HELEN

I clean the rooms in the city Travelodge. It’s not the best paid job, but it suits me. When I meet the girls at bingo on a Friday evening, I’ve always got loads to tell them about rude guests or the weird things they leave behind.

But one thing I can’t abide is the smells! I’m sure people poo on purpose just before they checkout, when I’ve got to go in and clean the room. So, one morning back in 2005, when a shifty guy in a hoody with an overnight bag, slinks out of Room 105 and avoids eye contact as he passes me, I’m sure I’ll be walking into a terrible stink.

I leave his room until last. Then, in a practised move, I take a deep breath, go in, wedge the door open and push the window as far as the safety catch allows, to create a through-draft. I take a second breath – and, hallelujah! The only smell is that warm ‘fug’ of recent sleep. My instincts were wrong today.

Automatically, I scan the room for anything Shifty Guy may have left behind – phone chargers and wash bags are the most common. Just an empty lemonade bottle, left on the table. Shoving the bottle in the bin, I whip out the bin bag, tie a knot and sling it into the corridor. No time for slacking with only 8 minutes allowed to clean each room!

Next, the bedding. Freshly laundered replacements are piled on my trolley in the corridor. Pulling the duvet towards me, my heart nearly jumps out of my chest. “Oh!” I squeal. The hump under the duvet that I thought was a pillow is actually a sleeping child. I’m rooted to the spot.

Around 3 years old, the boy’s flushed cheeks and golden curls remind me of ‘Bubbles’, the child from the old Pears Soap advert. Gran had a copy of that painting on her wall. He’s wearing soft, blue pyjamas covered in little elephants blowing their trumpets. It’s an image that’s remained with me to this day.

I force myself to move. Is mum in the bathroom? No. But I spy a scrap of paper pinned under the water glass. It’s a Co-op receipt, for lemonade. Scrawled on the back in black pen are the words: “Look after him. I can’t do it.”

Yesterday, I met Bubbles again for the first time in 20 years. He’s actually called Kyle – at least, that’s the name his adoptive parents gave him after the ‘Travelodge Foundling’ case drew a complete blank. Now a handsome young man with no trace of those golden curls, he’s starting his own search for his biological parents. The local newspaper is helping with publicity and they have started with me.

I really hope Kyle finds some answers. But I can’t tell him anything more about Shifty Guy than I’ve told you. Guests leave behind some weird things in our Travelodge, but he was definitely my strangest find yet.

***

KYLE

I’ve always been interested in hospitals, ever since I went to A&E and had some stitches in my knee. Despite my pain, I was fascinated by the doctors and nurses ‘fixing’ all these people and their injuries. So, it was no surprise to my adoptive parents Lyn and Jeff when I decided to study Medicine at university; and I’m excited to be starting as a junior doctor at The Royal Hospital next month.

I had a happy childhood growing up in the village. Lyn and Jeff are kind, loving people who’ve always told me they ‘chose’ me as their son. I honestly didn’t see that being adopted made me different from others, until I was about 8. But then some of the kids at school started saying nasty things. Like how my ‘real’ parents hadn’t wanted me.

Of course, once I learned about reproduction, I understood better. But Lyn and Jeff waited until I was about 16 to drop the bombshell that I was a foundling. Lucky for me, the school kids hadn’t known about that part.

I buried the information deep inside me and focused on my studying and playing sports. As I’ve matured, however, I’ll admit to being curious about my mysterious past; but I’ve also worried that digging into it would be disloyal to Lyn and Jeff.

When we chatted last week though, Lyn made it clear they’d support me if I did want to search. She went over again the few facts that were known, including the detail that I’d been wearing a pair of blue pyjamas covered in little elephants, when I was found. This revelation suddenly seemed to unlock a hazy and distant memory for me. I was very young and snuggled into the lap of a loving lady, playing with the silver elephant she wore on a leather string around her neck. It wasn’t Lyn, so was it my mother?

This is why I have decided, 20 years later, to undertake my own search. Lyn suggested involving the local newspaper. Today, they introduced me to the Travelodge housekeeper who found me, but she who wasn’t much help (I can’t believe she’s still working there after all these years!). I hope to get somewhere with social media or DNA testing, though. I now realise that I really do need to know where I came from.

***

RUBY

I grew up on the Cherry Tree Farm estate. I was the eldest of 8 kids, crammed into a 3-bed council house. Mum was usually out, or out of it; and the step-dad spent his time at the working men’s club, even though he didn’t have a job.

But I’m happy now I’ve moved in with Charlie down the road. He’s 38 and he’s got a bedroom in his Aunty Jen’s house. I’m 17, and some people say he’s too old for me; but I like Charlie. He’s kind to me, and Aunty Jen’s no bother – she’s stuck in her bed. The carers come every day, but Charlie looks out for her, too.

So yeah, life’s pretty good. Charlie does a few jobs for cash, and I can get my nails and hair done whenever I want. Best thing is, we’ve agreed never to have kids!

But I did catch him looking at a Facebook post about a kid just now – some little boy that was dumped in a Travelodge years ago. The boy’s a lad in his 20s now, and a doctor or something. Charlie stares at the post for a long time, stretching the photo with his fingers to look at the face.

I ask Charlie if he knows him, but he just goes quiet. I go back to watching Love Island, but suddenly Charlie switches it off and blurts it all out.

When he was 15, back in 2001, Charlie lived here with his mum and mad nan. One day, his mum buggered off. Never came back. It was the day after she’d given birth to his brother Jake, when no-one had even known she was pregnant! Nan had dementia, so Charlie was in a right state. He’d never known his dad, nor Jake’s. He called mum’s sister, Aunty Jen. She’d fallen out with mad nan years ago, and was travelling around in a camper van with her man, Kev.

Aunty Jen drove by and scooped up Charlie and Jake. They spent the next 3 years travelling around, getting by on the jobs Kev found. Jake was a good baby, and Charlie helped Kev. No more school for Charlie, but he saw the world from that camper van, and he was happy.

But then Aunty Jen had a stroke. They discharged her from hospital, with no memory and a care package, to mad nan’s house, even though nan didn’t recognise her and had a care package of her own. Later that morning, Kev dumped Charlie and Jake on mad nan’s doorstep, with little Jake still in his pyjamas.

Overwhelmed, Charlie decided his best option was to get out of there with Jake. With no plan, and because it would soon be dark, they took the bus into the city and Charlie paid for a Travelodge with the cash Kev had thrust in his hand that morning. But, overnight, Charlie changed his mind. He couldn’t do it. Someone else needed to take care of Jake.

Charlie went back to mad nan’s. He owed Aunty Jen that much. Nan soon went into a home, and then the newspaper reported that Jake had been adopted. The guilt and loss ate away at Charlie, but alcohol and weed helped, until he found some happiness with me.

Hugging Charlie, I asked if he would contact Kyle. Charlie said no, Kyle wouldn’t understand. But I think he’s wrong, so I’ve just messaged Kyle. I can see the 3 little dots flashing, so he is replying. I hope Charlie won’t be angry, but at least Kyle will get some answers about where he came from.

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