Read Online Writing in the Sand by Helen Brandom - Free Book Online Page A

place him, swaddled up, into the shoebox. My knees feel weak and it’s like I’m looking down on myself, looking at the Amy who’s so keen on packing things neatly. Who parcels things up for Mum when her crooked fingers won’t fold paper.
    You read about mothers putting a note in with the baby. Perhaps the baby’s name and a message: Tell him his mum will always love him. Something like that. But I don’t know what I’d call him. I haven’t had long enough to think about it. Or anything else. I don’t even know if I love him. It’s better if I don’t. There’s no point. I tell myself again – don’t talk to him, try not to even look at him.
    It’s hard work, getting dressed, and I’m bleeding. I put on some knickers, take a pad from my drawer, pull off the sticky strip. Wobbling, I place the pad between my legs. My jeans feel stiff and it’s painful getting them on. I pull on two sweaters. I feel hot, too hot, but reckon on taking one off if the baby looks like he needs more covering. The beauty of the red cardigan is that no one has ever seen it. Anyway, not on Mum.
    Though I think I’ve done everything, I nearly forget the placenta. I know it shouldn’t, but it disgusts me. Scooping it into the plastic bag, I’m shaking like a leaf. I hold the bag like it’s shopping, and slide my other hand under the shoebox on the bed.
    On the landing, willing the baby not to cry, I stand stock-still outside Mum’s bedroom. Not a sound. I creep to the top of the stairs. Then he snuffles. Not the baby – Toffee in Mum’s room. He’ll know something’s up. I bend down, put the baby on the floor. Quieter than I would have thought possible, I open Mum’s door a fraction. No sound from her, but Toffee’s nose pushes through the crack. I open it enough to let him onto the landing. I grab one of his ears. He goes still. He understands. Even when he gets the scent of the baby, he controls himself, just sniffs it up and down. He’s more interested in the contents of the plastic bag, and I push him off before grappling with the shoebox again.
    Downstairs, when I put the baby on the kitchen table, he lets out a squawk and tries to turn his head. I need to get out of the house fast, but first I have to write a note. I grab a pencil from the jam jar beside the draining board .
    Dear Mum, Toffee needs to go out, hope he didn’t wake you. Won’t be long.
    Love A XXX
    I’m so careful. Every step is a considered move. I have this baby in a box. I must not trip. We leave by the front door, and start off towards the dunes. Toffee goes ahead, looking back every now and then to make sure I’m keeping up.
    If the clouds would clear I’d be able to see better. Thank goodness, though, that I know almost every centimetre of this path. Starting down the slope towards the beach, I dig my heels in, steady myself by leaning back. It’s an incoming tide, and all I can hear are waves crashing against Croppers Rock.
    We’re on the flat, and here’s where I’ll throw the placenta into the sea. With the baby under my other arm, I give the plastic bag a feeble swing into the surf. In the murk, I watch it disappear. What’s the betting it’ll wash up somewhere further along the coast? Too late, I think how it would have been better if I’d taken it out of the bag.
    Stopping for a second on the strip of beach, I push my face into the box. He’s so still and quiet, I’m scared he’s stopped breathing. I begin to wonder if the shock of being born has been too much for him. I grope under the red cardigan to see if I can feel his heart. I can’t, but he gives a little splutter. He’s alive.
    The tide is coming in fast and at last the moon comes from behind the clouds, its broken reflection bouncing across the waves. Toffee runs ahead. Does he know where we’re going? I resist the need to walk