Queenie Read online

  When we were wheeled back at long last, we gazed around the ward, transfixed. We were so used to the dingy cream and green walls that we never even noticed them. But now they had been transformed. They’d become pale . . .

  ‘Pink!’ said Martin in disgust.

  There was a grass-green frieze stretching right along the pink walls, with butterflies and little bees and fluffy lambs.

  ‘How old do they think we are, five?’

  ‘I am five!’ said Michael.

  ‘It’s pretty. I love it,’ said Babette.

  ‘I especially like the lambs,’ said Maureen.

  Gillian and Martin rolled their eyes at each other. I wasn’t bothered about the décor. I was peering around for Queenie. She was usually waiting to jump up on my bed when we came back to the ward, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where’s Queenie?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ve probably painted her pink to match the walls,’ said Martin.

  ‘She’s gone off in disgust. She doesn’t like the disturbance, or the smell of paint,’ said Nurse Bryant.

  Queenie seemed even more disgusted than Martin. She didn’t come back all night long. I had to make do with Albert Trunk as a comforter. He wasn’t the same as a real live purring cat. I still loved him – but he felt very stiff and solid, and it was hard work trying to make him speak to me. I still liked holding him close, hanging onto him by his trunk and breathing in his dusty smell. There was still just a whiff of Nan and home in his sawdust.

  Oh Nan, I thought. You’ll never guess what. I’m going to meet the Queen!

  THE PARENTS WERE all thrilled when Martin and Gillian and Rita and Angus and Babette and Maureen and Michael told them about the Queen’s visit. They came back on Sunday with so many parcels it looked like Christmas. They’d all bought their children new nighties and pyjamas. I stared wistfully at them all – especially Rita’s. Her mum had bought her a brand-new pair of pink cat pyjamas.

  ‘They’re my pyjamas!’ I said.

  ‘No, they’re not. My mum bought them for me,’ said Rita.

  ‘But you copied me. I bet you asked her for cat pyjamas!’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said Rita, but I could tell she was lying. ‘Anyway, there’s no law says I can’t have cat pyjamas too.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ I wailed, and had to fight not to burst into baby tears.

  My mum hadn’t bought me anything because she hadn’t come, either on the Saturday or the Sunday. But dear Nurse Gabriel came – and she had a tiny flat parcel for me. I couldn’t help hoping that it was new cat pyjamas, even though the parcel wasn’t even big enough for doll’s pyjamas. I opened it with shaking fingers and found two beautiful pink silk ribbons.

  ‘They’ll match your bolero, Elsie,’ said Nurse Gabriel. ‘You can wear it over your baby-doll top. I’ll see if I can nip in that morning and do your plaits for you. The other nurses probably won’t have time.’

  I was a little bit disappointed. Gillian had started putting her hair up in a wonderful elegant chignon, just like Belle of the Ballet, and I’d hoped she might show me how to fix mine in a similar fashion. I had started to worry that plaits were very babyish, but I didn’t want to hurt Nurse Gabriel’s feelings – and the ribbons were very soft and satiny.

  ‘That will be lovely, Nurse Gabriel! Thank you very much. You’re so kind.’

  She kept her word too, rushing over to Blyton while we were still being toileted. My hair had been washed specially the night before, and was almost as soft and silky as my new ribbons. Nurse Gabriel brushed it until it crackled and then scraped a parting and plaited it very neatly. My fringe had grown so long that Nurse Robinson had started clipping it back with a slide, but Nurse Gabriel combed it into place and then cut it carefully with her nail scissors. She brushed the little locks of hair away, gently blowing on my nose where some were stuck.

  ‘There now, you look an absolute picture, Elsie,’ she said.

  The Queen wasn’t due until eleven o’clock, but I held my head unnaturally still and didn’t flop back on my pillow, determined not to make my plaits untidy. I was very careful when I ate my breakfast so that I wouldn’t spill toast or cornflakes down my bolero.

  Queenie came walking fastidiously down the ward, still twitching her nose at the fading smell of paint.

  ‘Here, Queenie! It’s a very important day,’ I said. ‘The real Queen is coming. Are you going to say hello to her?’

  Queenie considered. She arched her back, stretching, and then jumped up onto my bed. I didn’t have any choice titbits for her, but I ran my finger over my toast and then let her lick it, because she liked the taste of butter.

  ‘You’re more special than any real queen,’ I whispered to her, and Queenie purred in agreement.

  Sister Baker came bustling into the ward, in such an excessively starched white apron that she walked as if she were wearing armour.

  ‘Get that cat off the bed!’ she said. ‘Robinson, Macclesfield, I want all these breakfast trays cleared and the children in immaculately made beds in fifteen minutes flat. Do I make myself understood?’

  ‘Lordy, Lordy, what a flap-doodle,’ Nurse Robinson muttered to Nurse Macclesfield. ‘Anyone would think the Queen was coming!’

  We were all ready and out on the veranda by eight o’clock – and then had to wait three whole hours. Miss Isles gave out storybooks and comics, but we couldn’t settle to reading. I had had Albert Trunk forcibly removed and imprisoned in my locker because he was getting so shabby, but I clutched my little Coronation coach firmly in my hand.

  Sister Baker, Nurse Smith and Miss Isles were called away to a meeting in Sir David’s office.

  ‘To practise their curtsies,’ said Martin, giggling.

  I told the others a Queen story as I drove the Coronation coach up and down my sheets and along the long rugged road of my splint.

  ‘The Queen’s going to walk along the veranda, and she’ll say hello to all of us, even you, Martin, but she’ll stop at my bed and she’ll put her royal head on one side, her crown nearly tipping off, and she’ll say, “Oh my goodness, what’s that you’ve got in your hand, Elsie?” and I’ll say, “It’s your Coronation coach, Your Majesty.” She’ll say, “Excellent! I was wanting to go home to my palace right this minute. Would you care to accompany me, Elsie?” I’ll say, “But I’m stuck here in bed with my gammy leg,” and she’ll say, “Oh, you poor child. Don’t you know about my corgis? They have magical tongues. Come to the palace with me and they’ll lick you better in a trice.”’

  ‘Oh yuck!’ said Gillian.

  ‘Can corgis really lick you better?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Tell us more, please, Elsie,’ said Angus.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to miss a day out with the Queen, am I?’ I started.

  ‘Can we come too?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Oh, I wish you could – but look, there’s not room in the coach, is there? Still, I’m sure the Queen will come back another day and take you on a trip, Michael,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Anyway, I drag myself out of bed and stand on my good leg—’

  ‘But you’re not allowed!’ Rita fussed.

  ‘Oh Rita, it’s a story,’ I said. ‘OK, there I am, out of bed, doing my best to curtsey with only one blooming leg that will bend. I set the Coronation coach down on the floor of the veranda and it starts growing and growing until all your beds slide into a corner, and there’s the coach, huge and gold and glittering. The eight horses are tossing their manes and stamping their hooves, impatient to be off. Sister Baker opens the door for the Queen, bowing so low her apron cracks right in two, and then Nurse Bryant lifts me up into the coach next to the Queen, and it’s really comfy inside, with red velvet cushions, and I can prop my legs up. The Queen shifts up a bit to make room for me. And then we’re off! You lot are waving goodbye.’

  The little ones waved!

  ‘The Queen sticks her royal head out of the window and shouts, “Your turn next, Michael,” and then the coachman clicks his