Roxy's Baby by Cathy MacPhail

heavy.’
    â€˜It’s only a couple of cauliflowers. They’re not going to do me much damage,’ Roxy said. Neither of them looked the other in the eye.
    As they were putting the shopping away in the kitchen, Roxy said, ‘Can I speak to you?’
    Mrs Dyce turned to look at her and seemed to suck in her cheeks. ‘What is it now, Roxy?’ Her husky voice sounded just on the edge of anger.
    â€˜I want to apologise,’ Roxy said at once. She didn’t want the woman to be angry with her. Because what if they decided to put her out, expel her like Eve from the Garden of Eden. Where would she go? What would she do?
    However, as soon as Roxy spoke the coldness in Mrs Dyce’s eyes melted away.
    Roxy hurried on. ‘I know I ask too many questions. I won’t ask any more.’
    Mrs Dyce shook her head and smiled. ‘Yes, you will, Roxy. I don’t think you’ll ever stop asking questions.’
    â€˜I wanted you to know that I am grateful you took mein. I really am. I don’t know where I would be without you.’
    Mrs Dyce pulled her close and hugged her. Now,
that
, Roxy didn’t like. It smacked too much of an American sitcom.
    â€˜You’ve said enough, Roxy. Let’s just forget it, shall we?’
    Roxy was so happy to be back in Mrs Dyce’s good books she almost felt like crying. It was so silly to feel like that, she told herself, yet she couldn’t help it. She only hoped her next request wasn’t going to spoil things again.
    â€˜Can I send a letter to my mother?’
    â€˜Do you want to go home?’ She couldn’t read Mrs Dyce’s face at that point. She had turned towards the cupboard and was stacking tins inside.
    Home was the last place Roxy wanted to be at the moment. ‘I just want her to know I’m all right. I won’t tell her about the baby.’ It occurred then to Roxy that what Mrs Dyce would fear most would be Roxy telling her mother about the set-up here. She wanted to reassure her about that. ‘I’m not going to tell her where I am. You can read the letter when I’ve written it.’
    Mrs Dyce’s shoulders visibly relaxed. ‘No need forthat. Of course you must write your letter. I’ll see it’s posted. I think it’s an excellent idea.’
    And if she really wanted Roxy to write to her mother, then why should Roxy ever be suspicious again? She promised herself she never would be. Like Anne Marie she would accept everything here, and be grateful.
    Roxy started that letter a dozen times, then crumpled up the paper and hurled it in the bin. In the end what she wrote could have fitted on a postcard. ‘I’m safe and well. Don’t look for me. I’ll write again soon. Roxy.’
    No ‘love’. Not even a ‘Dear Mum’. Terms of affection she couldn’t bring herself to use. Maybe her mother didn’t love her any more after what she’d done. Maybe none of them wanted to hear from her ever again.
    It was almost a week before she gave the letter to Mrs Dyce, one night after dinner. Mrs Dyce took it and slipped it in her pocket. ‘I’ll have it posted tomorrow, Roxy.’ She said it brightly, as if they were friends again.
    â€˜You won’t be posting it from anywhere near here, will you?’ Roxy couldn’t help notice the hesitation in Mrs Dyce’s eyes. ‘You can tell me the truth, I understand. If the letter is posted from here, my mother might just come to this area looking for me … Iwouldn’t want that. Neither would you. Of course you have to post it from somewhere else.’
    Mrs Dyce stared at her. ‘You really are something else, Roxy. You should be a detective. You’re quite right. I’ll have someone post it from London. It wouldn’t just be you who would be in danger if the postmark was local. It would be all these girls here.’
    Roxy looked around her. All these girls here were