Queenie (15 page)

‘They’re not here to be
happy
,’ said Nurse Patterson. ‘They’re here to get well.’

‘Only some of us don’t,’ said Martin.

‘I’ll thank you not to eavesdrop and interrupt, young man,’ said Nurse Patterson, and vented her temper on him because Nurse Curtis had run off, doing a funny Charlie Chaplin kipper-feet routine that made us all laugh.

She came back with a whole trolley full of hot-water bottles, and they made such a difference.

‘You’re the lucky ones! For two pins I’d get into bed with you,’ said Nurse Curtis, clapping her plump arms. They were rosy red with the cold.

‘I don’t know why you’re all making such a fuss,’ said Nurse Patterson. ‘
I
think it’s quite mild today’ – though her sticky-out ears were scarlet.

A new lady came puffing out onto the veranda. She was wearing a hat and a winter coat and a woolly scarf and leather gloves. She kept them on all morning, clearly agreeing with us that it was freezing. She was Miss Isles, our school teacher.

‘I didn’t know you had teachers in hospital,’ I said, sighing.

She wasn’t soft or pretty, and I was sure she didn’t
have
an angora jumper under her coat like dear Miss Roberts back at my proper school.

She’d be wondering where I was now. Marilyn and Susan would be peeved that they didn’t have anyone to pick on. I wondered if Laura might miss me just a little bit.

Miss Isles gave me an ugly grey workbook and a pencil, though at school I’d used a pen for ages. She set me twenty sums, made me read an excerpt from a story and then answer ten silly questions, and then had me tackle endless IQ puzzles.

‘
If beak is to bird, then whisker is to
 . . .’ I mumbled.

I hated these stupid tests. They were never specific enough. Whisker could well be to
Nanny
– she had quite a few growing on her top lip, and a couple on her chin too. Mum was always nagging her to tweeze them away.
She
tweezed her face so much she didn’t have any eyebrows at all when she took off her make-up.

I thought of Nan now, imprisoned in the sanatorium, and a tear ran down my cheek,
plop
, onto the paper.

‘Oh dear, don’t cry, Elsie! Don’t worry if you can’t answer many of the questions. They’re just little tests so I can see how clever you are,’ said Miss Isles.

Everyone was staring at me.

‘You don’t
need
to do a test, Gobface,’ Martin hissed. ‘We can all see you’re a right old Dumbo.’

I blinked fiercely. ‘You shut up,’ I said, and printed c-a-t in my best handwriting. Then I looked up, and there
was
a c-a-t – the big white one from last night. She was sauntering over the grass, as delicate as a daisy, and then she got to the veranda and ducked straight under Michael’s bed at the end.

I stared. No one else seemed to have seen her. I was making her up again. But she seemed so
real
, lifting her paws so gracefully, her tail stretched out behind her. I was thrilled, but also a little frightened. I hadn’t realized my imagination was so powerful.

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up Nan, my old laughing funny nanny. I tried to make her come walking up in her old black strappy shoes with the bunion bulge at the sides – but she was very sketchy and vague and her face wouldn’t go right. She kept bending over to cough, her thin hand covering her mouth.

Then something caught at my sheets, and suddenly there was the white cat, bobbing up out of nowhere, jumping right up onto my bed. She looked at me enquiringly. I held out my hand, hardly daring to breathe. She walked up my blanket, turned round once and then settled down happily right on my stomach. I started to stroke her and she purred,
arching
her back and rubbing against my hand with her head.

‘Now then, Elsie. Stop playing with that cat and get on with your work,’ said Miss Isles.

Miss Isles could see my imaginary cat! I was astonished for a second, but then common sense kicked in.

‘She’s
real
!’ I breathed.

‘Of course she’s real! What sort of nutter
are
you, Gobface?’ said Martin.

‘She got right into the hospital and jumped up on my bed last night,’ I said proudly, ignoring the abuse.

‘She jumps up on everyone’s bed. Here, Queenie! Come to Martin!’ he said, patting his own bed and making little tutting noises with his tongue to encourage her.

‘Queenie? Oh, what a lovely name!’ I said.

QUEENIE DID LOOK
proudly regal, queen of all her domain. She even held her head up high as if balancing a tiny crown on top.

‘But who does she belong to?’ I asked Martin. ‘And won’t she get into terrible trouble if the nurses find her in the ward because of germs and that?’

Nan wasn’t necessarily a stickler for hygiene, but she didn’t like me picking up stray cats in the street in case they had fleas.

I looked very carefully at Queenie’s beautiful white
fur
, but it seemed immaculate – not a trace of even one tiny flea. She had great green eyes and the sweetest rose-pink nose that sniffed me delicately. I seemed to pass muster, because she stayed where she was, purring gently, totally ignoring Martin.

‘She belongs to our ward, stupid,’ said Martin. ‘We have Queenie, and she’s the nicest of all the cats. Only the best for Blyton! Ransome’s got Kitty, and she’s boring, just an old tabby. Christie’s got Samson – he’s a big ginger tom – and Potter’s got Puddleduck, and she’s OK, I suppose. She’s mostly white too, with ginger smudges, but she’s nowhere near as beautiful as her mum.’

‘So Queenie’s her mum?’

‘Yes, but they don’t really get on very well now. If Puddleduck comes sniffing up to Queenie, she gives her a whack with her front paw, as if to say “Stop bothering me.”’

‘Like my mum,’ I said without thinking.

‘Does your mum whack you then?’ asked Martin, sounding interested.

‘Well . . . if I’ve been naughty.’

‘My dad whacks, really hard. Does yours hit you?’

‘I haven’t got a dad,’ I said, though I thought fleetingly about Frankie Vaughan. I saw him smile at me, open up his arms to embrace his long-lost daughter.

‘That’s daft. Everyone’s got a dad,’ said Martin.

‘Yes, OK, but I don’t
see
him. He doesn’t live with us,’ I said.

Gillian lifted her head, her ponytail flipping. ‘Oh golly, are they
divorced?
’ she said.

I hesitated. They hadn’t ever been married so I wasn’t sure they could actually be divorced.

‘Don’t worry,
my
mum and dad are getting a divorce,’ said Gillian. ‘It’s because I’m ill. Dad hates seeing me like this. He says it’s too upsetting. He’s walked out on my mum.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I said.

‘It’s OK. Mum and I don’t need
him
. We’re going to get our own flat, with my sister.’

‘
My
mum and I have a flat, sort of, with my nan,’ I said.

I felt thrilled to be having this adult conversation with Martin and Gillian. At school my unusual home was the subject of whispers and jeers, but here Martin and Gillian had a worldly-wise acceptance of these things. It almost made me part of their club. When Rita started gabbling that maybe her mummy and daddy were getting a divorce too because they always argued about who should put the dustbins out, the three of us just sighed and shook our heads at her silliness. And all the time Queenie sat on my lap and purred contentedly. I leaned forward and buried my face in her magnificent white fur and she purred even louder.

‘Elsie! I told you already – stop playing with Queenie and get on with your worksheets. Martin, Gillian, stop chattering. You need to pay attention to your long division!’ said Miss Isles.

I had to push Queenie gently to one side. She hovered at the edge of my bed, wondering about jumping off – but then she stretched out at the end, put her head on her front paws, and went to sleep.

I had to hunch my legs up so as not to disturb her. I felt very fidgety after a while, but I forced myself to keep still. I did the maths test, the English test, the IQ test – and then Miss Isles gave me a drawing board and a piece of blue sugar paper and some wax crayons and told me to draw a picture.

I tried drawing Queenie, but I didn’t have a white crayon to colour her in. Next I drew Nan, but I couldn’t make her look lovely enough. So in the end I did Mum, making her hair very yellow and her cheeks pink and her mouth bright red. I coloured in her best kingfisher-blue suit and tried to make her patent high heels look shiny. I even managed to draw her little gold bracelet round her ankle.

‘Oh my, that’s a very beautiful lady,’ said Miss Isles, glancing across.

‘It’s my mum,’ I said. ‘Yes, she
is
beautiful.’

‘You’ve still got lots of space on your paper. Why
don
’t you draw yourself beside her?’ suggested Miss Isles.

I drew a scrappy little Elsie with spindly plaits and my best party dress. I gave myself patent shoes too. I certainly wasn’t going to draw myself in horrible boy’s lace-ups.

Then it was lunch time. I thought we’d be wheeled back to the ward, but we stayed where we were to eat our plate of mince and mashed potato and carrots and cabbage. I didn’t like the taste of the cabbage. It was just like old face flannel, so I left it on the side of my plate next to a little pool of greasy mince.

Nurse Patterson shook her head at me. ‘Come along, Elsie, this won’t do. Think of all the poor little children in the world with empty tummies! Eat it all up like a good girl.’

‘I don’t like it, miss.’

‘
Nurse!
How many times? Now eat it up at once. All the other children are eating theirs,’ said Nurse Patterson.

‘That’s right, Elsie. Eat it up quick,’ said Nurse Curtis. ‘We’re off to fetch the pudding now and you don’t want to miss out, do you? It’s jam roly-poly and custard!’

‘Will they
make
me eat it?’ I asked Martin, foolishly.

‘Oh yes, they’ll start spooning it in. They’ll hold your nose to make you swallow – and if you dare sick
it
up they’ll make you eat that too,’ said Martin, miming the whole revolting process.

My stomach heaved and I nearly
was
sick. I quickly tried offering my plate to Queenie. She sniffed at in disdain and jumped off my bed, deciding to go and forage for her own food.

I was left feeling desperate. I grabbed a great soft oozing handful of mince and cabbage, nipped out of bed, ran in my bare feet along the gravel pathway, and threw my meal into the middle of a rhododendron bush. I wiped my hand on the leaves and then sprinted back to bed just before Nurse Patterson and Nurse Curtis came trundling back with the pudding trolley. Martin and Gillian gave a cheer.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Nurse Patterson suspiciously. ‘Why were you cheering Elsie?’

I held my breath.

‘Because she’s finished her meal. She’s eaten it all up, every bit,’ said Gillian.

‘Oh, good
girl
,’ said Nurse Curtis. ‘A big helping of roly-poly for you then!’ She dug her ladle into the steaming metal dish. ‘Ooh – lots of jam today . . . Mmm, blissful!’

I ate my roly-poly with relish, grinning gratefully at Gillian and Martin.

Then Nurse Curtis returned with a big box, which she rattled suggestively, grinning.

‘What’s in the box?’

‘It’s our magic sweetie box, Elsie. You can help yourself,’ said Nurse Curtis.

‘Only one, mind,’ said Nurse Patterson.

‘Oh, don’t mind if I do.’ Nurse Curtis unwrapped a Blue Bird toffee and popped it into her mouth.

‘Don’t you let Sister Baker see you or you won’t half cop it,’ said Nurse Patterson.

Nurse Curtis wrinkled her nose at her and chewed her toffee happily. ‘Here you are, Elsie – choose,’ she said, sticking the box under my nose.

‘The liquorice pipes are
mine
. Don’t you dare choose one of them,’ said Martin.

I didn’t push my luck. I chose a Quality Street instead, the purple one – chocolate and caramel and hazelnut. We always had a box of Quality Street at Christmas, and Nan saved all the purple ones for me because they were my favourite. I sucked my chocolate and caramel until I got to the hazelnut and twisted the shiny coloured wrapper around my finger, making myself a fairy wine glass.

After lunch we were supposed to settle down and have a nap. There were protests. Gillian said she wasn’t the least bit sleepy and didn’t want to take a baby nap. Rita echoed every word, but fell asleep almost straight away, snoring. Maureen and Babette giggled away, playing some little-girlie game, but
soon
fell asleep too. Soon they were all asleep, except for Martin and Gillian and me. I saw Angus’s eyes fluttering, so maybe he was awake, but he never said anything so it didn’t make much difference.

Martin started whispering dirty jokes. Then Gillian told even dirtier ones. I think they were trying to shock me, but I laughed boldly, though I didn’t understand half of what they were saying.

‘Go on then, Gobface –
you
tell us one,’ said Martin.

I couldn’t think of a single joke. At school, I’d never been in one of those little gangs where everyone whispered and sniggered together. But then I remembered Uncle Ivor, one of my mum’s long-ago boyfriends, a fat little man with a very red face. He didn’t tell jokes, at least not in front of me, but he did sing silly songs, and from the way Nan tutted I knew they were rude. So I softly sang a song about a lady with funny hair, and Martin and Gillian snorted with glee.