Queenie Read online

  ‘Don’t argue with me, you cocky little madam,’ said Nurse Patterson. She took the brush and didn’t give it back. ‘I’ve sent it off to be thoroughly disinfected,’ she told me.

  I asked for it the next day. She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  It was only a grubby hairbrush, a pink baby affair with a cartoon lamb on the back, but it was my hairbrush, one of my few remaining pieces of home, and I cried at its loss.

  ‘Don’t show her you care, or she’ll pinch something else of yours,’ said Martin. ‘She’s really got it in for you now.’

  I kept a very careful eye on Albert Trunk and my kitten button box and my Coronation coach, clutching them all in bed with me at night just in case Nurse Patterson tried to steal them out of my locker. It was as well to be vigilant. One evening I spilled cocoa down my cat pyjamas and Nurse Patterson took the jacket ‘to soak the stain away’.

  I waited twenty-four hours before confronting her. I did it in front of Nurse Curtis so she could act as a witness.

  ‘Please can I have my pyjama top back?’ I asked.

  ‘Which pyjama top, Elsie?’ said Nurse Curtis.

  ‘The cat one. My special one,’ I said.

  ‘Well, what have you done with it, chickie?’ said Nurse Curtis.

  ‘I spilled cocoa on it and Nurse Patterson took it away to be washed and she didn’t bring it back,’ I said.

  I looked Nurse Patterson straight in the eye as I said this. She pulled a silly face, a cartoon of puzzlement.

  Nurse Curtis frowned. ‘Oh Elsie, are you telling naughty stories again?’ she said.

  ‘No, she did take it,’ I insisted.

  ‘I think you’ve got a bit muddled, dear,’ said Nurse Patterson. The way she said ‘dear’ made it sound as if she meant the exact opposite. ‘I don’t do the laundry.’

  ‘I think maybe your mummy took it home after visiting,’ said Nurse Curtis. ‘Don’t look so worried. You’ve got a hospital nightie.’

  I didn’t want a wretched hospital nightie. I wanted my own dear cat pyjama top.

  ‘Just you wait till my mum comes,’ I muttered.

  But Mum didn’t seem that interested when I told her the next Saturday.

  ‘Typical!’ she said. ‘Hospitals are hopeless. They always lose stuff. When I was in the maternity ward having you, someone pinched my pearl powder compact right out of my handbag.’

  ‘That nurse took it. She doesn’t like me because she got into trouble about my leg. You know, when you got Sister.’

  ‘Yes, how is that sore leg? Any sign of it getting better?’ Mum peered under the covers gingerly, as if she might find a mouse under there. ‘It looks just the same to me. I don’t know, here’s you stuck in here, and your nanny in the sanatorium—’

  ‘Did you go and see her last Sunday, Mum? Did you give her my letter?’

  ‘What’s this, the Spanish Inquisition? I told you, she’s not well enough for visitors. Cough cough cough, every time she tries to talk, and spitting all the while into that little pot. It really turns my stomach.’

  ‘Oh, poor Nan.’

  ‘Stop that – there’s no point upsetting yourself.’

  ‘Mum, could you get me new cat pyjamas?’

  ‘All these demands! I can’t help feeling you’re getting a bit spoiled, lying back here like Lady Muck, being waited on hand and foot. I’m not made of money, you know, but I’ll do my best to get you another pair,’ said Mum.

  ‘Will you? Pink ones from Woolworths, with white cats all over them? Oh Mum, wait till I tell you! I’m still Queenie’s favourite. I am, I absolutely am – ask any of the others. She jumps right up on my bed every day and gives me such a lovely cuddle,’ I said.

  ‘I thought I told you to pack that lark in, it’s not hygienic. Oh my Lord, Mr Perkins is a stickler for hygiene. I made him a cup of coffee the other day and he noticed this teeny smudge of lipstick on the rim. Someone else must have used it, probably me! I’d just rinsed it clean under the tap. He nearly hit the roof, acting like lipstick was deadly poison or something. I had to take the coffee away and scrub that cup till I damn near broke it. Goodness me, what a palaver! He has this thing about germs. He’s always washing his hands. He leaps up to do it right in the middle of dictation. I thought he had a bit of trouble with his waterworks and was just going for a wee, but this is really just washing his hands . . .Lovely hands, they are, with very clean nails, not like most blokes. He’s clean all over. His shirts! They look so crisp and white it’s like each one’s fresh out the packet. And he’s got this lovely clean lemony smell about him. He never pongs even when he gets het up.’

  I listened to Mum sing the Perkins praises for a full ten minutes without drawing breath.

  ‘Is he going to be another uncle?’ I asked eventually.

  ‘What? No! Good Lord, he’s much too posh and rich. He’s Perkins Ballpoint Pens Manufacturing, silly. They sell all over the country – all over the world. Think of it, all those Froggies and Eyeties scribbling away with their Perkins pens. I’ll see if I can bring you some – they’ll be good for your drawing. Mr Perkins is right out of my league – not to mention the fact that he’s got a snooty wife with a voice like she’s sucking acid drops. She’s forever phoning up about this and that. He’s got two kiddies too. There’s a photo of them on his desk. He lives in one of them houses up the hill – you know, the huge ones with big gardens. Ever so posh, they are. Seven bedrooms and just as many bathrooms. He can wash his hands in a different room every day of the week.’ Mum laughed uproariously at her own remark, tossing her hair about.

  Martin’s dad was staring at her. So were the other dads. She was wearing her last year’s pink blouse with little puff sleeves and her pencil skirt. The blouse looked littler than I remembered. I was worried Mum was going to burst right out at the top.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Are you getting a bit fatter, Mum?’ I asked.

  ‘You what? Cheeky little devil! Still, I must admit this waistband’s a bit tight. I’m used to two hours’ dancing practice and a long show every night – and I’ve eaten fish and chips every supper time because I can’t be bothered to cook for myself. Oh Gawd, I am getting fatter, aren’t I?’

  ‘You could always wear them Stephanie Beauman knickers. Nurse Johnson wears them,’ I said.

  ‘No blooming fear!’ She sat up straight, sticking out her chest, smoothing her hands over her stomach. ‘Am I getting fat?’ she said again, glancing coyly at Martin’s dad.

  He looked eager to reassure her, but one glance at his own wife made him keep quiet.

  ‘Your mum!’ said Martin, when visiting time was over.

  ‘What about my mum?’

  ‘Showing all her chest like that!’ he said.

  ‘It’s the fashion,’ I said fiercely.

  ‘That’s not fashion,’ Gillian muttered to Rita. ‘That’s dead common.’

  ‘Yeah, my mum calls her the blonde floosie,’ Rita whispered.

  ‘I heard that! You shut up about my mum. Your mums are just jealous because she’s so pretty,’ I said, burning.

  I wouldn’t talk to anyone for the rest of the day. I called for Queenie, but she was out hunting in the grounds. I tried to pretend her, but it wouldn’t work. I was so used to her soft warm weight that I couldn’t conjure her up convincingly. I tried imagining Snow White and Sooty and Marmalade, but I hadn’t played with them for a while and they suddenly seemed like a baby game. I was so jangled up inside I couldn’t play anything. If only Nan could visit me instead of Mum.

  I almost wished Mum wouldn’t come visiting at all – but when she didn’t come the next Saturday, I was devastated. I craned my neck for two whole hours, until I felt my head would snap right off and roll under the bed. I couldn’t help thinking something bad had happened and it was all my fault for being ashamed of her.

  I plucked up the courage to ask Nurse Curtis if Mum had sent a message to say she couldn’t