd walked home that afternoon, happier than I'd felt for ages. Me at college? But I didn't want to say too much to Mum. The trouble is, with my worries over leaving her, I never look much further than the next set of exams.

I pull myself back to the present just as Mr Smith returns.

He hasn't forgotten who was about to read. “Neil,” he says, “if you'd carry on, please – where Kirsty left off.” I glance sideways at Neil's sulky profile. I bet his mind was a million miles away from
Lord of the Flies
. Mr Smith waits a few moments. “Bottom of the page, Neil. Come on.”

Neil says, “Oh, yeah,” and reads painfully slowly until Mr Smith says, “All right, Neil, thank you very much,” and Neil slumps back in his seat.

When I give Mum's note to Mrs Goodge in the post office, she says, “You'd like me to copy this onto a proper postcard, pet?” I think for a moment, because Mrs Goodge – so small that Kirsty and I call her “The Borrower” – has awkward, very loopy handwriting and shocking grammar. She's got a thing about labels – they're everywhere:
Sweets for Those with Nut Allergy's
;
Photo-copying, Just Ask
;
Post Office closes 12 Saturday's
;
Childrens SAFE felt-tip pen's.

But it's kind of her to offer, and I say, “Thank you. Can you copy the words exactly, please.”

She takes two felt pens from behind the till. “Which colour, pet?” She holds out red and brown. I choose brown because it won't hit folk in the eye like red.

As I leave the shop, I look hungrily at snacks in the chill cabinet and think how good it must be to have no money worries; if you could just choose your favourite sandwiches – tuna mayonnaise, cheese and pickle, free-range egg and cress. I'd have a mound of poached salmon in seeded bread with wild rocket. (Mrs Goodge doesn't sell that but I saw the idea in a magazine.)

Back home, Toffee's all over me. First I make a fuss of him, then sort out a pot of tea and peanut butter on toast.

I help Mum upstairs to the loo. While she's in there, she says, “Did you take my ad to the post office?”

I lean on the door, waiting for her to finish. “Yeah – hope nobody reads it!”

Last night I felt like I was coming down with something. Mum says it's times like this she wishes, more than ever, that she wasn't sick. “If only I had my health,” she says.

I wonder if I should call Lisa – warn her we might need her.

Lisa? Have I gone mad? At the worst, I've only got a bug. We'll muddle through. Anyway, if I'm not better quickly all I need do is call Kirsty and ask her to get another bag of dog food. I've got cash put by. I'm sure to be okay by Friday and we've got enough food for ourselves to last till then, at least. It's Fridays I go to the supermarket and get stocked up. It takes me ages because I look for all the
Whoops!
labels – pointing out reduced items. It's time-consuming but you can save money.

I've got definite cramps this morning – and some bleeding. So finally my period's decided to put in an appearance. It's a relief in a way; proof that my pains before were nothing to worry about.

Though I tell Mum about my period, I don't make too much of the cramps. They can't be as bad as her arthritis and she doesn't need anything else to worry about.

I don't tell Kirsty, but she spots me wincing. “I hope you've not got that stomach bug going round.”

I tell her I'm sure I haven't and leave it at that.

It's just a period, no big deal – I don't need to spell it out.

End of the afternoon, and we're halfway through a Geography revision session, discussing farming in rural areas. So far Shaun hasn't said a word. Miss Havers picks on him. “Shaun, isn't it? Can you tell us the difference between sedentary and nomadic farming?”

Shaun says, “Yes,” and Miss Havers waits for him to go on. But he doesn't.

She gives a big sigh and looks across at me. “Amy?”

I'm aware of the question but my cramps suddenly get so bad I ask Miss Havers if I can leave the room. I sense Kirsty looking at me. “Shall I go with her?” she asks Miss Havers.

Miss Havers says, “Thank you, Kirsty, but I think we can be fairly certain Amy can manage on her own.”

I'm halfway to the door when Kirsty says, “But what if she's got this bug?”

I don't hear Miss Havers's reply because I'm out of the door and heading down the corridor. I'm feeling so awful, all I want is to double up on the loo.

It's quiet, thank goodness. No giggling Year Sevens, skiving in a cubicle. I sit down. Put my head on my knees – or as near as I can. I'm feeling bloated. But that's okay; I know some girls get like this every month. Until how old? Fifty?

I've sat here for about ten minutes. Miraculously, the pain's going away. I don't need the spare pad I've got rolled up in a hankie in my pocket. In fact, there's not much more blood than there was earlier on.

I wash my hands and look in the mirror. Normally I've got a pinkish sort of complexion – rosy – but today I look pinched and pale. My hair looks a darker brown. It's curlier than usual because it wants washing. I meant to do it first thing this morning, but with the way I was feeling, it was the last thing on my mind.

When I get back, it's noisy in the classroom. Miss Havers has left, and everyone's packing up their stuff, ready to head home.

With my belly settling down, I feel quite euphoric at the absence of cramps. They seem to have gone completely.

By bedtime it's pouring with rain. I give Mum her sleeping pill, put a glass of water on her bedside table and tuck her in. Toffee curls up on an old quilt at the end of her bed. All of a sudden, thinking of someone reading the card and claiming him, I find it hard not to cry.

Mum mistakes the look on my face. “Still having those cramps?”

“Kind of.”

“They'll have worn off by tomorrow.” She reaches out for my hand. I sit on the bed and stroke her hair. Her breathing deepens. She's asleep.

I go downstairs to make sure the back door's bolted. I check the front too. Then I draw back the curtain over the sink ­– I hate coming down to a dark kitchen in the morning. The rain has stopped and there's a full moon. Clouds are scudding across the sky. Every now and then the moon disappears.

I head back upstairs. It's weird; I haven't drunk more than usual this evening – just a mug of tea, then a couple of glasses of water – but I can't stop going to the loo.

Now I'm not sharing with Lisa, I love my bedroom. When she was here it was a complete tip. For Mum's sake I'd be prepared to share again, but I'd rather not. I get into bed and read for a bit, though the trashy romance Kirsty lent me isn't really my bag. I'll find something else when I go to the library for Mum. She needs topping up with a fresh pile of thrillers. Gory murders with too many bodies and too much information. Strange how Mum gets such a kick out of stuff like that.

It's the pain that wakes me. I rub my belly, trying to soothe it.
Wow
, where's this come from? The cramps are worse, much worse. The pain's excruciating! What if I've got a superbug as well as a period? I want to cry out, but no way can I wake Mum. On a scale of ten, the pain is fifteen. Should I try to get out of bed? I try rolling onto my side…it's fractionally more comfortable. But here it comes again! I pull the pillow over my head. If only I could scream, but I mustn't, I mustn't. Instead I bite the pillow. Bite it and bite it. Rub my face from side to side.