Queenie Read online

  ‘Please could you show my Coronation coach to Gillian, Nurse Curtis?’ I asked politely.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, picking it up. ‘Oh, isn’t it dinky? The detail!’

  ‘Let me see it too!’ said Martin. ‘Is it just like the real Coronation coach?’

  ‘It’s an exact replica, but in miniature of course,’ I said proudly. ‘My nan bought it for me. We were going to the Coronation together . . .’ My voice suddenly wobbled.

  ‘I was going too. My dad works up in London – he was going to take me,’ said Gillian.

  ‘I was going too,’ said Rita.

  There was an echoing wail up and down the beds.

  ‘Now then, now then!’ said Nurse Curtis. ‘Don’t get too upset. Maybe you won’t miss the Coronation after all.’

  ‘Nonsense, Curtis!’ Nurse Patterson called, her sticky-out ears wagging. ‘Come and help me with the injections and stop your nonsense.’

  ‘Oooh!’ said Nurse Curtis, pulling a face at us. She gave me my coach back and hurried off to Nurse Patterson.

  ‘What do you think she was on about?’ said Martin.

  ‘Oh, she was just babbling,’ said Gillian, tossing her ponytail. ‘How on earth can we get to the Coronation?’

  ‘Won’t we be better by then?’ I asked.

  ‘Fat chance! We won’t be better for months. You won’t be better till next year at the earliest. I’ll be better first, because I’ve been here for eight months already,’ said Martin.

  ‘Eight months!’ I was so appalled I could barely breathe. ‘I won’t be stuck here for eight months, will I?’

  ‘Of course you will, stupid. Like everyone else,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know anything?’

  This new knowledge hurt even more than my streptomycin injection to cure my TB. It was so painful it made my eyes sting. The little ones, Michael and Maureen and Babette, all cried bitterly. Poor Michael went on sobbing, even though Nurse Curtis gave him a cuddle.

  ‘Couldn’t he have a sweetie out of the box?’ I asked.

  ‘You only have sweeties after lunch,’ said Nurse Patterson, clicking her teeth.

  ‘But he needs it now,’ I said.

  ‘Just you stop answering back and behave, Elsie Kettle, or you won’t get any sweeties at all! You’re a very greedy little girl,’ said Nurse Patterson.

  I thought this was very unfair of her as I hadn’t been asking for a sweet for myself. I pulled a face at her when she turned her back, and Martin and Gillian laughed.

  I lay with Albert Trunk under my armpit, stroking my button box kittens, with my little Coronation coach clutched in my other hand. My nose still prickled with the chemical smell, but I did my best to breathe shallowly.

  Lunch was surprisingly good: two sausages and peas and a little mound of fluffy white potato, looking like a scoop of ice cream.

  ‘Why is the food so much nicer today?’ I asked, licking my forkful of potato.

  ‘Because it’s visiting day, silly. My mother and father always say, “What did you have to eat today, Martin?” You wait – your parents will say the same.’

  ‘They won’t,’ I mumbled.

  Mother and father. They sounded like people out of those reading books in the Infants. I hadn’t properly realized before that Martin was posh, even though he told very rude jokes and called me Gobface.

  I didn’t think Gillian was posh, not when she wore her hair in a glorious ponytail like a teddy girl. I wondered if her mum had a ponytail too. I did hope so. I was sure she’d be pretty, like her daughter.

  Wait till they saw my mum. If she came. She’d said she’d come and see how I was doing on Saturday, but I’d long ago learned not to trust my mum too much. She’d promised to come and watch me in the school play, and then in the carol concert, but she’d never turned up for either. I didn’t really mind because Nan came instead.

  Nan – oh, Nan. I wanted to bury my face in my pillow and weep, but my hateful splint made me lie flat on my back. But perhaps . . .perhaps Nan was better now?

  I shut my eyes and willed her to sit up and look around and take notice. I made her poor lungs fill with fresh air. I helped her slide her skinny legs out of her hospital sheets. She stood up and stretched and made the little soft smacking sounds with her lips as she always did when she got up. She had her quick lick-and-a-promise wash and then dressed herself: shiny pink knickers down to her knees, with her flappy vest tucked inside. I let her off her corset because it was always such a struggle for her to get into it. She kept her stockings up with garters, and put on her best black dress with the little beady pattern across the bust. I always got little indentations across my cheek when I gave her a hug in that dress, but I knew it was her favourite.

  I made her walk right out of the sanatorium and get the train and the bus over to me. I urged her along every step of the way. I encouraged her up the driveway, round to the annexe, down that long polished corridor, looking to left and right – looking for me. I had her burst through the French windows, and there she was, running in her best black shoes with the buckles, calling ‘Elsie, Elsie, Elsie!’

  I heard her, I saw her, I felt her arms go round me and hug me tight – but she wasn’t really there. Real people started arriving, making so much hubbub that it was impossible to keep pretending. I hunched down in bed, staring at everyone. Martin’s mum and dad were very posh, though his mum wasn’t dressed up at all. She was wearing a faded cotton dress with a drooping hem. She went kissy-kissy-kissy all over Martin’s face. It was fun to see him squirming.

  Gillian’s mum was a disappointment too. She had very short hair, almost like a boy, and she wore slacks, very tight check ones. Michael’s mum wore a skirt, but it was a very long swirly one, and she wore thick lisle stockings. Everyone had a mum to visit them, and most people had dads too. Angus’s mum spoke with a Scottish accent, and seemed so old I wondered if she might be a granny instead. She looked very grey and lined, and I think she was crying, because she kept dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  I kept looking up every time I heard footsteps, but the person was never Nan, never Mum. Then I saw Queenie sidling along in the shadows, head down, irritated by the noise and bustle.

  ‘Here, Queenie. Come here, Queenie, please,’ I called, clicking with my tongue in what I hoped was cat language. I held out my hand, dangling it over the side of the bed, and she came bobbing up and pushed her beautiful white furry head against my palm, wriggling and purring.

  ‘Dear Queenie!’ I said. ‘Here, girl, jump up now. Come and see me.’

  I patted my bed with my free hand and made further encouraging noises. Queenie hesitated, turning this way and that, thinking about it. She looked around, seeing if any small snack were scuttling through the grass or flying about the trees – and then decided that she wasn’t really hungry yet.

  She looked up at me, tensed her haunches, and then leaped neatly onto my bed, landing softly on my pillow right next to my head.

  ‘Oh Queenie!’ I breathed.

  She settled herself, leaned forward, and gave my face one lick with her raspy pink tongue.

  ‘Oh Elsie!’ she said. Well, she didn’t actually say it with her little mouth, but I knew that was what she was thinking. ‘I’ve come to visit you. How are you feeling today, dear? I’m sure your poor leg is very sore stuck inside that terrible splint. I would so hate to wear one and not be able to wriggle and stretch. You have my every sympathy.’

  She flopped gently against me, and the moment I started stroking her she purred.

  ‘There now,’ she said. ‘Oh, that’s delightful, dear. I am becoming particularly fond of you. I shall visit you every day, not just at visiting times. I shall be your cat and you shall be my girl.’

  ‘Oh Queenie, I do love you,’ I whispered.

  Martin’s dad was looking at us. He had very bushy eyebrows and a moustache. His general hairiness made him look rather fierce, but he smiled when he saw Queenie and me. ‘Look at that new little girl. She’s really