Queenie Read online

  Then she asked Micky Smith to talk about his conjuring – and he actually did a couple of card tricks for us too. He took up quite a lot of time, so when Miss Roberts picked Marilyn, we thought she’d probably be the last before the bell went.

  She started off in her affected voice: ‘I have got a rather unusual hobby . . .’ I knew exactly what it was: tormenting Elsie Kettle. But apparently her other hobby was cake decorating. She went on and on about icing sugar and buttercream and marzipan, showing off like anything. I wanted to take one of her cream cakes and shove her face in it.

  ‘Well done, Marilyn,’ said Miss Roberts, glancing at the clock. ‘Now, time for just one more composition.’

  She’d picked boy, girl, boy, girl, so all the boys sat up expectantly, some of them putting up their hands and mouthing ‘Pick me, miss!’ She didn’t pick any of them. She picked me!

  ‘You read out your composition, Elsie,’ she said, smiling at me.

  I stood up and started talking, my hands trembling so much my exercise book wobbled. I could hear Marilyn and Susan behind me whispering, ‘What a load of rubbish!’ before I’d even read the first paragraph. Someone else giggled, and I felt an ink pellet spatter on my neck. I trailed to a halt.

  ‘Go on, Elsie. It’s very interesting,’ said Miss Roberts.

  So I read my whole composition, and gradually the class quietened down. Even Marilyn and Susan listened as I read out my account of dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy at a special Christmas concert (just like Belle).

  ‘Well done, Elsie, that was really good,’ said Miss Roberts. ‘You must tell me when you’re going to be in another concert. I’d love to come and watch you.’

  I smiled at her shyly, almost believing I really would be dancing in a concert. The bell went – and Laura came up to me as we were putting our chairs on the table.

  ‘I never knew you did ballet, Elsie! Which dancing school do you go to?’

  ‘Oh, it’s . . . it’s Madame Black’s,’ I said, making the name up on the spot.

  ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Laura.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. It’s up in London. I have to get the train,’ I sighed. ‘I go twice a week and it takes ages to get there, but it’s worth it. I love it at Madame Black’s.’

  ‘Let’s see you do a little dance then, Elsie Kettle,’ said Marilyn.

  ‘Yeah, up on your points,’ said Susan, tiptoeing around stupidly.

  ‘Yes, go on, Elsie,’ said Laura, in a friendly way. ‘Can you really do the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy already? You must be brilliant at ballet.’

  ‘I – I’m not that good,’ I said, blushing.

  ‘Dance, then!’ said Marilyn.

  ‘I wish I could,’ I told her. ‘But I’ve strained all the muscles in my leg and I’ve got a bad limp. I can’t dance at all at the moment. Now I’ve got to go – my mum’s waiting for me.’

  I hobbled out of the door, across the playground. Mum was there at the gate, smoking a cigarette, wearing her best suit and her white high heels. Her blonde hair curled to her shoulders and she wore full make-up, so she had bright eyes and pink cheeks and glossy red lips. She seemed so different from all the other mums in their headscarves and old coats. I couldn’t help feeling a thrill of pride. She looked just like a film star. I rushed up to her.

  ‘Stop that limping, Elsie! You’re walking all lopsided,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, Mum. It’s my shoes,’ I said quickly, clenching my aching leg and trying to make it work properly.

  ‘Who’s that with Elsie Kettle?’ Marilyn said behind me.

  ‘She said it’s her mum,’ said Susan.

  ‘Her mum’s much older and she’s got grey hair,’ said Marilyn.

  ‘No, silly, that’s her nan,’ said Laura. ‘So that lady must be Elsie’s mum. Isn’t she pretty?’

  ‘No, she’s not a bit pretty. She’s common.’ Marilyn had lowered her voice but I could still hear. I glanced up at Mum, terrified, but she seemed oblivious.

  ‘Come on, Elsie. I’ve made an appointment for us and we’re going to be late,’ she said.

  ‘Where are they going?’ asked Susan.

  I turned round. ‘We’re going to Madame Black’s and I’m doing a special audition for Swan Lake,’ I said, forgetting all about my strained leg muscles.

  ‘You what?’ said Mum, pulling me along. We were out of earshot now.

  ‘I just said we were going to see my dancing teacher,’ I said.

  ‘You little fibber!’

  ‘Well, you said not to talk about going to the doctor,’ I protested.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ Mum said.

  ‘Mum, if I really went to dancing lessons, it wouldn’t be a fib. Could I go? Please?’

  ‘What do you think I am, made of money? Dancing lessons cost a fortune.’

  ‘You had dancing lessons when you were a little girl,’ I persisted.

  ‘Yeah, well, Dad paid,’ said Mum. Her voice always softened when she mentioned my granddad. She’d clearly been a daddy’s girl.

  ‘Able to twist him round her little finger,’ Nan always said.

  I ached at the thought of Nan, and had to blink hard to stop myself crying.

  ‘What are you doing, twitching like that? You look like a rabbit. Stop it!’ said Mum.

  ‘If I had dancing lessons I could do a rabbit dance,’ I said, squatting down and doing little rabbit jumps along the pavement.

  ‘Stand up properly and stop showing off,’ said Mum. ‘You’re not starting dancing lessons and that’s that. I’m not forking out and staying up half the night sewing your costumes.’

  ‘Nan can make them for me,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Nanny’s not here any more, is she?’

  ‘But she will be. She will get better, Mum, won’t she? You promised she’d get better and come back home!’ I said, my tears starting to spill now.

  ‘Stop that! Yes, yes, of course Nanny’s going to get better,’ Mum said, but she didn’t sound certain.

  I cried all the way to the doctor’s. I couldn’t stop, even though Mum threatened me with a good smacking. When we got to Dr Malory’s, the receptionist peered at my red eyes and crumpled face.

  ‘Oh my, are you feeling really poorly, dear?’ she said. The waiting room was half full. ‘Perhaps you’d better see the doctor first.’

  ‘Well, yes please, that’s very kind,’ said Mum, who hated waiting for anything. She opened her handbag and got her hankie out to wipe my eyes and runny nose. ‘There now, Elsie. Pull yourself together.’

  I gave a great sniff and clamped my lips shut.

  ‘Oh, what a brave girl,’ said the receptionist.

  She was wearing a lilac angora jumper and I thought she looked lovely, though she had very big teeth.

  ‘She looks the spitting image of a bunny rabbit,’ Mum murmured as we sat down.

  I sniggered guiltily, hoping the receptionist hadn’t heard, especially when she’d been so sweet to me. Mum never had a kind word for any other woman. The receptionist seemed to be looking at us reproachfully. I fidgeted on the hard seat uncomfortably, until a patient came out of the doctor’s room clutching a prescription.

  Dr Malory called ‘Next?’ and the receptionist beckoned to us, not bearing any grudges. Mum swept past, but I grinned at her.

  Dr Malory sat behind his desk, holding his hands as if he were praying, his chin resting on the tips of his fingers.

  ‘Ah, it’s little Elsie – and Mrs Kettle?’ he said.

  ‘Miss, actually, but I’ll go along with Mrs if you like,’ said Mum, sitting down and crossing her legs with a rasp of stockings. She never seemed in awe of any man, not even a doctor.

  Dr Malory shuffled his files of notes. ‘Your mother’s recently been diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis,’ he said. ‘And you’ve come along to be tested, as requested. Are there any other members of the family living at home?’

  ‘Just Elsie and me,’ said Mum.

  ‘No other tenants of the house?’