Queenie (30 page)

‘Oh, my legs!’ I said, starting to cry.

‘Oh dear, do they hurt dreadfully?’ asked Nurse Gabriel.

‘No, but they’ve got so
big
. I won’t ever be able to find socks and shoes for them,’ I wept.

‘Yes you will, you funny little moppet! Look – they’ve not got any bigger.’

She held up my blanket and I peered down. My right leg was back in its splint, fitting it perfectly. My left leg was encased in white plaster, which made me gasp a little, but I could see my foot poking out at the end, and it looked its own normal size. I blinked at them. They didn’t grow at all.

‘It was just a
dream
,’ I said, laughing as well as crying, which sounded very spluttery.

‘Yes, I think the anaesthetic gives you very vivid dreams, so heaven help you, Elsie, because you’ve got such an over-active imagination already,’ said Nurse Gabriel.

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ I asked.

‘It depends,’ she said. ‘It’s good if you can comfort yourself telling stories. It’s not so good if you tell those stories to the others and frighten them all into fits!’

I had a new story to tell now. I pretended to Martin that I’d really died.

‘That’s silly, I can
see
you. You’re not one bit dead,’ he said.

‘No, but I
was
– for about five minutes. When I was on the floor, before they lifted me up,’ I told him.

‘You were talking to Nurse Bryant, I heard you,’ he said.

‘Not at first. I tell you, I
died
, Martin. I was in the Bed of Doom, right? Your friend Robert died, and so did I.’

‘What was dying
like
, Elsie?’ asked Angus.

‘It was
so
scary. I just jolted right out of my body. I could see myself lying on the floor, my leg all twisted, and you peering and crying, but I wasn’t in my body any more, I was just floating like a ghost, drifting along right up underneath the ceiling.’

‘That isn’t true, is it?’ said Rita. ‘Shut
up
, Elsie. You’re giving me the creeps.’

‘No, go on! Did you stay under the ceiling or did you get out?’ said Angus.

‘I found I could float right through the ceiling. It was the weirdest sensation.’

‘But then you’d be in the attics,’ said Gillian.

‘No, I floated up through the attics, through the roof, up into the sky,’ I said.

‘Wearing your cat pyjamas?’ said Gillian, giggling.

‘You can laugh! It was most extraordinary,’ I said. ‘I looked up, and there was this blinding bright light, and a beautiful deep voice seemed to be calling me.
Elsie – Elsie
 . . .’

‘Was that your daddy?’ asked Maureen.

‘No, it was God, wasn’t it, Elsie?’ said Babette.

‘I don’t know who it was. I just hovered helplessly in the air. I wanted to fly upwards into the light, but I struggled too, because I wasn’t really ready to die. I cried a little and called for my nan, and she climbed out of her bed and reached right out of the window and pulled me back, saying, “No, my Elsie, I can’t let you go. You’re my own baby.” I turned and put my arms round her and promised I wouldn’t go, not yet. Then I was pulled down, down, down again, and I ended up with a bump on the floor, with Nurse Bryant gasping and crying.’

‘You wouldn’t have had
time
to see your nan. You were only out cold for a minute or two,’ said Gillian.

‘There’s no such thing as time in ghost worlds,’ I said grandly. ‘It’s like when you dream. All sorts of amazing things happen in just a minute or two –
see
!’

Gillian tutted at me, clearly not convinced by my little act, but the others were hanging on my every word. I even had Martin hooked.

‘So when you saw this bright light and heard the voice – was there anyone else around?’ he asked.

’Hmm. I wasn’t really looking, but I think there were some children up above me. Yes – there was this one boy waving at me, calling something. I think he was calling your name, Martin,’ I said.

Gillian snorted but Martin took no notice. His head strained upwards, his eyes shining. ‘It was Robert. He was calling for
me
!’

‘Better watch out then, Martin. Your turn next!’ said Gillian.

‘Really?’ said Martin, looking stricken.

‘Of course not! I was just stringing you along – and so is Elsie. Pack it in now, Elsie Kettle, or you’ll send them all nuts. They believed every word.’

‘I don’t believe it. Elsie’s just a lying storyteller,’ said Rita.

‘I didn’t believe old Gobface! What do you take me for?’ said Martin.

But that night he lay awake long after the others were asleep. I was awake too, both my legs throbbing.

‘Elsie?’ he hissed.

‘Yep?’

‘Elsie, I know you were kidding, sort of – but when you were unconscious,
did
you see a bright light and hear a voice?’

I hadn’t, but I’d imagined it so intensely I wasn’t ultra-sure. ‘I think so,’ I whispered back.

‘So
did
you see a boy – you know, calling for me?’

‘I – I don’t really know,’ I said.

‘Oh. Well, never mind,’ said Martin. He sounded relieved but very sad.

‘I think he
could
have been your friend Robert,’ I said. ‘What colour hair did he have?’

‘He had this crazy ginger hair. I used to call him Ginger at first and it drove him daft,’ said Martin.

‘Well,
my
boy had bright red hair, all sort of tousled,’ I said. ‘And he was wearing striped pyjamas.’

This was an easy guess. All the boys in the ward wore striped pyjamas except for Martin in his Dan Dare nightwear.

‘Yes! Oh goodness, it
must
have been Robert!’ said Martin. ‘Listen, Gob— Elsie. If you dream it again, or get knocked unconscious, will you tell Robert I miss him and we’ll play that game of marbles together one day?’

‘I will,’ I said.

THE CHILDREN STAYED
a little in awe of me after that, but the nurses sighed and stuck me in a new bed with little sides so that I couldn’t possibly roll out again.

‘And if you try, we’ll tie you to the bed sheets,’ said Nurse Bryant.

I thought she was joking, but I couldn’t be sure. I lay obediently in the middle of my bed, and when my broken leg itched and prickled in its plaster, I tried not to moan too much, because I knew it was my own fault.

Mum was appalled when she discovered I’d broken my other leg.

‘What do you
mean
, you fell out of bed?’ she said, looking at my plaster in horror. I’d been wearing it a couple of weeks now and it had got a bit grubby. I’d written my name and drawn a portrait of Queenie on it in smudgy blue biro. ‘How could you be such an idiot? Were you trying to get up?’

‘I was trying to reach Albert Trunk, Mum. He’d fallen on the floor.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! I don’t know what you’re doing with that awful moth-eaten old elephant anyway. You’re getting too big to play with stuffed toys – you look
simple
,’ said Mum impatiently. ‘What are you trying to do, permanently cripple yourself? You’ll be limping on
two
legs now, and everyone will stare at you and you’ll never get yourself a decent man when you grow up.’

‘I don’t
want
a decent man,’ I said defiantly. ‘I’ll stay at home with Nan.’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ said Mum. ‘Are you living in Cloud Cuckoo Land, Elsie? Your nanny’s very poorly, you know that. She’s not always going to be around.’

‘Yes she
is
. I
know
she’ll get better and she’ll look after me.’

‘But if she doesn’t,
I’ll
be looking after you, and you need to get yourself sorted. I have a feeling
Mr
Perkins and I might be together in the future—’

‘I
knew
he was your boyfriend!’

‘You be quiet. You mustn’t say anything to anyone just now, because Mr Perkins is a highly respected married man with a family. Now the thing is, I haven’t told him all the facts about
my
family. He thinks I’m a little younger than I really am. It’ll be a shock to him knowing I’ve got a great lolloping schoolgirl daughter – especially one who’s poorly. He has a horror of anything unhealthy. So you have to get completely better, do you understand? Stop playing silly beggars and falling out of bed, do you hear me?’

Mum came to visit me that Sunday too. I stared at her agitatedly as she clip-clopped along the veranda. I already
had
a visitor – my dear Nurse Gabriel. She’d brought in a ball of pink angora wool and a pair of knitting needles, and was trying to show me how to follow a pattern for a simple bolero. I’d managed a couple of rows, but as Mum approached my needles jerked and I dropped half my stitches.

‘Mum! What are you doing here? It’s Sunday,’ I said.

‘I’ve come to see how you are, you silly sausage. Checking you haven’t broken any more limbs overnight,’ said Mum. She sat down heavily on the edge of my bed, flicking her hair back over her
shoulders
, peering at Nurse Gabriel. ‘And who’s this?’ she asked.

‘It’s Nurse Gabriel, Mum. You know,’ I hissed, embarrassed.

‘You’re one of Elsie’s nurses?’

Nurse Gabriel smiled politely. ‘I used to be. I’m on the men’s ward now. How do you do, Miss Kettle.’

‘So what are you doing here now?’ said Mum. She sounded rude and I blushed, but Nurse Gabriel kept smiling.

‘Oh, Elsie and I have become old friends,’ she said. ‘Here, Elsie, let me pick those stitches up for you.’

‘It’s a waste of time you teaching our Elsie to knit,’ said Mum. ‘She’s got two left hands, this one. And now two blooming limpy legs.’ She stuck her own shapely bare legs out at an angle. She’d drawn eyebrow pencil up the back of each leg to look like stockings.

‘Elsie will have lots of physio. She won’t necessarily have any kind of a limp,’ said Nurse Gabriel smoothly. ‘Here, Elsie. Show your mum how nicely you can knit a row.’

She gave me the knitting, each dropped stitch carefully retrieved. I tried hard to impress Mum, but it was a losing battle.

Mum sneezed. ‘Oh Gawd, it’s that fluffy wool. It always gets right up my nose,’ she said, delving around in her bag for a hankie.

I sniffed deeply, loving the powdery smell of her handbag. I saw a glimpse of a picture postcard in amongst the compacts and combs.

‘Oh, let me see your card!’ I said, thinking it might be from Nan.

‘No! Get off. It’s a personal card from Mr Perkins,’ Mum said. She gave Nurse Gabriel a sharp look. ‘He’s my employer. He owns Perkins Ballpoint Pens. He’s on his holidays in Bournemouth.’

So
that
was why Mum was free this particular Sunday. I hoped she would shut up about Mr Perkins to Nurse Gabriel. I especially hoped she wouldn’t say that he was her boyfriend, not when he had a Mrs Perkins and little Perkins children too.

I hoped Mr Perkins wasn’t on a very long holiday. If Mum started coming on Sundays on a regular basis, then maybe Nurse Gabriel would stop coming, and that would be dreadful.

But Mr Perkins came back, and was obviously more demanding of Mum’s company because she didn’t come for ages after that. I persevered with my angora bolero, but Mum was right – I truly couldn’t get the knack of knitting. Nurse Gabriel frequently had to unpick all the rows I’d done in the week because I’d dropped so many stitches. I couldn’t make the rows lie smooth and even. They puckered up terribly, and my hands grew hot and damp as I
knitted
, so that the pink wool started to turn grey. In the end Nurse Gabriel took pity on me. She took the wool and needles away with her – and brought back a finished fluffy bolero within a fortnight.

‘Oh Nurse Gabriel, I love it! And I love you!’ I said, flinging my arms around her neck.

I wore my bolero every day after that. It looked a little odd with my cat pyjamas, but it suited my baby-dolls beautifully. I found I took after Mum, and angora wool made me sneeze, but I didn’t mind a bit. It felt weird to be divided into two very different halves – my top delightfully adorned in my heavenly pink bolero and fancy pyjama top, and my bottom so horribly encased in splint and plaster.

The splint stayed on, of course, but after six weeks the plaster came off. They took it off with a little saw, which was frightening, because I was scared they might get carried away and saw my leg in half while they were at it.

It didn’t look like my leg when it was freed. It was an ugly white matchstick that looked as if it might snap at any moment. I was introduced to Miss Westlake, the physiotherapist. She was very bouncy, her salmon-pink arms rippling with muscles. She had a very big chest, almost as impressive as Mum’s.

‘Now then, little Miss Kettle, let’s get cracking on
that
silly old leg,’ she said, flexing her frightening arms.

I couldn’t get up to see if I could walk on it because my other leg in its splint still needed complete bed rest. I had to lie flat on my back while Miss Westlake massaged my matchstick and then made me push down hard into her cupped hands with my limp foot.

‘It hurts,’ I said.

‘Good, it’s meant to hurt,’ she said. I had to keep pushing while she pummelled, until the sweat was standing out on my forehead, making my fringe sticky.