Free Writing in the Sand by Helen Brandom Page A

put my jeans in the washer.”
    â€œThere’s no need—”
    â€œThere is. I’ll get them out of the way and give Toffee a quick rub down.”
    She starts to hobble back to her room. “Well, all right, but a good night’s sleep is what you need, so get to bed soon.”
    I put my jeans in the washing machine, and weakly rub Toffee down with an old towel. I leave my trainers under the stairs, stuffed with newspaper.
    Toffee follows me upstairs and I let him into Mum’s room. I make sure she’s tucked in. She smiles. “You daft kid,” she says, and I kiss her goodnight.
    In my room at last, I pull the sheet off my bed, roll it into a ball and push it into my cupboard. Then I pull off the under sheet too. It’s lucky that it’s a thick, fleecy one because underneath the mattress is still clean. Too tired to put on a fresh sheet – there’s not a word to describe my tiredness – I pull on a T-shirt and lie under my duvet on the bare bed.
    I’m almost too tired to think about Liam. But I do. Just for a minute before I fall asleep I think of what we did. And how I believed the first time didn’t count.

Chapter Twelve
    Mum’s looking down at me. “Who’s a sleepyhead, then?” For a second I can’t imagine why, with Toffee beside her, she’s in my room. Slowly, jumbled clumps of memory join up, and last night begins to fit together.
    I struggle to sit up. Pull the duvet across my chest. I can’t let her see anything’s wrong. “Sorry, Mum – I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
    â€œYou won’t,” she says, “I’ll make it. You stay where you are.”
    I mustn’t let her. It’ll be such an effort: running water into the kettle, struggling with a carton of milk. Also, I can’t just lie here worrying how I’ll hide what happened last night. And wondering if the baby’s still alive. I keep telling myself he must be. He has to be. Then I remember how tiny he was.
    I say I’ll make the tea. “I’ll bring us up a cup and we can go back to bed for a bit.”
    â€œAmy, love, you look washed out – and I’m not surprised. You were a silly girl, you know. Why didn’t you just let Toffee into the yard for a few minutes?”
    â€œI don’t know. He thought he was getting a walk, and I worried that he wouldn’t settle if he didn’t get one.”
    Trying to swing my legs out of bed, every bit of me feels like I’ve run a marathon. “I’m a bit shivery. Perhaps I’ve got this bug doing the rounds – as well as you know what.”
    Mum gives me a wry smile. “No revision sessions for you today. Stay at home. We’ll watch a bit of telly together.”
    This had been such a treat when Lisa and I were little: being full of cold, or once having chickenpox at the same time, and watching TV nearly all day. I know I shouldn’t skip revision – it’s my Maths exam tomorrow. I can’t face anything, though. Not today. Finally I ease myself off the bed. “It’s okay, Mum, I’ll bring us up tea and cereal.”
    â€œWhile you’re down there,” she says, “see Toffee into the yard.”
    â€œYeah, course.” I stroke his back. “He can do without his walks today.” I’m aware of my voice sounding strained. I stand up straighter. “While I’m downstairs, I’ll get the washer going. Anything you want me to put in?”
    â€œAmy, I can do that.”
    â€œI know you can, but you’re not going to.”
    â€œAll right,” she says, “then just my towels from the bathroom.”
    This suits me fine. When Mum’s back in her room, I pull out the bloodstained sheets from my cupboard and bundle them up with the towels. In the kitchen I force everything into the machine with my still-soggy jeans. I measure out the washing powder and turn the dial to