‘Mm. All right, what kind of a whale is it?’
What kind?
‘It’s a very big one.’
‘There are many different kinds of whales, Ella. Seventy-seven different kinds. There are eleven baleen whales. What are baleen plates, everyone? Come on, I’ve just told you. Joseph?’
‘They’re instead of teeth, Miss Anderson,’ says Joseph. ‘They’re all frayed like old hairbrushes.’
Joseph nearly always knows the answers to everything. Some of the naughtiest boys groan and mimic his voice.
Miss Anderson frowns. ‘Shh, now! Well done, Joseph.’
‘And there are sixty-six toothed whales,’ says Joseph. Sometimes he forgets and gives answers without even being asked.
‘So my whale’s a toothed whale,’ I say.
‘Ah, he’s certainly got lots of teeth,’ says Miss Anderson. ‘But as you say, he’s very big, with a massive head. That means he’s more likely to be a baleen whale. They like to scoop huge mouthfuls of food from the sea and strain it through their baleen.’
‘I eat spaghetti like that, Miss Anderson,’ says Toby, laughing.
He’s the largest boy in our class. We’re not allowed to call him fat, but he is.
‘Now, Ella, I think you’d better settle down and copy from Sally’s notes,’ says Miss Anderson. ‘Why weren’t you taking your own notes, hm?’
‘I like drawing whales, Miss Anderson.’
‘Well, perhaps you can draw me one for homework. You can borrow a book from the book box and copy a picture, making sure all the details are accurate.’
‘Can I draw a whale for homework too, Miss Anderson?’ asks Joseph.
‘Of course you can, Joseph,’ she says, smiling at him.
Miss Anderson tries hard not to have favourites, but we all know she’d choose Joseph if she had one.
When the bell goes, she beckons both of us to the book box. ‘There we are. Choose a book each,’ she says.
I flip through and pick out a little book on fish.
‘Whales aren’t actually fish, Ella, they’re mammals,’ says Joseph, very gently and tactfully. He holds out his own great huge whale book. ‘You can have this one if you like. It’s the best in the box.’
‘Thank you, Joseph. But it’s OK, I’ll take this one.’ I select a very thin book with big print.
‘Are you sure? That one doesn’t look as if it’s got much information,’ Joseph says earnestly.
‘I just need a picture to copy, don’t I?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Off you go then, little whalers,’ says Miss Anderson. She gives me a gentle pat. ‘Will you be going up to the hospital to see your mum today, Ella?’
I nod.
‘Well, you give her a big hug then, won’t you?’ she says.
‘Miss Anderson,’ I say in a rush. ‘Miss Anderson, you know Mum’s in a coma? Well, will she ever wake up?’
I stare at her imploringly. She stops looking like a great big teacher who knows everything. She suddenly looks much smaller, and scared.
‘I hope so, Ella,’ she says. ‘Lots of people recover from comas. You read about it all the time.’
‘But lots of other people . . . don’t recover,’ I whisper.
Miss Anderson doesn’t answer. She looks very sad. Then I hear a sniff. It’s not me, not Miss Anderson. It’s Joseph!
We both peer at him, astonished.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It must be so awful for you, Ella.’
‘It is,’ I say.
I’m very touched that he’s really crying for Mum and me. I’ve always quite liked Joseph because he’s never rough and silly like most of the other boys and he often says interesting things. Now I decide I like him quite a lot. In fact, if he wasn’t a boy I’d want him as my second-best friend, after Sally.
She comes running back into the classroom, with Dory and Martha following her.
‘Sorry, Miss Anderson, but Ella’s dad’s out in the playground and he’s getting worried because she hasn’t come out of school yet.’
‘My dad!’ I say, and I rush off to find him, not even saying goodbye to Miss Anderson and Joseph. Sally and Dory and Martha come running after me.
‘Dad!’ I shout, bursting out the door. He’s come for me! He’s going to make everything all right! He’ll stay this time – he’ll look after me just like a real dad . . . But it isn’t Dad. It’s just Jack, standing there in his stupid old jacket, nibbling his thumb and looking anxious.
‘He’s not my dad,’ I say, turning on Sally. ‘Why did you say he was my dad? You know he’s only my stepdad! That was so mean, Sally!’
‘I’m sorry. Don’t get mad at me. I meant your stepdad. I just didn’t say the step bit. And anyway, how could it be your real dad? You haven’t seen him for years and years, you know you haven’t,’ Sally says.
‘Well, I’m seeing him any day now, you wait and see,’ I say.
I run up to Jack. ‘Did you phone my dad?’
‘What?’
‘My dad. You said you’d get in touch – but you didn’t!’ I say.
‘Hey, hey, calm down. I found a number in your mum’s address book. He didn’t answer, but I left a message. Don’t look at me like that, Ella. I promise I did.’
I don’t think I believe him.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said Sue’s very ill and it’s obviously very upsetting for you, and you need him,’ Jack says.
‘Oh.’
Sally and Dory and Martha walk past, staring. Sally knows Jack because she’s been on a sleepover at our new house.
‘We’re so sorry about Ella’s mum,’ she says.
‘Thank you, Sally,’ Jack says.
Then Sally’s mum gets out of her car and comes over, and she and Jack yatter away about Mum. Dory goes off to find her own mum, and Martha goes into the hall for after-school club. Then Joseph comes out, clutching his big whale book to his chest. He nods at me and I nod back.
‘What are you nodding at him for?’ Sally asks. ‘I can’t stick Joseph. He’s such a swot.’
‘Yes, I know he’s a swot, but I like him,’ I say.
‘You’re mad!’ says Sally.
Sally’s mum hears and gives her a little shake. ‘Are you being nasty to Ella?’ she says, sounding horrified.
‘No, Mum!’
‘I should hope not. Ella, I was wondering, would you like to come to tea today, while your dad – your stepdad – is so busy? In fact, would you like to stay the night, and then we could take you to school in the morning?’
I normally love going to tea at Sally’s house. Her mum always makes cakes for us – proper cakes from scratch, not out of a packet – and we get to help and scrape out the mixing bowl afterwards. I think raw cake-mix tastes even nicer than baked cakes. Sally has her own computer in her bedroom so we can play about on that, and she’s got all these lovely long evening frocks in her dressing-up box so we can play we’re grown-up ladies at a dance. Sometimes we play pretend games with Benjy – we’re two explorers and he’s our faithful dog, or we’re two nurses and he’s our sick patient, or we’re two teachers and he’s our very naughty pupil.
I so want to stay at Sally’s – but then how can I visit Mum? And what about Dad – my real dad? If Jack’s being truthful – and actually I know he doesn’t usually lie about stuff like that – then Dad might ring tonight when he gets home from work. He might even drive to our house and take me back with him.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Edwards, but I can’t. Not tonight,’ I say.
‘Oooh, Ella, please come!’ says Sally.
‘It’s OK Ella. You go and have tea,’ says Jack.
I shake my head. ‘I want to see Mum,’ I mumble.
‘Well, perhaps you can come tomorrow then? Whenever you want to,’ says Mrs Edwards.
‘You’re so kind,’ says Jack. ‘Right, Ella, we’ll go to the hospital and see Mum.’
I wave goodbye to Sally and Mrs Edwards, and go to the car wi
th Jack.
‘Have you been to the hospital already today?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘And Mum’s still the same?’
‘Yes. I saw little Sam too. They let me give him his bottle.’
‘Oh!’
‘Maybe you’d like to give him a feed sometime?’
‘Maybe.’ I want to very much but I don’t want to sound too eager.
‘What’s that book you’ve got?’
‘It’s about whales. I have to draw one for Miss Anderson.’
‘What, like homework?’
‘Yes, sort of.’
‘I’ve probably got some spare paper in my briefcase. You can do your whale drawing while we’re sitting with Mum. So, how did school go today?’
‘It was OK.’
‘Miss Anderson was understanding? She seems like a lovely teacher.’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘And the other children, they were OK too?’
‘They were all very nice, even Martha, who’s usually not very nice to anyone. And Joseph cried, just because he was sorry about my mum. Joseph isn’t even one of my friends, and he’s a boy.’
‘Boys have feelings too, Ella, and they can sometimes be very kind,’ says Jack. ‘I’m a boy, and I try to be kind.’
I don’t answer him. We don’t say any more until we get to the hospital. My tummy starts turning over. I’m desperate to see Mum, of course I am, but when I do it’s so sad and scary.
Jack holds out his hand but I don’t want to take it. I march into the hospital and trudge down all the corridors, humming a little tune as if I haven’t a care in the world – but I’m saying words to the tune inside my head: Please let Mum be all right . . . Please let Mum be all right . . . Please let Mum be all right, over and over again.
It’s a terrible shock when we get to Mum’s room because her bed is empty. There are no covers on it. All her cards are gone from her locker top.
I stop. Jack does too, his hand over his mouth.
‘Oh God!’ he whispers.
We stand there blinking, willing Mum to be back in her bed. It stays empty.
Then the grumpy nurse bustles past and sees our faces. ‘It’s all right,’ she says quickly. ‘We decided to move her this afternoon because she’s so stable. We need this room for patients who need constant monitoring.’
‘Then she’s getting better?’ I ask.
‘Well . . .’ The grumpy nurse hesitates, looking almost kind. ‘She’s not getting any worse.’
She takes us down further corridors, and there’s Mum in a curtained-off bed by the nurses’ station. She’s there in her new place but she looks exactly the same, lying on her back, her mouth a little open, breathing in and out, in and out . . .
‘Oh, Mum,’ I say, and I rush to her side. She’s still got all the tubes dangling in and out of her. I look at the nurse. ‘It is all right to hug her, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, so long as you’re gentle.’
So I lay my head on the pillow beside Mum and rub my cheek against hers. Jack’s standing the other side of the bed, holding her hand.
‘Oh, Sue,’ he whispers.
The tea trolley comes rattling down the ward. The tea is just for the patients and Mum can’t drink anything from a cup, but the lady in the yellow apron gives Jack a cup of tea. She gives me a biscuit. I try to eat it to be polite, but my mouth’s so dry the crumbs stick in my throat and coat my tongue like grit.
When I start to get a crick in my neck, I straighten up reluctantly. I sit in the hard orange visitor’s chair and start to copy the whales from my book onto Jack’s piece of paper.
I draw a killer whale first, doing a lot of shading so that it looks properly black and white. It looks more like a smiley penguin than a whale, so I draw its mouth open, with a row of vicious-looking teeth, and half a baby sea lion sticking out. I do a little speech bubble: ‘I am a killer whale and I am killing.’ Then I flick through the whole book to find a baleen whale. I draw a humpback, with long flippers and little bobbles on its head. The book says humpbacks are very acrobatic so I draw it leaping out of the water, going, ‘Wheee! Look at me!’
‘Let’s have a look,’ says Jack.
I flash the paper very quickly, so he can only see it for a second.
‘Mm. You’re good at drawing, Ella. But I’m not sure Miss Anderson would appreciate the speech bubbles,’ says Jack. ‘Isn’t it meant to be a serious drawing, not a comic strip?’
‘Miss Anderson always lets us do speech bubbles,’ I say, which is a downright lie.
I start to worry abut them. I can’t rub them out because I’ve drawn in black felt pen. I suppose I could ask Jack for another piece of paper and start all over again, but it would be such a nuisance. I flip through my whale book instead. There’s a page headed ‘Mothers and Babies’, with a photo of a mother whale swimming very close beside her little baby. I run my fingers over them as if I’m stroking them. The book says that whales make very good mothers. They stroke and pat their babies and keep them by their side constantly.
I look at my poor mum. I think of the baby in the nursery.
‘Shall we go and find Samson and bring him to Mum for a cuddle?’ I say.
‘Yes, that’s a good idea. We’ll go to the nursery right now,’ says Jack.
‘You go. I’ll stay here with Mum,’ I say, so I can have a proper private cuddle with her.
Jack goes off.
‘Look, Mum,’ I say, and I wave my drawing right in front of her face. ‘I’ve drawn a picture of whales. Can you just open your eyes for a second and have a little look? You’d really like it, I know you would.’
Mum doesn’t move.
‘Well, never mind. I’ll tell you about it, shall I? These are two different kinds of whales, did you know that, Mum? There are killer whales – they have teeth – and baleen whales – they have weird hairbrush thingies in their mouths and they filter their little shrimpy food through them. You might think whales are fish but they’re mammals: they feed their babies milk, just like we do. Well, you can’t feed Samson yourself yet, but it’s all right, Jack will feed him for you, and I’m going to feed him too. And we’ll bring him to you lots so you can have a cuddle. Well, I can lift your hand up and you can give him a stroke. That’s what mother whales do, they stroke with their flippers. I like whales, Mum.’
Jack comes back into the room with Samson. He’s crying, thrashing about miserably inside his shawl.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, he’s not a happy little lad just now,’ says Jack.
‘He needs his cuddle with Mum,’ I say. ‘He’s been missing her.’
‘I think you’re right, Ella,’ says Jack.
I undo the top of Mum’s nightie, the way that Dr Wilmot did, and Jack unwraps Samson from his blanket and lies him very gently on his side, on Mum’s chest. Samson starts, gives one tiny sobbing cry, and then relaxes. He gives little snuffles but he’s stopped crying altogether.
Jack and I look at each other. Jack’s got tears in his eyes.
‘Works like magic!’ he whispers.
So why why why won’t the magic work for Mum, too?
Chapter 6
There’s a message on the telephone when we get back.
It’s Dad!
Well, I don’t even know it’s him at first – his voice doesn’t sound the way I remembered – but it must be Dad because he’s talking to me.
‘Hello. This is a message for Ella. It’s all right, darling. Don’t worry. I’m sure Mummy will get better very soon. I’ll take the day off work and come tomorrow.’
I stand transfixed. Then I play the message again – and again – and again.
‘There,’ says Jack. ‘I told you I left a message for him.’
‘Shh! Let me listen,’ I hiss.
‘You’ve heard it three times,’ says Jack, and he goes off to the kitchen to fix us tea.
He spends ages fussing around. He’s done a big shop today and he says he’s going to cook a proper mea
l. I don’t know why he’s bothering. I’m not the slightest bit hungry. I just crouch in the hall listening to my dad, whispering along with his message because I’ve learned it by heart.
Jack comes back into the hall. ‘Give it a rest now, Ella, eh? Would you like two sausages or three?’
‘I don’t want any sausages, thanks.’
‘Don’t be silly, of course you do. Sausages are your favourites,’ Jack says. ‘And I’m doing my special creamy mash. And we’ve got broccoli too – vitamin C, very important.’
‘I hate broccoli.’
‘Ella. Stop it. Look, come and give me a hand. I’ll teach you how to cook sausages.’
‘I know how to cook sausages.’
‘Well, great, come and cook them.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Jack marches back into the kitchen and slams the door.
I stand there in the hall, my heart thudding. I feel just a little bit mean . . . but I decide it’s not fair. I don’t have to do what Jack says. He’s not my dad. My real dad is talking on the telephone to me, and he’s coming to see me specially tomorrow. He must really, really care about me to take the day off work. And he says Mum’s going to get better!
‘Mum’s going to get better!’ I say, and I whirl round and round the hall.
Maybe Dad will fall in love with Mum all over again when he sees her lying asleep in hospital. He’ll be like a fairytale prince and waken her with a kiss. Then Mum and I can live with Dad like a proper family. We can send Jack packing. And Samson. Although he’s Mum’s. When he lies on her chest he looks like he really belongs to her.
I get worn out trying to work out how everyone can live happily, together and apart. Jack can just shove off all by himself. It’s just tough luck that Samson’s his little boy too. But I think of Jack’s face when he was watching Samson snuffling on Mum’s chest. I feel cross. I don’t don’t don’t want to feel sorry for Jack.
I can smell his sausages cooking. Perhaps I feel a little bit hungry after all. Maybe he’s in such a sulk with me now that he won’t let me have any.
But eventually he opens the kitchen door and calls, ‘Supper’s ready.’
I stand still, wondering what to do. I could be really fierce and yell back, ‘I don’t want any of your horrid old supper.’ Then he might get really mad. He might even smack me. So I’d smack him back. Even though he’s a lot bigger than me.
Longest Whale Song Page 6