Read Online Dustbin Baby by Jacqueline Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline Wilson
Ads: Link
pack a small suitcase, telling me she was going to take me to a kind ladyâs house and she would look after me for a while. She probably had an Auntie Pat in mind.
But someone tracked down Daddy at his office and he suddenly burst into the house.
âWhereâs my poor little April?â he called, and he rushed into my room and swept me up into his arms, squeezing me tight. Too tight.
I was horribly, milkily sick all down the back of his suit.
8
IâM SURPRISED DADDY didnât back off there and then the minute heâd sluiced off his suit. But he took me to his new flat. Was it his place â or hers?
She
was called Sylvia. Thereâs some silly song that goes âWho is Sylvia, what is she?â and Daddy kept singing it. I knew exactly who Sylvia was. She was Daddyâs new girlfriend. I knew
what
she was too. She was wicked because she had enticed Daddy away from Mummy.
Maybe thatâs not fair. I donât know how they met or when they started their affair. I just knew that if Sylvia hadnât come on the scene Daddy might have stayed with Mummy so she wouldnât have slit her wrists.
I didnât see her, of course. Nobody told me what sheâd done but I heard them whispering. I imagined Mummy and her ladyâs razor and her pale body and the crimson bathwater. It seemed clear that it had to be
their
fault, Daddy and Sylvia.
I had to stay with Sylvia while Daddy went to the funeral. I didnât properly understand what a funeral was so I didnât clamour to go. Daddy bought me a new Barbie doll and a big tub of wax crayons and coloured drawing paper and a pile of picture books but I didnât touch any of them. I asked for scissors and cut pictures out of magazines. Sylvia was into fashion in a big way so I carefully cut out long lanky models with skinny arms and legs, my tongue sticking out as I rounded each spiky wrist and bony ankle, occasionally performing unwitting amputations as I went.
Sylvia found me an old exercise book and a stick of Pritt but I didnât want to make a scrapbook. I wanted to keep my paper girls free. They werenât called Naomi and Kate and Elle and Natasha. They were my girls now so I called them Rose and Violet and Daffodil and Bluebell. I weakened over the wax crayons and gave my girlsâ black-and-white high-fashion frocks bright red and purple and yellow and blue floral patterns to match their names.
âThatâs this monthâs
Vogue
,â Sylvia said irritably, but most of the time we didnât speak. She fixed me lunch and then watched me warily. Perhaps sheâd been the one who had to wash the sick out of the suit. My peanut-butter sandwich and Ribena stayed in my stomach so she relaxed and switched on the television. And then at long last Daddy came back.
âWhat did Mummy look like?â I asked.
Daddy flinched, not knowing what to say. I wasnât being deliberately awkward. I didnât understand that Mummy was dead â and now indeed buried. Iâd been told she was asleep and that she wasnât coming back home but Iâd be able to meet up with her again in Heaven. Mummy had read me fairy tales so I imagined her sleeping in a castle surrounded by briars in some distant holiday resort called Heaven.
Daddy didnât answer. He had a lot of whispered discussions with Sylvia. Sometimes they got angry and forgot to whisper. Then they made up passionately and Iâd come across them in an unpleasant embrace. I tried hard not to take any notice. I clutched my crumpled paper friends in my hands and in my head I played Big Girls, going out dancing with Rose and Violet and Daffodil and Bluebell.
I couldnât dance for ever. I cried at night when I was supposed to be sleeping on Sylviaâs sofa. I cried during the day too, in the toilets at school, though I always blew my nose and scrubbed my face with crackly paper before I sidled out of the cubicle.
People tiptoed round me at
But someone tracked down Daddy at his office and he suddenly burst into the house.
âWhereâs my poor little April?â he called, and he rushed into my room and swept me up into his arms, squeezing me tight. Too tight.
I was horribly, milkily sick all down the back of his suit.
8
IâM SURPRISED DADDY didnât back off there and then the minute heâd sluiced off his suit. But he took me to his new flat. Was it his place â or hers?
She
was called Sylvia. Thereâs some silly song that goes âWho is Sylvia, what is she?â and Daddy kept singing it. I knew exactly who Sylvia was. She was Daddyâs new girlfriend. I knew
what
she was too. She was wicked because she had enticed Daddy away from Mummy.
Maybe thatâs not fair. I donât know how they met or when they started their affair. I just knew that if Sylvia hadnât come on the scene Daddy might have stayed with Mummy so she wouldnât have slit her wrists.
I didnât see her, of course. Nobody told me what sheâd done but I heard them whispering. I imagined Mummy and her ladyâs razor and her pale body and the crimson bathwater. It seemed clear that it had to be
their
fault, Daddy and Sylvia.
I had to stay with Sylvia while Daddy went to the funeral. I didnât properly understand what a funeral was so I didnât clamour to go. Daddy bought me a new Barbie doll and a big tub of wax crayons and coloured drawing paper and a pile of picture books but I didnât touch any of them. I asked for scissors and cut pictures out of magazines. Sylvia was into fashion in a big way so I carefully cut out long lanky models with skinny arms and legs, my tongue sticking out as I rounded each spiky wrist and bony ankle, occasionally performing unwitting amputations as I went.
Sylvia found me an old exercise book and a stick of Pritt but I didnât want to make a scrapbook. I wanted to keep my paper girls free. They werenât called Naomi and Kate and Elle and Natasha. They were my girls now so I called them Rose and Violet and Daffodil and Bluebell. I weakened over the wax crayons and gave my girlsâ black-and-white high-fashion frocks bright red and purple and yellow and blue floral patterns to match their names.
âThatâs this monthâs
Vogue
,â Sylvia said irritably, but most of the time we didnât speak. She fixed me lunch and then watched me warily. Perhaps sheâd been the one who had to wash the sick out of the suit. My peanut-butter sandwich and Ribena stayed in my stomach so she relaxed and switched on the television. And then at long last Daddy came back.
âWhat did Mummy look like?â I asked.
Daddy flinched, not knowing what to say. I wasnât being deliberately awkward. I didnât understand that Mummy was dead â and now indeed buried. Iâd been told she was asleep and that she wasnât coming back home but Iâd be able to meet up with her again in Heaven. Mummy had read me fairy tales so I imagined her sleeping in a castle surrounded by briars in some distant holiday resort called Heaven.
Daddy didnât answer. He had a lot of whispered discussions with Sylvia. Sometimes they got angry and forgot to whisper. Then they made up passionately and Iâd come across them in an unpleasant embrace. I tried hard not to take any notice. I clutched my crumpled paper friends in my hands and in my head I played Big Girls, going out dancing with Rose and Violet and Daffodil and Bluebell.
I couldnât dance for ever. I cried at night when I was supposed to be sleeping on Sylviaâs sofa. I cried during the day too, in the toilets at school, though I always blew my nose and scrubbed my face with crackly paper before I sidled out of the cubicle.
People tiptoed round me at
Similar Books
