Writing in the Sand (14 page)

“I just had a thought.”
Am I mad?
“Shaun, do you think you could carry my mum?”

“Where to?”

This is typically Shaun – and strikes me as so daft that all my pent-up feelings dissolve in relief. I let out a giggly sigh. “Well, not to Newcastle.
Here
. Bring her here. Down to the sea. So she can feel the breeze.”

“Yeah, course – let's go.”

Oh,
Shaun
. All black and white. No greys. He doesn't say,
When, Amy? Today or tomorrow, Amy?

But he's right. The sun might not shine tomorrow.

With Toffee leading the way, we hurry back through the dunes. I try not to lose my nerve, try not to change my mind. We go round to the backyard. When I push open the gate, Shaun seems to forget what we're here for. “Flipping 'eck, Amy, this gate's on its last legs. D'you want me to fix it?”

I look at the hinge that's worked loose. “Great,” I say, “but not right now.”

“Tomorrow?”

I can't commit myself. “Could be. Thanks.” I stop at the kitchen door. “I'll just pop my head in first – we don't want to give Mum a shock.”

Shaun says, “Shock can be extremely dangerous for an invalid.”

As I open the door, Toffee pushes in front of me. Mum's asleep. It strikes me it's a shame to wake her, but all the same I touch her hand. She doesn't move, so I squeeze her fingers.

She opens her eyes. “Amy, love.”

“Mum, I've got a surprise.” I wait for this to sink in. “We'll have tea later – we're taking you down to the sea.”

Wincing, she moves her left shoulder. “You and whose army?”

“What d'you mean? You're as light as a feather. Shaun and me, we're taking you down there now. It's so
beautiful
. The tide's out, the sand's warm – but not too hot. We can paddle.”

Then it's kind of heartbreaking, because tears roll down her cheeks. “Really? You mean it?”

“Really.”

Shaun is standing at the door. I nod to him. “Come in, Shaun. Meet my mum.”

Mum wipes her eyes, and smiles. “Ah, the hairdresser.”

“Stylist,” he says.

“Whatever you call yourself,” says Mum, “you're a living marvel.”

I pick up the phone, and Mum says, “Who're you calling?”

“Kirsty – just to say Shaun won't be back for his tea till later.”

Mr Kelly answers. I explain what's happening and he says to remind him to let us have some runner beans. If we're interested, that is. I say thanks, we'd love some, and ring off.

I whisper to Mum, to ask her if she wants a wee before we set off. She does, so it's a few minutes before we're downstairs again. I'm about to suggest the best way of carrying Mum, when Shaun – first making sure we don't forget the frisbee – picks her up like she's weightless, and we're off out the front door. Toffee thinks this is massive fun, and has to be persuaded not to jump up at Mum's bottom, which is sagging slightly between Shaun's arms. I'm closing the front door when I think, Hey, wait a minute – and dash back inside to get our moth-eaten tartan rug and Mum's sun hat from under the stairs.

I'd worried that managing Mum over the dunes could be a problem. But Shaun, like he's half man, half mountain goat, carries her as if she's his prize. His princess in a fairy tale. She looks wonderful, her dark silky hair swaying to the rhythm of his steady pace.

Shaun looks into Mum's eyes. “Where would you like to be, Mrs Preston?”

“Close to the sea, please.”

I run on ahead and spread out the rug where the sand is still dry, yet near enough to the sea for us to paddle. I sit down as Shaun gently lowers Mum, and I pop her sun hat onto her head. I realize the only way she'll be comfortable, and still able to look out to sea, is if we sit back-to-back. I wriggle round – so now my view is the southerly curve of the shoreline and Croppers Rock.

We sit like this for about a quarter of an hour, Mum and me talking with our backs to each other. I don't need to see her to recognize the almost-tears in her voice when she says, “I'd begun to think I'd never come down here again.”

“That's awful, Mum. We'll come often.” I call out to Shaun, who's about to throw the frisbee. “Won't we, Shaun!”

He takes great leaps across the sand to us. “Won't we what?”

“Bring Mum down here often.”

“Of course we will. It'll be my pleasure, Mrs Preston. We'll come every day.”

Mum wouldn't dream of laughing at Shaun, but the giggle is there. “Every week would be lovely.”

“Consider it done,” he says. Then he moves round to face me. “You know your baby?”

How is it my body can freeze on such a hot afternoon? I try not to stiffen my back against Mum's. “My baby?”

“Robbie,” he says.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I control my breathing. “He's not
my
baby.”

Mum moves her head against mine. “Shaun doesn't mean
your
baby. It's just obvious you're very fond of Robbie.” She pauses. “Aren't I right, Shaun?”

“You are right, Mrs Preston. Dead right.”

“Shaun,” Mum says, “you're a tonic.” She eases her neck. “Anyway, what about Robbie?”

Shaun says, “I probably shouldn't say.”

Mum says, “You've started now, so you might as well finish.”

“Like
Mastermind
?”

“Yes,” says Mum, “like
Mastermind
.”

Toffee rushes off, barking at a seagull.

Shaun says, “Someone might adopt him. It's not for definite, but they might.”

I say, “You're not supposed to know that,” which makes it sound like I also know something I shouldn't. I hesitate before I add, “One day, someone will probably adopt Robbie, but there's no one in particular at the moment.”

Mum says teasingly, “Are you sure?”

Shaun pulls a face. “Like Amy says, I'm – we're – not supposed to know anything.” Then he looks at me, holding my gaze. “But there is something I know.”

For the moment I don't want to think about Mr and Mrs Smith. Changing the subject, I tell Mum that of course Shaun
knows things
. (Despite being dyslexic, he's very bright indeed. He's what Mr Wilson calls “College material”.)

“I don't need college,” he says, “I'll be running a chain of salons.”

I say, “You'd need to train.”

“Not for long I wouldn't.”

I force a laugh. “So it's a chain, eh? What will you call yourself?”

He frowns in concentration, and we spend a while thinking up silly names for hairdressing salons. I know Mum's in pain, but she still laughs at “Get Shorn” and “Shaun's Unisex Shampoo and Shave”. Every now and then Shaun nods vigorously at what he reckons is a good name for his empire.

I say, “Shaun, how about we paddle?” And he bends down, scoops Mum up gently and carries her into the sea. A little way in, still supporting her, he helps her to stand.

With the sea rolling round my ankles, I paddle beside Mum and Shaun. Toffee rushes to join us, and Mum laughs. Shaun sways her from side to side like she's a piece of seaweed. She's loving it.

I squint at my watch. We ought to be making tracks. It's nearly time for a bit of tea and Mum's early evening medication. But it's so lovely here I don't want to break the spell. Not for the next few minutes at least.

It's been a great day. Such a different day, especially for Mum. We've had our tea. Nothing haute cuisine, but I cooked properly. Sausage and mash. Plus broccoli, which is full of healthy antioxidants. (I'm always on the lookout for nourishing vegetables that could help improve Mum's health.)

I'm wiping down the draining board. The TV is on – one of the soaps – but I'm not paying much attention. I've got my back to it. Sounds like the usual over-the-top stuff – someone breathing their last breath. Whoever it is gasps, and Toffee jumps up, catching a claw in a loose thread in my shirt. I half turn. He's not wagging his tail, and squeals when I release his paw.

I hear a whisper as if from far off. “Amy?”

I spin round. Something's the matter with Mum.

Dropping to my knees beside her, I force myself to stay calm. She's having a panic attack and can't breathe. I jump up and open the drawer where I keep paper bags. I hold one over her nose and mouth. “Breathe into the bag, Mum.”

She tries, but her eyes are scared. I tell her I'm calling the doctor and take no notice when she tries shaking her head to say no. I know the doctor's number by heart; but it's after hours and there's only a message. The voice gives me another number to try. Hell, I've got no pencil. I go back to Mum. She's trying hard with the paper bag, but it's not helping. Hurriedly, I kiss her forehead, take the paper bag off her face, and put it back on again. “I've got to dial again, Mum.”

I find a pencil, ring our doctor's practice and wait for the out-of-hours number. I hold my breath, ready to focus on the recorded voice – there's no time for making repeated calls. I listen to the number and write it down. I look back at Mum. Her eyes are full of fear.

I call the new number. A woman asks who I am. Who do I want the doctor for? When was Mum born? This is awful. I can't remember the year Mum was born and I'm not going to get her into more of a state by asking her to talk. I tell the woman it's really urgent. She asks if Mum's bleeding – and has she hit her head? I say no to both and give her our address. She says a doctor will be here very soon, and tells me to keep Mum calm.

I
would
try to keep her calm but suddenly she leans forward, clutching herself round the middle. She starts retching. I grab Toffee's bowl from the floor and put it under her chin, just in time. She retches again and is very, very sick. More of it comes with more retching. She lets her head fall back, and I take the bowl away.

Moaning, she sounds as if she's in agony.

“Where's the pain, Mum?” But I can see where. It's the whole of her stomach area, and lower.

This is all my fault. If I hadn't had that crazy idea of Shaun and me taking her to the beach. If I hadn't had her sitting on the sand for ages. If I hadn't let her practically stand up in the sea. If I hadn't thought this would be good for her – which it obviously wasn't – she wouldn't be ill now. God, if only the doctor would hurry.

It feels like for ever but it's only ten minutes. There's a rap at the front door. I forget about keeping calm and rush to open it. I don't know her, the pretty woman on the doorstep, but she's got the confident look of a doctor.

“Hello,” she says. “Am I right for Mrs Preston?”

“Yes. Through here.”

She follows me into the kitchen and looks at Mum. It doesn't seem to surprise her that Mum's sitting with a paper bag over her face, which she now lets drop. I can
feel
Mum's relief at knowing we've got help.

She smiles at Mum. “Mrs Preston,” she says, “I'm Dr Walker. You're having trouble getting your breath?”

Mum nods.

“And she's been terribly sick.” I point to the bowl on the draining board. Dr Walker takes a quick look at the vomit, then picks up Mum's wrist to feel her pulse.

I say, “And she's got a lot of pain.”

Dr Walker nods, takes out her thermometer and pops it in Mum's ear. She doesn't say anything, so I don't know if things are normal or not. I don't ask.

Dr Walker looks at Mum, then at me. “We'll want Mum to go into hospital.” If Mum could shake her head and say no, she would. But she can't. It's only in her eyes I can see how much she doesn't want this. The doctor takes an oxygen mask from her bulky bag and fixes it round Mum's ears and onto her face. Then Dr Walker takes out her phone and calls for an ambulance.

She looks at me. “Is it only you and your mum?”

I check my watch; make it look – and sound – like this is a temporary arrangement. “At the moment, yes.”

“Dad coming back later, is he?”

“No.” My brain whirrs, and I tell a lie. One of many, but I can't risk Mum being taken into hospital and never coming back here. “My sister Lisa is due home any minute.”

Mum's eyes widen above the mask. I say, “Her usual time, Mum? She should be here any minute.” It's like my nose grows longer. “Unless she has to stay on at the shop.” I look at Dr Walker. “She could get held up if there's a late customer.”

The doctor says, “If your sister hasn't got back by the time the ambulance arrives, perhaps you can text her.” I don't tell her I haven't got a mobile.

She smiles such a kind smile. “I expect you'd like to come with Mum?” she says.

“Yes, please.”

At the hospital I trail along after Mum's trolley while she's taken from place to place. She ends up in the High Dependency Unit, where they ask me to wait in the corridor so they have a chance to make her comfortable. Although I don't see Dr Walker again, other people stop and talk to me. A nurse says they'll tell me some more when Dr Briggs has seen Mum.

When I see Dr Briggs – who is cosy-looking and the same height as me – he tells me he'll talk to a Mr Dorrington, after which he thinks they'll have a clearer picture.

I ask Dr Briggs, “Do you know what's wrong? I mean, I know she has rheumatoid arthritis, but she hasn't been like this before.”

He says he can't be sure, but he'll be back to talk to me again. He's gone a few paces, but I can't keep it in any longer. I say, perhaps too loudly, “Dr Briggs?”

He comes back and sits down beside me. He seems a kind person.

“We're doing everything we can,” he says.

To me, this sounds ominous. I pour out my guilty fear: “We – I – took Mum down to the sea this afternoon. She was so hot – sweating, really – I thought it would cool her down. Me and my friend, we helped her paddle. We sat on the sand for quite a long while. On a rug. Would that have made her ill?” This sounds idiotic and I say, “I don't mean the rug, I mean the whole thing. The outing.”