Dustbin Baby
Authors: Jacqueline Wilson
Contents
Read on for the first two chapters of MY SISTER JODIE.
About the Book
My name is April. April Showers â that's my nickname at school now.
At least it's better than April Fool. And it's much, much better than Dustbin Baby . . .
I don't know where I came from, or who I really am. All I know is that I was abandoned as a tiny baby in a rubbish bin. I'm safe with my foster mother now â but if only I could find my real mother, somehow . . .
To Emily Eaves
I wonder if you've ever had to draw your own family tree at school? It's generally a fun thing to do, especially if you can design it like a real tree, with branches here and there. You can draw a snake slithering round the branch representing your pesky little brother, cute squirrels scampering along the branches symbolizing your favourite cousins and maybe an owl with glasses roosting on the branch for your wise old uncle. But whether you do this funny version, or just use plain lines and your best handwriting, it's generally easy to construct.
I could start with me at the bottom, then have my mother Biddy and my father Harry holding hands above me, and then above them my maternal grandparents, George and Hilda Ellen, and my paternal grandparents, Harry and Dorothy. After that it gets a bit hazy, but at least it's a start.
What would happen if you couldn't make that start? How would you feel if you could only put your name on the page? That's what it's like for April, the girl in
Dustbin Baby
. She's not even sure that's the name her mother would have chosen for her. She doesn't have a clue who that mother is. April was abandoned in a dustbin the moment she was born, bundled up and left to die. Thank goodness she cried hard and someone heard and rushed her to hospital. This happened on April 1st, All Fool's Day, when you play jokes on people. April's life hasn't been much of a joke though. She's been sent here, sent there, fostered out, stuck in a children's home, boarded in a special school, until she doesn't know where she is. She doesn't know who she is.
Dustbin Baby
takes place all in one day, this momentous fourteenth birthday when April sets out to find herself. I think we all go through a stage of feeling a little odd and alienated from our families at this age. It must be so much harder if you feel you haven't got any family at all.
I felt very close to April when I was writing her story and I struggled hard to make sure she had a happy ending.
Let's begin with a happy ending.
I sit here in the warm, waiting. I can't eat anything. My mouth is too dry to swallow properly. I try sipping water. The glass clanks against my teeth. My hand is trembling. I put the glass down carefully and then clasp my hands tight. I squeeze until my nails dig in. I need to feel it. I need to know that this is real
I think people are staring at me, wondering why I'm all on my own. But not for much longer
.
Please come now
.
Please
.
I look out the window, seeing my own pale reflection. And then there's a shadow. Someone stares back at me. And then smiles
.
I smile too, though the tears are welling in my eyes. Why do I always have to cry? I mop at my face fiercely with a napkin. When I look back the window is empty
.
â
April?
'
I jump. I look up
.
â
April, is it really you?
I nod, still crying. I get clumsily to my feet. We look at each other and then our arms go out. We embrace, hugging each other close, even though we are strangers
.
â
Happy birthday!
'
â
This is the best birthday ever,' I whisper
.
It's nearly over â and yet it's just beginning
.
1
I ALWAYS HATE
my birthdays. I don't
tell
anyone that. Cathy and Hannah would think me seriously weird. I try so hard to fit in with them so they'll stay friends with me. Sometimes I try too hard and I find myself copying them.
It's OK if I just yell âYay!' like Cathy or dance hunched-up Hannah-style. Ordinary friends catch habits from each other easily enough. But every now and then I overstep this mark in my eagerness. I started reading exactly the same books as Cathy until she spotted what I was doing.
âCan't you choose for yourself, April?' she said. âWhy do you always have to copy me?'
âI'm sorry, Cathy.'
Hannah got irritated too when I started styling my hair exactly like hers, even buying the same little slides and bands and beads.
âThis is
my
hairstyle, April,' she said, giving one of my tiny beaded plaits a tug.
âI'm sorry, Hannah.'
They've both started sighing whenever I say sorry.
âIt's kind of creepy,' said Cathy. âYou don't have to keep saying sorry to
us
.'
âWe're your friends,' said Hannah.
They
are
my friends and I badly want them to stay my friends. They're the first nice normal friends I've ever had. They think I'm nice and normal too, give or take a few slightly strange ways. I'm going to do my best to keep it like that. I'm never going to tell them about me. I'd die if they found out.
I've got so good at pretending I hardly know I'm doing it. I'm like an actress. I've had to play lots and lots of parts. Sometimes I'm not sure if there's any real me left. No, the real me is
this
me, funny little April Showers, fourteen years old. Today.
I don't know how I'm going to handle it. It's the one day when it's hard to pretend.
Marion asked me last week if I wanted to do anything special. I just shook my head, but so emphatically that my face was hidden by my hair.
Cathy had a sleepover for her fourteenth birthday. We watched spooky videos and one hilarious rude one that gave us the most terrible giggles and put us off having sex for life.
Hannah had a proper party, a disco in a church hall decked out with fairy lights and candles to
try
to give it atmosphere. There were boys too, but only Hannah's brother and his friends and a few totally sad guys in our year. Still, it was great fun.
I loved Cathy's birthday. I loved Hannah's birthday. It's mine that is the problem. I just want to get it over and done with.
âAre you sure you don't want a party?' Marion asked.
I can just imagine the sort of party Marion would organize. Charades and Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey and sausages on sticks and fruit punch, like way back when
she
was young.
Maybe that's not fair.
I'm sick of being fair.
I'm sick of
her
.
That's so mean. She's trying so hard.
âPerhaps you and I could go out for a meal somewhere?' she suggested, like it would be a big treat.
âNo, honestly, I don't want to make a big deal of my birthday,' I said, yawning, as if the whole subject simply bored me.
Marion's no fool. âI know birthdays must be difficult for you,' she said softly.
âNo, they're OK.
I'm
OK,' I insisted. âI just don't want you to make a fuss about it.'
She swallowed. Then she looked at me sideways. âI take it
presents
aren't making too much of a fuss?' she said.
âI like the sound of presents,' I said, snapping out of my sulks.
I looked at her hopefully. I'd hinted enough times. âWhat are you giving me?'
âYou'll have to wait and see,' said Marion.
âGive me a clue, please!'
âAbsolutely not.'
âGo
on
. Is it . . . is it . . .?' I gestured, holding one hand up to my ear.
âYou'll have to wait and see,' said Marion, but she smiled broadly.
I'm sure I've guessed right. Even though she's moaned and groaned about them enough.
Marion wakes me up with a birthday breakfast in bed. I don't actually ever want to bother with breakfast but I sit up and try to look enthusiastic. She's poured far too much milk on my cornflakes but she's added strawberries too, and she's put a little bunch of baby irises in a champagne flute to match the willow pattern china. There's a present on the tray, a neat rectangle,
just
the right size.