Longest Whale Song (5 page)

We go out to the car and he drives us home.

‘I'm sorry, Ella. I know you probably wanted to stay,' he says.

I sniff and say nothing.

‘I can't believe she can be so selfish. She's your mum's best friend, for goodness' sake. Sue would do anything for her. When Liz's last boyfriend went off with someone else, Sue had her to stay and made a great fuss of her. Yet now Sue needs her, she's freaked out by the whole situation – OK, some people can't cope with hospitals, I know that, but I still did hope she'd help a bit with the baby until . . . well, until . . .'

‘Until Mum's better,' I say.

‘Yes. That's right.'

‘She didn't even order in those pizzas,' I say.

‘What? No, she didn't! Well, we'll go and get our own pizzas, OK?'

We stop at a pizza place. Jack says I can order
any combination of toppings, as many as I want, but I can't remember what I like any more.

‘It's OK, I'll choose for you,' says Jack, though
he
doesn't know what I like. He doesn't even seem sure of what he wants himself.

When we get home, it's so silent and empty that it seems all wrong to take our pizzas into the still living room. It's as if we're eating our pizzas in a church. Jack sits on the sofa. There's a space next to him where Mum should be. My pizza sticks in my mouth. It tastes like its own cardboard box.

Jack puts on the television, the sound turned up extra loud. We both stare at the screen. At least it means we don't have to talk. I leave most of my pizza. Jack only manages half of his. He snaps open a can of beer, and then another. I sniff, because I know Mum doesn't like him drinking too much.

‘Can I get you a drink, Ella?' Jack asks. ‘I think we've got some Coke in the fridge. Or juice. What about juice? That's healthier. Or there's always milk.'

I shake my head at all his suggestions. I tuck my feet up in my armchair, wrapping my arms round myself.

‘I think it's getting on for bed time,' Jack says after a while.

‘Bed time?' he says.

I hunch up, still ignoring him.

‘Ella?' says Jack. ‘Come on, you've had a very long, exhausting day.'

I get out of my chair and march out of the room without looking at him.

‘Night-night,' he calls. ‘I'll come up when you're in bed.'

‘You don't need to,' I say quickly. ‘Goodnight.'

Mum
always comes and tucks me up. She keeps me company when I'm cleaning my teeth and washing my face. When I'm in my pyjamas, I hop into bed and she sits beside me. Sometimes she reads to me, all these old-fashioned girly books she liked when she was young:
Ballet Shoes
,
A Little Princess
and
Little Women
. Sometimes she'll make up a story specially for me. She used to tell me a story about a superhero girl called Ella-Bella who can fly. I'm too old for little Ella-Bella stories now, but sometimes if I've got a bad cold or I'm feeling fed up, Mum will make up a brand-new Ella-Bella story for me. I would give anything to have her tell me an Ella-Bella story now.

I go to the bathroom, then get undressed and crawl into bed. I arrange my soft toys around me. I hug Harriet the Hippo to my chest, putting my hand inside her plush jaws. Baby Teddy cuddles up
on the other side, his head flopping on my shoulder. They don't feel
right
. Mum always tucks them in beside me.

I'm fidgeting about, rearranging them for the fourth time, when Jack knocks and puts his head round the door. ‘Shall I tuck you up?' he says.

‘No! I
said
, you don't need to.'

‘Ella—'

‘I want to go to sleep. I'm tired,' I say.

‘All right, sweetheart. Night-night then,' says Jack. ‘If you wake up in the night, you can always come and knock on my door, OK? Try – try not to worry too much.'

I don't get to sleep until long after I hear Jack go to bed himself. Then I wake up about four o'clock, my heart thumping, so hot my pyjamas are sticking to me. I've had the most terrible nightmare. Mum's had the baby, and then she's got desperately ill, and now she's lying in a coma in hospital. I'm still so scared even though it's just a dream, so I sit up and open my mouth to call for Mum . . .

No, wait. It isn't a dream at all. It's really happened. Mum isn't here. There's just Jack. I can hear muffled sounds coming from his bedroom. He's crying.

I pull the covers up over my head, clutch my old toys, and cry too.

I DON'T GO
to school again on Tuesday. I think, just for a split second,
Oh, goody-goody
! Because we go swimming on Tuesday mornings, and I feel sick on the coach, and I hate all the noise in the baths, and I can't swim very well and so I don't get to splash
in the top set with Sally. Then I feel dreadful because I'd sooner swim all day in a shark-infested pool and have Mum wide awake and completely well.

I don't know what clothes to put on. I don't know whether to dress up smartly or wear my old jeans. In the end I wear my black and white spotty bridesmaid's dress to please Mum, even though
I
think it looks awful, especially now, as I can't find any clean white socks and so I wear red ones which don't go with my shoes. I can't fix my hair either. It needs washing and it just hangs limply, especially my fringe. I'm nearly in tears as I tug at it. I so want to look lovely for Mum. I feel if I can only look like the perfect daughter, she'll open her eyes to take a proper proud look at me.

Jack isn't trying at all. He hasn't even
shaved
and he's tugged on the same shirt and jeans he had on yesterday. He looks awful, his hair sticking up, his eyes all red and bleary. I wrinkle my nose at the sight of him.

‘What?' he says.

‘Nothing.'

He sighs and rubs his hands over his face, then takes a deep breath. ‘OK, what shall we have for breakfast? Toast? Cereal? Bacon and eggs?'

‘I don't want anything.'

‘You need something inside you, Ella. It's going to be a long day. Come on, don't be difficult. I'll make you anything. Pancakes?'

I stare at him as if he's mad. ‘Let's just go to the hospital to see Mum,' I say.

‘Bowl of cereal first, at the very least,' he says, but when he takes the carton of milk out of the fridge he peers at it doubtfully, and then sniffs it.

‘Oh God,' he says, pouring it down the sink. ‘I'll have to go shopping sometime.'

We have toast instead, nibbling in silence. Then the phone rings just as we're about to go. It's the head teacher at Garton Road, Mum and Jack's school.

‘Look, I told you, I can't possibly come in, not when Sue's so seriously ill. What? Look, I can't help it if they've both got gastroenteritis. I couldn't give a stuff if the entire staff are throwing up all over the school. I can't come in and teach because Sue's in a coma, hanging onto life by a thread—' He sees me staring and says quickly, ‘I've got to go now.'

Is Mum really hanging onto life by a thread? I imagine a long white thread tied round her ankle, tethering her to the bed, while she rises up and up and up . . .

‘I didn't really mean that! I just needed to get
my point across,' Jack says. ‘Come on, Ella.'

We drive to the hospital again and walk down the long corridors. I hope and hope and hope that Mum will be just a little bit better – but she's still lying there, eyes closed. I shout, ‘
Mum!
' right in her ear but she doesn't stir.

‘No, no, dear, don't, you'll hurt Mummy,' says a new nurse crossly.

I shrink back, horrified.

‘She was just trying to rouse her. She didn't mean any harm,' says Jack. ‘She's very close to her mother.'

The new nurse sniffs. Her blonde hair is pulled very tightly into a bun, and the elasticated belt round her waist is at full stretch. She looks as if she could explode in all directions at any time.

‘She shouldn't be in here then, it's too upsetting for a little girl,' she snaps. ‘Small children aren't supposed to be running about these wards.'

Yet later they bring a very, very small child to Mum: the baby. The young lady doctor with long dark hair carries him into the room.

‘Hello, remember me? I'm Dr Wilmot,' she says. ‘I thought it would be good for Susan to have her baby with her for a while – and good for him too.' She rocks him gently, stroking his little wisps of hair.

‘I keep forgetting he's so tiny,' Jack says, his face screwing up. ‘It must be awful for him. All the other babies have their mothers.'

‘He's still got a mother. I think he needs a little cuddle with her right now,' says Dr Wilmot. ‘You hold him for me for a moment.'

She hands the baby to Jack and then bends over Mum and starts untying her nightie. I draw in my breath.

‘I think Mum would like to cuddle up really close with the baby,' Dr Wilmot says to me. ‘I'm sure she used to cuddle you like this when you were tiny.'

She takes the baby from Jack, unwraps his shawl and takes off his little nightgown too, so he's just in his nappy. He cries a bit, waving his legs about. They're so
small
, but he's quite strong, kicking his funny little feet. It's just the way he kicked when he was inside Mum's tummy. He's not really a little stranger – we've known him for months and months. We just couldn't see him.

Dr Wilmot lays him down very gently on Mum's bare chest, his head between her breasts. He gives a little snuffle, almost like a sigh, and then lies still, nestling in.

‘There! He's a happy little chap now,' Dr Wilmot whispers, but she's looking at Mum. We're
all
looking at Mum. I clench my fists, praying for a
miracle. She'll open her eyes and clasp the baby close . . . Her eyes stay shut. Her arms are still. She doesn't move at all, apart from breathing in and out, her chest rising and falling underneath the baby. He stays curled up there, his eyes shut too.

I wish Jack and Dr Wilmot and the grumpy nurse could vanish. I want to climb up on Mum's bed and curl up with them too.

Dr Wilmot puts her arm around me. I lean against her, sucking my thumb.

‘Has he got a name yet, your little brother?' she asks.

‘We thought we might call him Georgie – or Harry – or maybe Will,' says Jack. ‘Something quite plain and simple.'

‘No! He's going to be called Samson,' I say. ‘Mum said.'

They stare at me.

‘
Samson?
' Jack echoes, looking astonished. ‘Your mum didn't say anything about calling him Samson!'

‘She did, when he was kicking inside her. She said he was big and strong, like Samson.'

‘Oh, I see! Like the strong Samson in the Bible. But she was joking, Ella,' says Jack.

‘No, she wasn't! I was there, you weren't. She wants him to be Samson, Jack, truly.'

‘Well, let's think about it. We don't have to name the baby just yet.'

‘But he can still be Samson, can't he?'

‘Perhaps he could have Samson as a middle name?' Dr Wilmot suggests.

‘Mum chose Samson for his first name, she really did, honestly. Mum and I think it's a brilliant name,' I say. ‘Samson. That's his name.'

‘But it's not up to you, missy,' says the grumpy nurse. ‘It's Mummy and Daddy who choose their baby's name. And your mummy can't say what she wants at the moment so Daddy has to choose, not you.'

It feels as if she's kicking me in the stomach. I can't even argue. Jack's not my daddy and I can tell everyone that – but he
is
the baby's dad, that's a fact.

I swallow and don't say anything.

The grumpy nurse nods as if to say,
That's settled
her
hash
.

Jack's looking at me too. He waits until the nurse is out of the room and Dr Wilmot is carrying Samson-Georgie-Harry-Will back to the nursery for a change and a feed.

‘Hey, Ella?'

I still don't say anything. I sit beside Mum, tying up her nightie, smoothing her hair.

‘How about Sam? It's like it's short for Samson. Will that do?'

I nod very slowly, though I still don't look at him. I'm angry with him now because he's trying to be kind. I don't
want
him to be nice to me. We're supposed to be deadly enemies. It's horrible having to spend so much time with him. Minute after minute, hour after hour, throughout the whole day.

‘You don't have to sit here all the time,' says Dr Wilmot when she comes back. ‘Why don't you take Ella for a bit of a walk, stretch her legs. There's a park at the end of the road.'

We both twitch.

‘We'd sooner stay here,' says Jack.

Dr Wilmot pauses. ‘Look, as far as I can see, Sue's stable now. She's deeply unconscious but she's breathing by herself, which is great. She'll be fine. We're all keeping an eye on her.'