Fizzypop (6 page)

“My
real
beginnings,” she said.

Chapter Six

I thought when I arrived home that Mum would be eager to hear about the Arcade, and whether the children's playground was still there. I thought she'd be interested to know how Jem had got on, finding the very church, the very
steps
, where she had been abandoned.

“It was just, like, so extraordinary,” I said. “Sitting there, right on the actual spot!”

“I'm sure it must have been,” said Mum. “But before you go any further I think I should warn you… your father is not in the best of moods. He is not at all pleased with you.”

I said, “What? Why?” What had I done now?

“He's hopping mad,” said Angel.

But I hadn't
done
anything! And then I noticed Rags: all along one side he was covered in something white.
Paint?

Mum pointed silently up the stairs. I didn't want to look, but she seemed to expect it of me. Reluctantly, I swivelled my eyes in the direction of her pointing finger. Great clumps of dog fur were sticking out of Dad's paintwork. You could see where Rags had bumped and banged against it as he careered down the stairs.

“Furry skirting boards!” sniggered Tom.

Dad had appeared on the upstairs landing. “I am not amused,” he said.

“No one ever is.” Angel said it bitterly. “The things she gets up to.”

I said, “I didn't do it! It was Rags.”

“Oh,
please
,” said Angel.

“That's right, go blaming an innocent dog,” said Dad.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd been a white dog. Unfortunately, he's grey. And he has this really long hair.

“Maybe it'd pull off—” I grabbed at a bunch and yanked. The hair came away, but so did some of the paintwork. Dad howled.

“Don't touch it! You'll only make matters worse.”

I backed away, hastily.

“I have never known
anyone
,” said Dad, “capable of creating such havoc.”

“Well, I'm sorry,” I said. “But how was I to know the door bell would ring?”

“Cos it's what door bells do,” said Angel. “Specially,” she added, “when you've got people coming.”

“I didn't know they were going to arrive just at that moment! I was
brushing
him,” I said. She had some nerve. “Not like you ever lift a finger to do him!”

“That's cos he's not my dog. I wanted a rabbit, remember? If I'd had a rabbit,” said Angel, “I'd have brushed him every single day. You were the one that insisted on carting that great lumping thing home.”

“Yes, you'd just have left him there to go mouldy!” We'd found him at the rescue centre. He'd looked so forlorn, all alone in his cage. “Poor little man!”

“Little?” shrieked Angel. “He's the size of a cart horse!”

“And he's ruined my paintwork,” said Dad.

“Would you like me to re-do it?” I said.

“I don't think so,” said Dad. “Thank you all the same.”

“I could!”

“I'm sure you could. You'd no doubt paint the stair carpet and the hall table and the front door mat while you were at it.”

Why would I do that? Honestly! People have such strange ideas.

“I'm only trying to help,” I said.

“What you don't seem to understand,” hissed Angel, “is that nobody
wants
your help.”

Well, she was wrong there, cos Jem did! For the first few days after our pilgrimage, she'd been happy just preening. Basking in her newfound glory. Abandoned! In a shawl! What could be more romantic? But once the immediate excitement started to wear off, she began to get worked up and wail that she had to find out more.

“I have to know who she was!”

Even Skye was prepared to admit that it was a mystery which needed to be solved.

“You might not like what you discover, but now that you've come this far I guess you have to go on.”

The problem was, none of us had the least idea what to do next.

“We've got to do
something
,” I said to Skye. Finding her birth mum was all Jem could talk about. All day, every day. First break, second break. On the way to school, on the way back home.
Why couldn't she keep me? What made her get rid of me? I've got to find out! I can't go through life not knowing!

I tried to be patient, cos I could imagine what she must be feeling, but quite honestly it was getting to be just a little bit tiresome. Even, almost, a bit worrying.

“She's become just, like, totally obsessed!”

“You shouldn't ever have got her going in the first place,” said Skye.

I said, “
Me?
”

“You were the one that suggested she start looking.”

“Only cos she was in a state about her life being blighted.”

“She's always in a state. You know what she's like! Give her a few days and she'd have forgotten all about it.”

“Maybe,” I said, hopefully, “she'll forget about this too?”

“Maybe,” said Skye; but she didn't sound very optimistic. I wasn't very optimistic myself. I'd lost count of the number of things Jem had gone on about in the past, but this was different. This was really intense.

One Friday afternoon I went back with her after school. She said she had something she wanted to show me. Skye couldn't come as she had a music lesson, so it was just the two of us. I hadn't been round to Jem's for ages. Mrs McClusky was in the kitchen, standing all comfortable and roly-poly at the sink in a bright pink tracksuit. She was happily sloshing around with mounds of bubbles frothing and foaming across the draining board. Mum would go demented if I used that much washing-up liquid! Mrs McClusky obviously enjoyed having lots of bubbles.

“Hello, stranger!” She flapped a hand and water went spraying into the air. “I'm washing up from this morning.” She laughed, happily. “And from last night! I bet your mum doesn't let dirty dishes mount up like this?”

It's true, she doesn't; but then my mum is at home all day. I know she's working, but Jem's mum has to go
out
and work. In the morning she's a school dinner lady (not at our school) and in the evening she cleans people's offices, so I could perfectly understand why it was she was doing last night's dishes at four o'clock the next day. It didn't seem to me at all unreasonable. Personally, if it were left to me, I would just dump everything in the sink and take stuff out when it's needed. I can't think all this washing up is good for the environment. But I felt sorry for poor Mrs McClusky, having to come home and do all this work and then go out cleaning offices.

“Shall I help?” I said.

“
No.
” Jem beckoned, impatiently. “I've got something I want you to see!”

“I'll just dry,” I said. “And you can put away.” Jem screwed up her face as if in some kind of agony. I dried a cereal bowl and placed it carefully on the kitchen table. Ungraciously, Jem snatched it up, but before she could put it away her mobile had started ringing and she immediately plonked it back down again. I saw her glance at the caller ID.

“I've just got to go and take this,” she said.

I gave up. She was away for so long that I had to start putting things away myself. If she'd taken the call in the kitchen she could have put things away at the same time, which means I wouldn't have tripped over my school bag and smashed a plate.

“Now look what you've done!” she said, reappearing at precisely the wrong moment. She said it like it was my fault. Like if I hadn't insisted on helping, it wouldn't have happened.

Mrs McClusky just laughed and said not to worry. “It was probably cracked, anyway.”

“I'll clear it up,” I said.

“That's all right, just chuck it in the bin.”

I really do love Jem's mum! There is no fuss and bother with her. Mum would have gone on and on about me leaving my school bag in the middle of the floor, and if the plate had been cracked to begin with she would have been bound to say that I had done it. I am responsible for everything!

Jem was tugging at me. “You coming, or not?”

“Yes, off you go!” Mrs McClusky waved us away. “You obviously have things to do.”

“Who was on the phone?” I asked Jem.

“
That
,” said Jem, “was
Liliana.
She's got another modelling job!”

I said, “Oh.” I didn't know whether to be sympathetic, like, “All right for some people,” or whether to say something bracing on the lines of, “Don't worry, it probably won't last.” In the end I didn't say anything, and neither did Jem. She just threw open the door of her bedroom and noisily banged it shut again behind us. I thought, uh-oh! Trouble ahead. I expected her to get going on her usual my-life-has-been-blighted routine, and was quite surprised when she didn't. It seemed that whatever it was she'd asked me round to see was more important.

I was curious. I bounced down on to her bed while Jem crawled on hands and knees across the floor, then lay flat on her side and groped with one hand under a chest of drawers. I watched with growing astonishment. What could be so secret that she had to keep it hidden from her mum? I know my mum has this truly annoying habit of prowling about my room when I'm not there, tidying things up and putting things away, but I don't think she would ever actually spy. Like if I kept a diary and wrote PRIVATE on the front, she wouldn't immediately sit down and have a read of it. I don't
think
she would. And if my mum wouldn't, then I didn't reckon Mrs McClusky would, either. Jem obviously had something she felt guilty about.

“Here.” She handed me a cardboard folder that she'd slid out from under the chest. On the front it had a big red question mark.

“What is it?” I said.

“Have a look!” Jem seemed both excited and at the same time a bit anxious, like maybe I might not approve. Her face had turned a give-away pink.

I opened the folder. Inside was a drawing. A girl, quite young, with thick, black, glossy hair, big dark eyes and a creamy complexion. Rather like Jem herself. Underneath it said,
My birth mum?

I stared at it for a while, wondering how to react.

“What do you think?” said Jem.

I swallowed. I didn't know what to think, quite honestly. “Did you copy it from somewhere?” I said.

“No! It came out of my head. It's what I think she might have looked like.”

It was a good drawing. Art is one of Jem's best subjects. But I still didn't know what to think.

“Here.” Jem reached across and pulled an envelope out of the folder. “Read this!”

On the envelope she'd printed the words,
Letter to my Daughter
. I took out a sheet of paper, covered in handwriting I didn't recognise. It wasn't Jem's round, bouncy hand.

I turned to her, puzzled. “Is this
really
from your birth mum?”

Jem giggled, a bit shamefaced. “No, it's something I made up. Read it!”

I really didn't want to; it felt like intruding. This was Jem's private dream world. Nothing to do with me! But she was waiting, eagerly watching, so I didn't have much choice.

“My dearest darling daughter,”
I read, in the handwriting that wasn't Jem's.

“I am walking into the churchyard with you in my arms. I will lie you down at the top of the steps where you will be sheltered from the wind. At least you have your nice warm shawl that I knitted for you. That is some comfort. I couldn't bear the thought of you being cold.

“Now I fear it is time for me to leave you. It breaks my heart to go but I am very scared and confused and do not know what else to do. There is no one I can speak to. My mum and dad are very harsh cruel people and I shudder to think what would happen if I told them about you. You are so precious to me!

“This is the moment I have been dreading. The moment when I must say goodbye. For ever! Goodbye, my dear little baby! I will give you one last kiss on your sweet soft cheek. I know you will not remember me but I will remember you until the end of my days. I will never stop thinking about you and wondering what has become of you. I love you so much, I pray with all my heart that you will find happiness in your life.

“With all my love, Mum.”

I finished reading and folded the letter back up. There was a long silence.

“Well?” Jem flung herself down next to me on the bed. “What d'you think? D'you think it's the sort of letter she might have written?”

Actually, to be honest, I thought it was kind of embarrassing. The sort of thing best kept hidden away and read only in strictest privacy. Preferably late at night, under the duvet, with a torch. But Jem had her eyes fixed on me, obviously waiting for me to say something. I didn't want to hurt her. She's my friend and I knew how important it was. So I said yes, I thought it sounded exactly the sort of letter her birth mum might have written. Jem's face glowed with pleasure.

“Mind you,” I said, “I don't quite see how she'd have been able to write it the same time she was saying goodbye.”

Jem crinkled her nose. “How d'you mean?”

“Well… that bit about
I am walking into the churchyard with you in my arms.
How'd she manage to walk and write at the same time?”

Jem obviously hadn't thought of that. The pinkness came surging back into her cheeks. So then I felt mean and wished I hadn't said anything.

“P'raps it was artistic licence,” I said. “Like, she went home and sat down to write the letter and was kind of re-living things in her mind?”

“Mm.” Jem nodded, slowly. “'Cept I imagined her writing it
before
. So's she could leave it with me, you know?”

“OK! So instead of
re
-living it she was
pre
-living it.”

I thought that was pretty neat, and so did Jem. She liked that explanation. Her face went into a big happy beam.