Longest Whale Song (20 page)

I run out into the playground, crying – and see Jack running all round the tarmac, shouting, ‘Ella, Ella,
Ella
!' Then he sees me and I see him, and just for a moment we both freeze, eyes wide, staring at
each other. Then I run towards him, and part of me is ready to throw my arms round his neck and cling to him – but I'm mad at him too for making me feel like this.

‘You mean pig!' I yell at him. ‘I've been waiting ages and ages and
ages
!' I pummel him hard on the chest.

‘Hey! Stop that! You're hurting me! For God's sake, I got here as quickly as I possibly could. I've been looking for
you
for the last ten minutes. Where the hell have you been? I thought you were going to be waiting in the playground. When I couldn't see you anywhere, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know whether you'd gone off with that little friend of yours—'

‘She's gone off with this other girl – I
said
she would,' I say. Sally's still sort of my best friend, I know that, but I want to make Jack feel sorry for me.

He doesn't seem one bit sorry.

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, is that all you've got to worry about?' he says, seizing hold of me and dragging me towards the gate. ‘Look, I was late because some poor kid in my class came running back into school with blood pouring down his face because some thugs had stolen his pocket money, knocked him over and kicked his head in just for the fun of
it. You don't know how lucky you are, Ella. I'm sick of you whingeing and whining because you and your silly little friends keep falling out. Grow up, can't you? Now, come on, get in the car. We've got to collect Sam and we're very late and I don't want Mavis to get fed up with us.'

I stamp into the car. ‘I hate you,' I mutter.

‘I heard that. And as if I care,' says Jack, driving off.

We don't say another word to each other on the journey. We get to Aunty Mavis's house. Jack takes a deep breath and knocks. Aunty Mavis comes to the door, a twin on either side of her.

‘I'm so sorry we're so late,' Jack says. ‘There was an unfortunate accident at my school—'

‘Never you mind, dear. Little Sam's having a lovely nap. He's been
such
a good boy, hasn't he, girls?'

They chirrup about him excitedly.

‘Tell you what, why don't you come in and have a cup of tea? You both look like you need a bit of a sit-down.'

‘Well, that's very kind of you, but we're really in a bit of a mad rush. We have to get to the hospital,' says Jack.

‘Ten minutes won't make too much difference. And I've made one of my lardy cakes. They're very good, though I say so myself.'

So we go into Aunty Mavis's warm, cosy living room and sip tea and eat her lovely gooey curranty cake. Jack and I still don't say a word to each other. He talks to Aunty Mavis and I play a daft game of Hunt the Teddy with the twins. I make the teddy peep out at them and wave his paw. They both scream with laughter, as if I'm the funniest comedian in the entire universe. It's quite a good feeling. I wonder if I'll be able to make Samson laugh like this when he's a bit bigger.

Samson himself is stretched out in his baby chair, legs dangling, fast asleep. When the twins squeal extra loudly, his arms shoot up and his hands open wide into starfish – but then he settles down again, not even giving a whimper. He doesn't even wake up when we carry him to the car and get him strapped into place.

Then we drive to the hospital – and all the warmth of Aunty Mavis's home drains out of us. Samson wakes up and starts crying as we start the long trek down the corridors. At long last we get near Mum. I hang back, eyes shut, willing it to be different this time. Mum will sit up and smile and open her arms wide – and I'll leap up on the bed and hug her to bits, and all this long, lonely nightmare will be over. But when I go up to her bed, she doesn't sit up, she just lies there. She isn't
smiling, she's looking so sad and odd and awful. She doesn't open her arms wide. They stay limp by her side, her hands at odd angles, so that she looks like a broken doll.

‘Hello, darling,' Jack says. ‘I've brought our little boy to see you. Here he is.' He arranges Samson on Mum's chest. We wait for him to quieten but he wails dismally.

‘Come on, Sue. Give him a little cuddle,' says Jack.

Mum doesn't move. Samson cries harder. A nurse comes in to see what's going on. She's young and rosy-cheeked, with black curly hair.

‘Oh dear,' she says. She looks at Samson, she looks at Mum, she looks at Jack and me.

‘He usually calms down when I lay him on my wife,' Jack says. He sighs. ‘But it's not working today.'

He picks Samson up and gives him to me. ‘You give Sam a cuddle, Ella.'

Then he moves close to the nurse as she takes Mum's temperature and blood pressure. ‘Is there any improvement at all?' he whispers.

‘She's in a very stable condition at the moment, Mr Winters.'

‘Yes, but that's a totally meaningless statement. Of course she's stable, she's in a coma.'

‘She's doing well, considering. There's no sign of any infections, her lungs aren't congested, we're giving her physio on her hands and feet to keep them in a good position—'

‘But she's not showing any signs of recovery whatsoever, is she?'

‘Well . . .'The nurse is starting to sound a bit panicky now.

‘Do you think Sue will ever get properly better?' Jack whispers. His voice is very low but I hear every word, even though Samson is howling.

‘I couldn't possibly say, Mr Winters.'

‘Yes, you can. You must have nursed patients before in this sort of state. How many of them recover?'

‘Some do, Jack. I've got some printouts from newspapers.
Lots
of coma patients recover,' I say.

‘Shh, Ella. Why don't you take Sam for a little walk along the corridor?' he says. He takes hold of the nurse by the arm. ‘I just want you to tell me the truth. I'm going crazy here. I see you and your colleagues giving me pitying looks, like you think it's all hopeless. I just want to know the odds. I'm not going to give up, I'm not going to do anything dramatic, I just need to
know
.'

‘You can always make an appointment to see Dr Clegg – he's your wife's neurologist.'

‘Yes, I know, I've been trying to see him, but he's never around when I am. I'm not even sure he'll tell me either. I want to know what will happen to Sue. You're not going to keep her here indefinitely, are you?'

‘Well, at some stage other arrangements will be made,' she says desperately.

‘Yes, but
what
?'

‘There are residential homes for people with PVS,' she says.

‘PVS?' Jack says, screwing up his face.

‘Persistent vegetative state,' says the nurse.

‘
What?
' Jack sounds horrified.

‘Look, I don't know, I'm just here to give your wife nursing care. You must see Dr Clegg – he's the one who'll make the decisions – or you can ask the ward sister, but I can't tell you anything, I don't
know
anything.' The nurse hurries out of the room.

‘Good riddance!' Jack yells after her. He goes to Mum and takes her hand. ‘Did you hear any of that, Sue? Don't you worry, darling. You aren't in this bloody PVS condition. I'm not going to put you in a home. You're going to come home with
us
, where you belong. You and me and our little boy.'

I hold my breath.

‘And Ella,' he says. I sound very much an afterthought.

We barely talk on the way home. The house seems horribly empty. Samson wails forlornly.

‘I'll feed him and you feed your guinea pig,' Jack says.

I feed Butterscotch, putting my hand right into his cage and stroking his head very gently as he nibbles away. ‘Do you miss your mum, Butterscotch?' I ask.

I think of him aching for his warm soft mum every day, scurrying round and round his cage looking for her. I feel terrible. I'll try to make it up to him. I'll make his life as lovely as I can. I wrinkle my nose. I could make his cage much comfier.

‘Jack, Butterscotch's cage is starting to smell,' I say, my nose twitching.

Jack lays Samson on the floor, changing his nappy. ‘I know,' he says shortly. ‘Hold
still
, Sammy.'

‘It needs cleaning,' I say.

‘Yes, of course it needs cleaning. He's your pet. You do it.'

I pause. I look at Butterscotch scrabbling. I look at his cage and all the dirty straw. ‘I don't know
how
,' I say.

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be so hopeless,' says Jack.

That's just what I feel. Hope-less. I try to remember what the nurse said.

‘What did that nurse say Mum had?' I ask.

‘Oh, Ella. We're not taking any notice of that stupid nurse,' says Jack. ‘There you are, Sam, all clean and tidy. You'll past muster, even if the rest of us won't. Now, we'll strap you in your little chair and you can kick your legs and whistle a happy tune while I start
our
tea and Ella clears out that wretched cage.'

‘I
said
, I don't know how,' I say – but he can't divert me that easily. ‘Jack, what does it mean? The veggie thing?'

‘Don't call it that,' Jack says sharply. Then he takes a deep breath. ‘She said “persistent vegetative state''. It's a horrible term used to describe a person whose body is alive but whose brain isn't working.'

‘Like Mum?' I whisper.

‘No!
Not
like Mum. Don't you start, Ella. You're the one who always says she's going to get completely better.'

‘Well, she is,' I say. I start pulling nasty straw that's sticky with black bits out onto the carpet.

‘What are you
doing
?
Not
like that, with the guinea pig still in the cage. You need to find a cardboard box to put him in. Then put all the soiled straw and all those manky dandelion leaves and whatnot into a rubbish bag. When the cage is
clean, get some fresh bedding and put the guinea pig back. Come on, Ella, it's not rocket science.'

‘He's getting a bit bigger already,' I say, cradling Butterscotch in my cupped hands. ‘It's a shame he has to be stuck in his cage all the time.'

‘Well, when I've got a spare moment I'll make him a special pen in the garden so he can run about. But just at the moment I'm a bit pushed for time, seeing as I'm running backwards and forwards to your school and my school and the hospital, and we've still got to have our tea, and then I've got to mark a whole pile of homework and sortout my lesson plans for the week – so I'm not playing
Grand Designs
for guinea pigs right this minute.'

‘Oh ha ha,' I mutter. I pull out an extra nasty clump of straw and drop it with a squeal. ‘Yuck!'

‘
Don't
drop it all over the carpet! Oh here, let me do it. Wash your hands –
thoroughly
– and then go and have a scrabble through Liz's frozen meals and stick one in the microwave. You
can
use the microwave, I take it?'

‘Of course I can.'

‘Just be careful taking it out when it's done.'

I cook our supper, Jack cleans out Butterscotch, and then we eat our meals on trays while we watch television. Jack flicks through all the channels
irritably, rushing past several hospital soaps. Then he finds the Eden nature channel.

‘
Whales!
' I shout.

It's a whole programme about predators, and I watch as Miss Anderson's food chains swim before my eyes: plankton, herrings, sea lions . . . and twelve humpback whales fishing together, spiralling through the air and diving down with vast splashes, hoovering up their supper. I wonder about phoning Sally to tell her to watch, but I don't think she'd really be interested.

I suddenly think of Joseph. I don't know his phone number, but his surname's Antscherl and there can't be many of them in the directory. I look it up and dial.

‘Are you ringing Sally?' Jack asks.

‘Nope.'

‘Not your dad?'

‘
Nope.
'

‘Your boyfriend?' says Jack, acting silly, fluttering his eyelashes and making kissy-kissy noises.

I sigh at him.

‘Mrs Antscherl? I'm Ella, I'm in Joseph's class at school. Please can I talk to him?'

Jack raises his eyebrows. ‘It
is
a boyfriend!'

I stick my tongue out at him.

‘Ella?' Joseph sounds astonished when he comes to the phone.

‘Joseph, there's a programme right now on the Eden channel all about whales – do watch!'

‘OK. Right. Well, thank you, Ella.'

I ring off.

Jack nods at me. ‘Joseph, eh?'

‘He likes whales too.'

‘Well, it was sweet of you to phone him. You'll be able to discuss the programme together at school tomorrow.'

Oh dear. I wish I didn't have to go. It's Tuesday, and that means swimming down at the pool. I hate swimming. I tried to get out of it once, accidentally on purpose forgetting my swimsuit, but it didn't work. Miss Anderson keeps a couple of awful old-fashioned manky costumes in a locker and you have to wear one of them. Sally's brilliant at swimming. She can swim a whole
mile
, easy-peasy. She's in the top group for swimming, with Dory. Martha's in the middle group. I'm stuck in the bottom group, and I'm sadly
bottom
of that. I can't actually swim yet. I do lots of strokes, going faster and faster, until my arms and legs ache, but I don't really get anywhere. I'm terrified I'll start sinking so I keep my head sticking right up like a meerkat. The swimming coach tries to get us all to bob down
under the water, but I hate it. The water stings my eyes and goes up my nose and gets inside my ears. The first time I ducked down, I came up crying and everyone laughed at me for being a baby – even Sally.