Jodie had never wanted a doll’s house. When she was little, she’d asked Dad to make her a rocket, which was a challenge for him. He struggled hard, because he could never say no to Jodie. He handed over his rocket proudly. It was hollow, with a little hinged door, pointy at one end, touched up with shiny grey paint. It looked like a big wooden fish. Jodie held it in her hand, looking puzzled.
‘What is it, Dad?’
‘It’s your rocket, sweetheart,’ said Dad.
Jodie wasn’t good at hiding her feelings. Her face crumpled up. ‘But it’s much too small. I can’t get in it!’ she wailed. ‘I want to go up to the moon!’
‘Daddy can’t make you a real rocket, you noodle!’ said Mum.
Jodie howled. Mum laughed at her. Even Dad found it funny, I wasn’t there – I wasn’t even born yet – but the story had become family history, passed down like a folk tale.
We found the rocket at the bottom of Jodie’s wardrobe when we were sorting through all our things for the big move.
‘My rocket!’ said Jodie, dusting it with an old sock. She made it swoop in and out of her clothes, and then she stood back and chucked it into the air so that its pointy wooden nose hit the ceiling with a satisfying thuck. It made a little dent in the ceiling plaster and then hurtled back to earth. Jodie caught it one-handed.
‘We have lift-off, brief landing on ceiling and perfect re-entry,’ she said.
‘What was that noise?’ said Mum, bursting into the room, a pile of our old clothes in her arms.
‘Nothing, Mum,’ we chorused.
‘Well come on, girls, get a move on. Get all those old toys sorted into cardboard boxes, then Dad will take them to the hospice shop in the car.’
Mum glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Where did that mark come from?’ she said, frowning.
‘What mark?’ we said in unison.
‘You two!’ said Mum, but she was in too cheery a mood to get really angry. We heard her humming ‘Truly Scrumptious’ as she went back into her own room.
‘I don’t know what to keep and what to chuck,’ I said, stirring all my toys. ‘I never play with my Barbies now, or my cut-out paper dolls, or my giant set of wax crayons – they’re just for babies, but I don’t really want to throw them out.’
It was easier for Jodie. Most of her old toys were broken. Her old Barbies had skinhead haircuts and tattoos and assorted amputations; her teddy had led such an adventurous life that his head was hanging off his shoulders by a thread. Her crayons were stumps and her paints a sludgy mess.
‘Junk, junk, junketty junk,’ she chanted as she threw them rhythmically into a black plastic rubbish bag.
She grew wilder, throwing in her cream clutch bag and cream pumps, her pink crocheted poncho, her white fluffy towelling dressing gown, her floral toothmug and flannel and washbag, her pink alarm clock in the shape of a heart.
‘Jodie! You’ll hurt Mum’s feelings,’ I said.
‘She never minds hurting mine,’ said Jodie.
‘They were presents from her.’
‘Yeah, but they’re all stuff she likes, not me.’
‘I quite like them too,’ I said. ‘Can I have your dressing gown if you don’t want it?’
‘Sure,’ said Jodie, wrapping it round me. She laughed. ‘You look like a polar bear. Here, bear, want a fishy?’
She pretended to feed me the wooden rocket, and then chucked it carelessly into the black plastic bag – but that night I heard her scrabbling in the bag, searching for something. I kept quiet. The next morning I saw she’d wedged the rocket beside her red shoes in her small suitcase of treasured possessions.
We lived with cases and cardboard boxes all around us for days, never quite sure where anything was, suddenly needing something that was packed right away. Dad was out all day and half the night, trying to complete all the book- shelves and bathroom cabinets on his order book. He had a farewell do with his mates at work and came home all tearful, saying they were a cracking bunch of lads, like brothers to him.
We had a farewell Sunday lunch with Dad’s real brother, Uncle Jack, and Aunty Pauline and our two little cousins, Ashleigh and Aimee, and Dad’s mum came too. They all wished us the best, and Gran kept saying how much she’d miss us, though whenever we went round to her house she was always telling us off, especially Jodie.
Mum didn’t say goodbye to any of her family. She didn’t keep in touch. She always sniffed when she spoke about them. Jodie and I would have loved to meet this other gran who always ‘went down the boozer’, and the granddad who’d been on benefit all his life, and we especially wanted to meet the uncle who’d been ‘in and out of the nick’, but Mum had left home at seventeen and never gone back. She did her last shift at Jenny’s Teashop, coming home with a carved wooden spoon and a new apron with SUPERCOOK embroidered in white across the chest – gifts from her regular customers.
Jodie missed school altogether for the last couple of weeks. Marie and Siobhan and Shanice had turned against her and it was simpler and safer to keep out of their way. Jodie said she mooched around the town in the mornings, ate the packed lunch Mum made for her down by the river, and then mostly hung around the park until it was time to come home. She liked the children’s playground. She always loved little kids. She’d had plenty of practice looking after me. They all ran at her as soon as they spotted her, hanging on her arms, begging her to pick them up, to whirl them about, to give them a push on the swings or help them up and down the little slide. The mums made a fuss of her too because they could sit on the bench and chat amongst themselves while Jodie leaped about like Mary Poppins on skates.
‘Maybe I’ll be a nursery nurse when I’m older,’ Jodie said happily. ‘I seem to have the knack for it. Or I could be a nanny. Or maybe I’ll just have heaps of kids of my own.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t want to get married,’ I said.
‘I don’t! You don’t have to have a husband to have lots of children,’ said Jodie, winking at me.
‘Mum would go spare if she heard you saying that,’ I said.
‘Mum goes spare at everything I say,’ said Jodie.
‘What if she finds out you’re bunking off from school?’
‘She won’t. I’m leaving anyway, so what does it matter?’ Jodie said carelessly.
She didn’t bother to go back to say goodbye to anyone. I didn’t actually say goodbye to many people at my school either. I didn’t really have any proper friends. I did say a proper goodbye to my teacher, Mrs Lambert, because she was always kind to me.
‘I’m so happy for you that you’re going to this boarding school, Pearl. It’s a wonderful opportu- nity. You’re a very bright girl. I know you’ll make the most of it.’ She straightened up, shaking her head now. ‘What about that big sister of yours? How does she feel about going?’
I shrugged awkwardly.
‘I was very fond of Jodie, though she was always a handful,’ she said, smiling. ‘Still, maybe she’ll turn into a lovely young lady at boarding school.’
About the Author
Jacqueline Wilson is an extremely well-known and hugely popular author who served as Children’s Laureate from 2005–7. She has been awarded a number of prestigious awards, including the British Children’s Book of the Year and the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award (for The Illustrated Mum), the Smarties Prize and the Children’s Book Award (for Double Act, for which she was also highly commended for the Carnegie Medal). In 2002 Jacqueline was given an OBE for services to literacy in schools and in 2008 she was appointed a Dame. She has sold over thirty-five million books and was the author most borrowed from British libraries in the last decade.
About the Illustrator
Nick Sharratt knew from an early age that he wanted to use his drawing skills as his career, so he went to Manchester Polytechnic to do an Art Foundation course. He followed this up with a BA (Hons) in Graphic Design at St Martin’s School of Art in London from 1981-1984.
Since graduating, Nick has been worki
ng full-time as an illustrator for children’s books, publishers and a wide range of magazines. His brilliant illustrations have brought to life many books, most notably the titles by Jacqueline Wilson.
Nick also writes books as well as illustrating them.
Also by Jacqueline Wilson
Published in Corgi Pups, for beginner readers:
THE DINOSAUR’S PACKED LUNCH
THE MONSTER STORY-TELLER
Published in Young Corgi, for newly confident readers:
THE CAT MUMMY
LIZZIE ZIPMOUTH
SLEEPOVERS
Available from Doubleday/Corgi Yearling Books:
BAD GIRLS
THE BED & BREAKFAST STAR
BEST FRIENDS
BIG DAY OUT
BURIED ALIVE!
CANDYFLOSS
CLEAN BREAK
CLIFFHANGER
COOKIE
THE DARE GAME
THE DIAMOND GIRLS
DOUBLE ACT
EMERALD STAR
GLUBBSLYME
HETTY FEATHER
THE ILLUSTRATED MUM
JACKY DAYDREAM
LILY ALONE
LITTLE DARLINGS
LOLA ROSE
THE LONGEST WHALE SONG
THE LOTTIE PROJECT
MIDNIGHT
THE MUM-MINDER
SAPPHIRE BATTERSEA
SECRETS
STARRING TRACY BEAKER
THE STORY OF TRACY BEAKER
THE SUITCASE KID
VICKY ANGEL
THE WORRY WEBSITE
THE WORST THING ABOUT MY SISTER
Available from Doubleday/Corgi Books, for older readers:
DUSTBIN BABY
GIRLS IN LOVE
GIRLS IN TEARS
GIRLS OUT LATE
GIRLS UNDER PRESSURE
KISS
LOVE LESSONS
MY SECRET DIARY
MY SISTER JODIE
Join the official Jacqueline Wilson fan club at
www.jacquelinewilson.co.uk
DUSTBIN BABY
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 407 04584 9
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Random House Group Company
This ebook edition published 2008
Text copyright © Jacqueline Wilson, 2008
Illustrations copyright © Nick Sharratt, 2008
First Published by Doubleday in 2001
Extract from MY SISTER JODIE
Text copyright © Jacqueline Wilson, 2008
Illustrations copyright © Nick Sharratt, 2008
The right of Jacqueline Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Jacqueline Wilson, Dustbin Baby
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