‘Ella, are you crying?’ Sally asks.
I sniff.
‘You are. Is it because of your mum? But I thought you said she’s getting better?’
‘She is. Look, I have to go now, I have to feed Butterscotch,’ I say, and I slam down the phone.
I stand there in the hall, leaning my forehead against the wall.
‘Ella?’ Jack comes out of the kitchen, a tea towel round his waist. ‘Supper’s nearly ready – sausages and mash. Want to lend a hand with the mashing?’
‘No.’
‘What is it? Were you talking to your friend Sally?’
‘She’s not acting like she’s my friend. She’s going off with this other girl, I just know she is, and it’s not fair, and it’s all your fault,’ I sob.
‘Sorry? How come it’s my fault?’
‘If you hadn’t met Mum and made us move, I’d still be living practically next door to Sally and she’d still be playing with me, not with that stupid Dory.’
‘That’s ridiculous. If Sally’s a real friend, she’ll stay friends no matter where you live. And she doesn’t sound too kind a friend if she’s hanging out with some other kid exactly when you need her most. I’d say good riddance to Sally – find another friend.’
‘Don’t you dare say horrid things about Sally, you don’t even know her! You don’t know anything! You’re not like a real dad, you’re nothing!’ I shout.
Jack stares at me. ‘For God’s sake, Ella, what’s brought this on? I thought we were starting to get along at last,’ he says, sounding hurt.
I want to hurt him more, because I’m hurting so much. ‘I don’t ever want to get along with you! I can’t stand you. I wish wish wish my mum had never met you. It’s all your fault she’s ill!’ I scream.
I want him to shout back. I want to have a real fight. But he’s just standing there, still wearing that silly tea towel.
‘Don’t you think I worry about that?’ he says.
There’s a smell of burning coming from the kitchen.
Jack sighs. ‘The sausages,’ he says, and goes to rescue them.
I go into the living room and kneel beside Butterscotch’s cage. I reach in and stroke him. ‘It’s not fair, he’s so mean to me,’ I mutter – though I know that I’m the mean one now.
I think of Sally and Dory together and the tears start spurting down my cheeks.
‘I think guinea pigs are much much much sweeter than rabbits,’ I say. ‘I especially like your cute little ears, Butterscotch.’
Butterscotch squeaks eagerly, but I think he’s just hoping for more dandelions. I hear Jack clattering about in the kitchen, and then the clink of dishes as he serves up. He doesn’t call me. I don’t come. I stay sitting beside Butterscotch, crying. I feel as if no one in the whole world likes me, only my mum, and she can’t tell me she loves me any more. She can’t even cuddle me or give me a kiss.
Jack comes strolling back into the living room. ‘Well, are you going to come and eat or not?’
‘Not.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he says, and marches back.
It doesn’t really suit me. My tummy feels painfully empty. Even if the sausages are burned, they still smell so good they’re making my mouth water. But I don’t want to go into that kitchen and face Jack. I might have to say sorry to him.
The phone rings and I run to it, suddenly sure it’s Sally again, all set to tell me she wants to come round after all, she’s dying to see Butterscotch, and she doesn’t know what she was doing wanting to play with that stupid boring old Dory.
It’s not Sally at all, it’s Aunty Liz.
‘Just checking you’re in, darling, and not at the hospital. I’m coming round.’
She rings off before I can say any more. Jack looks out into the hall. We look at each other. Neither of us says anything.
‘Was that for you?’ he says eventually.
‘It was Aunty Liz.’
‘Oh, her. About time,’ Jack says, chewing on a sausage. ‘I thought she’d vanished off the face of this earth – when her best friend’s in dire straits in hospital. So, what was she saying?’
‘She’s coming round.’
‘What, here? When?’
‘Now.’
‘Oh God. Look at the place! I don’t want her round here, especially now. I’ll phone her back and tell her not to bother.’
He tries, but there’s no answer. ‘She must have set off already. Hell! Come on, get your supper or it’s going in the bin.’
‘I don’t want it. The sausages are burned anyway,’ I say.
‘Go without then,’ says Jack. ‘See if I care. But you can scurry round and clear up a bit. The place is a tip and I don’t want Liz Posh-Knickers looking down her nose at us.’
I can’t help sniggering at the Posh-Knickers part. I leave Jack rushing round the kitchen juggling dirty saucepans while I go into the living room. Butterscotch’s cage looms large, with bits of his bedding and wilting dandelions scattered on the carpet. There are trays of dirty plates, and Jack’s manky old trainers, and some of my school books, and crumpled carrier bags all over the place – and there are piles of dirty washing trailing down the stairs: the laundry basket on the landing got tipped over and neither of us have ever stopped to pick everything up. Jack’s horrible socks and jockey shorts are there. Yuck! I’m not picking them up! I give them a kick – and Jack sees me because the kitchen door is open.
‘Hey! Stop it! You’re making it worse. Now listen to me.’ Jack comes stamping up the stairs, red in the face. His arms go out, and I’m scared he’s going to hit me – but he just takes hold of my shoulders. I try to wriggle free but he hangs onto me. ‘Look, we’re in this together, whether we like it or not. I can’t make you do stuff, Ella. You’re too old and I’m too tired. We’re both worn out with worrying. We’re both sick to the back teeth of each other – but do you think we could somehow put on a united front for Liz? She’s your mum’s friend.’
‘All right. Just don’t keep on. Especially about Mum,’ I say.
I pull away and start gathering up all the horrid washing. I trail the full hamper downstairs to put it in the washing machine, but when I open it up there’s a horrible sour smell and a lot of soggy clothes.
‘Oh God, I forgot to take the last lot out,’ Jack says. ‘I’ll have to wash it all over again.’
He switches the machine on again, sighing, and then notices the thick grease on the top of the cooker. He’s just started attacking it (with the tea towel – we can’t find any other cloths) when the doorbell goes.
‘She’s not here already?’ he groans.
She is. Liz walks in briskly in her navy work suit and high heels. She has large shopping bags in either hand. She goes into the living room, sees the cage, and screams.
‘Oh my God, you’ve got an enormous rodent in there!’
‘It’s not a rodent, Aunty Liz, it’s my guinea pig, Butterscotch. Dad bought him for me. Shall I get him out so you can stroke him?’
‘Don’t you dare!’ Liz looks at Jack. ‘Are you mad?’
‘He’s nothing to do with me – though I suspect I’ll be the poor fool lumbered with cleaning out his cage,’ Jack says.
‘My real dad gave me Butterscotch,’ I say. ‘He’s really very sweet, Aunty Liz. You can’t be frightened of a guinea pig!’
‘Oh yes I can!’
‘But that’s silly!’
‘Not as silly as being frightened of hospitals,’ says Jack.
Liz winces. ‘All right. I asked for that. I agree, I’m a hopeless coward – and I feel very bad about it. How is she? Is there any improvement at all?’
Jack shakes his head.
‘Yes there is. Mum practically spoke to me!’ I insist.
Liz looks at Jack. He looks at me.
‘I’m not sure she did, Ella. I know she gave a little sigh, but I don’t think it really meant anything.’
‘It did.’
‘Well, maybe you’re right,’ Jack says. ‘
Would you like a drink, Liz?’
‘Yes please, I’m dying for one.’
‘I think we’ve got a bottle of white wine in the fridge – hang on a minute.’
He comes back into the living room with a glass of wine for Liz, a can of Coke for me and a beer for himself.
‘About all I have got in the fridge now. I’ll have to do a big shop some time. I must get that poor little blighter some proper pet food.’
‘Well, I can’t help you with that – but I can help with your food,’ says Liz.
‘I’ve just done my big shop in Marks. I thought you might be struggling in the catering department, so I’ve got you some ready meals. Pop these in the freezer, Ella.’
‘Oh, wow!’ I say, delving into the bag. There are heaps of meals – all ultra-yummy posh things – and there’s even packets of ready-prepared vegetables and a big dish of mashed potato.
‘I make a mean mashed potato myself, I’ll have you know,’ says Jack. ‘But it’s very kind and thoughtful of you, Liz. Er – how much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing, idiot. It’s the very least I can do. And there’s a few bits in the other bag, Ella. I thought you could do with some more socks and stuff so you don’t have to fuss with the washing machine every day.’
She’s bought me new socks and knickers and new pyjamas, white with little red hearts all over them. She’s even bought Jack some black socks and black boxers!
Then there’s a little white tissue-wrapped parcel.
‘I know Sue’s got heaps of stuff for the baby – but I wanted to buy him one more little present,’ says Liz. ‘Open it up for him, Ella.’
It’s a very small stripy blue and white sleep suit – with a little spouting whale embroidered on the front.
‘Oh cool, it’s a whale!’ I squint at it. ‘I think it’s a humpback, and they’re my favourites. Humpbacks can sing.’
‘Well, hopefully it can sing little Sam to sleep,’ says Aunty Liz.
There’s one last thing at the bottom of the bag, something wrapped in pink tissue and tied with a black ribbon.
‘You’d better open it, Jack,’ says Aunty Liz.
Jack pulls the ribbon and parts the tissue. A beautiful black filmy nightie tied with pink ribbons slithers through his hands. ‘Oh thanks, Liz – but it’s not quite my style,’ he jokes, but his voice wobbles.
‘It’s not for you, you clown. I bought it for Sue. I know it’s not really her style either, she’s more a checked-nightshirt girl – but she did tell me she rather fancied a ridiculous glamour nightie for her honeymoon. I thought she might like to wear it once in a while in hospital. I mean, that gown she had on was hideous. This might make her feel more of a woman. I know it’s a daft idea when she’s still in a coma—’
‘I think it’s a lovely idea. You’re a darling, Liz,’ says Jack, and he gives her a hug. His eyes are watering.
‘Oh God, don’t start crying, you’ll set me off,’ says Liz.
They take long sips of their drinks. Jack finishes his beer quickly.
‘I think I might have another,’ he says. ‘More wine?’
‘I’d better not, I’ve got my car. But you go for it. And listen, Jack – every now and then feel free to bring Ella round to my place and you can go out with all your boozy mates and get hammered. I know you like to.’
‘Oh dear. Sue obviously had a good moan to you about my drinking habits!’
‘Of course she did. That’s what best friends are for – isn’t that right, Ella?’
I shrug. I’m not sure I’ve got a proper best friend any more.
As Aunty Liz goes she gives me a special hug. ‘Listen, babe, you phone me any time you want, OK? And come and stay whether Jack wants to go out or not. Just don’t pack the rodent in your overnight bag.’
I cling to her, breathing in her lovely warm powdery smell. I so so so badly want to cuddle Mum like this. Liz kisses my forehead quickly and then she goes, waving her hand.
I wave back until long after she’s gone. Jack slowly closes the door.
‘Well, good old Liz,’ he says softly. He pats me on the shoulder very lightly and tentatively. ‘Can you come and help me pack all the food away in the freezer?’
I follow him and start on the food bag. I’m better at squeezing the packets in neatly side by side than he is.
‘I think I’ll leave it to you,’ says Jack, raising his beer bottle to me.
‘Are you getting drunk?’ I ask.
‘No. I’d probably like to – but not when I’m looking after you.’
‘I don’t need you to look after me. I can look after myself,’ I say, fitting the last packet in and shutting the fridge door.
‘Well, how about we try looking after each other?’ says Jack. ‘And we’ll both look after the baby.’
I think about it. ‘OK,’ I say in a very little voice. I pause. ‘Jack, did you really throw my supper in the bin?’
‘Oh dear, you must be starving. No, I didn’t bin it. I hoped you’d weaken and eat it after all – but it’ll be cold now.’
He gets a covered plate from the kitchen worktop. There’s my sausage and mash. I poke a finger into the mash. He’s right, it is stone cold.
‘I’ll pop one of Liz’s meals in the microwave,’ Jack says.
‘No, it’s OK. I can still eat the sausages,’ I say. ‘They taste fine when they’re cold.’
‘Even when they’re burned?’
‘I actually like them like this, really dark and crispy.’
‘Tell you what – I’ll do something with the mash. I’ll make you potato cakes,’ says Jack.
He makes my mound of mashed potato into several round patties, browns a little chopped onion in the frying pan, and then pops the potato cakes in to sizzle. He dishes them up for me with the sausages and some baked beans.
‘There we are, mademoiselle, the Monsieur Jacques speciality of the house,’ he says, serving it with a flourish. ‘Mm, it smells good. Can I have one of the potato cakes just to check they’re up to standard?’
We munch together at the kitchen table. I offer Jack one of my sausages and a spoonful of beans so that we’re sharing properly.
‘Did you enjoy that?’ he says when I put my knife and fork down.
‘Yes.’ I look at him. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
‘You’re quite a good cook.’
‘Which is just as well, seeing as now I’ve got four mouths to feed.’
‘Four?’
‘Mine. Yours. The guinea pig’s. And little Sam’s.’
Chapter 10
We take Samson home from hospital. We go to the nursery and dress him up in his little spouting-whale suit. He stops looking like a hospital baby and turns into a real little brother. He opens his eyes wide, flings his arms out and kicks his legs to show he likes his new outfit. Then I wrap him up like a precious present in his new white shawl. Mum knitted it specially for him. Her needles clicked away for months as she watched television. She started off trying to do a very complicated pattern but kept going wrong, and one night she pulled all the stitches off in a fury and threw the knitting across the living room. She left it there for a couple of days, but then started all over again with a much easier plain and purl pattern. She tried to get me interested in knitting too, but my hands got all sweaty and my stitches were so tight I couldn’t move them along the needle. I managed about ten centimetres of a very tiny scarf before I gave up altogether. It wouldn’t even fit round baby Samson’s little neck.
Jack carries Samson to Mum. There’s a nurse there, wiping Mum’s face and smoothing her hair. She’s plump and smiley and she calls me soppy names like Sugarlump and Buttercup. I ought to like her but I don’t.
‘Here’s our little Sam, Sue. We’ve wrapped him up in your beautiful shawl,’ Jack says, laying Samson down in the crook of Mum’s arm.
‘I’m going to do knitting again, Mum. I could make you a scarf for when you get better,’ I say.
; The nurse moves Mum’s head in my direction. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she says in a silly voice.
She’s pretending to be Mum. I go stiff with horror. It’s like she’s doing a growly voice for a teddy bear. Mum isn’t a toy – she’s a real live person even if she can’t talk at the moment.
‘Shall we give Sue her wash and brush-up for you, Nurse?’ Jack says.
Thank goodness she takes the hint and goes. Jack lays his head on the pillow and kisses Mum’s forehead.
‘Oh God, Sue, I’m sorry. I can’t bear it that you have to stay in here. We’re taking Sam home – and as soon as it’s possible we’re taking you home too.’
‘That’s right, Mum. And next time that horrid nurse tries to make you talk in a silly voice, you tell her to bog off,’ I say.
‘That’s my girl, Ella,’ says Jack.
Samson gives a little cry as if he’s joining in too. I pick him up and hold him while Jack very gently sponges Mum’s face and combs her hair.
‘There now, there’s my beautiful girl, all clean and fresh and pretty,’ he says.
Mum doesn’t really look beautiful at the moment. Her face is all slack and she’s got the wrong sort of expression. Her mouth’s slightly open but she doesn’t look as if she’s smiling, she looks as if she’s groaning, though no sound is coming out. I do so hope she’s not groaning inside her head.
‘Mum, Aunty Liz came round and she’s bought us heaps of food and stuff, and guess what, she’s bought you the most lovely film-star black nightie. Shall we bring it next time, Jack, and dress Mum up in it?’
‘I’m not sure I want your mum looking so gorgeous when I’m not here to keep an eye on her,’ says Jack.
‘Aunty Liz bought Samson this sleepsuit too – doesn’t he look sweet in it? Mum, look at Samson. I’ll hold him right in front of you and you just take one quick peek, yeah?’
I hold him out but Mum’s eyes don’t flicker.
‘He’s got this dear little humpback whale embroidered on the front. Humpbacks are baleen whales, Mum, remember? He’s spouting through his blowhole – they actually have two blowholes side by side. He’s jumping right up out of the water because he’s just like an acrobat. He leaps up and down and flips over just for fun.’