The Suitcase Kid Read online

  No, no mulberries. The berries had long ago withered on the tree. No roses, just tangled thorny branches. No sweet-smelling honeysuckle, just leathery stems trailing untidily. But it was still Mulberry Cottage. I was back. I was home.

  ‘ANDY? ANDY DARLING, is that you?’ Mum’s at the door, smiling at me. ‘Come in, sugar-lump, I’ve got tea all ready on the table.’

  ‘Yes, come on, Andy, Mum’s made a lovely mulberry pie and my mouth’s watering,’ Dad calls.

  ‘Dad?’ I step inside, shaking my head. ‘Dad, what are you doing here?’

  ‘He got off work early, didn’t you, darling,’ says Mum.

  ‘But what are we doing here?’ I say, dazed.

  ‘We live here, silly,’ says Mum, and she ruffles my hair. ‘What’s up, Andy? Don’t you feel very well?’

  ‘No, I feel . . . wonderful. I can’t believe it. Was it all a dream then – all that about leaving Mulberry Cottage and you having Bill and Dad having Carrie and . . .?’

  ‘I think you’re still half asleep, pet. Come on, let’s have tea, we’re all hungry.’

  Mum takes my hand and leads me into the living-room. Dad’s sitting at the table, smiling at me. There’s a big bunch of our own pink roses in a pretty white vase, and there are little fairy cakes with pink icing and white rosettes and the newly-baked mulberry pie, dark wine-red juice bubbling up through a crack in the golden pastry and filling the whole room with the rich fruity smell.

  Mum cuts me a huge slice and tops it with vanilla icecream. I bite into hot and cold, crunchy and smooth, sweet and sharp, and close my eyes with the bliss of it.

  ‘Mmmmm,’ I say, and Mum and Dad laugh.

  ‘Doesn’t Radish want some too?’ says Mum.

  ‘Radish?’ I say, and there she is, safe and sound, tucked up in my pocket, half asleep too.

  Mum lets me fetch a doll’s-house saucer and a china thimble and Radish eats and drinks with us.

  ‘But wait. This is the thimble I swopped with Aileen ages ago,’ I say, puzzled.

  ‘Well, you must have swopped it back again,’ says Mum.

  ‘And maybe you’ll get swopping yet again because I’ve got a little surprise in my pocket for you and your Radish,’ says Dad.

  ‘A present!’ I jump up and run to Dad.

  ‘Oh darling, you do spoil her,’ says Mum.

  ‘I like spoiling both my best girls,’ says Dad, and he gives me a present out of one pocket and Mum a present from the other.

  Mine is a small square cardboard box and inside is a tiny Radish-size gilt table and chair, and sellotaped safely to the table top is a tiny pink china cup and saucer and plate, delicately edged with a wisp of gold paint. Mum’s present is in another cardboard box and it’s a proper size pink china teacup and saucer with cherubs flying all round the rim, and a little message in looping writing at the bottom of the cup. The message says ‘I love you’. Dad says it too. Mum goes as pink as her cup and they give each other a long kiss. Radish and I grin at each other. We are all very pleased with our presents.

  We eat up the pie and icecream and every one of the fairy cakes and then we all do the washing-up together, making it a game. Dad keeps flapping the tea towel and I put my fingers on my head to make horns and rush around pretending to be a little bull and Mum makes out we’re getting on her nerves but she keeps laughing, and we’re still all in a giggly mood when we go back into the living-room, as if it’s a special day like Christmas.

  We switch on the television and my very favourite film The Wizard of Oz is just starting and so Mum and Dad and Radish and I all cuddle up to watch it. I’ve got my red slippers on and Mum and Dad keep calling me Dorothy and I turn Radish into Toto and make her give little barks. We sing along to all the songs and at the end of the film when Dorothy clicks the heels of her ruby slippers and whispers ‘There’s no place like home’ I suddenly start crying.

  ‘What’s up, darling?’ says Mum.

  ‘Don’t be sad, little sausage,’ says Dad.

  ‘I’m not sad. I’m crying because I’m so happy,’ I say, sniffling.

  ‘You funny old thing,’ says Mum, and she pulls me on to her lap for a cuddle.

  When the film finishes I climb on to Dad’s lap instead and he reads me a story, lots of stories, from all the story books I had when I was little.

  ‘But they got lost somewhere, I’m sure they did,’ I say.

  ‘Well, we found them again, specially for you,’ says Dad, giving me a kiss.

  ‘You don’t mind reading me such babyish stuff, Dad?’

  ‘You’re our baby, aren’t you?’ says Dad, giving me a tickle. ‘Come on, little babykins, say cootchy-coo for your Dad-Dad.’

  ‘Oh Dad, don’t be so daft,’ I say, shrieking with laughter.

  ‘I don’t know – tears one minute, a great big fit of the giggles the next. I think it must be bed-time,’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, but I don’t argue too much because I don’t want to spoil anything and it’s easy to be good when I’m so happy. I get in the bath and Radish gets in with me and floats about as merry as a little duck. Then we both get dry and powdered and into our nighties and then Dad comes and carries me into bed as if I really am a baby. He tucks me up and he tucks Radish up too, and he kisses both our noses which makes me giggle again. Then Mum comes and she tickles us both under the chin and we giggle some more. Then Mum and Dad stand arm in arm at the foot of my bed, chatting softly to each other while Radish and I snuggle up. The bed’s so soft and I feel so safe with all my own things round me, my own rabbit pictures on the wall, my own wardrobe, my own toy cupboard, my own bookshelf, my own Radish in my hand, my own Mum and Dad right by my bed, together. I’m so happy I want this moment to last forever but I’m so sleepy too and I can’t stop my eyes closing and I know I’m going to sleep and I’m suddenly worried because I know it can’t last and that it’s going to be very different when I wake up and I try to open my eyes wide but they’re so heavy and I have to rest them just for a second and then they won’t open again and I’m going to sleep in spite of myself, I’m going to sleep . . .

  I WOKE UP and it was dark and I was so cold and I felt for Radish but I couldn’t find her and then I remembered and I couldn’t bear it and I huddled under an old sack at the bottom of the garden and tried to get back into the dream . . .

  And then I woke up again and it was light and I heard someone out in the garden, over by the bird-table.

  ‘Come on, little sparrows, nice toast crumbs for breakfast. Come and have a little peck. And I’ve got some nuts for you too and— Oh my goodness! Harry, come quick! There’s some little old vagrant sleeping under the mulberry tree!’

  A vagrant. For a moment I thought she meant a real vagrant sleeping somewhere beside me. And then I realized. She meant me.

  Vagrants sleep rough. They don’t have their own bed. They don’t have a proper home. Nobody wants them. They keep shifting around and getting moved on and everyone acts like they’re a general nuisance.

  I’m a vagrant.

  I scrambled out of the old sack and struggled to my feet, and then I started running, staggering once or twice because I was so stiff. The woman gasped and then called after me but I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t get the gate open so I jumped right over it. They’d painted it green instead of black. And when I chanced one last look round I saw they’d painted the front door green too. It didn’t look like my Mulberry Cottage without a butter-yellow front door. But it isn’t my Mulberry Cottage any more.

  I ran away, blundering down the road, round corners, along lanes, no longer watching where I was going, not even knowing any more, just wanting to run and run. I ran right across the road and a car hooted at me and made me jump so I didn’t cross any more roads for a bit and then another car hooted and I blinked at it, bewildered because I was still safely on the pavement, and it hooted again and someone shouted and I saw it was Dad. Only maybe I was still dreaming because Mum was with him too, Mum and Dad together in our car, and t