My Mum Tracy Beaker Read online

  After that Mum gave up dog walking altogether, even though I promised I wouldn’t let myself get bitten again, and for a while we were quite poor. I missed those dogs so much – even mean little Moe. When we were out I sometimes pretended I was walking my own imaginary dogs. I had four: Wolfie, a long-haired German shepherd as big as me, Faithful, a loving cream Labrador, Pom-Pom, a very girly Pomeranian, and Snapchat, a teacup chihuahua. They even went to school with me and sat by my desk and ran around with me in the playground if I didn’t have anyone else to talk to. I suppose I’m way too old for imaginary games, but I sometimes summon up Wolfie and Faithful and Pom-Pom and tiny Snapchat when Tyrone and his mates start bullying me.

  Mum’s last job but one was as a receptionist in a car salesroom. She went out with one of the guys there, and he taught her how to drive. She got quite interested in cars. Cam’s a writer as well as a foster mum, so when she got paid for a series of funny children’s books, she helped Mum buy a little second-hand car. It’s quite old, and we’re not sure it will pass its MOT this year, but we couldn’t really have a flash new car even if we could afford one – it wouldn’t last five minutes on the Duke Estate.

  Cam’s series didn’t make as much money as we’d hoped, but she dedicated the first book to me, which made me feel very proud. Mum’s always liked writing too, so she had a go at a children’s book herself. She read me bits when I came home from school. I thought it was ever so funny but very rude. Mum sent it to Cam’s editor, Marina, but she thought it was not that funny, and much too rude. Mum got upset.

  ‘She thinks you’ve got a fantastic, lively writing style, Tracy,’ said Cam. ‘You’re just a bit too outrageous, that’s all. I’m sure she’d think about publishing it if you toned it down a little.’

  ‘I don’t want to tone it down,’ said Mum. ‘And what’s wrong with being outrageous? I’d have loved this sort of book when I was little.’

  ‘I know you would. But you were a very odd child,’ said Cam.

  ‘I had a very odd childhood.’

  This gave Mum an idea. She decided she’d write her autobiography.

  ‘Really?’ said Cam nervously. ‘You can’t write whatever you like about real people, Tracy. They’ll sue you.’

  ‘Let them try! I’ll change their names a bit. You wait, Cam. This is going to be a real bestseller – for adults, not just kids. It’s going to be a misery memoir!’

  ‘Oh, Tracy!’ said Cam, pulling a face.

  ‘What’s a misery memoir?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re dire books people write about their awful childhoods, all self-pitying and full of shocking details.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Mum triumphantly. ‘They sell shed-loads. Jess and I will be set up for life. Mine will be the most tragic misery memoir ever because I had such a terrible childhood.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ said Cam quietly.

  ‘Yes!’ said Mum. ‘It was total misery.’

  I nudged her fiercely. ‘But you were happy when Cam fostered you, weren’t you, Mum?’ I hissed.

  Mum realized she’d been very tactless. She often is. She can’t seem to help it.

  ‘Oh, Cam, I didn’t mean I was miserable when you fostered me, you banana!’ Mum tried to give her a hug.

  ‘Well, I looked after you for most of this totally miserable childhood, didn’t I?’

  ‘I meant before. When I was in and out of care. I don’t know which was worse. Living with my real mum was no picnic, especially when she got that boyfriend who started slapping us around. And then there was that creepy couple who sent me back the minute they realized they were having their own baby. And the Dumping Ground was dreadful – all those kids running riot and having tantrums and going ballistic.’

  ‘That was just you, Tracy,’ said Cam.

  ‘I was a little angel compared with some of the others! Remember Justine Littlewood and how she took my friend Louise away from me? They were so mean to me, you’ve no idea,’ said Mum, shaking her head self-pityingly. ‘Justine Spiteful Littlewood is definitely going in my book.’

  ‘You could sometimes be a bit mean too,’ Cam pointed out. ‘Look at the way you treated that dear little boy – the one who had the same birthday as you.’

  ‘Weedy Peter Ingham! Oh yes, him! Well, he was such a drip he asked for it,’ said Mum. ‘It’s all coming back in vivid detail. I’m going to start writing it straight away.’

  She worked on it for weeks. She sniffled over the sad bits, then suddenly burst out laughing when she remembered playing a trick on someone to get her own back. She read me passages. Some of them made me cry because Mum had been so unhappy. Some made me snort with laughter. Some astonished me.

  ‘Mum! You couldn’t really have done that! You’re making all this up!’ I said.

  ‘It’s all absolutely one hundred per cent true,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ said Cam, when Mum showed her passages too. ‘You can’t write all this stuff about real people.’

  ‘Of course I can. People will be thrilled to be in a book. Especially if it’s a bestseller.’

  But it wasn’t a bestseller. It didn’t sell any copies at all because it didn’t get published. Marina turned it down.

  Mum and I went to see her in her office after school. Her authors’ books were lined up on shelves all round the walls.

  ‘Look, Mum, there’s Cam’s!’ I said.

  I had a copy of each title at home, but it was still exciting to see them all in a row with Cam’s name on the spines. I stroked them proudly.

  ‘You can have a look at one if you like,’ said Marina.

  She’s a very elegant, softly spoken lady with dangly earrings and her hair in a topknot. She was wearing a cream sweater and beige trousers, the sort of clothes you’d think would get dirty in five minutes, though these were spotless. She had a photo of two little girls on her desk, blonde mini versions of Marina.

  I took my favourite of Cam’s stories and sat pretending to read it, while I listened to the conversation anxiously, hoping that Mum wouldn’t be too fierce.

  She got right to the point.

  ‘Why aren’t you going to publish my memoir?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a really interesting read and a fascinating story, but somehow your writing style isn’t quite right,’ said Marina.

  ‘But when I wrote my children’s book, you said I had a great writing style!’ Mum said indignantly.

  ‘Yes, but not for a misery memoir. It needs to be much more sad and serious. Besides, misery memoirs have rather gone out of fashion now.’

  ‘So what’s in fashion?’ Mum demanded.

  ‘Novels about strong women seeking revenge.’

  ‘That’s right up my street!’

  ‘But by the time you’ve written one I think that trend will be over. I’m sorry, Tracy, I know it’s frustrating.’ Marina leaned forward towards Mum. ‘In actual fact, I’ve written a novel myself – well, a children’s book. My two absolutely love it. I’ve tried to get it published, but no one thinks it’s quite right. I know just how disheartening it can be.’

  It seemed crazy that a publisher couldn’t even get her own books published. They were having a good chat about it when Marina’s mobile rang. She looked apologetic as she answered it – and then suddenly gasped.

  ‘Oh no, Ava!’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it! She’s just walked out?’

  Marina listened, shaking her head, screwing up her face. She ran her hands through her hair and dislodged the topknot so that little wisps escaped.

  ‘I’ll come home straight away, darling. Oh no, wait a minute, I’ve got this book launch party at six and I’m giving a speech! If only Dad wasn’t away. Oh Lord, what am I going to do?’ she wailed.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Mum.

  ‘My au pair’s had a row with Ava, my eldest – she can be a bit of a handful – and now she’s packed her bags and walked out. My two girls are in the house on their own and they haven’t had their te