Queenie (25 page)

‘Well, that’s nice, dear,’ said Mum. ‘But don’t start boasting now. I expect she was just being kind.’

It was no use. I so wanted her to be proud of me, but it was clear that I was failing dismally in every respect. I longed for Nan. She always made me feel as if I was her best girl, perfect in every way. I still wasn’t sure Mum would go and visit her tomorrow. I wanted to beg her again and to remind her about my
letter
, but I knew the more I pushed, the more it would irritate her.

I felt horribly fidgety, as if my legs wanted to run off to Nan’s by themselves. It was so awful to be tethered all the time, trapped on my back no matter how I strained. My legs itched and I started scratching, especially round the leather band keeping the brace in place.

‘Elsie! Stop that! Goodness me,
scratch scratch
. People will think you’ve got nits.’

‘I
itch
, Mum. It’s all
sore
.’

‘Let me see,’ she said, pulling the covers away. ‘
Where
is it sore? Is this awful contraption rubbing you?’

It wasn’t really sore at all, but I wanted Mum’s sympathy.

‘Yes, it’s
very
sore,’ I said, and I winced and shivered when Mum tried to edge her finger under the leather.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘What are they playing at? They’re rubbing you raw, you poor little mite.’

All four nurses examined my leg scrupulously every day, and washed and dried and powdered it under the ring so that my skin stayed baby smooth – but I couldn’t help getting sucked into Mum’s tirade.

‘It really hurts, Mum,’ I said, and I snivelled convincingly.

‘Well, it’s simply not good enough,’ she said. ‘I’m
not
standing for it. Where’s that nurse? I’m going to have a few words.’

My stomach lurched. ‘No – don’t, Mum,’ I gabbled, panicking. ‘It’s not really
that
sore.’

‘It’s really hurting you, I can see that. You need proper attention. Heaven knows what could happen if that sore takes a hold. You could end up losing your flipping leg!’ said Mum, working herself up. ‘I’m going to put in a complaint.’

‘No, Mum!’

‘It’s not right if they blooming well neglect you. I’m going to have my say.
I’m
not a negligent mother.’ She was off like a shot before I could stop her, curls bouncing on her shoulders, high heels ringing on the stone veranda.

‘Is your mother off already?’ said Martin’s dad. ‘I could have given her a lift to the station.’

I didn’t reply. I lay there, miserably scratching, praying that Mum wouldn’t be able to find any of the nurses – they usually had a long tea break during visiting hours. But, to my horror, Mum returned triumphantly a few minutes later with
Sister Baker
. I shut my eyes and lay very still, wanting to die.

‘Elsie?’ said Sister Baker. She spoke very quietly, but even so she made it plain she wasn’t messing about. I had to look at her. She was smiling in a very crocodile kind of way, all teeth – rather as if she
wanted
to take a bite out of me. ‘Your mummy says your leg is hurting you, dear.’

‘Not – not really,’ I mumbled.

‘You said that leather thing was rubbing you raw!’ said Mum. ‘You take a look, Nurse.’

‘I’m Sister Baker, Miss Kettle,’ the Sister said, still carefully pleasant and polite, though the look on her face made me shiver. She pulled back my blankets and examined my poorly leg, running her finger expertly underneath the leather. ‘Is this where it’s sore, Elsie?’ she asked.

‘Yes. No. I don’t know,’ I gabbled, in a cold sweat.

‘It’s too tight, that’s what it is,’ said Mum. ‘Can’t you unbuckle it a bit?’

‘The splint has to be reasonably tight to be effective,’ said Sister Baker. ‘But we examine it scrupulously every four hours, checking for any discomfort. Which nurse last washed your leg, Elsie?’

‘Nurse Patterson,’ I whispered, truthfully enough.

‘Well, your leg feels a little damp. Perhaps she didn’t dry you properly. I’ll have a word with her,’ said Sister Baker.

She took the towel from my locker, and dried and powdered my sweaty leg. ‘There now. Is that more comfortable?’ she said.

‘Yes – yes it is,’ I said eagerly.

Mum nodded, tossing her long hair, pleased that
she
’d fought for her daughter and obtained satisfaction.

‘There you are!’ she said, when Sister had marched off purposefully. ‘Happy, now? Your old mum’s fixed it.’

I wasn’t at all sure I was happy. My tummy was in a tight little knot of anxiety. I’d more or less told a lie – and even Nan hated liars: ‘You can be as naughty as you like, Elsie, so long as you own up to it. I can’t stomach liars,’ she always said.

I told endless stories but I never told downright lies – at least not to anyone that mattered. I hadn’t
intended
to lie to Mum. It just slipped out of my mouth without me thinking properly.

‘What’s up
now?
’ Mum said, frowning at me. ‘Why the long face?’

‘I – I’m a bit scared, Mum. My leg wasn’t really
that
sore. I shouldn’t have made a fuss,’ I said in a sudden burst.

‘Of course it was sore. Any fool could see it was rubbing. Like that Sister said, it hadn’t been dried properly,’ she said. ‘I hope she gives that nurse a right ticking off!’

‘I don’t want anyone to get into trouble,’ I said.

‘Nonsense – that’s how all them nurses learn. They can’t get away with shoddy treatment, especially when they’re dealing with little kiddies. Don’t you worry, Elsie, I’ll see you’re all right. You tell your mum if you’re sore anywhere else, right?’

I felt rubbed raw all over right that minute, but I kept quiet. I hardly said a word the rest of the visit, and Mum got bored and started chatting to Martin’s dad again. At the end of visiting time she went off with Martin’s parents, very chipper because she was getting a lift.

‘Toodle-oo, little darling,’ she said to me, blowing me a kiss.

‘Your mum doesn’t half pong,’ said Martin as all the parents disappeared. ‘I can still smell all her flowery scent stuff.’

‘It’s Californian Poppy,’ I said. ‘My uncle gave her a big bottle.’

‘Fancy your mum going and getting Sister!’ said Gillian. ‘What was all that about?’

‘Oh, she was worried about my splint,’ I mumbled.

‘You said your leg was all sore and it was Nurse Patterson’s fault!’ said Martin, who had sharp ears.

There was a collective gasp and a lot of giggling.

‘I didn’t say it like that exactly. I won’t get into trouble, will I?’ I asked anxiously.

‘Nurse Patterson will!’ said Gillian. ‘I bet Sister Baker is laying into her right this minute.’

‘Oh no,’ I said.

‘Sister Baker can get ever so cross if she thinks the nurses aren’t doing their job properly. Remember that time she caught Nurse Johnson pinching a sweet out
of
the tin, Rita? She really hit the roof,’ said Gillian.

‘She went absolutely nuts,’ said Rita. ‘Nurse Johnson cried buckets.’

‘I didn’t mean for Nurse Patterson to get into trouble,’ I said, nibbling my sore lip.

‘Don’t worry, Elsie. Who cares about Nurse Patterson?’ said Angus. ‘She’s not very nice to us, is she?’

‘I know, but I still didn’t mean her to get into trouble with Sister.’

I waited in dread for the nurses to come bustling in. Nurse Curtis came along at last, very pink in the face, her lips pressed tightly together. There was no sign of Nurse Patterson.

‘Right, we’d better get you indoors,’ she said, seizing hold of Babette’s bed and trundling her off. Maureen started wailing. Babette and Maureen loved to be pushed along together, the nurses working in tandem while the little girls played they were in cars and turned imaginary steering wheels, racing each other. There was obviously going to be no fun or games this afternoon. Nurse Curtis trundled backwards and forwards by herself, her face getting pinker and pinker.

‘Where’s Nurse Patterson, Nurse Curtis?’ Gillian dared ask.

‘She’s . . . not very well,’ said Nurse Curtis. She looked straight at me and gave a sniff of disgust.

I didn’t risk saying a word to Nurse Curtis when she pushed me back to the ward. I didn’t even speak when she pushed me right past my usual bed-space, down to the end of the room – out into the corridor and straight into the little bathroom. It was clear that I was in total disgrace.

I waited fearfully to see what would happen next. I waited and waited and waited, with only a dripping tap and a stack of bedpans for company. I wondered if I was going to miss out on supper, but Nurse Curtis brought me a tray of tomato soup with an egg sandwich. I looked at it doubtfully, wondering if she might have spat in the soup.

‘What’s the matter, your ladyship?’ she said snippily. ‘Isn’t the food up to scratch? Are you going to complain about that too?’

‘I
didn’t
complain, not really. Mum misunderstood,’ I said.

‘Well, you and your blessed mum have scuppered poor Patterson good and proper,’ said Nurse Curtis.

‘Oh dear, has she got into trouble with Sister?’

‘Oh, you make me sick, acting so naïve. Of course she’s in trouble. You’ve only gone and accused her of negligent nursing, and that’s the one thing Sister Baker will never forgive. You could come on the ward with your apron on backwards and a potty on your head, and Sister would tick you off and tell you not to
be
such a silly fool – but she wouldn’t hold it against you for long. But if she thinks you’re not giving proper nursing care to all you kiddies, then, oh my goodness, you’re for it, good and proper. How could you be so wicked, Elsie? You know full well we all wash and powder your wretched leg with scrupulous care – and Patterson always takes particular pains.’

‘I know, I know,’ I said, cowering under my covers. I accidentally spilled tomato soup all over my tray. ‘I’m sorry!’ I was scared she might think
that
was deliberate too.

She just sniffed at me again and flounced off. I was left with my unappetizing tray. The soup pooled in a corner, looking unpleasantly bloody. It had even spattered the egg sandwich. I left it altogether and nibbled round the edge of the sandwich. Nobody came to take the tray away when I was finished. With my leg stuck up to my hip in a splint, I couldn’t manoeuvre the tray off my chest onto the floor. I didn’t dare throw it off. So I had to lie there with the soup congealing in front of my nose, its scent so powerful I felt I was swimming in it.

I heard footsteps – Nurse Curtis’s light tread, but then a heavier march on thickly soled rubber heels. Nurse Patterson! But neither came into the bathroom.

I heard the rattle of the washing trolley, but no one came to wash me. Then the ward went quiet, except
for
the faint buzz of Nurse Patterson’s over-emphatic voice. She was telling them all the bedtime story.

Well, I didn’t care. I could make up my own story. I tried to make one up there and then. I took myself up the tree, climbed the little ladder through the clouds and stepped out into . . .Grandma Land. It was peopled with hundreds of soft, sweet, grey-haired grandmas, all living in separate tiny thatched cottages, all loving and all very lonely because there didn’t seem to be any children in Grandma Land.

‘Oh, come and be
my
little grand-daughter, Elsie,’ each grandma begged. ‘I’d give anything to have a little girl just like you.’

They tried to clutch hold of me with their knobbly little fingers to give me a hug. They shook toffee tins at me and tried to adorn me with hand-knitted cardies and mittens and bobble hats. I was very gentle and grateful with all of them, but I carried on along the twisting path that connected all the cottages until I reached the very last house up a little hill. It was especially lovely, with roses and honeysuckle growing round the door, and a big white cat like Queenie sunning herself on the doormat. I knocked on the yellow door and the grandma inside opened it. She was my own dear nan in her best beaded black dress, her china rose brooch pinned to her chest.

‘Oh Nan!’ I cried.

‘Oh Elsie, my own Elsie!’ said Nan, and she hugged me so tight the china rose stuck straight into my cheek, but I didn’t care because I was just so happy to be with her at last.

I closed my eyes to keep the image of Nan and me together safe in my head.

‘Oh, so we’re asleep, are we?’ It was Nurse Patterson looming over me, her sticking-out ears in alarming silhouette.

I jumped, and my tray slid dangerously sideways.

‘We’ve taken to spilling all our food now, have we?’ said Nurse Patterson. ‘I suppose that’s my fault too?’

‘No, no, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to do
anything
,’ I said. ‘I just said to Mum . . .but she took it the wrong way . . .and then Sister came . . .’

‘Yes, Sister came, and you told her I didn’t wash and powder you properly under your splint,’ said Nurse Patterson, stepping backwards, her arms folded. I could see her eyes were very red now, the lids puffy.

‘I didn’t say that, exactly,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry. It was all a mistake.’

‘You’re the mistake, Elsie Kettle,’ said Nurse Patterson. ‘A great big mistake.’

I hated the way she said it. People sometimes called me a mistake when they wanted to be nasty to
me
. They meant I was a mistake because Mum hadn’t been married to my dad. Mum herself called me that, ‘My little mistake’ – as if she’d much sooner I hadn’t happened.

I felt my eyes filling with tears.

‘Oh, that’s right, start boo-hooing, you little cry-baby,’ said Nurse Patterson, snatching the tray from me and seizing a towel. She dabbed at my face fiercely. ‘Better dry you quick before you say your face is sore.’ She wiped so hard she nearly knocked my nose off.

‘You’re a cry-baby too!’ I said, struggling to turn my head away from her.

‘Yes, and no wonder! Sister said such dreadful things to me. She’ll hold it against me for ever. God knows what she’ll put on my report. And it’s so
unfair
. I’m a good nurse, I know I am. I’m especially good with children. I take such pains to jolly you all along. I even read you a special bedtime story! I’m scrupulously careful when I wash you, you
know
I am. I’ve tried particularly hard with you, Elsie.’