Queenie (32 page)

THE PARENTS WERE
all thrilled when Martin and Gillian and Rita and Angus and Babette and Maureen and Michael told them about the Queen’s visit. They came back on Sunday with so many parcels it looked like Christmas. They’d all bought their children new nighties and pyjamas. I stared wistfully at them all – especially Rita’s. Her mum had bought her a brand-new pair of pink cat pyjamas.

‘They’re
my
pyjamas!’ I said.

‘No, they’re not. My mum bought them for me,’ said Rita.

‘But you copied me. I bet you
asked
her for cat pyjamas!’

‘No I didn’t,’ said Rita, but I could tell she was lying. ‘Anyway, there’s no law says
I
can’t have cat pyjamas too.’

‘It’s not fair,’ I wailed, and had to fight not to burst into baby tears.

My mum hadn’t bought me anything because she hadn’t come, either on the Saturday or the Sunday. But dear Nurse Gabriel came – and she had a tiny flat parcel for me. I couldn’t help hoping that it was new cat pyjamas, even though the parcel wasn’t even big enough for
doll’s
pyjamas. I opened it with shaking fingers and found two beautiful pink silk ribbons.

‘They’ll match your bolero, Elsie,’ said Nurse Gabriel. ‘You can wear it over your baby-doll top. I’ll see if I can nip in that morning and do your plaits for you. The other nurses probably won’t have time.’

I was a little bit disappointed. Gillian had started putting her hair up in a wonderful elegant chignon, just like Belle of the Ballet, and I’d hoped she might show me how to fix mine in a similar fashion. I had started to worry that plaits were very babyish, but I didn’t want to hurt Nurse Gabriel’s feelings – and the ribbons were very soft and satiny.

‘That will be lovely, Nurse Gabriel! Thank you very much. You’re so kind.’

She kept her word too, rushing over to Blyton while we were still being toileted. My hair had been washed specially the night before, and was almost as soft and silky as my new ribbons. Nurse Gabriel brushed it until it crackled and then scraped a parting and plaited it very neatly. My fringe had grown so long that Nurse Robinson had started clipping it back with a slide, but Nurse Gabriel combed it into place and then cut it carefully with her nail scissors. She brushed the little locks of hair away, gently blowing on my nose where some were stuck.

‘There now, you look an absolute picture, Elsie,’ she said.

The Queen wasn’t due until eleven o’clock, but I held my head unnaturally still and didn’t flop back on my pillow, determined not to make my plaits untidy. I was very careful when I ate my breakfast so that I wouldn’t spill toast or cornflakes down my bolero.

Queenie came walking fastidiously down the ward, still twitching her nose at the fading smell of paint.

‘Here, Queenie! It’s a very important day,’ I said. ‘The real Queen is coming. Are you going to say hello to her?’

Queenie considered. She arched her back, stretching, and then jumped up onto my bed. I didn’t have any choice titbits for her, but I ran my finger over my toast and then let her lick it, because she liked the taste of butter.

‘You’re more special than any real queen,’ I whispered to her, and Queenie purred in agreement.

Sister Baker came bustling into the ward, in such an excessively starched white apron that she walked as if she were wearing armour.

‘Get that cat off the bed!’ she said. ‘Robinson, Macclesfield, I want all these breakfast trays cleared and the children in immaculately made beds in fifteen minutes flat. Do I make myself understood?’

‘Lordy, Lordy, what a flap-doodle,’ Nurse Robinson muttered to Nurse Macclesfield. ‘Anyone would think the Queen was coming!’

We were all ready and out on the veranda by eight o’clock – and then had to wait three whole hours. Miss Isles gave out storybooks and comics, but we couldn’t settle to reading. I had had Albert Trunk forcibly removed and imprisoned in my locker because he was getting so shabby, but I clutched my little Coronation coach firmly in my hand.

Sister Baker, Nurse Smith and Miss Isles were called away to a meeting in Sir David’s office.

‘To practise their curtsies,’ said Martin, giggling.

I told the others a Queen story as I drove the Coronation coach up and down my sheets and along the long rugged road of my splint.

‘The Queen’s going to walk along the veranda, and she’ll say hello to all of us, even you, Martin, but she’ll
stop
at my bed and she’ll put her royal head on one side, her crown nearly tipping off, and she’ll say, “Oh my goodness, what’s that you’ve got in your hand, Elsie?” and I’ll say, “It’s your Coronation coach, Your Majesty.” She’ll say, “Excellent! I was wanting to go home to my palace right this minute. Would you care to accompany me, Elsie?” I’ll say, “But I’m stuck here in bed with my gammy leg,” and she’ll say, “Oh, you poor child. Don’t you know about my corgis? They have magical tongues. Come to the palace with me and they’ll lick you better in a trice.”’

‘Oh yuck!’ said Gillian.

‘Can corgis
really
lick you better?’ asked Rita.

‘Tell us
more
, please, Elsie,’ said Angus.

‘Well, I’m not going to miss a day out with the Queen, am I?’ I started.

‘Can we come too?’ asked Michael.

‘Oh, I wish you could – but look, there’s not room in the coach, is there? Still, I’m sure the Queen will come back another day and take you on a trip, Michael,’ I said reassuringly. ‘
Anyway
, I drag myself out of bed and stand on my good leg—’

‘But you’re not
allowed
!’ Rita fussed.

‘Oh Rita, it’s a
story
,’ I said. ‘OK, there I am, out of bed, doing my best to curtsey with only one blooming leg that will bend. I set the Coronation coach down on the floor of the veranda and it starts growing and
growing
until all your beds slide into a corner, and there’s the coach, huge and gold and glittering. The eight horses are tossing their manes and stamping their hooves, impatient to be off. Sister Baker opens the door for the Queen, bowing so low her apron cracks right in two, and then Nurse Bryant lifts me up into the coach next to the Queen, and it’s really comfy inside, with red velvet cushions, and I can prop my legs up. The Queen shifts up a bit to make room for me. And then we’re off! You lot are waving goodbye.’

The little ones waved!

‘The Queen sticks her royal head out of the window and shouts, “Your turn next, Michael,” and then the coachman clicks his tongue to the horses and shakes the reins and we’re off – along the veranda, out through the gardens, right up the path onto the road, then all the way to Buckingham Palace, quick as a wink.’

‘I’ve been there once. My dad took us,’ said Babette.

‘Yes, but you haven’t been
inside
. Oh, it’s simply gorgeous, with those huge twinkly lights hanging from the ceiling—’

‘Chandeliers,’ said Gillian.

‘Yes, chandeliers, and there’s red carpet everywhere of course, and lovely sofas and chair, but the Queen has her own throne, real gold with purple cushions, and she tells me to sit right next to her on a golden stool. She gets her lady-in-waiting to take off
my
splint, and then she throws back her royal head and whistles loudly, and all these corgis come woofing into the room – six of them, all with their tongues hanging out. “Here, boys, go over to Elsie and lick your hardest,” the Queen commands. They all rush over to me, their big pink tongues hanging out, and they go
lick lick lick lick lick lick
– that’s the six of them, all licking away like billy-o. It’s amazing. It feels all wet and slobbery and tickly. I can’t say I
like
it, but my leg is all tingly, as if something truly magic is happening. When I stand up, it’s fine. I can walk just like that! The Queen takes me to her own personal X-ray machine in a side room, and we stick my leg under, and it’s completely better, no TB at all. I’m cured! “Well, that’s jolly good, Elsie, because I’m holding a ball tonight,” says the Queen. “Would you like to come?”

‘“Yes please, Your Majesty – but I haven’t anything to wear. I’ve just got my baby-doll pyjamas and my bolero.”

‘“Oh, don’t trouble yourself about that,” says the Queen. “Have a poke around in my wardrobe and see if there’s anything that takes your fancy.” So the lady-in-waiting takes me to the royal bedroom, and there’s this huge wardrobe with hundreds of frocks inside – pink ones and blue ones and white ones with long sticking-out skirts, and some have got embroidery and
some
have got lace. I choose a sky-blue dress with little red rosebuds embroidered all over it and a sticky-out skirt with its own frilly petticoat underneath.’

‘And frilly knickers to match,’ Martin sniggered.

‘Shut up, Martin. Don’t spoil it. Go on, Elsie,’ said Gillian.

‘So I go to the ball, and I’m a bit nervous at first because no one comes to ask me to dance.’

‘Uh-oh! There’s going to be a handsome prince any minute,’ said Martin.

‘There’s Prince Philip, but he’s the Queen’s husband, and there’s Prince Charles, but he’s too little. No – do you know why everyone’s waiting? They’re waiting for the Queen, and she comes over to me and holds out her hand and says, “Do you know how to polka, Elsie?” And I do, of course, so I take the Queen’s hand, and then we polka round and round the ballroom, ever so fast – so fast the Queen’s crown tumbles right off her head, but a courtier runs forward and catches it quick, and she pops it back on her curls again.’

‘Is it all going to end when the clock strikes twelve?’ asked Maureen.

‘That’s
Cinderella
. No, this is
my
story, and I go on dancing with the Queen all night long.’

‘Do you
really
know the Queen?’ asked Babette.

I almost felt as if I
did
know her. I couldn’t wait to see her in real life. At five minutes to eleven Nurse
Smith
came flying along our row of beds on the veranda, checking us for running noses or rumpled sheets. Then, on the dot of eleven, the Queen herself came out – the real Queen, walking between Sir David and Sister Baker. She wasn’t wearing her crown, which threw us all. Her head looked bare without it, even though she was wearing a little lilac hat. She wore a lilac coat too, the sort that would show every scrap of dirt, but it looked brand new and beautiful. The Queen’s shiny patent shoes looked new too. I hoped she wouldn’t slip going along the veranda. Her face was so weirdly familiar she really did seem like a friend or an aunty – but there was a scary queenliness about her even without her crown. Sir David was chatting away easily enough, but Sister Baker looked terribly shy and flustered, and was walking sideways like a crab so she could face the Queen respectfully at all times.

The Queen stopped by Michael’s bed and smiled at him. Michael blinked back at her nervously.

‘Hello, dear,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a little boy about your age at home.’

‘Does he dance at the ball?’ Michael asked.

The Queen looked surprised. ‘Charles
plays
ball,’ she said, a little uncertainly. She moved on to me.

I smiled at her hopefully, sitting up straight, my shiny ribbons on the end of my plaits. I felt very hot
and
itchy in my pink bolero, but I wouldn’t have taken it off for the world.

‘Hello, dear,’ said the Queen, and passed on.

I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. She said hello to Martin, she said hello to Gillian, but she didn’t pause. Then she got to Rita.

‘Hello, dear. My, what pretty pyjamas!’ she said.

I wanted to jump out of bed and punch Rita. They were
my
cat pyjamas. Well, my own cat pyjamas were now past their best. The pink had faded and the little white cats were grey and limp with hospital boiling.

‘I like the cats!’ said the Queen.

‘Yes, I do too,’ Rita said smugly. ‘We’ve got a white cat on Blyton Ward.’

‘Say
Your Majesty!
’ Sister Baker prompted.

‘Yes, Your Majesty, we’ve got a white cat called Queenie. She jumps up on my bed sometimes,’ said Rita.

‘No, she doesn’t! She jumps on
my
bed!’ I said furiously.

Sister Baker turned and gave me a terrible glare. ‘I can assure you it’s all very hygienic, Ma’am, and therapeutic for the children,’ she said.

‘Oh, I think it’s a lovely idea,’ said the Queen. She gave Rita a dazzling smile. ‘Queenie, eh? Did you name her after me?’

‘Yes we did,’ said Rita, another flat-out lie.

The Queen moved on to Babette and Maureen,
stopping
in between their beds. She asked them how they were feeling. They clearly weren’t sure. Babette put her thumb in her mouth and Maureen started giggling.

‘Answer nicely, girls,’ Sister Baker hissed, but they were beyond speech.

The Queen didn’t seem to mind. She nodded at both of them in a kindly fashion and moved on to Angus. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said, peering at his plaster bed. ‘That must be very uncomfortable.’

Angus grunted.

‘Do you have to stay in plaster all the time?’ the Queen asked.

‘He has a severe spinal condition, Ma’am, but we’re very pleased with his progress,’ said Sister Baker.

‘It must be very tiresome not even being able to sit up,’ said the Queen sympathetically. ‘Can you read at all?’

‘I can a bit,’ said Angus. ‘But Elsie tells lots of stories, and that’s better than reading.’

Sister Baker stiffened, looking alarmed. She made helpless little gestures to the Queen, trying to hurry her along.

The Queen stood her ground, smiling at Angus. ‘What sort of stories does Elsie tell you?’ she asked.

‘Wonderful stories! I liked her story about the magic tree, when we all had birthday surprises,’ said Angus.

‘Yes, dear,’ said Sister Baker. ‘That’s nice.’ She took a firm step forward. ‘Perhaps we can offer you some light refreshments, Ma’am?’

‘Elsie told us a story about
you
, Your Majesty,’ said Angus.

‘Really?’ said the Queen.

‘Yes – you took her for a trip in your golden coach, and then you danced the polka with her at the ball.’