Queenie (31 page)

I’d never been so glad to see the back of someone in all my life. To my horror, she came back the next day, and the next, and the
next
.

‘We’ll get that leg sorted if it kills me,’ said Miss Westlake, attacking it with renewed vigour.

‘You’re going to have a super-leg by the time she’s finished with you,’ said Martin. ‘The rest of you will stay all thin and weedy, but that leg will get bigger and bigger and bigger. It’ll grow twice the size of the other one, with a calf muscle like a beach ball, and you’ll hop all over the place,
boing, boing, boing
. You’ll be so good at high jump, Elsie. You’ll jump over houses and trees and church steeples and take right off into the sky, and people will stare up at you, shading their eyes, and go “There goes Super-leg!”’

‘Ha ha, very funny,’ I groaned as Miss Westlake commanded me to push harder.

‘You watch your lip, young Martin,’ she said, kneading my calf as if it were a lump of dough. ‘It will be your turn next.’

‘I haven’t broken my leg,’ said Martin.

‘How long have you been here? I think your brace is due to come off soon,’ said Miss Westlake.

We all stared at Martin. We all knew that our braces and splints and plasters would come off one day. We knew that Martin had been on Blyton Ward longer than anyone. But it still seemed incredible that he was actually going to be released from his terrible frame soon.

‘You lucky thing, Martin,’ said Gillian.

‘Yeah, hurray for me!’ he said. ‘Just you watch me, you lot. They’ll take off my brace and I’ll stride off, just like a cowboy.’

They took Martin away to have his Jones spinal frame removed. We waited for him to come striding back along the veranda, but when he appeared he was still in his bed, his legs stretched wide apart as if he were still attached to his brutal frame.

‘What’s the matter, Martin? Why aren’t you walking?’ asked Gillian.

Martin didn’t answer. He stared up at the ceiling, ignoring her.

‘He’ll be walking soon,’ said Nurse Smith. ‘Mr Dobbin’s going to fix him up with one more little splint and a crutch.’

‘It’ll take a bit of practice, but you’ll get there,’ said Nurse Bryant. ‘Don’t worry, Martin.’ She gave him a little pat on the shoulder. He’d normally shy away if the nurses ever tried to cuddle him, but now he just lay there. I saw a tear seeping sideways down his face.

He wouldn’t talk to any of us. He wouldn’t even join in my new story session. Nurse Bryant had started reading us a whole series of adventure stories about four children and their pet parrot, so I invented our own one about eight children and their amazing white cat, Queenie. The children captured robbers galore, generally helped by Queenie, who tracked down stolen jewels or banknotes like a sniffer dog.

I let Martin play a leading role in solving tonight’s mystery and had him round up the dangerous armed robbers just by clever use of his cap gun – but Martin didn’t react at all. It was as if they’d removed his ears as well as his horrible frame.

The night nurses were especially kind to him, bringing him a milky cocoa in the middle of the night when they found him wide awake. I liked them both, Nurse Robinson and Nurse Macclesfield – though they still couldn’t hold a candle to my dear Nurse
Gabriel
. They looked rather alike, with light brown hair curling fetchingly beneath their nurse’s caps. I might have got them muddled, but Nurse Robinson usefully had very red cheeks, just like a robin redbreast. They called each other Robin and Mac and were very jolly together. But they couldn’t jolly Martin out of his gloom – and after they’d squeaked off down the ward in their sensible shoes, I heard him sniffing.

‘Martin, are you crying?’ I whispered.

‘No!’ he said furiously, though it was obvious he was lying.

‘Oh please, don’t cry,’ I said. I tried to manoeuvre myself a little nearer so I could perhaps reach out and take hold of his hand.

‘What are you
doing
, Gobface? Keep
still
or you’ll tumble out and break your wretched leg all over again,’ he said.

‘Chance would be a fine thing. I’m stuck with these stupid sides to my bed. I feel like I’m trapped in a coffin. Martin . . .what’s up? Did they hurt you when they took you out of your frame?’

‘No. Well, a bit, twisting me here and there.’

‘So haven’t you mended?’

‘I don’t think I can have done. They X-rayed my hip again, and they say it’s fine, but that’s stupid, because I can’t blooming well walk, can I?’

‘Not a bit?’

‘I can’t even stand. They tried to sit me up, but I felt so giddy I screamed. I had to beg and beg them to lie me down again. I can’t do anything! I’m like a little baby. I shall be stuck on my back like a great big stag beetle for ever!’ Martin declared, and started sobbing again.

I was scared. If Martin couldn’t get better, maybe there was no hope for any of us. Maybe we were all stuck here simply because no one really wanted us any more, and we’d just have to lie here till we were wizened little old men and women. It was such a bleak thought that I started crying too. Queenie had been lying across the end of my bed, warming my toes. My shaking made her lift her head enquiringly.

‘Oh Queenie,’ I said, gently tapping the space beside me to get her to creep upwards, where I could stroke her. Then I decided that Martin’s needs were more pressing than my own. ‘Jump across to Martin, Queenie darling. He needs a cuddle,’ I said, pushing her gently.

‘Queenie’s not a
dog
, Gobface. You can’t tell cats to do stuff,’ said Martin.

‘Yes you can,’ I said – and to my surprise Queenie decided to cooperate.

‘I much prefer you to Martin, Elsie,’ she purred. ‘He’s such a loud, rude, fidgety boy – but I can see
he
’s really upset so I’ll do my best to comfort him.’

She leaped neatly down over the side of my bed, pattered across the floor, and jumped right up onto Martin’s pillow.

‘Watch out, Queenie!’ he said, his voice muffled. It sounded as if she’d landed right on top of him. I thought perhaps he’d push her off, but then I heard him crooning softly, ‘There, girl. Good Queenie. Who’s a lovely cat, then?’

‘
I
am,’ Queenie purred. ‘Calm down now, Martin. I’m sure you’ll be able to walk again soon.’

Martin didn’t speak cat language, but he seemed comforted all the same. And Queenie was right. It took a few days for him not to feel very dizzy whenever he was lifted into a sitting position – but in the meantime Miss Westlake worked determinedly on his legs. The first time they helped him right up onto his feet with his crutch, he actually fainted. He was only out for a few seconds, but he actually gloried in his moment of drama.

‘I died too, Gobface,’ he boasted when he was brought back to the veranda. ‘I saw the bright light. And you’ll never guess who else I saw!’

‘Your friend Robert?’ I said.

‘Yes! How on earth did you know that?’ Martin sounded genuinely astonished. ‘He came running up to say hello, and he looked really well – no splint,
nothing
. He thumped me on the back and I thumped him, and then we laughed and laughed. We were all set to play a game of marbles when I heard all these voices saying, “Come back, Martin,” and “You can’t play with Robert just yet,” so I waved goodbye and gave him all my best marbles, even my big swirly rainbow one, and then I was whizzed back and I was in hospital again, with Nurse Bryant putting something smelly under my nose to bring me back to life.’

I stared at him. I thought he was making it all up just to match my story about being dead, but it was a remarkably detailed account and I wasn’t sure Martin had that vivid an imagination.

‘Honour bright, you actually saw your pal Robert?’ I asked.

‘Honour bright,’ said Martin proudly. ‘I hope I faint again tomorrow – it was fantastic!’

To his disappointment he couldn’t manage to repeat his fainting trick. He stayed upright, and very soon was taking his first few steps, hobbling with his crutch.

‘Watch me, watch me, you lot!’ he shouted when he came back from his physiotherapy session, and he swung his legs out of bed.

‘You just stay put, young Martin,’ said Nurse Bryant.

‘But I want to show them what I can do!’ he said.
‘Oh
please, dear Nurse Bryant, let me just walk two little steps.’

‘Just two, then – and I’m going to be hanging onto you tight in case you decide to do yourself a mischief,’ she said.

She helped Martin out of bed, and he wobbled upright, leaning heavily on his crutch. He lurched forward.

‘Watch it now, Martin, you’re still not very strong,’ said Nurse Bryant.

‘Yes I am!’ he insisted. ‘Look at me, everyone.’

He took one step forward – and then another. He walked more like a clockwork toy than a cowboy, but it was walking all the same, and we all gave him a big clap.

‘I’ll be walking right out of here by the end of the week,’ said Martin, flopping back into bed, exhausted.

‘I dare say – but I should wait until the week after next if I were you,’ said Nurse Bryant.

‘What do you mean, Nurse Bryant?’ asked Martin.

Her dear droopy camel mouth wrinkled into an enormous smile. ‘Just you wait and see!’ she said. ‘We’re going to have a very important visitor.’

‘Who’s coming?’

‘Aha! It’s a surprise. I’m not allowed to tell you yet,’ she said. She put her fingers to her big lips. ‘I have to keep shtoom.’

‘Oh go on, Nurse Bryant, tell us,’ we chorused.

‘Oh well, you’ll suss something out soon. We’ve got the decorators coming in tomorrow. Oh my Lord, it’s going to be action stations here. Wait till you know who it is!’

We stared at her.

‘
Who?
’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘
Nurse Bryant!
’

Queenie came pitter-pattering along the veranda. She rubbed herself against Nurse Bryant’s ankles. Nurse Bryant bent and picked her up, slinging her carefully over her shoulder like a white fur stole.

‘
Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?
’ Nurse Bryant chanted the old nursery rhyme. ‘
I
’
ve been to London to visit the
 . . .’ She opened her eyes wide, her head on one side. When we still didn’t respond, she cupped her hand behind her ear as if she were deaf. ‘
To visit the
 . . .’

‘Queen!’ said Michael.

Nurse Bryant silently mimed clapping. We stared at her.

‘The
Queen’s
coming here on a visit?’ said Martin.

‘I didn’t tell you. I didn’t breathe the royal name. But
I
can’t help it if you’ve worked it out for yourselves,’ said Nurse Bryant. She rubbed her hands together, her eyes sparkling. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’

‘But why is the Queen coming here?’ said Gillian.

‘Has she got to have a splint?’ asked Rita.

Nurse Bryant whooped with laughter. ‘No, you silly! She’s inspecting the whole hospital. Sir David’s won some award for pioneering work in the orthopaedic field and so we’re having a royal visit.’

‘Will we
see
her?’ I asked.

‘This is all still top secret, and I’m not going to say another word, but a little bird told me Her Majesty particularly likes visiting
children’s
wards,’ said Nurse Bryant.

We still couldn’t take it all in. The Queen lived in Buckingham Palace with Prince Philip, Prince Charles, little Princess Anne, and a pack of corgis. We all knew that. She might journey out occasionally, probably in her golden coach, but she went to grand cathedrals and palaces and Parliament. She didn’t visit sick children in hospital.

But it seemed she did. A whole team of decorators in brown overalls came marching into the hospital the very next day. We were all desperate to watch, but we were wheeled out onto the veranda as usual, even though it was cold and windy. In the afternoon it started to rain heavily. The roof of the veranda was meant to shelter us, but the wind blew the rain in so that it sprayed our faces and soaked the sheets.

‘There won’t be any children left for the bally
Queen
to visit,’ said Gillian, crossly patting her drooping hairstyle. ‘We’ll all have caught pneumonia and died off.’

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!