The Suitcase Kid

by Jacqueline Wilson

  No, no mulberries. The berries had long ago withered on the tree. No roses, just tangled thorny branches. No sweet-smelling honeysuckle, just leathery stems trailing untidily. But it was still Mulberry Cottage. I was back. I was home.

  ‘ANDY? ANDY DARLING, is that you?’ Mum’s at the door, smiling at me. ‘Come in, sugar-lump, I’ve got tea all ready on the table.’

  ‘Yes, come on, Andy, Mum’s made a lovely mulberry pie and my mouth’s watering,’ Dad calls.

  ‘Dad?’ I step inside, shaking my head. ‘Dad, what are you doing here?’

  ‘He got off work early, didn’t you, darling,’ says Mum.

  ‘But what are we doing here?’ I say, dazed.

  ‘We live here, silly,’ says Mum, and she ruffles my hair. ‘What’s up, Andy? Don’t you feel very well?’

  ‘No, I feel . . . wonderful. I can’t believe it. Was it all a dream then – all that about leaving Mulberry Cottage and you having Bill and Dad having Carrie and . . .?’

  ‘I think you’re still half asleep, pet. Come on, let’s have tea, we’re all hungry.’

  Mum takes my hand and leads me into the living-room. Dad’s sitting at the table, smiling at me. There’s a big bunch of our own pink roses in a pretty white vase, and there are little fairy cakes with pink icing and white rosettes and the newly-baked mulberry pie, dark wine-red juice bubbling up through a crack in the golden pastry and filling the whole room with the rich fruity smell.

  Mum cuts me a huge slice and tops it with vanilla icecream. I bite into hot and cold, crunchy and smooth, sweet and sharp, and close my eyes with the bliss of it.

  ‘Mmmmm,’ I say, and Mum and Dad laugh.

  ‘Doesn’t Radish want some too?’ says Mum.

  ‘Radish?’ I say, and there she is, safe and sound, tucked up in my pocket, half asleep too.

  Mum lets me fetch a doll’s-house saucer and a china thimble and Radish eats and drinks with us.

  ‘But wait. This is the thimble I swopped with Aileen ages ago,’ I say, puzzled.

  ‘Well, you must have swopped it back again,’ says Mum.

  ‘And maybe you’ll get swopping yet again because I’ve got a little surprise in my pocket for you and your Radish,’ says Dad.

  ‘A present!’ I jump up and run to Dad.

  ‘Oh darling, you do spoil her,’ says Mum.

  ‘I like spoiling both my best girls,’ says Dad, and he gives me a present out of one pocket and Mum a present from the other.

  Mine is a small square cardboard box and inside is a tiny Radish-size gilt table and chair, and sellotaped safely to the table top is a tiny pink china cup and saucer and plate, delicately edged with a wisp of gold paint. Mum’s present is in another cardboard box and it’s a proper size pink china teacup and saucer with cherubs flying all round the rim, and a little message in looping writing at the bottom of the cup. The message says ‘I love you’. Dad says it too. Mum goes as pink as her cup and they give each other a long kiss. Radish and I grin at each other. We are all very pleased with our presents.

  We eat up the pie and icecream and every one of the fairy cakes and then we all do the washing-up together, making it a game. Dad keeps flapping the tea towel and I put my fingers on my head to make horns and rush around pretending to be a little bull and Mum makes out we’re getting on her nerves but she keeps laughing, and we’re still all in a giggly mood when we go back into the living-room, as if it’s a special day like Christmas.

  We switch on the television and my very favourite film The Wizard of Oz is just starting and so Mum and Dad and Radish and I all cuddle up to watch it. I’ve got my red slippers on and Mum and Dad keep calling me Dorothy and I turn Radish into Toto and make her give little barks. We sing along to all the songs and at the end of the film when Dorothy clicks the heels of her ruby slippers and whispers ‘There’s no place like home’ I suddenly start crying.

  ‘What’s up, darling?’ says Mum.

  ‘Don’t be sad, little sausage,’ says Dad.

  ‘I’m not sad. I’m crying because I’m so happy,’ I say, sniffling.

  ‘You funny old thing,’ says Mum, and she pulls me on to her lap for a cuddle.

  When the film finishes I climb on to Dad’s lap instead and he reads me a story, lots of stories, from all the story books I had when I was little.

  ‘But they got lost somewhere, I’m sure they did,’ I say.

  ‘Well, we found them again, specially for you,’ says Dad, giving me a kiss.

  ‘You don’t mind reading me such babyish stuff, Dad?’

  ‘You’re our baby, aren’t you?’ says Dad, giving me a tickle. ‘Come on, little babykins, say cootchy-coo for your Dad-Dad.’

  ‘Oh Dad, don’t be so daft,’ I say, shrieking with laughter.

  ‘I don’t know – tears one minute, a great big fit of the giggles the next. I think it must be bed-time,’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, but I don’t argue too much because I don’t want to spoil anything and it’s easy to be good when I’m so happy. I get in the bath and Radish gets in with me and floats about as merry as a little duck. Then we both get dry and powdered and into our nighties and then Dad comes and carries me into bed as if I really am a baby. He tucks me up and he tucks Radish up too, and he kisses both our noses which makes me giggle again. Then Mum comes and she tickles us both under the chin and we giggle some more. Then Mum and Dad stand arm in arm at the foot of my bed, chatting softly to each other while Radish and I snuggle up. The bed’s so soft and I feel so safe with all my own things round me, my own rabbit pictures on the wall, my own wardrobe, my own toy cupboard, my own bookshelf, my own Radish in my hand, my own Mum and Dad right by my bed, together. I’m so happy I want this moment to last forever but I’m so sleepy too and I can’t stop my eyes closing and I know I’m going to sleep and I’m suddenly worried because I know it can’t last and that it’s going to be very different when I wake up and I try to open my eyes wide but they’re so heavy and I have to rest them just for a second and then they won’t open again and I’m going to sleep in spite of myself, I’m going to sleep . . .

  I WOKE UP and it was dark and I was so cold and I felt for Radish but I couldn’t find her and then I remembered and I couldn’t bear it and I huddled under an old sack at the bottom of the garden and tried to get back into the dream . . .

  And then I woke up again and it was light and I heard someone out in the garden, over by the bird-table.

  ‘Come on, little sparrows, nice toast crumbs for breakfast. Come and have a little peck. And I’ve got some nuts for you too and— Oh my goodness! Harry, come quick! There’s some little old vagrant sleeping under the mulberry tree!’

  A vagrant. For a moment I thought she meant a real vagrant sleeping somewhere beside me. And then I realized. She meant me.

  Vagrants sleep rough. They don’t have their own bed. They don’t have a proper home. Nobody wants them. They keep shifting around and getting moved on and everyone acts like they’re a general nuisance.

  I’m a vagrant.

  I scrambled out of the old sack and struggled to my feet, and then I started running, staggering once or twice because I was so stiff. The woman gasped and then called after me but I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t get the gate open so I jumped right over it. They’d painted it green instead of black. And when I chanced one last look round I saw they’d painted the front door green too. It didn’t look like my Mulberry Cottage without a butter-yellow front door. But it isn’t my Mulberry Cottage any more.

  I ran away, blundering down the road, round corners, along lanes, no longer watching where I was going, not even knowing any more, just wanting to run and run. I ran right across the road and a car hooted at me and made me jump so I didn’t cross any more roads for a bit and then another car hooted and I blinked at it, bewildered because I was still safely on the pavement, and it hooted again and someone shouted and I saw it was Dad. Only maybe I was still dreaming because Mum was with him too, Mum and Dad together in our car, and t
hey stopped the car with a squeal of brakes and then they were both running towards me – and suddenly I was swept up in their arms and we were having a big hug together, Mum and Dad and me, hugging the way we used to, the three of us together. No, we used to be four. Radish!

  ‘Oh Andy, darling, don’t cry! It’s all right, you’re safe and we’ve got you back and—’

  ‘And half the police in the country are out looking for you but we found you ourselves and just so long as you’re OK—’

  ‘Oh Andy, why did you run away? We’ve been so worried—’

  ‘We’ve been going out of our minds. Everyone’s been searching—’

  I cried harder. ‘I haven’t been searching. I just gave up. And she’ll be so scared without me,’ I sob. ‘Oh I’ve got to go and rescue Radish!’

  ‘But you dropped her down some tree, darling, you said—’

  ‘I know which tree. It’s in a garden where I go a lot.’

  ‘You don’t mean . . . our old garden? At Mulberry Cottage?’

  ‘No, this is a different garden. In Larkspur Lane, near my school. I was looking for it last night but I got lost and then I was back at Mulberry Cottage and you were there, both of you were, and we all had tea together and then you both put me to bed—’

  ‘That must have been a dream, Andy.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It wasn’t ever like that, even before you split up,’ I say sadly. ‘But Radish isn’t a dream. She really is in the tree and I must go and try to get her back.’

  ‘That blooming rabbit,’ said Dad, only he didn’t say blooming. But he drove us in the car to Larkspur Lane and I pointed out the right cottage.

  ‘It’s still very early. We can’t just barge into a private garden and start searching their trees,’ said Mum. ‘Maybe we ought to wait a while, Andy. You’re still frozen stiff. We ought to take you straight back home and—’

  ‘And we’ve got to phone the police, tell them you’re safe.’

  ‘And I must let Bill and the children know. They’re all so worried. Katie’s been in floods of tears.’

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘Carrie and the twins are very upset too – and it’s bad for Carrie to get in a state when the baby’s nearly due.’

  ‘But I’ve got to get Radish,’ I said, starting to climb over the gate.

  I was up and over the other side before they could stop me.

  ‘Andy, come back!’

  ‘We must knock at the front door first to ask permission.’

  ‘No, we can’t. I’ll get into trouble,’ I hissed, running across the wet grass towards the mulberry tree. ‘It’s OK, I know exactly where Radish is, and if you could try to get your arm down the hole, Dad, you can reach much further than me—’

  But before I could get to the tree I heard the door of the house opening, and someone coming out. Two people. They’d caught us.

  THEY WERE TWO small plump elderly people, both in their dressing-gowns. The woman was wearing a pink quilted satin affair, the man a woollen red-and-blue tartan job. They both had those old-fashioned slippers with pompoms. They certainly didn’t look very frightening but I was in such a silly state I was frightened all the same.

  ‘Please. I just want to look for Radish. I’ll only be a moment,’ I stammered.

  ‘We’re so sorry to disturb you like this,’ said Mum.

  ‘I know she’s very naughty playing in your garden, but my daughter’s lost her toy rabbit down your tree and that’s why we’re here at this God-forsaken hour, you see, to try to find it,’ said Dad.

  ‘Oh, it’s perfectly all right. We were expecting you,’ said the old man.

  ‘Expecting the little girl. She’s our little visitor,’ said the old woman. ‘She comes nearly every day and we’re always so pleased to see her.’

  I blink at them in astonishment.

  ‘It’s been grand to see her enjoying our garden. All our grandchildren are in Australia so we’ve no children of our own to come and play,’ said the old man.

  ‘Of course we didn’t like to intrude. We’ve been careful to keep our distance, but we couldn’t help having little peeps at you now and then,’ said the old woman, smiling at me. ‘You and your little rabbit seemed to be having such fun. And yesterday you stayed such a long time and it was such a pleasure to us. But it started to get dark and we wondered if you might have lost track of the time. We hoped you might come indoors and take a bite of tea with us but when I came out to ask I must have startled you, because you ran away.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, blushing. ‘That was silly. And I left Radish. I dropped her down inside the mulberry tree. Do you mind if my dad tries to get her back?’

  ‘Not at all, my dear, not at all. Although you can easily reach her yourself, you know,’ said the old man, and he gave his wife a little nudge.

  ‘Why don’t you go and look,’ she said, her eyes twinkling.

  So I ran to the mulberry tree. I found the little hole under the branch. But it wasn’t just a hole any more. Someone had stuck some little net curtains up at the entrance, turning it into a tiny window. I peered inside – but I couldn’t see Radish.

  ‘That’s upstairs,’ said the old woman. ‘I think she’s downstairs now.’

  I put my hand in the hole and felt, but the old woman was shaking her head.

  ‘No dear, there’s a much easier way to see downstairs. Run round to the other side of the tree and crouch down just a little,’ she said.

  I ran. I crouched. I saw another hole in the tree. There was a small doll-size doormat at the edge, with WELCOME in very tiny cross-stitch. I peeped past the mat and there was my own darling Radish stretched out happily on her own little wooden sofa, her head propped on a blue velvet cushion.

  I gazed at her until my eyes blurred.

  ‘How did . . . ?’ I whispered.

  ‘Just our little bit of fun, my dear,’ said the old woman, putting her soft hand on my shoulder. ‘My daughter used to play games with her little dolls inside the old mulberry, turning it into a real tree-house. Arthur and I were sure you’d be back so he did a bit of whittling and made the sofa and I did a bit of stitching to make the hole look a bit homey.’

  ‘It looks very very homey,’ I said. ‘And do you know what it’s called? It’s Radish’s own Mulberry Cottage.’

  We all went inside the couple’s own cottage because they were starting to shiver in their dressing-gowns, and we all had tea and hot buttered toast and Mum and Dad explained about our own Mulberry Cottage and it was all so cosy and everyone was chatting away so happily that I started to wonder if my dream might really come true . . .

  But then when we were back in Dad’s car he started blaming Mum for not looking after me properly when I was in bed and she got furious and started on about my not even having a proper bed at Dad’s place and I clutched Radish and realized that some dreams can’t ever come true.

  Radish still lives with me in my pocket most of the time because I need her so much. But she has her own Mulberry Cottage too and now, nearly every day after school, I take her there. She goes boating on her lake and then she has an acorn cup of mulberry juice in her own little cottage while I have cocoa and seed cake with Mr and Mrs Peters. That’s the name of the old couple. They asked if I’d like to call them Uncle Arthur and Auntie Gladys but I’ve got too many uncles and aunties already. Sometimes, just in my head, I call them Granny and Grandad. I never thought I’d like any old people. Mr and Mrs Peters are very old, but I like them ever such a lot.

  YOU SHOULD HAVE seen Mulberry Cottage at Christmas. I dipped a pine cone in green paint and then I splodged on little red berries and gold stars so that Radish had her very own Christmas tree. I even made her a teeny weeny paper chain though Mrs Peters had to help me because I just kept tearing it. Mrs Peters’ hands are like little claws because she has arthritis and yet she can still make them move like magic.

  She gave me my own sewing-box for Christmas. It’s got all these little compartments stuffed with threads and
needles and a silver thimble and a tape measure that snaps back into place when you touch the button. The compartment tray lifts out and at the bottom are all sorts of materials from her own scrap bag, soft silks and velvets and different cottons with tiny sprigs of flowers and minute checks and pin-head dots, all perfect for making into dresses for Radish. She’s got so many little outfits now she wants me to change her all day long so that she can show them all off.

  I’ve made her a dance-frock that covers her paws, a velvet cloak lined with cotton wool fur, even a little sailor-suit with a big white collar and a white cap with special ear-holes. Mrs Peters had to help quite a lot with that little outfit, but I did all the designing. Maybe I won’t be a fashion model after all. Maybe I’ll be a fashion designer. Then I don’t have to bother about getting thin. Mrs Peters is such a good cook that I’m getting bigger than ever. She doesn’t mind. She says I’m a growing girl and I should eat my fill. I told Katie and she said yes I was growing all right, growing gi-normous, and she puffed out her cheeks and strutted round pretending to be me. People laughed and I wanted to cry but I didn’t. I didn’t hit Katie either. I just made out I didn’t care and said I’d sooner be gi-normous than a silly little squirt like her, and got on with my sewing.

  Mr Peters gave me a whole suite of wooden furniture to go in Mulberry Cottage. There’s a big wardrobe that really opens, and a wonderful wooden trunk so Radish has got plenty of space to store her magnificent new ensembles. Mr Peters also gave me my own big penknife with a pearl handle, so that I can do a bit of whittling myself. Mum panicked and asked Mr Peters to look after the knife for me, so that I can only whittle when I’m with him. I think Mum worried that I might run amok and stick my penknife straight into Katie. I must admit it’s a tempting thought. No, I’m joking, don’t worry. Katie’s still foul most of the time but just occasionally she’s not too bad.