Writing in the Sand Read Free Page B

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.”
    â€œOh yes?” says Mrs Wickham.
    â€œI 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