‘Not if you don’t want it to happen.’
‘Well, I don’t. You mean stop boarding at Fairleigh?’
‘That’s maybe not such a bad idea. You’re very bright, April, even though you’ve still got a lot of catching up to do. If you went to a proper secondary school you could take your GCSEs and A-levels and—’
‘And read History at university, yeah, yeah, I know. Though I’m not bright, I’m rubbish at heaps of things.’
‘And you don’t seem exactly happy at school. You haven’t got many friends, apart from Poppy.’
‘I’m OK. I don’t want heaps of friends. Anyway, I’ve got you. If I get fostered I wouldn’t be able to see you at weekends, would I?’
‘You could maybe see a lot more of me.’
‘How?’
Marion laughed nervously.
‘Maybe you’re not so bright after all, April. I want to be your foster mother.’
I stared at her. She bravely met my eyes. ‘You probably think it’s a ridiculous idea. It is. I mean, I’m much too old and I’m single – though I’ve had a detailed chat with social services and they seem to think these aren’t insurmountable problems. But of course you should really be with a proper family.’
‘I don’t want a proper family!’
I thought about it, my head whirling. I wasn’t sure I wanted Marion either. She was good as my teacher, fine as my friend – but she wasn’t a bit like a mother. I couldn’t imagine living with her all the time.
I saw her bite her lip worriedly. I was being cruel keeping her waiting. So I took a deep breath.
‘Thank you very much. It’s very kind of you,’ I said politely, as if she’d offered me a cup of tea rather than a permanent home. I struggled harder. ‘It will be . . . wonderful.’
Marion smiled wryly.
‘It won’t be wonderful living with a grumpy old stick like me. I’ll nag you about homework and I’ll lecture you silly and I’ll twitch terribly if you shorten your skirt or wear too much makeup. But I think we could get on well together. I’d love to give it a try. Of course I know I can’t be like a real mother to you, April, but—’
‘I don’t want you to act like a real mother.’ I still had one, even though I didn’t have any idea who she was. And I’d had too many foster mothers to want another, even if that had to be Marion’s official title.
‘Will I call you Mum or Auntie or what?’
‘I think you should just carry on calling me Marion. Though if you’re really bad we’d better go back to Miss Bean!’
It took a long time to get everything properly sorted out. Marion had to go on a special course. I had to see a new social worker, Elaine. There were lots of meetings about me, nearly all behind my back.
‘It’s my life, so why can’t I be there?’ I asked Elaine.
‘I know, it does seem stupid, April, but it’s just the way we work,’ she said, playing around with a little bunny on her desk.
‘Why is it taking such ages? Marion wants to foster me and I want to be fostered by her so why can’t we just get on with it?’
‘I know, it’s such a bore, but we’ve got to proceed carefully, prepare both of you, compile all the reports—’
I suddenly felt sick. ‘Will Marion have to see all the stuff about me in my file?’
‘I think she’s seen it already,’ she said gently.
‘I thought that was private! You mean she knows about the times I went out thieving with Gina?’
‘Yes.’
‘And – she knows about Pearl?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she still wants to foster me?’
‘She does.’
That silenced me. Elaine reached across her desk and patted my hand. ‘Marion understands, April. Don’t worry. I don’t think there’ll be any problems about her fostering you. One of my other clients has recently been fostered by a single woman and that seems to be working well. I’m sure it will all work out beautifully for you and Marion.’
It has worked. But maybe not beautifully.
I left Fairleigh. Everyone sang a song for me the last day to wish me luck. Poppy sang an old Shirley Temple song, ‘On the good ship Lollipop’ – she just sang those five words all the way through until the music stopped. I laughed and then I cried and couldn’t stop. I didn’t really like Fairleigh but I’d lived there five years so it was like home. I didn’t fit in but that was nothing new. I didn’t fit in anywhere.
I wondered if I’d ever fit in with Marion. I had my own blue bedroom, with blue floral curtains and a matching duvet. She’d even bought me a new blue nightie and a blue quilted dressing-gown. I would have liked a brighter blue and I prefer wearing pyjamas and I don’t ever bother with a dressing-gown but I pretended to be very grateful. I tried giving Marion a hug but we’d been teacher and pupil too long. We both found embracing embarrassing.
Marion hasn’t ever tried to kiss me goodnight but she pats my shoulder and then tucks the duvet tight round my neck and under my chin. I always rear up out of it the moment she goes out the room. I hate anything round my head. If I burrow under the covers by accident in my sleep I always wake up in a panic.
Maybe I was stuck in that dustbin for hours and hours.
Of course I can’t remember what it was like. It just seems as if I can. I’m nearly there. I’m off the train, on the tube. There’s no stopping me now. I know where I’m going.
I have to find The Pizza Place in the High Street. If it’s still there. Even if it is, it’s mad to think there’ll still be the same dustbins round the back. And even madder to think my mother will be there.
Marion is almost as good as a real mother. She’s been so kind to me. It’s cruel of me to keep her worrying at home, wondering where on earth I am.
She won’t be really worried. She’ll be anxious, she’ll be concerned, like a teacher when someone goes missing from the playground. But I’ve seen mothers lose their children. I’ve seen that terrible chewed-up look on their faces, heard their high-pitched calling. I’ve seen Cathy and Hannah’s mums the day the school coach got a double puncture and we were all hours late after a trip to the Science Museum. Marion looked perfectly calm and collected. She’d spent her time reassuring everyone that we were all OK, school coaches were forever breaking down and we’d all turn up safe and sound.
Safe and sound. These are the words that sum her up, though she’d circle them in an essay and say I was using tired language. She’s so safe you can believe everything she says and never feel she’s going behind your back to get rid of you. She’s so sound you know there’s no nasty rotten bit of her ready to turn sour on you. She’s there, safe and sound, if you want her.
I do want her.
I want my mum too.
16
THE PIZZA PLACE is still there, halfway down the High Street, by a little alleyway. I peer in the window, looking at all the people eating their pizzas. I can’t see anyone on their own. No woman looking out the window, waiting for me.
I walked past, down the alleyway.
She’s not here.
I don’t know why I’m crying. Of course she isn’t here.
I’m in the right place. There’s the dustbin. Well, it’s not one single silver dustbin the way I’d imagined. There are lots of wheely-bins, large, stinking and unattractive. I don’t know if there was a real dustbin once or whether the journalists fudged things because Wheely-bin Waif has less impact. I stare at the wheely-bins, breathing shallowly. How could anyone stuff a newborn baby in those dank depths? I’ve imagined it over and over and yet I’ve never thought about the smell.
I must have reeked when that boy raked through the rubbish and found me. Yet he cradled me inside his shirt. That’s what the newspaper said. Maybe it just made a good story.
It’s my story and I don’t know what’s made up and what isn’t. I’ve made some of it up myself to fill in the gaps. I feel as if I’m not real. Everyone makes up their own version of me.
I don’t k
now which is the real me. I don’t know who I am.
Why can’t she be here for me? Doesn’t she even remember me on my birthday? Doesn’t she ever wonder what I’ve turned out like? I’ve thought about her every day of my life.
She doesn’t care. She gave birth to me but she shoved me straight in that bin and hasn’t given me a second thought since. What sort of a mum could throw her baby away? Maybe she isn’t worth finding. It’s obvious she doesn’t want me to look for her. She left me without a note, without a stitch of clothing, not even a nappy.
I punch the nearest wheely-bin. It hurts a lot. My knuckle starts bleeding and I suck it. Someone’s scrawled rude words all over the bin. I say them too. There are numbers as well. A line of eleven numbers. Someone’s left their phone number. There’s a message in the same handwriting: PLEASE CALL, BABY.
I read it again and again and again.
It’s a message for me.
No, that’s crazy. It’s nothing to do with me. Some girl and boy use this alley as their secret meeting place and now they need to get in touch. ‘Baby’ is a common enough nickname. Grant called Hannah ‘Baby’. She thought it wonderful (though Cathy and I privately agreed it was a bit demeaning, like he couldn’t be bothered to remember her name).
But maybe ‘Baby’ really does mean me. She might not have read the newspaper articles to know my name. So that’s all she can call me. Baby. Her Baby. That’s her telephone number. All I have to do is call her . . .
I’ve got a pound in my pocket. I could do it now.
I must call Marion too. I will. When I’ve worked out what I’m going to do. I fish in my pocket and find Tanya’s card. I write down the number from the bin, and the message too. It seems to have more meaning written in my own handwriting.
I walk out of the alleyway, my legs trembling. I walk past the people eating supper in the Pizza Place window, along to the phone box down the road.
I can just ring that number and talk to her at last.
If I want.
Of course I want.
I’m not so sure. I’m scared. What if she’s not the way I imagine? What if she’s really tough or scary or stupid? I won’t be able to make her up any more if I know what she’s really like. I won’t be able to make excuses for her if I know the real reason why she dumped me in that dustbin.
I’ve got to call her. She’s sitting there at home, waiting and hoping. Maybe she’s trekked to the alley behind The Pizza Place for years just in case. Maybe she’s been trying desperately hard to get in touch all this time. Longing for us to be reunited. Maybe she’s missed me as much as I’ve missed her.
I want to call her so badly.
I’m so scared of speaking to her.
I don’t have to say anything. I can just dial the number and listen. Hear her voice.
I go in the phone booth and fumble for my pound. I drop it because my hands are shaking so badly. The floor smells like someone used it as a toilet. I feel sick. What am I doing here? Why don’t I go home? Phone home at least. Tell Marion I’m safe and I’m coming home soon.
What if I phone my real mother and she says she wants me back? What if we meet and hug and can’t ever let each other go? What will I do about Marion?
I can’t phone her.
I want to phone someone else first to ask them what to do.
Shall I phone Cathy or Hannah? They’re my friends. They’re always there for me. But if I start telling them I’ll never stop – and they won’t understand.
I dial Tanya’s number instead. She answers on the very first ring.
‘Hi! It’s Tanya,’ she says breathlessly.
‘It’s me, Tanya. April. I’m sorry, are you expecting someone else to ring? I’ll phone you back if you like.’
‘No, no, it’s fine, truly. Well – hi, April.’
‘Tanya, I don’t know what to do. I’ve got this phone number. It could just be my mother’s. Well, it probably isn’t. But I’m scared to try it. Does that sound mad?’
‘A bit!’
‘Don’t you ever get scared?’
‘Nope! Well, maybe. But you’ve got to go for what you want.’
‘I don’t know what I want. I mean, if it is my mum and she’s nice and she’s pleased to find me then, of course, that’s what I want. But what if she’s not the way I want her to be? What if—’
‘Oh, stop all this what-iffy rubbish. Phone her! Look, give her a bell and then get straight back to me to tell me how it went.’
‘I won’t have enough change. I’ll have to ring you later.’
‘You should get a mobile.’
‘I know.’
‘Mine’s a really cool model. You can get all sorts of messages, take two calls at once, whatever.’
‘Great.’
Tanya sighs. ‘Only no-one’s actually sent me a message yet. Or called me.’
‘Well – I’ve called you. And you’ve been very helpful.’
‘So you’ll phone the number?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll be OK. Trust your Auntie Tanya.’ She sounds cheerful again. ‘I’ll start one of them advice hotlines on my mobile, right? Go on, April. Give it a try. Go for it.’
So I say goodbye. Just forty pence left, the display tells me. Maybe I’ll wait till I get home and ring from there? There’s hardly going to be any time to say anything.
How long does it take to say, ‘Hello, are you my mum?’
Why can’t I just get on with it?
I dial the number. It rings once, twice, three times – and then somebody picks up the phone.
‘Hello?’
Oh God. It’s a man’s voice. What am I going to do now? I swallow. No words come out.
‘Hello?’ he repeats.
I don’t have to say anything. I can just put down the phone.
‘Don’t hang up,’ he says quickly, as if he can read my mind. ‘Who are you?’
‘You – you don’t know who I am.’
‘You’re not the baby? Well, of course you’re not a baby now. Are you the little girl who was found in the dustbin?’
‘I’m not a little girl. I’m fourteen.’
‘Fourteen today,’ he says. ‘Happy birthday, April. You are still April, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. But how do you know?’ I stop. ‘Are you my dad?’
‘No! Though it’s weird, I’ve always thought about you like you were my little kid. I just can’t believe I’m talking to you. I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I tried to find you ages ago but they said you’d been adopted and I didn’t want to bring up the past and muck things up for you. I didn’t know what they’d told you. Still, you must know about the dustbin if you’ve got my number.’
‘So are you the boy who found me? Frankie?’ I look at the phone. ‘Oh no, I’m running out of money!’
‘OK. Dial the operator and reverse the charges to me.’
The pips go.
‘Promise me you will, April? Straight away?’
‘I promise,’ I say, and then we’re cut off.
I dial the operator, I tell her the number, and then we’re talking again.
‘Thank you so much! I’ve waited fourteen years to find you – I couldn’t bear to lose touch now!’ he says. ‘Where are you? Can we meet?’
‘I’m just up the road from that Pizza Place.’
‘Then let’s meet now! I’m only about twenty or thirty minutes’ drive away. Is that OK? Can we have a pizza together?’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
‘Who’s with you?’
‘No-one.’
‘What? You’re there all by yourself!’ He sounds like he really is my dad.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Oh come on! What about your family? Do they know where you are?’
‘Well, there’s my foster mum, and . . . well, no, she doesn’t actually know I’m here.’
‘Won’t she be worried?’
I swallow. ‘Yes.’
‘April? Don’t cry.’
<
br /> ‘I haven’t phoned her. I kept on meaning to but I didn’t dare and now . . .’
‘Here’s what we’ll do. You phone her now. Tell her where you are. Tell her I’m going to be with you very shortly. Then either I’ll drive you home, or if she’s uncomfortable about that I’ll stay with you at The Pizza Place until she can come for you herself. April? Have you got that?’
‘I think so.’
‘You will phone her right away – reverse the charges again, OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then you’ll go straight to The Pizza Place and order a meal –I’ll pay for it when I get there, obviously.’
‘It’s . . . it’s very kind of you.’
‘I’ve dreamt of this moment! Ever since I tucked you inside my shirt—’
‘You really did that, like it said in the newspapers?’
‘Of course I did. You didn’t have any clothes. You were freezing cold. I had to keep you warm.’
‘So my mother didn’t even wrap a shawl or sweater round me?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t imagine she was really prepared for you.’
‘There was no sign of her?’
‘No. I kept an eye on the dustbins for ages but she didn’t show up. And I look on April 1st most years and I leave a message. My wife thinks I’m a bit cracked.’
‘You’re married?’
‘And I’ve got two little boys and both times when they were born I held them in my arms – and thought about you. I so badly wanted to see you to make sure you were all right. April, are you all right? You said you’ve got a foster mum now? You get on with her?’
‘Yes. Though she’ll be so mad at me now.’
‘Phone her! And I’ll give you my mobile number so she can phone me. She might not like the idea of my meeting up with you.’
‘But you’re the one who saved my life!’
‘That sounds dramatic. Someone else would have come along sooner or later. But I’m so glad it was me. OK, I’ll be with you as soon as I possibly can. I’ve got dark hair, tallish, blue denim jacket . . .’
‘I’m little, long fair hair—’
‘That’s exactly the way I’ve always pictured you! Oh, I can’t wait to see you.’
I’m shaking as I put the phone down. He really means it. He really cares about me, even though we’re not related.
Dustbin Baby Page 10
