Writing in the Sand Read Online Free PDF

not.”
    â€œShe’s just a bit thoughtless. A bit headstrong.” She puts out a hand to me. “To tell you the truth, I think deep down she feels she can’t cope.”
    â€œYeah? Well… Did you want your striped top?”
    â€œNo – the blue one’ll do another day.” I reach for the blouse and she says, “It’s probably my fault she’s like she is.”
    I don’t like the sound of this. “Don’t be daft, Mum.”
    â€œI’m serious. I’m not sure I dealt with her the right way. You know, when she was little. Even as a toddler she was a rebellious kid. I suppose I wasn’t expecting it to be like that. I’d imagined this dear little girl who’d go along with what me and your dad wanted—”
    I pause. She never mentions Dad.
    She says quickly, “She was a dear little girl, of course, it’s just she had a mind of her own.”
    I fasten some buttons she can’t manage. “You’d have been worried if she didn’t think for herself.” I fiddle with the top button. “And Dad?”
    â€œWell, you know, some men aren’t that fussed about kids…unless they stop them getting their eight hours.”
    With Dad more or less a no-go area, I’m wary about quizzing her. “So what did he do, that his sleep was so vital?”
    â€œMost of the time he worked nights. A noisy kid didn’t go down well.” She plucks at her jeans. “Lisa was a nightmare – screamed the place down if she didn’t get what she wanted. I think…” She falters. “…that’s where I’m to blame. To be honest, I didn’t know what to do. Your dad said she needed a good smack, but I could never do that.” She looks up at me. “You were different. You were so easy.” She manages a little laugh. “You were almost too good to be true.”
    When I reach for her socks – one’s just under the bed – she puts a hand on my shoulder. “D’you think you and Lisa might do something together today? Go out and have a bit of fun?”
    Fun – me and Lisa? I put my hand inside a sock, ease it onto her foot. “Like what?”
    â€œThere must be something.”
    It’s hopeless, but I say brightly, “I could tell her about Toffee. See if she’d like to come for walks.”
    Mum’s face lights up. She never stops believing some miracle might happen, like Lisa turning into an unselfish, caring human being.
    She says, “You’ll give her my love, won’t you?”
    â€œOf course I will.”
    Ladder Lane isn’t on the bus route, and the driver doesn’t have a clue about the nearest stop. A girl with a runny-nosed baby tells me when she thinks we’re near. I ring the bell and get off. But I take a wrong turning, and it’s not until I notice The Ladder Discount Store (with a window full of cheap batteries and black bin liners) that I spot Ladder Lane. I trail down the dreary-looking street of terraced houses, which might have been quite nice once, with patterned tiles on their garden paths.
    I check which side of the street is even-numbered, but I’m confused until I realize a 6 is actually a 9 swung upside down because of a missing screw. I cross the road and start looking for 24. I stand outside what I think must be Lisa’s. The house is next door to 26, so I reckon I’m looking at the right one. Though the bell for 24a works, it’s a little while before I hear footsteps clip-clopping unevenly down the stairs. Lisa opens the door.
    It takes a lot to shock me, but even I think she looks wrecked. Her peroxide hair’s spiked up stiffer than ever. Her face is swollen from crying. There’s mascara under her eyes – like a spider’s stood in black ink before sliding down her cheeks. She stares at me. “Oh, it’s you.”
    It doesn’t hide much, the matted pink dressing