Writing in the Sand Read online

  I open the door to a dumpy woman with grey hair so short it’s almost stubble. Perhaps she knows it’s a mistake, and bought the dangly earrings to make up for it. “Hello there,” she says, “I’m Mrs Wickham. You must be Amy.” She seems nice, and I swallow my silly impulse to say, Sorry, Amy emigrated to Australia. Instead I ask her to come through. This takes about three steps before doing a little dance to decide who’s going into the kitchen first. In the end, she edges in front of me.

  I say, “We could have gone in the front room, but the—”

  “Oh no,” she says, “I much prefer the kitchen, it’s the heart of the home.”

  Mum makes a little movement like she’s going to stand up, but I give her The Big Stare that says, Don’t you dare move, you might fall. I ask Mrs Wickham if she’d like a cup of tea.

  “Actually,” she says, “I could murder a coffee.”

  My mind goes into Grand Prix mode. Coffee. Have we got any? I open a cupboard, at the same time standing well in front of it. I don’t want Mrs Wickham clocking what we have or haven’t got. I spot a jar of something instant. And old. I get it out. There’s about a teaspoonful of coffee sticking to the bottom. I wave the jar. “Coming up!” I tell her. Then, “Tea for you, Mum?”

  Mum gets the message. “Great – thanks, love.”

  Switching on the kettle, I murmur, “Me too, I’ll have tea.”

  Up until this moment Toffee hasn’t moved from his place beside the washing machine. Then suddenly, like he’s sat around long enough, he makes for Mrs Wickham’s left foot in its sensible beige sandal. Too late for me to stop him, he makes a grab at her puffy ankle and does that thing you really wish dogs wouldn’t do.

  She tries pushing him off, but he’s hanging onto her like a dead weight. “Get off!” she says.

  Mum says, “Do something, Amy.”

  “Yes, do something, Amy,” says Mrs Wickham.

  “Bad dog!” I say and, putting my arms round his middle, I pull as hard as I can. For a horrible moment I think I’m going to end up dragging Mrs Wickham off her chair. But Toffee sees sense, turns round in a flash and licks my nose.

  Mrs Wickham checks to see her foot’s still attached to her leg. “I’m more of a cat person,” she says.

  Mum says, “So sorry about that. Not much of an introduction.”

  “I’m thankful I’m not the postman,” says Mrs Wickham.

  I take Toffee out the back, and leave him cocking his leg against the drainpipe.

  Mrs Wickham opens her briefcase and gets out a file. About us. Turning over a page, she smiles. “Alison Mitchell says lots of nice things about you.” She takes a sip of coffee. “By the way, she’s had the baby – a little girl.” She laughs. “Now she’ll find out what it’s all about!”

  Mum had liked Mrs Mitchell. “Give her my congratulations,” she says. “What’s the baby called?”

  Mrs Wickham wrinkles her forehead. “Gosh, somebody did tell me… No – it’s slipped my mind.”

  “Ah well,” says Mum, “so long as they’re both doing well.”

  “I’m sure they are,” she says, but I can tell she’s a lot more interested in Mum than in Mrs Mitchell. “Now then,” she says, tilting her head so one long earring nearly touches her shoulder, “how are we getting along?”

  “Good,” I say. “Brilliant.”

  Mrs Wickham looks at Mum. “And you, Mrs Preston, you’re—”

  I interrupt because I’m still worried Mum’s not going to play it the way we usually do: the way we put someone off when they try to find out what life is really like for us. I treat Mrs Wickham to my carefree smile. “Mum’s doing great,” I say, “really great. Don’t you think she’s looking well?”

  When Mum says, “I certainly feel well,” I have to hide my relief. “All my pills,” she says, “are doing a good job—”

  Mrs Wickham interrupts. “There are that many?”

  “Well, not really,” says Mum. “I suppose I’m mainly referring to the celecoxib.”

  Mrs Wickham makes a note. “That’s for your arthritis?”

  Mum says that’s right, and loses her deformed fingers in her lap.

  “Have you noticed an improvement?” asks Mrs Wickham.

  “Oh, definitely.” At this rate Mum should be getting an Oscar. Even I begin to believe her, until I remember the look in her eyes when she needs her painkillers. And the relief when they kick in.

  When Mrs Wickham asks how she copes while I’m at school, Mum is amazing. I’m almost reeling at the way she gives a convincing rundown of how she keeps on top of things.

  I say, “I come home at lunchtime.”

  Mrs Wickham says, “Would you like to stay for school lunch?”

  “Why would I want to do that? I’m only five minutes away.”

  She says, “I was only thinking, you must be quite stretched with your GCSEs.”

  So she’s worked that out.

  Mum includes me in her smile. “There’s not long to go now.”

  Mrs Wickham makes another note, and I wonder if it’s because I sounded less than polite. I can’t think what the big deal is about me and school meals. You’d think I was about ten.

  We – Mum and I – have wondered about asking for help. But we’re not risking it. No way. With both of us happy enough, there’s no point in stirring things up – perhaps even giving the Social the wrong idea. All right, we could get some very nice woman popping in to help, but there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t send a nosy parker. I’m not saying intentionally – but if someone caught Mum on a bad day, it might be a job convincing them that things are okay. Most of the time our arrangements work out fine.

  But there were times – times I was going out with Liam – when I was torn in two, thinking I ought to be at home with Mum.

  Mrs Wickham turns over another page of printed notes. “Let me see…” she says. “How is your other daughter?”

  No one has any idea Lisa has moved out. Not even Kirsty. Which I hate. The thing is though, I’d have to ask her not to say anything. It wouldn’t be fair, and she might worry about me. If she doesn’t know, there’s no risk she’ll let something slip.

  Mum responds to Mrs Wickham’s enquiring look. “Lisa’s fine,” she says, “working hard.”

  “Good,” says Mrs Wickham. “And what’s her job?”

  Mum hesitates.

  Quickly I say, “She’s in retail.” Which is true: two weeks in Asda, six in Tesco, ten in Aldi. The last was a record. “She’s learning as she goes.”

  Mrs Wickham closes her file and stands up. “Wise girl. There’s no substitute for experience.”

  Mum gives a little smile. “That’s what I hoped to do.”

  “Oh yes?” says Mrs Wickham.

  “I did work for a while,” says Mum. “Bottom rung of the ladder at M&S. Then I got married and had our Lisa.” She pauses. “Next thing we knew, Amy came along. After a bit I wasn’t so well…and this thing started.”

  I catch Mrs Wickham’s quick glance at Mum’s hands, at the “thing” that twists them out of shape. Does Mrs Wickham know what happened to Dad? I suppose it’s in the notes somewhere, how he left when we were little. When Mum began to get ill.

  When I show her out, she pats me on the shoulder. “Try to keep that dog under control.”

  Chapter Four

  Mum’s worn out after Mrs Wickham – says she feels like a piece of chewed string. She stays in her chair while I make us a snack: cheese on toast. Which is not at all what I’d really like. What I’d like at this minute is a packet of chocolate digestives. I don’t mean I’d eat the whole packet in one go. But two or three would be good – after I’d eaten the cheese on toast.

  When we’ve finished, I take her plate and wipe crumbs off the worktop.

  She smiles at me. “Thanks, love, that filled a little corner.”

  I count out the pills she takes after meals, and hand her a glass of water. She’s hardly given me back the glass before she’s ready for sleep. I can
reckon on her having a good nap for at least an hour. Her eyes close, and I look at her. Peaceful and pretty – letting go of those ideas about me doing too much for her. I stop and think for a moment. How would I feel if I was a sick mum relying on my kid for support? I might feel the same. A bit guilty.

  Toffee seems to sense we need to be quiet, but it doesn’t stop him pawing at the back door. The house is so clean and tidy I think it’s best not to stay in and mess it up. I collect my belt from the hook and open the door. He makes sure I’m following him, then rushes into the yard.

  I squat down, buckle him up with my version of a collar and lead, and we go round to the front lane.

  There’s no view of the sea from downstairs in our house. The dunes, pillow-shaped, get in the way. Toffee tugs on his “lead”, and I risk letting him run on his own. Leaping through the tufts of marram grass, he throws up puffs of fine soft sand. I hurry to keep up with him and now, reaching a ridge of sand, we see the sea. The tide’s out, though it’s on the turn.

  Toffee runs and runs. Trying to keep up with him, I think how this must be great for burning calories. They’re on about it all the time on the news – obese teens not getting enough exercise. (Not that I’m obese.) Plus, we apparently live on a diet of Mars bars… Well, not in our house, we don’t; there’s no spare cash for treats. So looking on the bright side, my limited access to chocolate must give me a head start. All I need to do is take exercise more seriously.

  Toffee could be the answer. Taking him for a run two or three times a day could help me lose weight. With a bit of luck, I’ll soon be as skinny as I was at thirteen. Though don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t ever want to be that flat-chested again.

  I’m looking into the distance. There’s a figure jogging towards us, and I squint as the sun comes out from behind a cloud. She – it’s Kirsty – comes closer. Toffee shows interest and I hold him by the scruff. I wave, and after a few seconds she waves back; she’s short-sighted but doesn’t like to admit it. Besides, she’s not expecting I’d be here with a dog. I’m pleased to see her. Nearly an hour with Mrs Wickham has made me feel I’ve lost sight of reality.

  And it’s not just today – I’ve felt a bit jittery these last couple of days. Mum’s noticed, even though I didn’t mean to make anything of it. She says it’s my hormones – which seems to be her answer to everything. Still, it would be a relief if it meant I was finally settling down. Kirsty and I are the same age, but she came on three years ago and is as regular as clockwork. Not like me; I’m all over the place. I started the summer before last, but it’s utterly unpredictable – in fact, a complete pain. A while back, because I never know when it’s coming – and just in case there was something wrong – I saw a woman doctor at the practice. She said it isn’t unusual for periods to be irregular for the first three to four years.

  Kirsty pounds up to us. “Hi!” She leans forward, bending over in an n-shape to get her breath back. Toffee wags his tail. Surprised to see him, she says, “Who’s this?”

  “Toffee.”

  She looks puzzled. “He’s not yours, is he?”

  “For now he is.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “It’s not definite.” I curl my fingers in his scruff. “But it’s possible he’ll stay.”

  “When did you get him?”

  “Yesterday.” I make it sound like you get a dog every day.

  “After you were round at ours?” She gives me a look. “I didn’t know you were thinking of getting a dog. You didn’t say anything.”

  I pat Toffee. “He’s a rescue dog. You don’t always know when they’re going to turn up.” I’m not sure why I don’t just tell her exactly what happened.

  “Great,” says Kirsty, “think of all the exercise you’ll get!”

  It was the way she said it. I could virtually read her mind. Here she is, jogging along, delicately pretty, ponytail as blonde as the beach, legs to die for, sun-kissed midriff taut as a drum. And here’s me stood beside her, taller but a bit of a podge. I stand up straight and tug my plaid shirt so it covers my bum. “I won’t need to go to the gym – not with Toffee keeping me toned.”

  “You were going to the gym?”

  I laugh. “As if!”

  She strokes Toffee from his shoulders to his tail. “He’s a real sweetie.”

  “Glad you like him.”

  “He’s beautiful.”

  I look at him. I love him already, but I can’t honestly say he’s beautiful. “Don’t you think he’s more cute than beautiful?”

  She looks him up and down, like she’s judging at a dog show. “No – he’s too big for cute.” She nudges me. “Come on, race you to the rock!”

  We start running towards Croppers Rock. Toffee alongside Kirsty. Me miles behind.

  I get a stitch and stop for a few seconds. Toffee must sense I’m not running. He skids to a halt in the wet sand and looks round. Which makes Kirsty turn.

  “You okay?”

  “Just a stitch!” The sharp pain eases off, but I realize I’m not feeling too clever; plus I really do need a new bra. Running in this old thing’s making me sore – and I’m puffing like I’m eighty. Toffee rushes back towards me.

  I think I must be worn out from getting the house ready for Mrs Wickham. Kirsty looks at me like she’s surprised at my pathetic performance, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead she says, “Everything all right at home today?” She pauses. “Mum said to make sure I ask.” She strokes Toffee. “Which I am doing.”

  “We’re fine. We had a Mrs Wickham round this morning. She’s new – from the Social. She seemed pleased with Mum. You know – the way she’s managing.”

  She pulls a face. “Don’t you mean, the way you’re managing? With or without Lisa’s help.” Kirsty knows my sister well enough to realize she won’t be pulling her weight, even if she’s not aware that Lisa’s actually left home altogether.

  Kirsty says she’d better be heading back. “It’s hell on wheels at ours.”

  “They’ve arrived then?”

  “Yeah – teenage lad from a children’s home. And twins of eighteen months – boy and girl.”

  Mum wonders if Mrs Kelly fosters kids because she can’t have more of her own; though we don’t know that for certain. She’s the sort who’ll take a kid in, any hour of the day or night, if their family can’t cope.

  Kirsty jogs off like she hasn’t a care in the world, and I’m glad for her. It was a different story in January when she split up with Harrison – just when I was so blissfully happy with Liam.

  Even though Kirsty was the one who ended it, it still upset her. Looking back, I probably wasn’t much help, being so wrapped up in Liam. She’d been totally into Harrison – crazy about him, in fact – though I don’t know if he really cared that much about her. If you really love someone, you don’t keep trying to force them to do things they’re not ready for. Which was what he was doing. I’m just glad she didn’t give in.

  Unlike our Lisa, who’s more than happy to throw herself at anyone who turns up. Currently Darren Baines. Though you can never quite tell what’s happening with those two – one minute he’s a waste of space, the next she’s bending over backwards for him. I only wish she’d spare me the graphic details.

  When she’s gone a little way, Kirsty turns round to blow Toffee a kiss. I love that. Now, watching her get smaller, I picture her mucking in to help her mum with the new intake of kids. It’ll be all go. Busy and noisy.

  Liam arrived at the Kellys’ last summer. I remember thinking it must be humiliating, finding yourself in care at fifteen. He was in a bad place when we first got together. He didn’t want to talk about it, but from what I gathered, his mum was in hospital with depression after his dad began a fifteen-year sentence in a high-security prison. I was shocked, but Liam tried to play it down, saying his dad had been a rotten husband and his mum was better off without him. It was pretty obvious he hadn’t been much of a dad either.

  I don’t like myself for th
inking this…but if his life hadn’t all been so awful, Liam and I would never have met. I know it’s not a good thought, but it doesn’t change how I felt about him.

  I think I was about eleven when I asked Mum how I’d know when I was in love. “You’ll just know,” she said. And she was right.

  Those early days were wonderful. Mum – glad that I’d found “such a nice lad” – encouraged me to get out and enjoy myself. If I ever looked doubtful, she’d say, “I’ll be all right, love. Go on, make hay while the sun shines!” I knew it wasn’t easy for her, and cracks of guilt opened up when I worried I might be betraying her trust. One minute I’d be lying in Liam’s arms, thinking, If this is making hay, it’s all I’ve ever wanted – the next I’d ask myself whether I was still giving Mum the care she needed. Most of the time I made doubly sure I was doing just that, then suddenly I’d realize we were out later than I’d promised and my stomach would seize up with worry. I don’t think Liam always understood why I was in such a rush to get home. If I got anxious, he’d say, “It’s not like we’re out that often.”

  The months we were together, I lived in a world I hadn’t known existed. Sometimes I literally caught my breath at the thought that this was happening to me, that I’d met someone I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. Being so much in love felt like a dream I could never have imagined, like it had fallen out of the sky. Quite how it was for Liam, I couldn’t be sure. If I ever tried asking him how he felt, he’d clam up and I wished I hadn’t said anything.

  Mum says one of the ways I’m so different from Lisa is having my head screwed on. Not always, though. Looking back, it was stupid to imagine a future with Liam, free as a bird – travelling the world. Weekends in Paris. I got carried away. Mad really.

  I was happy for Liam when his mum came through the breakdown. But at the same time – loving each other the way we did – it felt like fate had played a mean trick. When the Australia thing came up, I had to come to a decision. Putting thousands of miles between us had never been part of the deal.