Longest Whale Song Read online

  I stare at Martha while Miss Anderson tuts and tells her off for being cheeky. I never knew Martha had a half-sister. So she’s probably got a stepdad too. I still can’t stand her, but perhaps I’m slightly more interested in her now.

  I’m not especially interested in our weighing lesson now we’ve stopped talking about Samson. I wonder how much baby whales weigh. Their mothers feed them lots of milk, just like human babies. The calves are very weak at first, so they sometimes rest their flippers on their mother’s body to help them swim along. They stay with their mothers for two or three years. The mothers teach them how to hunt and how to talk to all the other whales. I doodle a mother and baby whale on the back of my rough book.

  Miss Anderson walks past and raises her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m just trying to work out how much a baby whale would weigh,’ I say quickly. ‘They’re a quarter the size of an adult, so it’s a sum I should be able to work out easy-peasy.’

  ‘Oh, very good, Ella.’

  ‘I started a special whale project when I was at home,’ I say. ‘Shall I show you?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to see it. Maybe after school? I’m glad you like doing special projects, Ella. You can make a start on your Tudor project today.’

  But this is where everything starts to go wrong. Sally has started doing her Tudor project with Dory and Martha. They’ve chosen Tudor costume.

  ‘But surely you can start another project with me now?’ I say to Sally.

  ‘Well, I really want to do Tudor costume. We’ve done pages and pages on it already,’ she says. ‘Tell you what, Ella, you can do some drawing for us.’

  ‘Oh, great, then I can draw all those fancy sticky-out dresses,’ I say.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ says Martha. ‘You’re not part of our project.’

  ‘But Sally and I always do our projects together,’ I say. ‘We’re best friends.’

  ‘And Dory’s our friend too,’ Sally reminds me.

  Martha looks furious. ‘Dory’s my best friend,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you, Dory?’

  Dory doesn’t look like she wants to be Martha’s best friend in the slightest, but she doesn’t dare say so.

  ‘So it’s me and Dory and Sally. So you shove off, tell-tale,’ says Martha.

  She pushes me hard, so that my chair scrapes the floor. Miss Anderson looks up enquiringly.

  ‘See if I care,’ I mutter. ‘I’m not the slightest bit interested in doing your silly costume project anyway.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Miss Anderson calls. ‘What’s the matter, Ella?’

  I badly want to tell her – but I can’t tell tales on Martha again, especially not in front of the whole class. So I just shrug a little and mumble, ‘Nothing, Miss Anderson.’

  ‘Are you four going to do your project together?’ she asks.

  ‘No, we’re doing Tudor costume and Ella says she’s not interested,’ says Martha.

  She’s such a mean pig. And now she’s telling tales, sort of.

  ‘Oh well, perhaps you’d better have a delve through the Tudor book box and see if there’s anything you are interested in, Ella,’ says Miss Anderson.

  She’s not really telling me off at all, but I feel myself blushing. Martha is sniggering delightedly. It’s not fair. I don’t want to do a Tudor project by myself. I flick through a book listlessly. I don’t know what to pick. Unless . . . could I do a project on Tudor whales? They must have had whales in Tudor times. Whales go right back to ancient days in the Bible, because there was that whale that swallowed Jonah. (Oh, how I wish a whale would swallow Martha!) I could do a project on Tudor sailors and ships, and how they sailed all over the seas discovering new countries – but perhaps those same sailors stuck harpoons into whales and killed them and chopped them up into little pieces and boiled their blubber into oil.

  I think of all those old whales swimming along so happily, kings of the sea, with only the odd giant squid to worry about. Then suddenly cruel men start killing them, thousands and thousands and thousands of whales for century after century after century, until some sorts of whale are almost extinct. No wonder the poor creatures moan and groan.

  I droop down onto my desk, laying my head on the book. Then someone taps me timidly on the back. It’s Joseph again.

  ‘I’m doing a Tudor food project with Toby,’ he says. ‘Would you like to join up with us?’

  Toby’s certainly very interested in food. I don’t really want to join up with them – girls never do projects with boys – and I don’t think drawing a side of beef or a leg of lamb will be particularly inspiring, but I smile because Joseph’s being very kind.

  ‘Thank you, Joseph. Yes please, I’d like to join up with you,’ I say. My voice is a bit croaky because I’ve been trying not to cry. I look at Toby anxiously in case he objects, but he grins at me cheerfully enough. Toby is always nice to everyone, even when he gets teased. If only Joseph and Toby were girls they’d be wonderful best friends.

  I move my chair up beside them and peer at their project. They’ve done pages and pages, mostly in Joseph’s scratchy handwriting. It starts sloping when he gets really enthusiastic, so half the lines tilt downwards dramatically and the bottom line gets squashed completely. They haven’t left any room for drawing whatsoever.

  I get a fresh piece of paper.

  ‘What do Tudor tables look like then? I’ll draw a big banquet,’ I say.

  It’s quite good fun drawing in different platters of food at their suggestion. Toby gets a bit carried away, suggesting all his favourite foods – pizza and spaghetti bolognese.

  ‘That’s Italian food. These are Tudors, not the Medicis,’ says Joseph, sighing. ‘They were like Italian royalty. Our English King Henry the Eighth would have liked roast beef and goose and swan—’

  ‘Swan?’

  ‘I think it was only for special occasions,’ says Joseph. ‘Like wedding feasts.’

  ‘Well, he had a lot of those,’ I say. ‘He had six wives, didn’t he?’

  I draw fat King Henry with his fork stuck into a great platter of swan. Then I sketch three wives on either side of him, all with crowns on their heads.

  ‘That’s so good, Ella. You’re ace at drawing,’ says Toby.

  ‘I agree, but it’s not actually historically accurate, because you wouldn’t have had them all sitting there together. In fact half of them would be dead.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, whipping out my eraser and rubbing out two of their heads. ‘They’re the ghosts of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, without their heads – and I’ll make Jane Seymour look very poorly because she died after having her baby—’ I stop. There’s a short agonized silence. Then Joseph reaches out and squeezes my hand.

  ‘Your mum isn’t going to die, Ella. She could get completely better,’ he says. ‘You read all those printouts I did for you.’

  ‘And tell you what, we go to church every Sunday and there’s a bit in the service where you pray for sick people. I’ll ask everyone to say a special prayer for your mum,’ says Toby.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mumble. My voice has gone croaky again.

  They are being so sweet to me, yet I’d give anything not to be sitting here with them working on this pointless project. I don’t even want to be sitting beside Sally. I just want to be at the hospital, murmuring into Mum’s ear and making sure she’s still alive.

  Chapter 12

  School seems to have lasted six years today. I can’t wait for it to be home time. When the bell goes at last, Sally gives me a big hug.

  ‘I hope your mum’s a little bit better when you see her tonight,’ she says kindly – but then she hurries off with Dory. She hasn’t said, but I think she’s going to play round at Dory’s house.

  Martha stomps off to after-school club, glowering. Toby rushes off, simply thinking of his tea, but Joseph hangs back.

  ‘Are you going to show Miss Anderson your whale project?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, if she’d really like to see it.’

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