Dustbin Baby

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Oh, no. I – I had a dental appointment near here and so I thought I’d just come and see where I used to live.’

  ‘Isn’t that nice! Well, like I said, I definitely remember you, April.’

  She doesn’t. She really doesn’t. I’ve just been one of dozens of babies through the years and we’ve all merged into one little wailing waif.

  ‘Who are you living with now then?’ Tanya asks. ‘Did this mum of yours come and claim you?’

  ‘No, I got adopted.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says Tanya, sighing. ‘My little sister’s adopted. It’s easier when you’re little and cute.’

  ‘Do you still get to see her?’

  ‘Nope. Well, not enough. They say it unsettles her. Of course it does. She misses me like crazy. And I miss her.’

  ‘We know it’s really hard on you, Tanya,’ says Pat, putting her arm round her. Tanya shrugs the arm away.

  ‘I’m OK. No need to feel sorry for me. And I’ve got Mandy now. She’s this little kid over the road. She’s like a little sister, sort of. You got any sisters, April? Adopted ones?’

  I shake my head.

  5

  THERE WERE JUST the three of us. They adopted me. Janet and Daniel Johnson. They gave me my name, Johnson. They wanted to give me a new first name too. Danielle, after my new dad. But I wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t even look up, no matter how many times they said it. They told me this as I got older, laughing, but you could tell it still bugged them a bit.

  ‘You were really only a baby too – and a good little girl in most other respects,’ said Mummy.

  ‘You just didn’t want to be a daddy’s girl,’ said Daddy, pulling one of my plaits a little too hard.

  Too right I didn’t. Not his girl. Or hers either, come to that.

  Is that really true? Maybe I loved them then. I still miss her sometimes.

  Tanya is watching me.

  ‘Come up to my room for a bit, April,’ she says. ‘I got these incredible new shoes on Saturday. You’ve got to see them.’

  ‘Yes, that money was supposed to be for school clothes,’ says Pat, stirring the mince a little too vigorously. ‘As if you could ever get away with wearing those heels to school.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got a school yet, so what’s the point wasting money on boring kid’s stuff?’ says Tanya. ‘Come on, April.’

  She props Ricky on the floor, pops his dummy in his mouth, and prods me upstairs.

  Tanya obviously shares her room with one of the babies. It’s lilac and fluffy, with a lamb mobile and a Little Bo Peep lamp. I wonder if this was ever my room? Did I ever sleep in that battered old cot in the corner?

  Tanya sees me looking and raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Yeah, it’s too gruesome, this dinky room. Wait till I get my own place. I’ve got it all sussed out. I want one of those converted warehouse lofts, all polished wood and white rugs, matt black furniture, kind of minimal chic.’

  ‘It sounds great,’ I say politely, as if it actually exists.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Tanya, sighing. Her eyes meet mine.

  ‘As if!’

  I laugh sympathetically.

  ‘Still, I could get lucky. There’s no chance of me being adopted like my little sister, I’m too old for that lark now, but give me another couple of years and I might meet some rich guy who’ll want to set me up somewhere stylish. Then my sister can come and live with me – or maybe my friend Mandy across the road. We play these games together, her and me. Pretend games. Don’t laugh.’

  ‘I play pretend games too sometimes.’

  ‘So, your new mum and dad? The ones that adopted you? Something tells me it’s not all Happy Families,’ says Tanya.

  ‘You got it. Well, we’re not any kind of family any more,’ I say, leaning against the little cot. I fiddle with the bars, lowering them so I can perch on the edge. I fight a mad desire to scrunch up really small and curl up in the cot myself. I smooth the Thomas the Tank Engine quilt.

  ‘The new mum didn’t dump you in a dustbin too, did she?’ says Tanya.

  ‘No. She was OK, I suppose,’ I say, pleating the quilt. Thomas the Tank Engine is concertinaed up tight.

  ‘Was?’ says Tanya. She’s changed her tone. She perches beside me. ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘What, she got cancer or something?’

  ‘No, she . . .’

  ‘I get it,’ Tanya says softly. ‘Yeah, my mum topped herself.’

  Neither of us say anything for a minute. I don’t have to pretend with Tanya. I can really talk to her. But there are some things you can’t ever tell.

  ‘And your dad?’ Tanya says eventually.

  ‘Him!’

  ‘Ah,’ says Tanya. ‘So, who are you with now? You’re not in a Children’s Home, are you?’

  ‘I was for a while. I’ve lived all over. But I’ve got this new foster mother, Marion. She’s OK. But she’s not like a real mum.’ I pause, smoothing the quilt out again. Thomas the Tank Engine looks as if he’s been in a bad train crash.

  ‘Is that why you came to take a deck at Pat?’ Tanya asks.

  ‘I thought – oh, it’s so daft, I was just a baby, but I wondered if I’d remember her. What’s she like, Tanya? She seems . . . nice.’

  ‘She is nice, I suppose. Well, she nags a bit, but then that’s a mumsie thing, isn’t it? She’s good with all the babies. She never gets rattled even when they’re yelling fit to bust, and she never really loses her rag with me – but maybe that’s because she doesn’t really care, like. I’m just this dodgy girl who’s been foisted on her, like a visitor. She does her best to make me feel welcome but when I go she won’t miss me.’

  I don’t suppose she missed me either. I was here eleven months but I wasn’t ever her baby. I was just one of many to be fed and changed and cared for.

  ‘Where are you going then, Tanya?’

  She shrugs. ‘Don’t ask me. This is just a temporary placement till they can find somewhere else.’ She nibbles a nail, looking at me sideways. ‘This Marion – she doesn’t specialize in teenagers, does she?’

  ‘Not really. I think I’m just a special case because she knew me before. But I suppose I could ask her—’

  ‘No, no, I’m OK here for now. And I want to stay pals with Mandy. Like I said, we’re like sisters.’

  ‘Her mum couldn’t foster you?’

  Tanya grins. ‘I don’t think her mum can stick me. I’m a bad influence on her precious little diddums.’

  ‘They said I was a bad influence once.’

  ‘You!’ Tanya cracks up laughing. ‘You’re like Goody Goody Two Shoes.’

  I grin too. ‘That’s all part of the act. Hey, where are your shoes then?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Tanya shows off the most amazing shiny mock-croc pink high heels.

  ‘Wow! Yeah, just the thing for school!’ I say, as Tanya struts around.

  ‘Can I try them on?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I have a go, stepping out gingerly. I catch sight of myself in the wardrobe mirror and get the giggles.

  ‘It’s not fair. They look great on you but I just look daft.’

  ‘No, you look fine – though try not to let your bum stick out like that. Sway your hips.’

  ‘I haven’t got any hips,’ I say, tottering around.

  ‘Try these on. They’re not quite so high,’ says Tanya, finding me an electric blue pair of wedges. ‘Yeah, they’ve got a strap see, so you can keep them on easier. And look, they go great with this little denim skirt. Try it and see. It’s designer, look.’ She shows off the label.

  ‘Did Pat buy it for you?’

  ‘You’re joking! No, she doesn’t know I’ve got half this stuff.’

  I remember the older kids at Sunnybank and the way they supplemented their wardrobes. ‘Did you nick it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ says Tanya, but then she winks. ‘One or two little bits might just have fallen into my bag, right? You’re not shocked, are you?’


  I shake my head, trying to look cool.

  Tanya laughs. ‘Do you nick stuff too, April?’

  I shrug. I never wanted to nick anything. Not so much as a bar of chocolate from the sweet shop. Not even a chip off someone else’s plate. But I got forced into doing stuff. I don’t care if Tanya is a thief. It’s like her Pat says. We shouldn’t pass judgement.

  Well, I can just imagine what Marion would say on that one.

  Marion.

  I wonder what happens when you don’t turn up at school. They wouldn’t ring Marion, would they? No, of course not. The teachers probably won’t even notice I’m not there. Cathy and Hannah will be wondering about me though. Especially as it’s my birthday. They might ring home at lunchtime.

  I’ll go now.

  But I don’t go. I stay in Tanya’s bedroom, trying on half her clothes. They look totally weird on me. I look such a baby still. Even Tanya’s crop tops hang loose and I haven’t got any boobs to fill out her tube.

  ‘Perhaps you need a spot of make-up?’ Tanya suggested.

  So I slap it on and then fix my hair so it’s piled up on top, with little strands falling round my outlined eyes. I stuff a couple of socks inside a bra, slip on the killer pink heels and then pose with one hand on my hip.

  I still look about ten years old.

  ‘Maybe you’re not up for a night’s clubbing just yet,’ says Tanya.

  ‘Oh well. Marion wouldn’t let me anyway,’ I say, wiping most of the make-up off.

  ‘And you do what she says?’

  ‘Some of the time. She’s a bit old-fashioned. Like out of the Ark. She didn’t half create when I had my ears pierced. But she gave me special earrings for my birthday,’ I say guiltily.

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot it was your birthday.’ Tanya scrabbles in her make-up bag. ‘Where’s that glitter stuff? Aha!’ She finds a special little tube from Claire’s Accessories. ‘Here. I’ve only used a little bit. Happy Birthday!’

  ‘Are you sure? Thank you!’

  ‘Course I’m sure, silly. Here, I’ll put it on for you.’

  I parade around in Tanya’s clothes, my cheeks sparkling – and then I sigh and stick my school uniform back on. ‘I’d better be going.’

  ‘You keep saying that. Stay for lunch. Go on.’

  So I sit down at the kitchen table with Tanya and Pat and the three little boys all strapped into their highchairs. The two toddlers ladle their own mince into their mouths (and laps) while Pat scoops spoonfuls of mince into Ricky’s gaping mouth. She must have spooned meals into me too. My mouth opens now like a baby bird. I imagine her wiping the slurp off my chin and in and out of my clasped fingers, then whisking me off to change my nappy and tuck me up into my cot.

  ‘Yes poppet, din dins, yum yum, now time for beddy-byes,’ she said to me too. I’d burble back to her, repeating sounds. I expect I said my first word to her. But it wouldn’t have been ‘Mum’.

  She sat me up, she lay me down, she tossed me in the air. She saw me crawl across the carpet and she kissed me better when I bumped my head. She let me play drums on her saucepans, she let me lick the honey spoon, she played round and round the garden in my palm and tickled me until I squealed. Maybe she acted just like a mum but when I went away she forgot all about me.

  Maybe my real mum has forgotten about me too.

  Mummy would have remembered.

  I’d better remember her.

  6

  I SAY GOODBYE to Pat after lunch. She gives me a nod and a smile, busy with one of the little boys who’s smeared custard into his curls. She doesn’t put her arms round me or kiss me.

  Tanya gives me a hug.

  ‘Keep in touch, Dustbin Baby,’ she says. ‘What’s your mobile number, eh?’

  ‘I haven’t got one,’ I say, sighing. ‘Marion won’t let me. She fusses that they give you brain cancer and says they’re a social nuisance. I thought she might just give me one for my birthday, even so – but she didn’t.’

  ‘Well, here’s mine,’ Tanya says pityingly, handing me a proper printed card with her name and a computer-designed girl with orange hair and the message KEEP IN TOUCH. It’s actually wrongly spelt TUTCH but I wouldn’t point this out for the world.

  She whips out a fluffy pink personal organizer and writes down Marion’s phone number with My mate Ayprel next to it.

  I feel thrilled that we are mates. We hug again and then I set off, walking as if I know where I’m going.

  Well, I do know. I’m just not very clear how to get there. I don’t fancy trying another taxi. I walk towards the town centre and see the sign to the railway station. I get a Travelcard to London and then curl up in a corner of the carriage, staring out the window at all the back gardens, thinking about Mummy.

  She adopted me. I can remember the first time she picked me up. Lavender. Soft lavender talc and soft lavender blouse, slippery to the touch.

  I’m imagining it. I can’t really remember being one year old. It’s just they told me so many times. Though I can close my eyes and smell her talc and feel her silky blouse. I see a pale purple blur whenever I think of her.

  I gave her a cake of Yardley’s lavender soap and a tin of lavender talcum every birthday and Christmas. She always cried and said, ‘Oh April, darling, what a lovely surprise!’ though they were the most predictable presents ever and she’d been watching out of the corner of her eye while he nudged me to the right corner of Boots to help me purchase them.

  I called him Daddy, I called her Mummy. They called me Danielle for the first few months, tried a few variations – Dannie, Ella – but by the time I was eighteen months and anyone asked my name I’d say April.

  Could I, really? I think that’s what they said. One of Mummy’s stories. Maybe she made half of it up. I’ve made up heaps myself and now I can’t remember what’s real. They don’t seem real. Neither do I. Maybe that’s why I hung on to the name April. It made me feel myself.

  So my name stayed April and Mummy and Daddy had to like it or lump it. There were lots of lumps in our relationship.

  Mummy wasn’t very good at holding me. I was always small and slight but I was a very squirmy little girl and I suppose she was terrified of dropping me. She strapped me in a chair to feed me. She anchored me in a corner of the bath with a giant inflatable seahorse. She buckled me into my buggy on outings. She caged me in my cot at nights. She never hugged me tight or whirled me around or lumped me about on her hip. She’d sit me on her lap occasionally when I cried but she was as tense as a spring underneath her soft slippery skirt, and I soon slid off of my own accord.

  Daddy was into cuddles in a big way but I wasn’t sure I was keen on them from him. He loved playing bears with me, down on all fours and growling fit to bust. He was like a bear in real life. He could be fun, he could be friendly, but he could suddenly lose his temper and roar. I felt he could kill me with one swat. He even looked like a bear, with thick brown fuzzy curls and a big beard and hair all over his body, even on his back and shoulders. His legs were dark with it, leaving his feet as pale as plaice, though the hair sprouted again on top of his toes. He seemed proud of his hairiness, flaunting himself in brief trunks whenever we went to the beach.

  Mummy wore a swimming costume then, but with a sarong around her waist and a cardi knotted over her shoulders. I was very pale so she oiled me with sunscreen until I was as greasy as a bag of chips, and made me pull on long-sleeved T-shirts and a sunhat so big it rested on my nose.

  I wasn’t allowed ice-cream because Mummy didn’t want me to eat frozen germs. Hot dogs and hamburgers were forbidden when we went to funfairs because Mummy was wary of warmed-up germs too. She held me out at arm’s length over public lavatories so lurking germs had no chance of leaping up my bottom.

  Daddy did things differently. He bought me knickerbocker glories with whipped cream and crimson cherries. He took me on every ride in the funfair, even the big wheel, though my stomach turned over and then inside out and I was sick all the way down to the ground a
nd some poor soul got horribly splattered. Daddy always roared with laughter when he told this tale. He called it his sick sick joke. Mummy always shuddered. She had a weak stomach and when I was sick or worse at home she heaved as she cleared it up, putting on a brand new pair of pink Marigold gloves each time and throwing them away in fastened plastic bags afterwards.

  I wondered if she felt she’d made a mistake adopting me. Maybe she secretly fancied fastening me into a big plastic bag and dumping me back in the dustbin where I belonged. Maybe I was wrong. She didn’t hug me tight but every night after she’d kissed the space above my cheek she’d whisper into the darkness, ‘I love you very much, April. You’ve changed our whole lives. You’ve made us so happy.’

  Mummy and Daddy didn’t seem happy. Mummy often sighed to herself, her face pained, her shoulders drooping. Sometimes she sighed so loudly she put her hand over her mouth apologetically, as if she were suffering from indigestion.

  Daddy suffered from real indigestion, forever burping and farting. Mummy ignored these eruptions and expected me to do the same. Daddy was often sick too. I thought he might be ill but as I got older I realized this only happened when he came home late. Daddy didn’t drink much at home but he sank pint after pint down at the pub. That was why he smelt so strange.

  Mummy didn’t nag him about it but she couldn’t stop her sighs. Daddy started stopping out half the night.

  I couldn’t understand why Mummy minded so. I liked it with Daddy out the way. I wanted Mummy all to myself. I wanted her to help me dress my Barbie dolls, to draw little girls and kittens and butterflies with my crayons, to thread red and green glass beads so I could wear ruby necklaces and emerald bracelets. Sometimes she did her best and put Barbie in her party dress and crayoned a cat family and decked me in jewellery. Other times she’d just sit sighing, and when she heard the door at last she’d jump up so suddenly that Barbie would land on her head and crayons and beads rolled over the carpet.

  One morning Daddy wasn’t back at breakfast and Mummy didn’t eat but drank cups of tea all day, her spoon going clink, clink, clink as she stirred. Daddy came home from work at his normal time, but he had a big bunch of red roses. He pressed them into Mummy’s arms. She held them loosely, not responding. He plucked a single rose from the bunch, stuck the stem sideways into his mouth, clasped Mummy in his arms and started a wild tango, stepping up and down the hall and bending Mummy backwards. She protested but then started giggling helplessly. Daddy grinned too, and the rose fell from his mouth and got trampled into the carpet. Mummy didn’t rush for the vacuum. She stayed in Daddy’s arms, smiling.