Longest Whale Song

by Jacqueline Wilson

  I help myself and go to sit at a table. Martha follows me, and stands watching while I nibble and sip. She pulls a disgusted face.

  ‘Yuck! I can’t believe you’ve just eaten that. It’s not really egg, it’s cold sick, and they never use real Marmite, they just smear bread with dog’s muck. And fancy drinking that squash! Any fool can see it’s wee-wee.’

  She’s just being stupid. Of course I know she’s not serious – and yet I want to spit out my Marmite sandwich right this minute, and the squash in my mug looks horribly convincingly like wee. I heave and Martha laughs.

  ‘You are such a baby,’ she says. ‘No wonder Sally can’t stick going round with you any more. It’s all dribble moan whine, poor little me, boo-hoo. It’s your fault Dory’s gone off with Sally and left me without my best friend.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. Dory doesn’t want to be your friend any more. It’s your fault,’ I hiss back at her.

  ‘You are so pathetic, Ella-Smella. Yeah, you do smell, yuck yuck yuck,’ she says, holding her horrible little snub nose.

  I’m immediately stricken, wondering if I do smell. Life is such a rush now I don’t always have time for baths – and I know my hair needs washing very badly, especially since it got all sticky with chlorine in the swimming pool. I think Martha’s just being hateful. After all, I know the sandwiches aren’t made with sick and dog’s muck. But I’m not sure.

  Mrs Matthews puts on a cartoon for us on the big screen at the end of the hall, and we all sit cross-legged and watch. Martha sits beside me, and hidden in the crush of children she reaches out with her hands and gives me a horrible Chinese burn on my wrist. I try to give her one back, but the other lady, Miss Herbert, is behind us and sees.

  ‘What are you up to, Ella? Don’t do that, dear. You come and sit over here.’ She makes me go and sit with some of the kids in Mr Hawkins’s class. I’m glad to get away from Martha, but I hate it that Miss Herbert thinks I’m the one who likes to torture people.

  I hunch up small, breathing in deeply and anxiously to see if I do smell. I can’t get interested in the silly cartoon. It seems to be about pirate mice. One of them is forced to walk the plank and falls into the sea, and then a huge whale comes swimming along and swallows him whole, and I start to get interested – but the whale is drawn all wrong, and inside him he has a whole suite of rooms where the pirate mouse sets up residence. Then the mouse discovers that the whale can sing, and I get hopeful that I might hear what a real whale sounds like – but this cartoon whale throws back his great head and sings Italian opera, which I suppose is quite amusing, but very silly too. Everyone else is laughing but I don’t find anything really funny nowadays.

  The cartoon finishes and Mrs Matthews snaps on the light and produces six bouncy balls. She announces that we’re all going to play team games so we can let off steam. Oh no, I hate team games at the best of times – and this is the worst.

  Martha is one of the team leaders and she hurls the ball at me. I put my hands up but can’t catch it in time. It bangs my head so hard I feel it’s going to snap straight off my neck.

  ‘Whoops! Sorry, Ella, that was an accident,’ Martha calls cheerily for Mrs Matthews’s benefit.

  It was accidentally on purpose. I’ve gone all shivery wondering what she’s going to do next. We have to stand with our legs wide apart while the head of the line throws the ball down, and Martha manages to make it bounce painfully onto my kneecap. When I’m at the head of the line, I try to throw it to hurt her, but I’ve always been a bit rubbish at ball games and can’t throw hard enough.

  We have to suffer these team games for ages – and then at last we’re allowed to stop and sit down properly at tables. The little ones are given paper and crayons. The older ones are allowed to get on with their homework or read a book.

  I’ve got some spellings to learn but I can’t be bothered with them. I get out my latest whale book and my whale project. It’s fatter than ever, fifty-eight pages now. I’ve never written anything as long. I start flicking through, watching the whales swim quietly through my own hand-coloured turquoise and cobalt seas – and then a hand stabs at the page like a giant squid on the attack.

  ‘Push off, Martha,’ I say through clenched teeth.

  ‘No, let me see. I want to look. Oh God, it’s so boring, whale after whale. Can’t you do anything else?’

  ‘I like whales,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, but what’s it all for? It’s not like it’s a school project.’

  ‘It’s just for me, though I’ve shown it to Joseph and he likes it.’

  Martha snorts derisively. ‘That sad geek!’

  ‘He’s not the slightest bit sad or geeky. He happens to be the most interesting, intelligent boy – but you wouldn’t appreciate that, seeing as you’re not interesting or intelligent. Now shove off, and leave my project alone.’

  But her hateful fingers still scrabble at my book, and she turns over more of the pages, practically tearing them. She gets to the title page, where I’ve drawn the word WHALES with a big illuminated letter W, with tiny whales swimming up and down in this enclosed ocean. She pretends to read: ‘Whales, by Ella Very Babyish and Boring Lakeland.’

  She flicks the page over. ‘What’s this?’ She pauses at my dedication page. ‘To my dear mother Sue with all my love,’ she reads out.

  ‘Shut up! That’s private.’

  ‘You’ve dedicated your book to your mother? Well, that’s plain stupid. How can she read it if she’s stuck in this coma?’

  ‘She won’t always be in a coma.’

  ‘Yeah, but even if she comes out of this coma, she won’t be able to read your silly whale book.’

  ‘Yes she will!’

  ‘No, Sally’s mum told Dory’s mum. Your mum’s never going to be able to do anything. She won’t be able to walk or talk. She’ll just be a vegetable.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘She’ll be Poor Mummy Parsnip. Or Sad Mummy Sprout. Or Batty Mummy Broccoli.’

  I snatch my project, lift it high, and hit Martha hard with it on the top of her head.

  She stares at me, stunned. Then she snatches it back from me, her face flooding crimson. She takes hold of the pages and rips and rips and rips. I scream and wrestle with her. She scratches me down my face, I punch her right on the nose – and then we’re torn apart. Mrs Matthews hauls me away, her arms round my waist. Miss Herbert has hold of Martha. All the other children are on their feet, staring and squealing excitedly.

  ‘Now, settle down, children! Get on with your homework!’ Mrs Matthews shouts, showering the top of my head with spit.

  Then she staggers with me to the top of the hall while Miss Herbert drags Martha there too.

  ‘How dare you two behave like animals!’ says Mrs Matthews. ‘I won’t have that kind of violent behaviour at after-school club. Hitting and scratching each other like hooligans! Just look at you!’

  Martha’s cut my cheek and I’ve made her nose bleed. We stand there, hot and panting, glaring at each other. I see the crumpled page in Martha’s clenched fist. I see the other pages strewn in her wake and I burst into floods of tears.

  ‘Now then, Ella, I don’t think you’re hurt that badly,’ says Mrs Matthews. ‘Look at Martha’s poor nose – and she’s not crying.’

  ‘Yes, because Ella’s a baby, and she thinks she won’t get told off if she goes boo-hoo-hoo,’ says Martha, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and smearing blood across her mouth.

  ‘Here, here!’ Miss Herbert comes running with tissues for both of us.

  ‘Now tell me why you started this ridiculous fight,’ Mrs Matthews demands.

  ‘I didn’t start it,’ says Martha.

  ‘Ella hit her right on the head with her book – bonk!’ says one of the little boys, sounding awed.

  ‘Is that right, Martha? Did Ella hit you with her book?’

  ‘I don’t tell tales,’ says Martha.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s the right attitude. But, Martha, even if some
one hits you—’

  ‘Bonk on the head!’ says the little boy.

  ‘Yes, that’s enough Simon. You mind your own business,’ says Mrs Matthews. ‘Even if someone hits you, you do not hit them back. Ella’s got a really nasty scratch on her poor cheek. Honestly, what a pair of sillies you are! Ella, it’s very dangerous to hit someone on the head—’

  ‘Bonk!’ says Simon.

  ‘Simon! Go away! It’s not only dangerous, Ella, it’s very silly, because look what you’ve done, your book’s all torn and spoiled now. I hope that’s not a homework project.’

  ‘I wish it was, but it’s my whale book!’ I sob.

  ‘Yeah, that’s all you do – wail, wail, wail!’ says Martha. ‘You make me sick.’

  ‘Now stop that. I’m very disappointed in both of you. I will not tolerate this behaviour. You two sit on these two chairs in front of me where I can keep my eye on you.’

  ‘Please can I gather up the pages of my whale book first?’ I ask.

  At least she lets me do that. I sob harder when I see just how much Martha has ruined. But it’s not just my whale book. I feel as if she’s torn and defiled my mum. I hear her ugly words over and over again. It’s as if she’s pelted my mum with all those rotten vegetables – and I can’t bear it.

  ‘Now now,’ says Mrs Matthews irritably. ‘Do stop crying, Ella. You’ve just got a scratch. Here’s Miss Herbert coming with the medical box. We’ll pop some antiseptic on and then you’ll be as right as rain.’

  Miss Herbert dabs at me and mops Martha’s nose. Then we sit on our chairs. The other children all stare at us. Martha crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at them. I just sniffle and stroke my poor torn book. After a long while some of the mums start to arrive to collect their kids.

  Martha starts fidgeting now, her eyes going flicker flicker, watching the door. ‘Can I go and sit at a table now, miss?’ she asks as Miss Herbert rushes past.

  Miss Herbert looks at Mrs Matthews.

  ‘What’s that? No, Martha, you’re to sit there, in disgrace.’

  ‘But my mum will be here soon,’ says Martha.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Mrs Matthews.

  Martha bites her lip. She looks as if she might start crying too.

  Oh, if only my mum could come. I wouldn’t care if she told me off. She’d probably fuss about me fighting but she’d want to know why. Then, when she’d stopped being cross, she’d put her arms round me tight and give me a hug and make it all better.

  Martha’s mum comes tap-tapping across the parquet floor, holding hands with her small sister. They are both little and fair and pretty, not a bit like Martha, who is big and dark and plain. Martha’s mum isn’t much taller than Martha herself, even though she’s wearing really high heels. She doesn’t look like a scary mum – but Martha flinches as she comes marching up.

  ‘What are you sitting there for, Martha?’ she says.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Michaels, I’m afraid there’s been a little argument between these two girls. In fact it turned into fisticuffs and we had to separate them.’

  Mrs Michaels sucks in her lips so that they’re one straight line. My heart starts hammering inside my chest. She’s starting to look just as mean as her daughter now. What’s she going to do to me when she finds out I hit Martha on the head and punched her on the nose?

  She doesn’t say anything to me. She’s just looking at Martha. ‘I’m just about sick of you and your behaviour, Martha,’ she hisses.

  ‘Has Martha been naughty again, Mummy?’ the little sister says smugly.

  ‘Yes, she has! Fighting!’ Mrs Michaels takes hold of Martha’s arm and pulls her off her chair. ‘Just you wait till I tell your dad! He’ll give you such a whack!’

  ‘He’s not my dad,’ Martha mumbles. She doesn’t just look sulky. She looks scared. I suddenly understand Martha much better. I still hate her – but I can’t help feeling a little bit sorry for her too.

  I’m also much more sorry for me, sitting here nursing my ruined book. I’m not scared of my stepdad, but my tummy goes tight when I think of him coming to collect me.

  Here he is, dashing in, peering around anxiously. Then he spots me. He waves and comes rushing up. ‘Hi, Ella. What are you doing sitting here all by yourself?’ he asks.

  ‘Well might you ask,’ says Mrs Matthews, bustling up. She’s practically frothing at the mouth she’s so eager to tell tales on me. ‘There was a very nasty dispute between Ella and one of the other girls.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Martha?’ says Jack.

  ‘Yes, Martha!’ says Mrs Matthews, surprised. ‘I didn’t realize this was an ongoing thing. I’d hoped the two would play together nicely, but oh dear, no!’

  ‘Well, I’ve never met Martha, but I’d quite like to have a word with her,’ says Jack. ‘I don’t think she’s been very kind to Ella recently. I know Ella’s been a bit worried about her, haven’t you, sweetheart?’ He goes to give me a little chuck under my chin, and then stops.

  ‘What’s that mark on your face? Did Martha do that?’ He looks at Mrs Matthews angrily. ‘I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on her?’

  ‘Miss Herbert and I can’t be everywhere at once,’ she says coldly.

  ‘I appreciate that, but it’s worrying when one little girl suddenly starts attacking another one. Poor Ella here is obviously frightened of this Martha, and with good reason. That’s a really nasty-looking scratch.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it was Ella who started the fight. She hit Martha hard on the head with her folder, and then they both started scrapping, and Ella punched Martha on the nose and made it bleed.’

  ‘Ella!’ says Jack.

  ‘I appreciate Ella’s going through a bad time with her mother so ill – Miss Anderson explained all about it – but I can’t have all this fighting.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m very sorry. Ella, apologize to Mrs Matthews at once,’ says Jack. His voice sounds very strange and strained. Perhaps he’s getting really angry now.

  I mumble that I’m sorry to Mrs Matthews.

  ‘That’s all right, dear. Just don’t let it happen again.’

  ‘Come along, Ella,’ says Jack, giving my arm a little tug. He’s very red in the face. ‘Outside.’

  Oh dear, what’s he going to do? Is he going to shout? Is he going to think up some awful punishment? Is he going to whack me?

  We get outside into the playground. Jack’s face is practically purple. He starts spluttering – and then he’s totally whooping with laughter. I stare at him in astonishment.

  ‘Oh dear! I’m sorry! I’m not laughing at you, Ella, it’s just – oh, Lordy, you really punched Martha on the nose? You mustn’t ever punch anyone. What on earth made you turn into a mini Mike Tyson?’

  ‘She said horrid things about Mum. She said she was a vegetable.’

  ‘Oh God. Did she really say that? Well, maybe I’m glad you punched her – though don’t do it again.’

  ‘And she ripped up my whale book,’ I say.

  ‘Oh no! You’ve spent such ages on it. How horrible of her. Dear goodness, I feel like going and punching her now. Let’s start up a We-Can’t-Stand-Martha club, eh?’

  ‘Good idea, Jack. And Mum can join too.’

  ‘And little Sam.’

  ‘And Butterscotch.’

  ‘Yep, all our family. Well, let’s pick up Sam, feed both our little boys, and go and see Mum.’

  Chapter 15

  When we get back home from the hospital, there are three messages beeping on the telephone.

  ‘Oh God, what’s all this?’ says Jack.

  The first message is from my dad. I listen, my heart thumping, wondering if he’s going to invite me for the weekend after all. No, it’s not an invite.

  ‘Hi, Ella, this is your dad. I hope you’re doing OK, sweetheart. I want you to know I’m thinking about you all the time. I’m going to come and see you again really soon. I’m a bit tied up at the weekends just now.’

  ‘With Tina,’ I mutter.<
br />
  ‘But hopefully there’ll be a window of opportunity asap.’

  ‘What?’ says Jack. He calls Dad a very rude word. He says it under his breath but I hear. I don’t really mind. I actually agree with him.

  ‘Meanwhile, take care. I hope little . . . Butterball is doing fine. Bye-bye, darling.’

  ‘Butterscotch. He can’t even remember his name right. And he didn’t ask after Mum!’

  ‘Still, he’s obviously concerned about you, Ella. It was good of him to phone,’ says Jack, though I can tell he doesn’t mean it.

  He presses the button for the next message. It’s Liz.

  ‘Hey, you two. I’m doing another big shop tomorrow. What do you fancy for a treat? Any special requests, food – or drink-wise? And my love life is a bit rubbish at the moment, so do you two want to come over on Saturday evening for a few drinks and a pizza? Whoops, I’ve forgotten the baby. Bring him too, naturally. Though I expect he’s a bit young for a can of Coke and a hunk of garlic bread. How’s he doing, poor little scrap? And how’s my Sue? How are you coping, Jack? And Ella, remember if you need any girly advice or a chat about men or makeup, I’m your woman.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘I’m not into men and make-up yet!’

  ‘I know. I think she’s joking. She’s a good friend after all, old Liz,’ says Jack.

  The third message is for me. It’s Joseph!

  ‘Hello, Ella, I hope you’re all right. I expect you’re at the hospital seeing your mum. Anyway, my mum says can we meet you from school tomorrow and take you home to my place for tea? I can show you all my whale stuff, and then we can have tea, and then your dad could come and collect you about seven, if that’s OK. Do say yes, it would be such fun.’

  ‘I can say yes, can’t I?’ I ask Jack.

  ‘Of course. He sounds very nice – and dead keen. Maybe you’d better have that men and make-up chat with Liz after all,’ he says.