Читать книгу A Mother’s Sacrifice - Gemma Metcalfe - Страница 17

CHAPTER EIGHT

Louisa

Then

Mummy once said that a stork delivered me on Christmas Day. She said she didn’t mind much because Dad had pissed the Christmas dinner up the wall and there was nowt on telly. I said I didn’t think you could piss out a turkey and she laughed until her eyes burst.

When Mummy got dead I wondered if the stork might come back for me but he never did. I suppose he was too busy opening his presents off Santa or maybe there just wasn’t any other mummies who wanted me.

‘Come on, lovely, out of the car.’

The strange lady pokes her head through a small gap between the driver’s seat and the back window, so our noses are almost touching. She has short brown hair and a funny accent, making the word car sound like the middle of an apple. She told me her name is Beverley, but the policeman, who looked after me yesterday and gave me a candy cane, said her name was Mrs Budd, so I think she might be telling me porky pies. Mummy used to say that a liar’s pants would go on fire, but it’s snowing so I think Beverley might be okay. Even though she’s a liar she’s pretty to look at. Her face is kind and her smile looks like it’s been painted on with permanent marker.

‘Come on, sweetie. It’s getting chilly.’ Beverly squats down by the car as she speaks to me, but this time she doesn’t stick her head back through the gap, which I’m glad about because she smells too flowery. ‘This is just until we find you a forever family.’ I am confused now, and wonder why I am being sent into a place called The Foster Home, which isn’t my house, and where I have to stay until somebody called social services finds me a forever family. I don’t want a forever family, I just want them to fix Mummy. I want them to rub away the Ribena stain from around her neck and blow air back into her, like she used to do to my armbands when we went swimming on a Sunday lunchtime.

I want them to draw a smile on Mummy’s face… with permanent marker just like Beverley’s

Beverley is telling the truth about one thing though. It is really cold in the back of the car. I decide I will go into The Foster Home, just to warm up, even though it doesn’t look like a real house. It’s very big and doesn’t even have any bricks on it! The front, the bit where the windows and doors go, looks like icing, a bit like the birthday cake Mummy made me a long time ago when she was having a Tigger day. Mummy’s Tigger days were mostly fun but sometimes a little scary. She’d dance and sing and twirl me around, sometimes until I was sick. She’d wake me up in the middle of the night with a plate full of cookies she’d baked and tell me how she’d thought of an idea to make us rich. She’d talk so fast I couldn’t really understand her, like when you keep your finger down on a cassette’s fast-forward button. When Mummy was being Tigger she couldn’t sleep and when she was Eeyore she couldn’t wake up. I always just wished she could be Winnie the Pooh.

The garden in The Foster Home is humongous, with pink and purple flowers dotted around the edges. It reminds me of Oz, the part where Dorothy, Tinman, Scarecrow and Lion skip along on their journey to see the Wizard. But the flowers in Oz are poisonous and I’m worried that these flowers are poisonous too. I cover my mouth and don’t breathe as we walk up the path, just in case.

The door to The Foster Home creaks open, even though Beverley hasn’t knocked on the huge knocker which looks like a horseshoe. A lady answers the door. Her hair is long and black, making her green eyes almost pop out of her face. Her nose is really pointy and she looks thin enough to snap. I squeeze Beverley’s hand really hard. I want to tell her that I don’t like The Foster Home, that I want to go back to my real house. I know Mummy is in the sky now but I want to tell Beverley that she doesn’t need to worry about me because I can make toast and tea. I am a big girl now and I looked after Mummy well during her Eeyore days. It is while I am saying all of these things in my head that the lady at the door bends down, so our eyelashes are almost touching. My eyelashes aren’t long and dark like hers are; they are short and fair, the colour of Garfield.

‘Hello, Louisa, sweetie. I’m Esther.’

The lady, Esther, reaches out her bony hand and pats me on the arm. I jump back, the feel of my coat brushing against my skin making it burn. Esther looks at me strangely, her eyes flicking up past my head to where Beverley stands behind me. ‘Come on through, sweetie, you must be starving.’ I wonder how she knows Beverley is starving but I don’t ask.

I walk down a very long hallway to the back of The Foster Home, trying my best to place one foot in front of the other even though my legs have gone all wobbly. My shoes pinch my toes as I walk. Beverley said I would get lots of new things at The Foster Home but, as I’ve already told you, Beverley lies a lot. The sound of music blaring down from upstairs shakes my ears as we go down the corridor and I cover them with my hands. Esther turns around to look at me, her eyes jumping up into her forehead. ‘That’s Carla,’ she laughs. ‘You’ll get used to her.’

I am pretty sure it is Take That but I don’t say.

Once in the kitchen, a big boy with a round tummy turns around to look at me, a floppy thin piece of toast clutched between his thumb and forefinger, drippy yolk dangling down from the end like snot. On the stove, a pan begins to rattle, something inside of it banging hard against the metal.

‘Who’s the ging?’ the boy asks Esther, causing the smile to drop off her face.

‘Don’t be rude, Dillon,’ Esther says to him in a creaky voice. It isn’t the same one she spoke to me in just a moment ago and my stomach starts to jump up into my throat. I glance around to see if Beverley is still behind me but she isn’t here any more.

‘Don’t worry, sweetie, she’s just gone to move the car.’

I wonder how Esther knows what I am thinking. I haven’t even spoken out loud! I start to edge backwards, my blood fizzing like Coca-Cola. What if Esther is only pretending to be nice? What if she’s really the Wicked Witch of the West? She wears a green cardigan and a black skirt hangs from her bony hips. My eyes dart over towards the washing machine, which growls loudly in the corner of the kitchen. What if her cape is in the wash?

‘Ahhh, here’s Barny.’

A scraggly brown dog runs past my feet, causing me to jump high in the air. It begins to bark loudly, until the boy with the big belly throws it a piece of toast. Esther is shouting again, her voice as high as a steam train. I look out of the window to where snow clings to the branches of the trees. Wasn’t that what happened in The Wizard of Oz? Didn’t Glinda send snow to wake up Dorothy? The window is shut which means Glinda can’t help me. I am trapped!

‘Would you like an egg, dear? They’re almost done.’ Esther is tipping a timer upside down, the pink sand spilling from top to bottom as quick as tap water. Heat travels up my chest and neck and I begin to choke. I ignore Esther, instead checking the sky for monkeys, their screeching laughter hurting my head.

‘Louisa, darling, are you all right?’

Esther walks towards me, her arms stretched out in front of her. Her face has turned a deep shade of green, her nose even pointier and her eyes as black as wet pebbles. The pan on the stove bangs really loudly, as loud as a drum, the hot water spitting out at me.

I feel a warm sensation trickle down my legs. ‘I’m melting,’ I whisper, while looking around for the Good Witch of the East to save me.

‘She’s a fucking fruit loop.’ The boy with the big tummy starts to screech like a monkey, his toast flying out of his mouth, his spit landing on my face. I see the cup of tea on the table, the unfinished toast on the plate.

Wizard of Oz, Tea, Toast, Bedroom, Mummy!

Running over towards the stove, I grab hold of the pan, desperate to escape from the witches’ lair. It is really heavy, and it spits at me as I throw the boiling water at the Wicked Witch of the West.

I watch with wide eyes as she begins to melt. Closing my eyes, I tap my shoes together and pray to go home.