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

shimmering in the morning sun.
    I get the feeling I’m going to sneeze. I shove my hand in my pocket for a tissue, but there isn’t one. Instead, as I pull my hand back out, Mum’s note for the post office falls to the ground. I start to bend over for it, but get that low-down twinge again. It must show, because Mr Smith says, “All right, Amy?” and picks it up himself. I tell him I’m okay.
    He hands me the note and I say, “It’s about a dog we found. He just turned up at our back door.” Mr Smith looks genuinely interested and I show him the note.
    He takes it and smiles. “A brown dog, eh? As it happens, I’m very partial to dogs.”
    My heart lifts at the thought of someone liking Toffee without even seeing him. “We’ve called him Toffee because of his colour.”
    He grins. “Caramel or treacle?”
    â€œDefinitely caramel,” I tell him, and we both laugh.
    â€œAnd you hope no one’s going to claim him.”
    I nod.
    â€œFingers crossed, then.” He hands me the note, and I put it back in my pocket.
    Shaun’s come to sit in the revision session with us. Mr Smith has put him at the back, probably because he’s head and shoulders taller than anyone else.
    We’re revising English Lit and Mr Smith suggests Kirsty reads aloud from Lord of the Flies . Which she does, describing how Ralph courageously searches the island for “the beast”. She reads clearly and dramatically, with real feeling.
    Mr Smith says, “Thank you, Kirsty. That was great – very expressive.” He catches Neil Betts yawning; books bore him, even Lord of the Flies . To be honest, I’m surprised he bothered to turn up this morning. In a minute, Mr Smith’s going to get his own back – he’ll ask Neil to read. But Neil’s let off the hook because the Head opens the door and beckons Mr Smith. “Can you spare a minute?”
    As the two of them leave, to stand just outside the door, a couple of chairs scrape back. A feeling of relaxation runs round the room. Mr Wilson’s “minute” could turn into anything up to a quarter of an hour. When Kirsty realizes I’ll carry on revising, she draws an imaginary halo over my head. My grin indicates she can think what she likes.
    One afternoon last term Mr Smith asked me to stay behind to discuss my homework. Until that moment I’d been thinking I’d done quite well, but now I was starting to think I must have written total nonsense.
    I suddenly felt deflated.
    The chair he pulled forward for me squeaked in the quiet classroom. “This is a good piece of work, Amy.”
    I thought I hadn’t heard properly. “Sorry?”
    â€œIt’s great,” he said. “Sit down for a moment.”
    â€œThank you.”
    He smoothed open my exercise book. “You’ve given me what I asked for. And no more. No waffle.”
    He leaned back, hands behind his head. He smiled at me. “Well done.”
    I thought that was all he wanted to say; that I should thank him again and leave. But he didn’t seem in any hurry. “You’re a clever girl, Amy. Forgetting GCSE results for the moment, what are your post-A Level plans? Have you thought about college?”
    Warning bells clanged in my head. College, university. Leaving home. No one to look after Mum. Careful – don’t give too much away.
    A question mark hung in his voice: “Perhaps you’ve not thought about it yet.”
    Was he waiting for me to say something? “I’m not sure I’d want to move far away.”
    He chuckled. “So it won’t be Oxford or Cambridge. Do I sense you’re a home bird?”
    As well as silly dreams about Australia, there are times I wonder what it would be like to take off. Go anywhere. Right now I can’t, of course. But maybe – if Mum’s health improves – one day I might.
    I changed the subject.