Queenie (8 page)

‘No, you wouldn’t. It’s up in London. I have to get the train,’ I sighed. ‘I go twice a week and it takes ages to get there, but it’s worth it. I love it at Madame Black’s.’

‘Let’s see you do a little dance then, Elsie Kettle,’ said Marilyn.

‘Yeah, up on your points,’ said Susan, tiptoeing around stupidly.

‘Yes, go on, Elsie,’ said Laura, in a friendly way. ‘Can you really do the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy already? You must be brilliant at ballet.’

‘I – I’m not
that
good,’ I said, blushing.

‘
Dance
, then!’ said Marilyn.

‘I wish I could,’ I told her. ‘But I’ve strained all the muscles in my leg and I’ve got a bad limp. I can’t dance at all at the moment. Now I’ve got to go – my mum’s waiting for me.’

I hobbled out of the door, across the playground. Mum was there at the gate, smoking a cigarette, wearing her best suit and her white high heels. Her blonde hair curled to her shoulders and she wore full make-up, so she had bright eyes and pink cheeks and glossy red lips. She seemed so different from all the other mums in their headscarves and old coats. I couldn’t help feeling a thrill of pride. She looked just like a film star. I rushed up to her.

‘Stop that limping, Elsie! You’re walking all lopsided,’ she said.

‘Sorry, Mum. It’s my shoes,’ I said quickly, clenching my aching leg and trying to make it work properly.

‘Who’s that with Elsie Kettle?’ Marilyn said behind me.

‘She said it’s her mum,’ said Susan.

‘Her mum’s much older and she’s got grey hair,’ said Marilyn.

‘No, silly, that’s her nan,’ said Laura. ‘So that lady must be Elsie’s mum. Isn’t she pretty?’

‘No, she’s not a bit pretty. She’s common.’ Marilyn had lowered her voice but I could still hear. I glanced up at Mum, terrified, but she seemed oblivious.

‘Come
on
, Elsie. I’ve made an appointment for us and we’re going to be late,’ she said.

‘Where are they going?’ asked Susan.

I turned round. ‘We’re going to Madame Black’s and I’m doing a special audition for
Swan Lake
,’ I said, forgetting all about my strained leg muscles.

‘You what?’ said Mum, pulling me along. We were out of earshot now.

‘I just said we were going to see my dancing teacher,’ I said.

‘You little fibber!’

‘Well, you said not to talk about going to the doctor,’ I protested.

‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ Mum said.

‘Mum, if I really went to dancing lessons, it wouldn’t be a fib.
Could
I go?
Please
?’

‘What do you think I am, made of money? Dancing lessons cost a fortune.’

‘
You
had dancing lessons when you were a little girl,’ I persisted.

‘Yeah, well, Dad paid,’ said Mum. Her voice always softened when she mentioned my granddad. She’d clearly been a daddy’s girl.

‘Able to twist him round her little finger,’ Nan always said.

I ached at the thought of Nan, and had to blink hard to stop myself crying.

‘What are you doing, twitching like that? You look like a rabbit. Stop it!’ said Mum.

‘If I had dancing lessons I could do a rabbit dance,’ I said, squatting down and doing little rabbit jumps along the pavement.

‘Stand up properly and stop showing off,’ said Mum. ‘You’re not starting dancing lessons and that’s that. I’m not forking out and staying up half the night sewing your costumes.’

‘Nan can make them for me,’ I said.

‘Well, Nanny’s not here any more, is she?’

‘But she
will
be. She will get better, Mum, won’t she? You promised she’d get better and come
back
home!’ I said, my tears starting to spill now.

‘Stop that! Yes, yes, of course Nanny’s going to get better,’ Mum said, but she didn’t sound certain.

I cried all the way to the doctor’s. I couldn’t stop, even though Mum threatened me with a good smacking. When we got to Dr Malory’s, the receptionist peered at my red eyes and crumpled face.

‘Oh my, are you feeling really poorly, dear?’ she said. The waiting room was half full. ‘Perhaps you’d better see the doctor first.’

‘Well, yes please, that’s very kind,’ said Mum, who hated waiting for anything. She opened her handbag and got her hankie out to wipe my eyes and runny nose. ‘There now, Elsie. Pull yourself together.’

I gave a great sniff and clamped my lips shut.

‘Oh, what a brave girl,’ said the receptionist.

She was wearing a lilac angora jumper and I thought she looked lovely, though she had very big teeth.

‘
She
looks the spitting image of a bunny rabbit,’ Mum murmured as we sat down.

I sniggered guiltily, hoping the receptionist hadn’t heard, especially when she’d been so sweet to me. Mum never had a kind word for any other woman. The receptionist seemed to be looking at us reproachfully. I fidgeted on the hard seat uncomfortably, until
a
patient came out of the doctor’s room clutching a prescription.

Dr Malory called ‘Next?’ and the receptionist beckoned to us, not bearing any grudges. Mum swept past, but I grinned at her.

Dr Malory sat behind his desk, holding his hands as if he were praying, his chin resting on the tips of his fingers.

‘Ah, it’s little Elsie – and Mrs Kettle?’ he said.

‘Miss, actually, but I’ll go along with Mrs if you like,’ said Mum, sitting down and crossing her legs with a rasp of stockings. She never seemed in awe of any man, not even a doctor.

Dr Malory shuffled his files of notes. ‘Your mother’s recently been diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis,’ he said. ‘And you’ve come along to be tested, as requested. Are there any other members of the family living at home?’

‘Just Elsie and me,’ said Mum.

‘No other tenants of the house?’

‘No, no, just us.’ Mum pressed her lips together, her lipstick very bright in the dull beige consulting room.

‘Well, I’ll give you both a special Mantaux test,’ said Dr Malory, opening a drawer and bringing out a needle.

Mum and I winced at the sight of it.

‘Don’t worry, it won’t hurt at all – just a little scratch,’ he said. ‘If you get no reaction after a few days, then you’re absolutely fine. But if your skin goes red and inflamed, then it’s a sure sign you have the tuberculosis bacilli in your blood.’

‘We won’t, you know,’ said Mum, rolling up her sleeve so he could do the test on her wrist. ‘We’re as fit as fiddles. We don’t ever cough, do we, Elsie?’

I felt a tickle in my throat right that instant, but swallowed hurriedly, knowing I’d get a thump afterwards if I let her down. My arm shook as I held it out to Dr Malory, but it really didn’t hurt much. Then he gave me a Smartie out of a little jar. It was pink too, my favourite.

‘Here, don’t
I
get a Smartie?’ said Mum.

Dr Malory raised his eyebrows but passed her the jar too. Then he started writing on some forms.

‘You both need to go and have an X-ray too,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘If you pop along to the hospital quickly, the X-ray department should still be open.’

‘But we’re fine, you can see that,’ said Mum. ‘And we’ve just had that test.’

‘Tuberculosis is infectious, Miss Kettle. We must be vigilant. You don’t want to risk Elsie’s health, do you?’ said Dr Malory. He handed her the forms.

‘What a palaver!’ said Mum, sighing. She stood up
and
trit-trotted out of the room in her high heels while I scurried after her.

‘Elsie?’ said Dr Malory, when I’d got to the door. ‘Are you limping?’

‘No!’ I said. ‘Well, it’s my shoes.’

I hoped he might tell Mum they were totally unsuitable and she had to buy me new shoes at once, preferably shiny black patent – but he seemed to have lost interest, and was looking at the notes of his next patient.

I STARED AT
my arm in horror. I looked as if I’d been bitten. My wrist was deep pink with little raised bumps that itched. I could feel them like the pimples on plaice skin. I pulled my cardigan sleeve down almost to my fingertips, desperate to hide them.

Mum didn’t notice for a while – but then frowned at me. ‘Don’t mess around with your sleeve like that, Elsie. You’ll pull the wool all out of shape.’

I let the sleeve go and quickly put my arm behind my back.

‘What are you looking like that for?’ said Mum.

‘I’m not looking like anything,’ I said, my heart thumping.

‘Yes you are. You look all furtive. Come here!’

I backed away instead.

Mum grabbed hold of me – by the wrist.

‘Ouch!’

‘What? That can’t have hurt you,’ she said. Then she took a proper look at my wrist. ‘Oh my God!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I wailed, starting to cry.

‘What have you
done
to it?’ said Mum. ‘Have you been messing around trying to light the stove?’

‘No!’

She peered at it more closely. ‘Have you fallen in stinging nettles?’

‘No, Mum. I haven’t done anything to it. It just . . . came.’

‘Come over to the light so I can see it properly.’ Mum pulled me across to the window. ‘You’ve been picking at it, haven’t you? Scratching it like mad, so it’s all inflamed?’

‘No, I haven’t touched it,’ I sobbed.

Mum was silent for a moment. We both stared at my alien skin. Then we looked at each other. We were both shaking.

‘It’s that test, isn’t it?’ Mum whispered.

I nodded. We’d both known it all along, but it was just too dreadful to admit.

‘
My
wrist’s all right,’ said Mum, rubbing her own smooth white skin. She peered at mine again. Then she took a step backwards. ‘But this looks like you’ve got it too!’

‘I haven’t! I’m not coughing. I feel perfectly OK,’ I said, though I was starting to feel awful.

‘How
can
your nanny have given it you?’ said Mum. ‘What was she
doing
, coughing all over you? Why couldn’t she keep her rotten germs to herself?’

‘It wasn’t Nan’s fault, Mum!’

‘She had that cough for ages. I found six different bottles of cough medicine in the bathroom cabinet. If she’d only got herself to the doctor sooner!’

‘You didn’t want
us
to go to the doctor’s, Mum.’

‘Oh shut up, will you, Elsie! Trust you to take your nan’s side even now when she’s given you a mortal illness!’

‘What does mortal mean?’ I asked fearfully.

‘Nothing. I didn’t mean it,’ said Mum, looking flustered.

‘Oh Mum, am I going to die?’

‘No, no, don’t be silly, of course not,’ said Mum, but I saw the fear in her eyes.

I was terrified – but I suddenly felt weirdly, blackly
glamorous
. I wasn’t just odd Elsie Kettle who told
stories
and had no friends. I was the Child who was going to Die.

I saw my funeral, the whole school attending, everyone dressed in black. Mum would have a black veil over her yellow hair and would cry into a white lace handkerchief, her mascara running. Poor Nan would be there in a wheelchair with a surgical mask over her face, insensible with grief. Miss Roberts would be crying too, telling everyone I’d been her brightest ever pupil. All my class would be weeping, even Marilyn and Susan. No,
especially
Marilyn and Susan. They’d kneel at my freshly dug grave and call down to my coffin, begging my forgiveness. Laura would throw white roses on top of me, telling me that I’d always be her best ever friend, and when she starred in a ballet on the stage she’d dedicate her dance to me.

But then I realized I wouldn’t be there to see all this. Would I be an angel hovering in the air, flapping snowy-white wings? I’d like a white dress too – and if it got chilly in heaven, maybe we’d be kitted out in white angora cardigans?

‘Oh dear Lord, Elsie, what are we going to
do?
’ said Mum.

‘I don’t know!’ I whimpered, suddenly yanked out of my own funeral.

‘Perhaps – perhaps Doctor Malory can cure it at
this
stage,’ said Mum. ‘After all, you haven’t got a cough, have you?’

I felt the tickle in my throat again. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, struggling.

‘And maybe you’ve made your wrist worse by scratching it,’ said Mum, examining it again.

‘I
didn’t
!’

‘You could have been scratching in your sleep. Anyway, we’d better get you to the doctor’s.’

‘Mum, if I
have
got TB—’

‘Ssh! Don’t go broadcasting it to all and sundry,’ Mum hissed, though we were entirely alone.

‘
If
I do, will I have to go to the sanatorium?’ I suddenly cheered up immensely. ‘I could be with Nan!’

Maybe they’d let me have a little bed right beside hers. We could chat to each other all day and play with my pretend cats, and then hold hands at night. I was so comforted by this idea that I skipped on the way to the doctor’s, even though my leg ached.

‘Ah, you’ve perked up, young lady,’ said the receptionist, smiling at me.

She didn’t let us jump the queue this time. We had to wait nearly an hour while Dr Malory called for everyone else in the room. I sat and read the
Beano
. I didn’t like it as much as my precious
Girl
because the stories weren’t as real, but it passed the time. Mum
flicked
through a very old copy of
Woman’s Own
, but she didn’t pause to read any of it – not even the problem page at the back. Then she simply stared into space, nibbling at a hangnail on her thumb. She always smacked me if she caught me pulling one of
my
hangnails.