Longest Whale Song Read online

  ‘So go back to bed and leave me alone,’ I say, trying to burrow back under the covers.

  Jack won’t let me. ‘You’ve got to get up now, Ella. You’ve got to go to school today.’

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  ‘I don’t want to go to school, but I’ve got to go and teach or I’ll lose my job. You’ve got to go to school or I’ll get prosecuted. And Sam’s got to go to Aunty Mavis because he needs someone to look after him. He’s not too happy about it either – he’s bawling his head off, can’t you hear him? You go and use the bathroom while I fix his bottle and make us breakfast. We’re running late.’

  I peer at my old Tinkerbell alarm clock. I used to believe she flew around my bedroom every night, sprinkling stardust and waving her little wand. I wish she’d wave it now and make Jack disappear.

  ‘We are so not running late,’ I say, shaking my alarm clock. ‘I never get up this early.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to get used to it. I’ve got to drop Sam off, drive you all the way to school, then drive back through the rush-hour traffic to be at Garton Road by quarter to nine. So get cracking!’

  I slide slowly out of bed. I ache too from lumbering Sam around all day yesterday. It’s not fair. When Mum and I lived at our old house, I didn’t get up till eight o’clock. And Mum never shouted at me. She often used to bring me breakfast in bed. Sometimes she’d get back into bed with me and we’d play silly games together. We’d pretend we were celebrities and make out we had extensions and great big boob jobs, and we’d plan shopping trips and talk about our new outfits. I love playing pretend games like that with Mum. I try sometimes with Sally, but she always gets the giggles and says I’m weird.

  I think about Sally now. I feel a bit worried about seeing her at school. Sort of shy and scared. Now, that is weird, because Sally’s been my best friend for years. I think she still is. She rang last night. Well, her mum rang first to ask Jack about my mum – and then she said Sally wanted to talk to me. I felt absolutely weak with relief.

  We chatted for about ten minutes. We didn’t discuss guinea pigs or rabbits. We didn’t mention Dory and Martha. Sally told me all about her Saturday morning dancing class and how she’s going to be a snowflake in the Christmas ballet, and then she talked about her favourites on The X Factor. I couldn’t really say much because I don’t go to ballet and we were too busy with Sam to watch much television. I did start to tell her about my whale project, and she said I was daft because they’d finished food chains now. Then we had one of those uncomfortable pauses. I couldn’t think of anything else to say and neither could she, so we just blurted out goodbye.

  I wish I could ask Mum if she thinks this means Sally’s still really my best friend. She wasn’t horrible to me – she said again that she was really sorry about my mum – but she didn’t muck around and joke and act in our old casual Sally-and-Ella-best-friends-for-ever way.

  It’s so awful not having Mum around. Everything’s wrong. There’s hardly any toothpaste left in the bathroom so I have to squeeze and squeeze the tube. My flannel smells disgusting because I left it rolled up in a soggy bundle. My hair is beyond terrible. I tried to wash it in the bath yesterday but I don’t think I got all the shampoo out properly, and now it hangs lankly in my eyes. I try to scrape it back into a ponytail but it won’t go high or bouncy enough, it just draggles in a surly clump past my shoulders. Jack’s done the washing so I’ve got a clean school blouse, but he didn’t hang it up straight away so it’s creased all over – and now I find the hem of my school skirt is starting to come down. Before, I’d always just go, ‘M-u-m!’ and she’d come and sigh, and teases me for being a helpless baby, but she always put it right. Now poor Mum is the helpless baby, having to let the nurses wash her and feed her and change her, and she can’t even cry or kick her legs like little Samson.

  He’s certainly crying now as Jack struggles to change him downstairs. Then it’s suddenly quiet so he must be feeding. I put my whale project and borrowed book in my school bag and stomp downstairs.

  ‘There’s a good girl,’ Jack says. ‘Get yourself some cornflakes, eh?’

  ‘Why does it always have to be boring old cornflakes? I like Coco Pops,’ I grumble.

  ‘Right. Reach into the cupboard, find the cocoa powder, and douse your bowl liberally,’ says Jack.

  I’m not sure if he’s serious. ‘Will it taste good?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  I decide not to risk it. I sit down and sourly spoon plain cornflakes into my mouth. Jack sits Samson up to burp him.

  ‘Oh, Ella, what a boring breakfast! Don’t you fancy marmalade pops? Or what about Marmite pops?’

  ‘You think you’re so funny,’ I say.

  ‘Well, you’ve got to laugh – or you burst out crying,’ says Jack. ‘Now, young man, are you going to burp so you can finish your bottle? Come on – one, two, three—’

  Samson opens his mouth and gives a comically loud burp. Jack laughs delightedly. I can’t help giggling too.

  ‘There! One week old and he’s doing exactly as he’s told – unlike his big crosspatch sister. Ella, any chance of you making me a cup of tea while I finish feeding him?’

  ‘No chance at all,’ I say, getting out my whale project and flipping through it, hoping it will really impress Miss Anderson. I wait for Jack to nag and get sarcastic and start shouting – but he just sits there, feeding Samson. ‘Oh, all right,’ I say, and get up to boil the kettle.

  I make myself a mug of tea too. Jack and I sip while Samson sucks. Jack holds his cup at arm’s length and arches away from Samson every time he drinks so that he can’t possibly spill any tea on him. I wonder if my dad was as thoughtful when he fed me when I was a baby. I start making up this little fantasy of lovely, handsome, beaming Dad holding me tenderly in his arms – and then I remember I’ve only just seen my dad. I think of his striped shirt and his silk tie and his smart suit. Perhaps he never ever fed me in case I made him messy. Perhaps I was so slurpy and sicky that he decided to walk out on us. How could he have left Mum to cope all by herself? How could he have left me? I can’t stick Jack, he’s just my stepdad, but I know one thing: he’d never walk out on little Samson, not ever.

  I try telling him about the Sally situation when we’re in the car driving to Aunty Mavis’s house.

  ‘Do you think she’s still my best friend, Jack?’

  ‘Well, of course she is.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t come round and she didn’t sound right on the phone.’

  ‘She did phone you.’

  ‘I said she didn’t sound right. You’re not listening!’

  ‘I’m trying to concentrate on the traffic – but I am listening too. I don’t know what you’re going on about. Sally’s your best friend, full stop.’

  ‘I think she likes Dory best now,’ I say in a tiny voice.

  ‘Well, can’t you all be best friends together?’ says Jack.

  ‘Oh, Jack, you don’t understand.’

  ‘You sound just like your mother. And all the little girls in my class who come and tell me their sad stories – so-and-so keeps whispering about them, and so-and-so didn’t choose them for a work project – and you’re right, I don’t understand. I don’t see why women have to analyse everything to the nth degree. It’s much simpler if you’re a bloke. Everyone’s your mate until they bash you, and then you bash them back, and then they’re your mate again, no fussing.’

  ‘Men!’ I say witheringly.

  Samson kicks his legs beside me. I take hold of one tiny foot.

  ‘Are you going to be as hopeless, Samson? I don’t think so. I’m going to teach you to be a lovely boy,’ I say.

  ‘That’s what my mum thought about me. Oh God. My mum and dad. They were supposed to be coming on a visit when the baby was born,’ says Jack.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, and then I clap my hand over my mouth because it sounds so rude.

  ‘It’s OK. That’s my reaction too. And it’s ma