Longest Whale Song Read online

  I help myself and go to sit at a table. Martha follows me, and stands watching while I nibble and sip. She pulls a disgusted face.

  ‘Yuck! I can’t believe you’ve just eaten that. It’s not really egg, it’s cold sick, and they never use real Marmite, they just smear bread with dog’s muck. And fancy drinking that squash! Any fool can see it’s wee-wee.’

  She’s just being stupid. Of course I know she’s not serious – and yet I want to spit out my Marmite sandwich right this minute, and the squash in my mug looks horribly convincingly like wee. I heave and Martha laughs.

  ‘You are such a baby,’ she says. ‘No wonder Sally can’t stick going round with you any more. It’s all dribble moan whine, poor little me, boo-hoo. It’s your fault Dory’s gone off with Sally and left me without my best friend.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. Dory doesn’t want to be your friend any more. It’s your fault,’ I hiss back at her.

  ‘You are so pathetic, Ella-Smella. Yeah, you do smell, yuck yuck yuck,’ she says, holding her horrible little snub nose.

  I’m immediately stricken, wondering if I do smell. Life is such a rush now I don’t always have time for baths – and I know my hair needs washing very badly, especially since it got all sticky with chlorine in the swimming pool. I think Martha’s just being hateful. After all, I know the sandwiches aren’t made with sick and dog’s muck. But I’m not sure.

  Mrs Matthews puts on a cartoon for us on the big screen at the end of the hall, and we all sit cross-legged and watch. Martha sits beside me, and hidden in the crush of children she reaches out with her hands and gives me a horrible Chinese burn on my wrist. I try to give her one back, but the other lady, Miss Herbert, is behind us and sees.

  ‘What are you up to, Ella? Don’t do that, dear. You come and sit over here.’ She makes me go and sit with some of the kids in Mr Hawkins’s class. I’m glad to get away from Martha, but I hate it that Miss Herbert thinks I’m the one who likes to torture people.

  I hunch up small, breathing in deeply and anxiously to see if I do smell. I can’t get interested in the silly cartoon. It seems to be about pirate mice. One of them is forced to walk the plank and falls into the sea, and then a huge whale comes swimming along and swallows him whole, and I start to get interested – but the whale is drawn all wrong, and inside him he has a whole suite of rooms where the pirate mouse sets up residence. Then the mouse discovers that the whale can sing, and I get hopeful that I might hear what a real whale sounds like – but this cartoon whale throws back his great head and sings Italian opera, which I suppose is quite amusing, but very silly too. Everyone else is laughing but I don’t find anything really funny nowadays.

  The cartoon finishes and Mrs Matthews snaps on the light and produces six bouncy balls. She announces that we’re all going to play team games so we can let off steam. Oh no, I hate team games at the best of times – and this is the worst.

  Martha is one of the team leaders and she hurls the ball at me. I put my hands up but can’t catch it in time. It bangs my head so hard I feel it’s going to snap straight off my neck.

  ‘Whoops! Sorry, Ella, that was an accident,’ Martha calls cheerily for Mrs Matthews’s benefit.

  It was accidentally on purpose. I’ve gone all shivery wondering what she’s going to do next. We have to stand with our legs wide apart while the head of the line throws the ball down, and Martha manages to make it bounce painfully onto my kneecap. When I’m at the head of the line, I try to throw it to hurt her, but I’ve always been a bit rubbish at ball games and can’t throw hard enough.

  We have to suffer these team games for ages – and then at last we’re allowed to stop and sit down properly at tables. The little ones are given paper and crayons. The older ones are allowed to get on with their homework or read a book.

  I’ve got some spellings to learn but I can’t be bothered with them. I get out my latest whale book and my whale project. It’s fatter than ever, fifty-eight pages now. I’ve never written anything as long. I start flicking through, watching the whales swim quietly through my own hand-coloured turquoise and cobalt seas – and then a hand stabs at the page like a giant squid on the attack.

  ‘Push off, Martha,’ I say through clenched teeth.

  ‘No, let me see. I want to look. Oh God, it’s so boring, whale after whale. Can’t you do anything else?’

  ‘I like whales,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, but what’s it all for? It’s not like it’s a school project.’

  ‘It’s just for me, though I’ve shown it to Joseph and he likes it.’

  Martha snorts derisively. ‘That sad geek!’

  ‘He’s not the slightest bit sad or geeky. He happens to be the most interesting, intelligent boy – but you wouldn’t appreciate that, seeing as you’re not interesting or intelligent. Now shove off, and leave my project alone.’

  But her hateful fingers still scrabble at my book, and she turns over more of the pages, practically tearing them. She gets to the title page, where I’ve drawn the word WHALES with a big illuminated letter W, with tiny whales swimming up and down in this enclosed ocean. She pretends to read: ‘Whales, by Ella Very Babyish and Boring Lakeland.’

  She flicks the page over. ‘What’s this?’ She pauses at my dedication page. ‘To my dear mother Sue with all my love,’ she reads out.

  ‘Shut up! That’s private.’

  ‘You’ve dedicated your book to your mother? Well, that’s plain stupid. How can she read it if she’s stuck in this coma?’

  ‘She won’t always be in a coma.’

  ‘Yeah, but even if she comes out of this coma, she won’t be able to read your silly whale book.’

  ‘Yes she will!’

  ‘No, Sally’s mum told Dory’s mum. Your mum’s never going to be able to do anything. She won’t be able to walk or talk. She’ll just be a vegetable.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘She’ll be Poor Mummy Parsnip. Or Sad Mummy Sprout. Or Batty Mummy Broccoli.’

  I snatch my project, lift it high, and hit Martha hard with it on the top of her head.

  She stares at me, stunned. Then she snatches it back from me, her face flooding crimson. She takes hold of the pages and rips and rips and rips. I scream and wrestle with her. She scratches me down my face, I punch her right on the nose – and then we’re torn apart. Mrs Matthews hauls me away, her arms round my waist. Miss Herbert has hold of Martha. All the other children are on their feet, staring and squealing excitedly.

  ‘Now, settle down, children! Get on with your homework!’ Mrs Matthews shouts, showering the top of my head with spit.

  Then she staggers with me to the top of the hall while Miss Herbert drags Martha there too.

  ‘How dare you two behave like animals!’ says Mrs Matthews. ‘I won’t have that kind of violent behaviour at after-school club. Hitting and scratching each other like hooligans! Just look at you!’

  Martha’s cut my cheek and I’ve made her nose bleed. We stand there, hot and panting, glaring at each other. I see the crumpled page in Martha’s clenched fist. I see the other pages strewn in her wake and I burst into floods of tears.

  ‘Now then, Ella, I don’t think you’re hurt that badly,’ says Mrs Matthews. ‘Look at Martha’s poor nose – and she’s not crying.’

  ‘Yes, because Ella’s a baby, and she thinks she won’t get told off if she goes boo-hoo-hoo,’ says Martha, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and smearing blood across her mouth.

  ‘Here, here!’ Miss Herbert comes running with tissues for both of us.

  ‘Now tell me why you started this ridiculous fight,’ Mrs Matthews demands.

  ‘I didn’t start it,’ says Martha.

  ‘Ella hit her right on the head with her book – bonk!’ says one of the little boys, sounding awed.

  ‘Is that right, Martha? Did Ella hit you with her book?’

  ‘I don’t tell tales,’ says Martha.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s the right attitude. But, Martha, even if some