Writing in the Sand Read Free Page A

– 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.”
    â€œAh well,” says Mum, “so long as they’re both doing well.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œGood,” 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?”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œHave you noticed an improvement?” asks Mrs Wickham.
    â€œOh, 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?”
    â€œWhy 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.”
    â€œGood,” says Mrs Wickham. “And what’s her job?”
    Mum hesitates.
    Quickly I say, “She’s in