Dustbin Baby (15 page)

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.'

‘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.

Marion really cares about me even though
we're
not related. I was kidding myself before. I
don't
always
want
her to care but she does. The slightest little thing can send her into a state. She got terribly fussed when I had my ears pierced in case the equipment hadn't been sterilized properly. She drove me to the hospital one time when I had a bad migraine just to check it wasn't meningitis. She
was
worried that time the school coach broke down. She pretended she was fine and acted all organized and efficient, but she'd picked at the ribbing on her pale pink jumper so violently that it started to unravel and she never wore it again.

She
would
hug me if I let her. She's tried several times. I'm the one who always backs away. It's because I don't want her to get too close. I don't want her to be a real mum. Because she's
not
my mum.

I've hung on so long hoping to find my real mum. I don't think I'm ever going to find her now.
She
's the one who hasn't been the
real
mum.

I dial the operator. I tell her Marion's number. She asks Marion if she'll accept the call. And then we're talking. Well, I can't talk properly. I'm crying too much.

‘Oh Marion, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry . . .'

‘Are you all
right
, April?' Marion sounds desperate.

‘Yes, I'm OK. In fact the most amazing things have happened. But I should have phoned you, I know. Have you been really really worried?'

‘Of course I have! I've even been in touch with the police.'

‘Oh no! Are they after me?'

‘Looking
out
for you, you silly girl. To bring you home safe and sound. Where have you
been
? I've rung Cathy and Hannah, and everyone I could think of . . . I've spoken to Elaine . . . I told her all about the argument this morning.'

‘I'm sorry, Marion. I was so mean and ungrateful. They're lovely earrings.'

‘Do you know something ridiculous? I weakened this morning and bought you a mobile phone after all.'

‘Oh Marion!'

‘But I'm not sure I'll give it to you now – though at least it would mean I could phone you to check where you are. You've driven me demented today, April.'

‘I'm sorry. I didn't plan it to be this way. I just kept thinking about the past, and my mother putting me in the dustbin and – oh Marion, you'll never guess!'

She draws in her breath sharply. ‘Your mother? You haven't
found
her?'

‘No. No, I've found Frankie, you know, the one who found me in the dustbin.'

I explain that he's coming to meet me at The Pizza Place. Marion fusses and takes down his phone number and insists that she's going to come too.

‘But it will take you ages, and you sound ever so tired.'

‘I am!'

‘I'm sorry, Marion.'

‘And I shall probably make you even sorrier by the time I'm through with you!'

‘I bet you wish you'd never taken me on.' I stop suddenly. ‘Is that why you talked to Elaine? Do you want to get rid of me?'

‘Oh April! Of course I don't! You're mine.'

‘You're mine too,' I say.

Marion is crying too when we say goodbye.

I mop my eyes, wipe my nose, and walk out towards The Pizza Place. I think about my mother stumbling along fourteen years ago, about to give birth to me. It's starting to seem so shadowy and unreal.

I don't know if she really is the way I imagine. She could be any woman anywhere. I could sit next to her on a bus or brush past her in a shop and neither of us would know. Maybe it's silly to think a birth mother so important when the birth is the only thing that connects you.

It's weird the way I've loved her all these years. Maybe I should have hated her for dumping me in that dustbin. I know I'd never do that to any baby of mine, no matter what. I'll keep her and love her and hold her tight. I'll be a proper mum to
my
baby.

I haven't got a mum. But one day I can be my
child
's mum.

A real mum.

I go into The Pizza Place. The waiter smiles at me, shows me to a table, and asks me if I'm on my own.

I hesitate.

‘I've got . . . family coming later,' I say.

Let's end with a new beginning.

‘
It's so strange, April! I feel as if we really know each other,' Frankie says
.

‘
I know. It feels exactly that way for me too. I can't believe this is real. I make things up a lot. Especially about my birthday
.'

‘
Well, I was there. I'll tell you all about it, every little detail. I can remember everything so vividly because it was the strangest day of my life – and the most special. My little boys mean all the world to me, but somehow I didn't feel quite the same way when I first held them. You must meet them, and my wife
.'