Longest Whale Song

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘So go back to bed and leave me alone,’ I say, trying to burrow back under the covers.

  Jack won’t let me. ‘You’ve got to get up now, Ella. You’ve got to go to school today.’

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  ‘I don’t want to go to school, but I’ve got to go and teach or I’ll lose my job. You’ve got to go to school or I’ll get prosecuted. And Sam’s got to go to Aunty Mavis because he needs someone to look after him. He’s not too happy about it either – he’s bawling his head off, can’t you hear him? You go and use the bathroom while I fix his bottle and make us breakfast. We’re running late.’

  I peer at my old Tinkerbell alarm clock. I used to believe she flew around my bedroom every night, sprinkling stardust and waving her little wand. I wish she’d wave it now and make Jack disappear.

  ‘We are so not running late,’ I say, shaking my alarm clock. ‘I never get up this early.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to get used to it. I’ve got to drop Sam off, drive you all the way to school, then drive back through the rush-hour traffic to be at Garton Road by quarter to nine. So get cracking!’

  I slide slowly out of bed. I ache too from lumbering Sam around all day yesterday. It’s not fair. When Mum and I lived at our old house, I didn’t get up till eight o’clock. And Mum never shouted at me. She often used to bring me breakfast in bed. Sometimes she’d get back into bed with me and we’d play silly games together. We’d pretend we were celebrities and make out we had extensions and great big boob jobs, and we’d plan shopping trips and talk about our new outfits. I love playing pretend games like that with Mum. I try sometimes with Sally, but she always gets the giggles and says I’m weird.

  I think about Sally now. I feel a bit worried about seeing her at school. Sort of shy and scared. Now, that is weird, because Sally’s been my best friend for years. I think she still is. She rang last night. Well, her mum rang first to ask Jack about my mum – and then she said Sally wanted to talk to me. I felt absolutely weak with relief.

  We chatted for about ten minutes. We didn’t discuss guinea pigs or rabbits. We didn’t mention Dory and Martha. Sally told me all about her Saturday morning dancing class and how she’s going to be a snowflake in the Christmas ballet, and then she talked about her favourites on The X Factor. I couldn’t really say much because I don’t go to ballet and we were too busy with Sam to watch much television. I did start to tell her about my whale project, and she said I was daft because they’d finished food chains now. Then we had one of those uncomfortable pauses. I couldn’t think of anything else to say and neither could she, so we just blurted out goodbye.

  I wish I could ask Mum if she thinks this means Sally’s still really my best friend. She wasn’t horrible to me – she said again that she was really sorry about my mum – but she didn’t muck around and joke and act in our old casual Sally-and-Ella-best-friends-for-ever way.

  It’s so awful not having Mum around. Everything’s wrong. There’s hardly any toothpaste left in the bathroom so I have to squeeze and squeeze the tube. My flannel smells disgusting because I left it rolled up in a soggy bundle. My hair is beyond terrible. I tried to wash it in the bath yesterday but I don’t think I got all the shampoo out properly, and now it hangs lankly in my eyes. I try to scrape it back into a ponytail but it won’t go high or bouncy enough, it just draggles in a surly clump past my shoulders. Jack’s done the washing so I’ve got a clean school blouse, but he didn’t hang it up straight away so it’s creased all over – and now I find the hem of my school skirt is starting to come down. Before, I’d always just go, ‘M-u-m!’ and she’d come and sigh, and teases me for being a helpless baby, but she always put it right. Now poor Mum is the helpless baby, having to let the nurses wash her and feed her and change her, and she can’t even cry or kick her legs like little Samson.

  He’s certainly crying now as Jack struggles to change him downstairs. Then it’s suddenly quiet so he must be feeding. I put my whale project and borrowed book in my school bag and stomp downstairs.

  ‘There’s a good girl,’ Jack says. ‘Get yourself some cornflakes, eh?’

  ‘Why does it always have to be boring old cornflakes? I like Coco Pops,’ I grumble.

  ‘Right. Reach into the cupboard, find the cocoa powder, and douse your bowl liberally,’ says Jack.

  I’m not sure if he’s serious. ‘Will it taste good?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  I decide not to risk it. I sit down and sourly spoon plain cornflakes into my mouth. Jack sits Samson up to burp him.

  ‘Oh, Ella, what a boring breakfast! Don’t you fancy marmalade pops? Or what about Marmite pops?’

  ‘You think you’re so funny,’ I say.

  ‘Well, you’ve got to laugh – or you burst out crying,’ says Jack. ‘Now, young man, are you going to burp so you can finish your bottle? Come on – one, two, three—’

  Samson opens his mouth and gives a comically loud burp. Jack laughs delightedly. I can’t help giggling too.

  ‘There! One week old and he’s doing exactly as he’s told – unlike his big crosspatch sister. Ella, any chance of you making me a cup of tea while I finish feeding him?’

  ‘No chance at all,’ I say, getting out my whale project and flipping through it, hoping it will really impress Miss Anderson. I wait for Jack to nag and get sarcastic and start shouting – but he just sits there, feeding Samson. ‘Oh, all right,’ I say, and get up to boil the kettle.

  I make myself a mug of tea too. Jack and I sip while Samson sucks. Jack holds his cup at arm’s length and arches away from Samson every time he drinks so that he can’t possibly spill any tea on him. I wonder if my dad was as thoughtful when he fed me when I was a baby. I start making up this little fantasy of lovely, handsome, beaming Dad holding me tenderly in his arms – and then I remember I’ve only just seen my dad. I think of his striped shirt and his silk tie and his smart suit. Perhaps he never ever fed me in case I made him messy. Perhaps I was so slurpy and sicky that he decided to walk out on us. How could he have left Mum to cope all by herself? How could he have left me? I can’t stick Jack, he’s just my stepdad, but I know one thing: he’d never walk out on little Samson, not ever.

  I try telling him about the Sally situation when we’re in the car driving to Aunty Mavis’s house.

  ‘Do you think she’s still my best friend, Jack?’

  ‘Well, of course she is.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t come round and she didn’t sound right on the phone.’

  ‘She did phone you.’

  ‘I said she didn’t sound right. You’re not listening!’

  ‘I’m trying to concentrate on the traffic – but I am listening too. I don’t know what you’re going on about. Sally’s your best friend, full stop.’

  ‘I think she likes Dory best now,’ I say in a tiny voice.

  ‘Well, can’t you all be best friends together?’ says Jack.

  ‘Oh, Jack, you don’t understand.’

  ‘You sound just like your mother. And all the little girls in my class who come and tell me their sad stories – so-and-so keeps whispering about them, and so-and-so didn’t choose them for a work project – and you’re right, I don’t understand. I don’t see why women have to analyse everything to the nth degree. It’s much simpler if you’re a bloke. Everyone’s your mate until they bash you, and then you bash them back, and then they’re your mate again, no fussing.’

  ‘Men!’ I say witheringly.

  Samson kicks his legs beside me. I take hold of one tiny foot.

  ‘Are you going to be as hopeless, Samson? I don’t think so. I’m going to teach you to be a lovely boy,’ I say.

  ‘That’s what my mum thought about me. Oh God. My mum and dad. They were supposed to be coming on a visit when the baby was born,’ says Jack.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, and then I clap my hand over my mouth because it sounds so rude.

  ‘It’s OK. That’s my reaction too. And it’s ma
d – they live so far away they’ll have to stay overnight, and I don’t know where on earth they’ll sleep, because my dad can’t get upstairs, and it’s hard enough getting us three fed, let alone entertaining two more . . .’

  Jack carries on, and now I’m the one not listening properly. I worry on about Sally. I’m still holding Samson’s foot.

  ‘Will you be my new best friend, Samson?’ I whisper.

  He gives a little gurgle, as if he’s saying yes. I start to worry about him going to Aunty Mavis, because he’s got used to us so quickly. Perhaps he’ll start screaming at the sight of Aunty Mavis, desperate for us to stay. But when she comes to her front door, holding out her arms, Samson seems happy enough to be picked up and cuddled.

  ‘Where’s this lovely boy then? Ah, here he is,’ she says, folding back his shawl and giving his forehead a little kiss. The twins hop on either side, vying with each other to see the baby.

  ‘Don’t you worry about a thing. Little Sam will be fine with me,’ Aunty Mavis says. ‘Won’t you, my pet?’

  Samson certainly seems totally happy in her arms. Jack and I look at him.

  ‘Bye, little boy,’ says Jack, giving his chin a tickle.

  ‘Bye-bye, Samson,’ I say, and I blow him a kiss.

  We both still stand there a bit anxiously.

  ‘He’ll be totally tickety-boo, I promise,’ Aunty Mavis says, laughing at us. ‘Off you go!’

  So we slope back to the car and drive off. It feels so strange to be without Samson. We’ve only had him home for a weekend, and yet it feels as if he’s been part of our lives for ever. I feel such a pang for Mum. She carried Samson around inside her for nine whole months – and now he’s been taken away from her.

  ‘We can take Samson to see Mum today after school, can’t we, Jack?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  I hunch down in my seat, trying to distract myself by thinking about whales. My book says they sing in strange groans and moans. I try groaning softly to myself.

  ‘Are you all right, Ella?’ Jack asks.

  ‘Yep.’

  I try a few moans this time.

  ‘Have you got a tummy ache?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘Then why are you making that weird noise?’

  ‘It’s whale-speak.’

  ‘Oh. Right. You’re a weird kid, Ella.’

  ‘Sally sometimes says I’m weird.’

  ‘Well, she’s right.’

  I hunch up a little more.

  ‘You’re not still worrying about this best friends business, are you?’

  I swallow. ‘No,’ I lie.

  ‘Sally will be fine, you’ll see,’ says Jack.

  He parks the car outside school and insists on coming into the playground with me, as if I’m one of the infants. I look around the playground. I see Sally straight away. She’s standing in a little huddle with Dory and Martha. My breakfast cornflakes churn in my stomach. But then Sally sees me and comes running over.

  ‘Hi, Ella!’ she says, and she gives me a big hug.

  Jack grins at me triumphantly. ‘There you are, Ella,’ he says. ‘OK, have a good day. I’ll pick you up as soon as I can. I’m afraid you might have a bit of a wait. You’ll be all right? You won’t go off with any strange men?’

  ‘As if,’ I say, and I flash him a quick smile and then saunter off with Sally. I think it’s OK.

  Sally keeps her arm round me, talking all the time. ‘How’s your mum, Ella?’

  ‘She’s . . . about the same.’

  ‘Is she very, very ill?’

  I don’t know what to say, so I just nod.

  ‘You poor thing. I don’t know what I’d do if my mum got that ill,’ says Sally. ‘And what about the baby?’

  ‘He’s lovely,’ I say. ‘I feed him and wind him, and sometimes I even change him – but not when he has a really dirty nappy. I leave that for Jack! You should have seen the way Samson peed all over Jack’s chest, it was sooo funny!’

  Sally laughs, and we both make silly peeing noises and gestures, and get the giggles, hanging onto each other. But Dory comes running over, sticking her nose in. Martha follows.

  ‘Hello, Ella. What are you two laughing at?’ Dory asks.

  ‘I wouldn’t be killing myself laughing if my mother was dangerously ill in hospital,’ says Martha.

  ‘She’s not dangerously ill. That means she might . . .’ I can’t say the word. ‘It’s not dangerous,’ I repeat. ‘Dr Wilmot says she’s in a stable condition.’

  ‘So what’s the matter with her?’ Martha asks.

  ‘She’s in a coma.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘She’s just asleep.’

  ‘Asleep, like . . .’ Martha shuts her eyes and makes silly snorty snoring sounds.

  ‘No, nothing like that! Stop it! Don’t you dare make fun of my mum,’ I shout.

  Miss Anderson comes hurrying across the playground out of nowhere. ‘Hello, Ella. Welcome back to school! Martha, what are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, Miss Anderson,’ says Martha, opening her eyes wide to act all innocence.

  Miss Anderson looks at me.

  ‘She was being horrid about my mum!’ I say furiously, blinking back my tears.

  I realize this is a big mistake as soon as I say it. You never ever tell tales to a teacher at our school, no matter what.

  ‘Martha, I’m thoroughly ashamed of you! I can’t believe you could be so unkind when Ella is worried and upset about her mother,’ says Miss Anderson. ‘I think you’d better go into school right this minute and sit by yourself in the classroom. Off you go.’

  Martha glares at me in an I’m-going-to-get-you way and slopes off. Miss Anderson gives me a pat on the shoulder and then hurries off to separate two boys who have started wrestling. Sally and Dory are looking at me reproachfully.

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘Martha was being horrid about my mum, you heard her.’

  ‘She was just being silly about snoring,’ says Sally. ‘I know she upset you, Ella, but she wasn’t really being horrid.’

  ‘Oh yes she was,’ says Dory surprisingly. ‘Martha’s very good at knowing exactly how to upset people on purpose. She’s the world champion.’

  ‘I thought you were her friend,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, but I wish I wasn’t sometimes, because she can be so mean. I wish I could be friends with you two instead.’

  I want to be kind to Dory. She’s a smiley girl with shiny black hair cut in a very tidy fringe (I still don’t know what to do about mine!) and she can be good fun at times. I loved it when she brought her pet mouse to school. In fact the only thing really wrong with her is that she’s always been best friends with Martha. So now she doesn’t want to be friends with her, maybe we could all be best friends together, the three of us. Jack seems to think it would work – though he doesn’t always know everything.

  ‘I’d love it if you were our friend, Dory,’ says Sally. She’s looking at me imploringly.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Yeah, that would be great,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, fantabulistic!’ Sally says, and she gives Dory a big hug.

  Dory gives her a big hug back. Neither of them gives me a hug. Well, Sally did hug me when I came into the playground. We can’t play huggy-bears all the time. It will be all right, all right, all right.

  It’s definitely all wrong with Martha. She glares at all of us when we go into class after the bell’s gone. Her glare assumes ferocious werewolf proportions when she looks at me. I don’t care. She was mocking Mum. I hate Martha.

  She tries to talk to Dory, but Dory edges her chair away from Martha’s desk, nearer to us. Sally writes Dory a little note. Dory writes one back to her.

  ‘What’s she saying?’ I whisper to Sally.

  ‘Oh, just that she’s glad she’s our best friend now,’ says Sally. She doesn’t show me. She crumples up the note and pops it in her desk drawer.

  ‘She’s just a friend friend, not a best friend,’ I mutter.


  ‘Whatever,’ says Sally.

  There’s a gentle tap on my back. I turn round. It’s Joseph.

  ‘How’s your mum, Ella?’

  ‘Oh, sort of the same, thanks,’ I say.

  ‘She’s still in a coma?’

  ‘Mm. But it doesn’t mean she can’t get better,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I looked it up on my computer. I printed some stuff out for you. Here.’

  He hands me a sheaf of papers. They’re features from newspapers: MIRACLE MOM WAKES WEEKS AFTER MONTH IN COMA; COMA BOY OPENS HIS EYES AND SMILES WHEN POP IDOL VISITS; COMA BRIDE WHISPERS ‘I LOVE YOU.’

  My eyes fill with tears. ‘Thank you so much, Joseph.’

  ‘There was lots of serious medical stuff too, but I thought you’d like these true-life stories best.’

  ‘I do, I do!’

  ‘Ella, Joseph! Come on now, we’re meant to be concentrating on weighing and measuring,’ says Miss Anderson. ‘In fact, you can help us, Ella. You have a new baby brother. Do you know how much he weighed when he was born?’

  ‘He weighed six pounds eight ounces, Miss Anderson. But he probably weighs a lot more now because he’s had lots of feeds.’

  ‘Ah, you probably have to measure his baby milk too. How much are you feeding him at the moment?’

  ‘Four ounces at a time, Miss Anderson. He absolutely gobbles it down. He makes really loud sucking sounds, he’s so funny,’ I say eagerly. ‘Like this!’ I demonstrate.

  ‘Ah!’ says Miss Anderson, smiling.

  ‘Oh, per-lease!’ Martha hisses. ‘They’re acting like this is little baby Jesus! All babies suck. And Ella sucks too. It’s not fair – she doesn’t get told off for making stupid sucking sounds and yet I get sent into school just for snoring.’

  ‘Are you addressing me personally, Martha, or making general comments like a Greek chorus?’ says Miss Anderson. ‘Perhaps you’d like to contribute properly. I think you’ve got a little sister, haven’t you? Can you remember how much she weighed when she was born?’

  ‘She’s not my real sister, she’s only a half-sister, and I haven’t got a clue what she weighed and I couldn’t care less,’ Martha says.