Writing in the Sand Read Free

hoping she will come home. Or maybe Mum thinks Lisa had a right to walk out and lead her own life. What if she believes I should do the same thing?
    I get the niggling doubt I’ve had before. What if I’ve got it wrong? What if Mum would be better off without me? Would she get better medical treatment in a care home?
    I get a cloth from under the sink and polish the draining board until my wrist aches.
    Hearing Mum start to come downstairs a while later, I hurry into our tiny hallway to make sure she’s managing. She is, but all the same I wait at the bottom to see she makes it into the kitchen okay.
    When there’s finally a knock at the front door, Mum – dressed in jeans and a green shirt, is sat at the kitchen table. In front of her there are three mugs on a tray cloth embroidered by her gran. The blusher on her cheeks stands out like two boiled sweets, but she looks better than she did half an hour ago. On my way to the front door, I grab her sticks and shove them in the cubbyhole under the stairs. There’s no need to advertise her walking difficulties.
    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—”
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œActually,” 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.”
    â€œYes, do something, Amy,” says Mrs Wickham.
    â€œ 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.”
    â€œI’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