I’ve already filled the kettle. When I’ve put out the cups – and glasses, in case anyone wants juice – we’ll go through with the sandwiches Mrs Dundas helped me make. Plus there’s Mum’s favourite Bourbon biscuits. Later there should be cake.
And here’s my surprise. I’ve planned for Mum to help Robbie with his bottle: a kind of extra birthday present, one that doesn’t need wrapping.
My heart lifts when Toffee goes to sit by the front door. It’s like he senses the others are on their way. He gives a sudden loud bark, and Mum, sat on the settee in the front room, laughs. “Sounds like he’s heard the car!”
I hurry to the front door. We all talk at once: “Hi! Hello there! Hi!”
Mr Kelly spots Lisa standing behind me. “Lisa,” he says quietly, “pop this in the kitchen, would you?” and carefully hands her a shopping bag – pushed out of shape by something large and round. Definitely a tin with a cake in it.
Shaun, in a navy T-shirt I’ve not seen before, takes up half the hallway. He holds the front door open for Kirsty, who’s bearing Robbie, like a gift, in his baby carrier. I say, “Hello, sweetie-pie!” and take the carrier by the handle. I drop a kiss on his head, then watch Mum’s face light up as I carry him in to sit beside her in his little seat. Kirsty and her dad follow, saying, “Happy birthday!”
Mum smiles a totally happy smile, and Shaun comes in and sits on the other side of her. Mum touches Robbie on the head. “Hello, sweetheart,” she says, “you’re looking very smart.” She glances at Lisa in the doorway. “Doesn’t he look gorgeous, Lisa?”
Lisa nods, and Kirsty says, “Mum’s instructions! We’re to take as many photos as possible.”
Which we do. Or Kirsty and her dad do, on their phones. Mum wants to look at each one as it’s taken. I make the tea, then another pot. The pile of egg and cress sandwiches goes down fast, and I put Robbie’s bottle to warm in a pan of hot water. I think how happy Mum looks.
After I’ve handed round the last of the sandwiches, Kirsty gives her dad a nudge, then he gives Lisa a nudge and they both go into the kitchen – where I guess they’ll be sorting out the candles on the cake. Kirsty and I stay in the front room, chatting with Mum and Shaun – mostly about the progress Robbie’s making and how cute he looks with more hair. When Mum looks soulful and says, “He’ll be breaking a few hearts,” I remember how I’d thought it was my heart he’d break.
Kirsty says, “Isn’t that blue perfect on him?” Then, as if the colour makes her think of Jordan, she says to Mum, “Jordan says happy birthday.”
Mum says, “Oh, do thank him for his card. Wherever did he find it? It really made me chuckle!”
Shaun says, “Did you like mine?”
Mum smiles. “I love it, Shaun. Thank you very much.”
I go into the kitchen. Lisa’s gazing at the pink and white cake, its four candles in place: one for every ten years. She says, “When are we cutting it?”
“I thought Mum could feed Robbie first.”
She doesn’t look particularly surprised. “Aren’t you going to feed him?”
“It would be great if Mum had a go… D’you want to light the candles?”
She takes matches from the drawer. “Okay.”
“Not yet.”
“Duh. I wasn’t going to.”
I test Robbie’s bottle in the pan. It’s warm enough so I take it, together with a clean tea towel, into the front room. At the sight of it, Robbie gives a little squeak and Mum says, “Listen to him, he doesn’t miss a thing!”
Shaun grins at Mum. “He’s got Amy’s brains, Mrs Preston.”
I hover over Shaun. “Can I sit there, please?”
He stands up hurriedly. “Sorry, Amy.”
“It’s all right, I just need to put this tea towel on Mum’s lap.” She looks up in surprise, and I say, “Would you like to give Robbie his bottle?”
Her cheeks flush. “Do you trust me?”
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back and lift Robbie into her lap. Keeping my arm round him, I ease the bottle into Mum’s right hand. She has difficulty, but I help support the bottle and before we know it, Robbie’s mouth has clamped round the teat.
He sucks greedily and I lessen my hold on the bottle. Apart from Toffee having a good scratch, the room is quiet as we watch the level of milk go down. When it reaches the bottom, and before Robbie sucks air, I gently take the bottle from Mum. I whisper in her ear, “You haven’t lost your touch.”
As if from a signal, Shaun crosses to the window and pulls the curtains together. Mum says, “Oh! Don’t shut out the daylight, Shaun, it’s—” but she breaks off as the room lights up with the flicker of candles on the cake Lisa carries in.
I don’t know whose eyes shine more brightly – Mum’s or Robbie’s. I only know my voice cracks when I take Robbie from Mum’s arms and Kirsty gives us a note for “Happy Birthday”.
After we’ve sung – Shaun sounding more like he’s chanting – I hold Robbie, and Lisa lowers the cake in front of Mum. “Blow out the candles,” she says, “and make a wish.”
Shaun looks earnest. “You mustn’t tell us what it is.”
Mum blows out three at once. With the last one still to go, she takes another breath, leans closer and blows it out. We clap hard and she sits back, beaming at us.
Mr Kelly takes the cake from Lisa and puts it on the side table. Mum says, “That’s a wonderful cake, Frank.” She hesitates. “Did Susie make it herself? It looks very professional.”
He says, “Actually, I made it.” Which turns out to be true, though he admits Kirsty’s mum iced Happy Birthday, Lindy on the top.
When Kirsty hands round slices of feather-light sponge with buttercream in the middle, I notice the plates aren’t ours. I recognize the pattern of violets, and realize Mrs Kelly must have slipped them in with the cake. (I won’t be pleading with Lisa to help with the washing-up.)
We’re all exclaiming over the delicious cake, when Shaun – straight to the point – says, “What’s that pong?”
Mum laughs. “Shaun, really!” but I’m already on my feet, Robbie in my arms.
“You’re right, Shaun,” I say. “I’ll take him upstairs.”
I lay him on my bed, where Kirsty’s been thoughtful enough to spread out his changing mat and leave spare nappy sacks and wipes. I lean over him and at first he’s perfectly happy, rolling his eyes at the ceiling – as if examining it for cracks. I tug at his little blue shorts and he starts kicking. When I say, “There’s a good boy, lie still,” he turns his head to look at me. And kicks harder.
I’m used to his little tricks and hook my fingers round his ankles. I hoist his legs above his head and pull open the nappy. Shaun’s right about the pong. This is a seriously impressive turnout.
I clean him up and put on a fresh nappy. I’m in no hurry to break the spell of it being just the two of us, and gently stroke his head. He’s beginning to look drowsy: the nice warm milk must be working its way down. He’s beautiful. Sweet-smelling, relaxed, eyelids quivering. I kneel beside the bed, pull him gently towards me and nuzzle his vest up with my nose. I drink in the scent of his skin. Kiss him all the way up to the soft little dent at the base of his throat, and all the way down again. I ease his nappy and tickle his tummy button. He’s very nearly asleep, and doesn’t react. I press a kiss where I feel his heartbeat, and whisper, “I love you so, so much. Thank you for being my darling little boy.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
At the start of the autumn term it looked like the rain would never let up. Now though, we’re having what Mum calls an Indian summer. Which makes such a difference to how she feels – especially on the warmest days, when Shaun rushes home from school to take her down to the sea. Being able to relax about the future is doing her so much good. Plus Mrs Dundas is lovely. She and Mum are still getting on like a house on fire.
Lisa’s having to toe the line: get her bed made before Mrs D arrives in the morning. I miss not having a room to myself but, like Nana K
athleen would have said, it’s a small price to pay.
Mum’s made it clear to Lisa that with my new responsibilities, and even with Mrs Dundas here each morning, she’s expecting to rely on her elder daughter for more help around the house. We both realize Lisa will have to look for a job – again. But we’d be able to manage. In some ways there’s less work when she’s out of the house.
Mr and Mrs Smith have moved on. He’s teaching at a school way up towards the Scottish border, and Orchard Cottage is for sale.
My fame – or, more accurately, my notoriety (a good word for a bad thing) – spread like wildfire. For the first few days of term Kirsty acted as my bodyguard, ready to give an earful to anyone trying to slag me off. She’s showing another side to her character: tough and unafraid. So much for anyone who thinks she looks like butter wouldn’t melt.
Our new form tutor, Miss Hill – dry sense of humour – is taking us for English Lit in Mr Smith’s place. She’s promised she’ll rent the DVD of To Kill a Mockingbird to show over an afternoon. She’s told us we’re to “relax and enjoy” before starting to think about AS and A Level set books. Mum’s dead jealous of me having an afternoon of Gregory Peck!
Did I say I got an A in GCSE English Lit? I got two other As, the rest Bs. Nine passes in all; plus I can take Maths in November. Kirsty and I were both happy with our results – ecstatic really. Can’t believe we’re about to start all over again…
It’s Sunday morning and Toffee’s getting an extra run on the beach. We’re on our way back from Kirsty’s, where I’ve given Robbie a feed and helped Mrs Kelly make children’s meals for the freezer.
Whiter-than-white surf, whipping up on the incoming tide, rolls towards us. The sun’s high in the sky and it’s warm for October. I pull my trainers off and race after Toffee. He’s at the water’s edge, bottom in the air, barking like every slap of water hitting the sand is a personal threat. He jumps back and shakes himself. All over me! Running away laughing, I let him chase me until I realize it’s time to think about getting lunch.
Before we go home I breathe in the salty air and stand still for a moment, looking out across the North Sea. Toffee has found a stick. He brings it to me.
I take it and write in the damp sand.
ROBBIE.
Discussion Questions
Writing in the Sand is told entirely from Amy’s point of view. Why do you think the author chose a first person narrative for this book?
Liam is a significant character in the book, although we never actually meet him. What do you think Amy loved about him and their relationship?
Amy tells a lot of lies in the book, whether it’s to her mum’s social worker, to the police, or to her friends and family. Is she justified in doing so? Do you consider Amy to be a dishonest person as a result?
Discuss the significance of Toffee’s arrival and the book’s entwined themes of belonging, responsibility and love. How does Amy’s relationship with Toffee offer us insight into other relationships, both actual and potential, in the story?
Consider Shaun’s role in the book. Why do you think he behaves the way he does? What impact does his friendship with Amy have, both on them as characters, and on events in the book?
Think back to the scene where Gina Smith invites Amy to her home. Why do you think Gina does this? How did this scene make you feel?
You’ve got to stop spending your life worrying about other folk. Start thinking about Number One for a change. – Lisa. Think about Lisa’s advice to Amy. To what extent do you agree with her, firstly in Amy’s case, and also more generally?
Writing in the Sand is set in a small town on the Northumberland coast. How does the sense of place and community contribute to the book’s plot and atmosphere? Imagine setting the book in an alternative place, and consider the effect it might have on the story.
A Note from the Author
Like Amy, I loved English at school; though unlike Amy I didn’t actually long to be a writer. But I loved the theatre, and – at Saturday morning classes at the Arts Educational School in London – I wrote my own material.
After moving to Yorkshire I began writing seriously, and joined a group called Yorkshire Playwrights, now Script Yorkshire. It was here that Vicky Featherstone, currently the Artistic Director of the Royal Court, said I ought to write for young adults.
I didn’t immediately take her advice. Instead I wrote afternoon plays for BBC Radio 4, a serial for Woman’s Hour and scripts for Granada, Carlton TV and the BBC, as well as audio cassettes for Coronation Street.
It was at the finals of a talent contest at Harrogate Theatre that I remembered the advice I’d been given about writing for young adults. On that night there was one particular performer I could not forget – a talented young singer, who I later discovered was a carer for both parents.
Suddenly my eyes were opened to the thousands upon thousands of young people acting as carers, and I began to wonder what life must be like for them. How did they juggle caring for their parents with school? What fun things – like sport, or drama or just being with friends – were they missing out on? Or was their love for their parents so strong that they just got on with it?
And what if they ever got sick? Or something utterly unexpected happened? Something that could make their role as a carer difficult…or impossible?
This is where my writer’s “what if” came in… Amy became real, and before long, I had finished my debut novel.
I very much hope you have enjoyed reading Writing in the Sand, and exploring those “what if”s with me.
Acknowledgements
Most of the time, Writing in the Sand has been a labour of love – but, like love, it decided now and then to change direction. This is probably because it heard this rule: that the main protagonist has to go on a journey. Once it understood this, you couldn’t see it for dust – and I had a job keeping up.
Luckily, for me and the book, there have been great people to meet along the way. In the early days, Susan Davis at Writer’s Workshop helped reinforce my belief in the story. Buoyed up, I approached agents and more than happily found myself with Becky Bagnell, whom I just can’t thank enough… Where would I be without your advice and faith in me?
My heartfelt thanks go to my editor, Stephanie King, and to everyone at Usborne. You turn each new stage into an adventure!
I am indebted to the British Association for Adoption and Fostering. Their advice, and solving of a crucial problem, was invaluable.
My thanks, of course, go to my friends and family – particularly John who has to make allowances for the odd hours I keep – and to my sister, Clare Druce, who first suggested I should write. And thank you to those who have been unstintingly interested to hear what’s going on. Okay, Jacky, I mean you.
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ISBN 9781409546757
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rst published in the UK in 2014 by Usborne Publishing Ltd., Usborne House, 83-85 Saffron Hill, London EC1N 8RT, England. www.usborne.com
Copyright © 2014 by Helen Brandom
The right of Helen Brandom to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Cover photography: Sami Sarkis/Photographer’s Choice RF/Getty Images.
The name Usborne and the devices are Trade Marks of Usborne Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or used in any way except as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or loaned or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ePub ISBN 9781409579397
Writing in the Sand Page 21