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his name’s Ricky.’
    The baby squeals excitedly when she says his name and then drools all down Tanya’s leg.
    â€˜Yuck!’ says Tanya, taking off one of his woolly booties and using it as a mop. Then she squints up at me with her small green eyes.
    â€˜Are you bunking off school?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Oh, come on. You’re in your school uniform, idiot.’
    â€˜OK. Are you bunking off too?’
    â€˜I haven’t
got
a school at the moment. They’re still sorting me out. Don’t let’s get started on me. There are huge casebooks and files and folders on
me
.’ She says it proudly, chin in the air. ‘So. What are you here for? Come to see Pat?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I mumble. ‘Pat? Is she . . . Patricia Williams?’
    â€˜That’s her. Auntie Pat to all the little kids. Oh, I get it. Were you once one of them?’ She laughs. ‘Quick on the uptake, that’s me. Still, you don’t look like one of Pat’s kids. Or sound like it either.’
    I swallow. I’ve started talking carefully again since I’ve been living with Marion. ‘I’m just talking posh to impress you, right?’ I say, in my old Children’s Home voice.
    She laughs. ‘Yeah, you’re quick on the uptake too, April. So, do you want to come in and meet Pat?’
    â€˜Maybe it’s not such a good idea,’ I say, scared all of a sudden.
    â€˜She’s OK,’ says Tanya. ‘Come on.’
    She stands up, slinging the baby on one hip. She tugs my arm with her free hand. I let her pull me to the front door.
    It’s on the latch. Tanya kicks it open with her high-heeled sandal. The hall is shabby, with scribbles on the wallpaper and bits of Lego and little cars all over the carpet. The house smells of cooking and nappies and washing powder. I breathe in, wondering if this smell is familiar.
    â€˜Pat? We’ve got a visitor,’ Tanya calls, pulling me along the hall into the kitchen.
    This woman is standing by the stove, while two little boys bang saucepans at her feet. She’s just how I imagined her; soft, cosy, pink cheeks, no make-up, old jumper, baggy denim skirt, scuffed shoes. But there’s no prickling at the back of my neck, no tingle at all. I don’t recognize her. She doesn’t recognize me either, though she smiles cheerfully.
    â€˜Hello, dear,’ she says. ‘Who are you then?’
    â€˜I’m April,’ I say. I wait.
    â€˜April,’ she says brightly. ‘That’s a lovely name. And appropriate for today.’
    â€˜That’s why I’m called it. Don’t you remember? I’m April the Dustbin Baby.’ I hate saying it. It sounds so stupid. Sad. Totally pathetic. I feel like I’ve been shoved right back in the dustbin with the rubbish rotting around me.
    â€˜What are you on about, April? What dustbin?’ Tanya asks.
    â€˜That’s where they found me. The day I was born,’ I mumble.
    â€˜Oh. Right.
Cosy
,’ says Tanya, raising her eyebrows.
    â€˜Yes, of course. I remember you now,’ says Pat, shaking her head and smiling. ‘You were small but very noisy. You cried a lot at night. I walked you up and down, up and down, but you just went on crying. Three-month colic – though it lasted much longer.’
    â€˜Maybe she was missing her mum,’ says Tanya. ‘Did she
really
dump you in a dustbin, April?’
    I nod, hoping I’m not going to cry now.
    â€˜Dead maternal, your mum,’ says Tanya. ‘Didn’t she like the look of you then?’
    â€˜Now then, Tanya, I’d have thought you of all people would know better. You don’t talk about other people’s families like that. Who are we to pass judgement?’ says Pat. ‘Some women get very sick when they have babies. Sick in the head. They can’t cope. They leave their babies in all sorts of strange places.