Dad shrugs. ‘Special guinea-pig food, I suppose. It looks a bit like muesli.’
‘We’ve got muesli! Mum has it for breakfast!’ I stop and swallow. ‘Shall I try giving Butterscotch some muesli, Dad?’
‘Well, you could give it a go.’
Butterscotch doesn’t seem very keen on muesli, but he nibbles on a few segments of orange and laps water out of his bowl.
‘I’d like a drink too,’ says Dad.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea. I can make a good cup of tea, Mum taught me,’ I say proudly.
‘OK then. Though I was actually thinking about a drink drink,’ says Dad.
‘Oh, you could have one of Jack’s beers. He has cans or bottles. They’re in the fridge.’
‘Good idea!’ says Dad.
I fetch him a beer and find myself a can of Coke. I pour a packet of crisps into a bowl and find some salted peanuts too.
‘You make a very efficient little bar girl, Ella. You could get a job at the Grey Goose any day.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to leave me a tip, sir,’ I say.
Dad laughs. I grin, so proud that I’ve made my dad laugh. We’re still chuckling together when we hear the key in the door, and Jack comes in.
He walks into the living room. Dad takes a sip of his beer.
‘I see you’ve made yourself at home,’ says Jack. ‘Good.’ It doesn’t sound as if he means good at all. Then he sees Butterscotch’s hutch. ‘What the hell’s that?’
‘It’s my guinea pig’s hutch,’ I say. ‘Look, Jack, isn’t he sweet?’
I hold Butterscotch up. He squeaks and does a poo right in my lap. I squeak and Butterscotch wriggles free, frightened. He makes a mad dash for the dark under the table.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ says Jack. ‘Stop squawking and come and catch him, Ella.’
‘But he’s done a poo on me, look!’
‘Just brush it off and wash your hands. It’s not the end of the world.’ Jack crawls under the table himself. ‘Come on, little fellow.’
He makes a lucky grab at him and puts him back in his hutch. Then he goes and gets himself a beer too.
‘How come we have a guinea pig in the living room?’ he asks.
‘Ella fell in love with him,’ says Dad.
‘Well, I dare say, but it’s not the most sensible idea, given the circumstances. Especially if she’s going to be shuttling backwards and forwards between us.’
‘What?’ says Dad. ‘She’s not going to be shuttling.’
Jack stands still. ‘Now, look, matey, I’m very glad you’re here for her – the two of you are obviously getting on like a house on fire – but I’m not going to let you just walk off with her. She needs to see her mum and her little brother, and she’s got her school here, and all her friends. I’ve been thinking – it would maybe work best if she stays here Monday to Friday and then goes to you at the weekends. How would that be?’ Jack is looking at me.
Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!
But Dad is frowning. ‘Now hang on, I can’t possibly have Ella every weekend!
It feels as if he’s punched me in the stomach. I wrap my arms round myself, head bent.
‘But I thought – on the phone you said . . .’ Jack’s voice tails away.
‘Of course I care very much about Ella and this desperately sad situation. I want you both to know I’m always here for her. I dropped everything to be with her today. I was supposed to be meeting two really important clients but I cancelled straight away—’
‘Oh, we wouldn’t want to interfere with your work,’ Jack says sarcastically.
‘Well, it happens to be an important job – and one of the reasons Ella’s child support is always paid promptly into her mother’s bank account.’
‘But that’s the only regular commitment you’re prepared to make – a financial one?’ Jack says.
‘I’m not saying that at all. I’d love to have Ella come and visit some time. Maybe we could even fix a little holiday next summer. We’ve had a lovely day together, haven’t we, Ella?’ he asks.
‘Yes, Dad,’ I mumble.
‘And I promise I’ll come and see you as often as I can, especially if . . . if the situation changes. But it just wouldn’t work on a regular basis. I mean, I’m two hours’ drive away.’ Dad lowers his voice. ‘And, well, I’m in a new relationship. It’s early days yet, coming up to our one-year anniversary, and I can’t quite see it working if there were three of us. We’re not really ready for the happy family scene.’
I clutch myself harder.
‘Sue and I haven’t known each other much longer,’ says Jack pointedly.
There’s a little silence.
‘Well, I’m very sorry. I know it’s tough for you. I swear I’ll bob up as frequently as I can. Anyway, I’d better be getting back now. You know how it is.’
‘Yes, I know how it is,’ says Jack.
I hear Dad walking across the room. His shadow hovers over me. He reaches out and tries to brush the fringe out of my eyes. ‘Bye, darling. I’ll come and see you very soon. You take care now.’
I swallow. I haven’t got any voice left to reply.
Dad waits. ‘Bye-bye, Butterscotch,’ he says, poking his finger into the hutch. Butterscotch can’t manage a squeak either.
‘I’ll see you out, then,’ says Jack.
I stay where I am, my fists clenched. I hear them muttering at the door. Then it closes, and Jack comes back into the living room.
I wait for him to start criticizing my dad. I know he hates him. Maybe I hate him now. But he doesn’t say anything. He drinks his beer straight down and then goes out into the kitchen. I hear the back door open and shut.
Has Jack walked out too? I kneel on the floor, eyes closed, wondering what on earth I’m going to do. Maybe I can live in a corner of Mum’s hospital room? Oh, Mum! You’re the only one who really wants me, and yet how on earth can you look after me now?
I’m being silly. Jack hasn’t really gone. He’d never leave me on my own. Though he seemed really angry. Perhaps he’s mad because he was hoping to get rid of me, and now he’s lumbered. He’s already had one drink. Maybe he’s gone out to the pub to drink some more with his mates.
He’ll be sitting back, drinking pint after pint, telling them all about his awful stepdaughter – such a sour and surly girl, a total mess, a good job her hair hides her ugly little face, what a pity she doesn’t take after her poor mum . . .
The back door slams. I jump. So he’s back. He comes into the living room holding a big bunch of green weeds like a bouquet.
‘What’s that?’
‘Butterscotch’s supper. Guinea pigs love dandelions – and luckily that’s about the only thing we’ve got growing in the garden. These will keep him going until I can get to the pet shop tomorrow. Want to feed him?’
I poke a couple of dandelion leaves through the bars of Butterscotch’s hutch. Jack’s right. Guinea pigs clearly love dandelions. Butterscotch gives a delighted squeak and starts munching joyously.
‘I think we’d better shift his hutch outside tomorrow. It takes up half the living room,’ says Jack. ‘And it might get a bit smelly in here too.’
‘Jack – I didn’t mean us to have the guinea pig and his hutch. I thought . . .’
‘I know,’ says Jack. He pauses. ‘Your dad was upset. I think he really, really wanted you at the weekends. It’s obviously his new girlfriend who’s the spanner in the works.’
‘Tina,’ I say.
‘Is that what she’s called? Tina.’ Jack sniffs. ‘She won’t be a patch on your mum.’
‘I know,’ I say. I wipe my eyes and stuff more dandelions into Butterscotch’s cage. ‘Jack, I know I’ve been to see Mum already today, but—’
‘But you’d like to go again? So would I! Come on, then.’
I slip my feet into my comfy old school shoes, pull on my jacket, and we set off for the hospital together.
Chapter 8
I can’t get up the next morning
.
‘Come on, Ella, breakfast,’ Jack calls.
He comes knocking at my door. Then he walks into my room. He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Ella?’
I keep my eyes closed and shake my head.
‘Look, you might not want any breakfast, but your guinea pig does. He’s squeaking away very hungrily.’
But I won’t even wake up for Butterscotch. My head hurts and my tummy’s churning. I can’t bear the thought of staggering through another day without Mum.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t think she’s ever ever ever going to get better. It doesn’t make any difference what we do. I can’t wake her up. Jack can’t. She won’t even put her arms around Samson. I so hoped Dad would make her better, he practically promised he would, but he was totally useless. And last night, when Jack and I were at the hospital, those nurses said . . .
I start crying again, thinking about it. Jack and I were sitting behind the curtain on either side of Mum, holding her hands. The nurses didn’t have any idea we were there. They were walking along, sensible shoes squeaking on the polished floor, chatting about who they wanted to win on The X Factor.
‘Come and help me turn Sue Winters,’ said one.
‘Poor soul,’ said the other. ‘I don’t know why they’re keeping up the pretence. I think it’s cruel. It’s obvious she’s never ever going to recover.’
And then they drew the curtain and saw us sitting there. They gasped, horrified, then started talking terribly quickly and earnestly about some other patient, obviously hoping we hadn’t heard.
But of course we heard every awful word. Now those terrible words play backwards and forwards across my brain like a ping-pong ball: Never ever, never ever, never ever.
They’re at it now, so I burrow further down under my duvet, the pillow right over my head. I’m not moving, no matter how hard Jack shakes me.
‘All right, chum,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. I know how you’re feeling. You can stay there.’
So I don’t go to school. I huddle up in my bed, barely moving. I wonder if Mum feels like this. Maybe she could open her eyes and sit up and speak – but it’s just too hard for her at the moment.
I have to get up around half past eleven because I need to go to the loo so badly. When I come out of the bathroom, Jack’s there, waiting for me. He looks awful too, great bags under his eyes, his hair tousled, bristles on his cheeks and chin.
‘Ready for breakfast now?’
I shrug. I’m sick of soggy cornflakes.
‘I know. We’ll have brunch. I’ll make us bacon sandwiches – they never fail.’
‘I’m not the slightest bit hungry,’ I say – but the smell of sizzling bacon as I wash and dress makes my nose twitch. I suddenly feel ravenous.
We eat two bacon sandwiches each.
‘They’re good, eh?’ says Jack. ‘Buttery golden toast, really crispy bacon – delicious!’
‘Jack, do you think if someone cooked bacon sandwiches beside Mum she’d start to feel hungry and wake up?’
‘Well, it’s a good idea, but I’m not sure it would work.’
‘Can we go and see her this afternoon?’
‘I’d rather you went to school this afternoon – but OK, I haven’t got enough energy to bully you. You’d better do a bit of schoolwork here at home. I don’t want you falling behind. I could phone Miss Anderson and ask her to set you some work.’
‘You don’t need to, Jack. I’ll work on my whale project.’
‘Yes, that’s coming along a treat – but you need to practise your literacy skills and do some extended writing.’
‘No problem,’ I say.
Jack is busy sending emails and making phone calls out in the hall. I write a story about a long-ago whaling ship going hunting for whales. I know there is a famous old classic book about a man hunting a great white whale called Moby Dick, so I play around with that idea in my story. I decide my ship is run by fierce female pirates, scary women clenching cutlasses in their teeth. They’re all hunting a big blue whale called Blue Jack. They spot him spouting, and the four bravest pirate whaling women cram into a little rowing boat, harpoons at the ready. They row madly after Blue Jack, and one of them wounds him with her harpoon. His faraway blue-whale friends all hear and come swimming up from the depths of the ocean. They gather together, and the biggest seizes the deadly harpoon and plucks it from Blue Jack’s back. Then they all open their great mouths and swallow the four pirate whalers whole. They eat four tons of food a day, so a pirate woman is just a tiny little snack. They all leap up and splash so hard with their flukes that they make a tidal wave and the big pirate ship is bowled right over. It sinks with all its crew, down down down to the bottom of the ocean.
I get my felt tips and draw the wrecked ship and fifteen pirate ladies lying dead on the sandy bottom and fish swimming all around them. Then I draw four great big blue whales at the top of the picture. I make little porthole windows in their stomachs so we can see an eaten-up pirate lady inside each one.
Jack comes into the kitchen and glances at my picture. ‘Good heavens! That’s a scene of mighty carnage. It’s a very good drawing – but I thought you were having a go at writing a story for me?’
‘I’ve written it – look. This is its illustration.’
‘Oh, I get you. Can I read it, then?’
He smiles as he reads, which is odd, because it’s a scary and tragic story, not the slightest bit funny.
‘It’s very good. It’s very imaginative and you’ve used lots of great descriptive words,’ Jack says. ‘I’d give that story full marks and a great big tick.’
‘You can mark it for me with your red pen,’ I say.
So Jack writes 10/10 – A brilliant story, Ella. Well done! And gives me an enormous big red tick.
‘Shall I take it to show Mum?’ I say. ‘I mean, I know she can’t see the picture but I could describe it to her.’
‘And you could read her your story,’ says Jack. ‘Yes, great idea. Ready to go out? We’ve got some ladies to see before the hospital. I’ve been fixing up appointments.’
‘Ladies?’
‘Ladies who can look after little Sam while we’re both out at school.’
‘Is he coming out of hospital then?’
‘Yes, he needs to start a bit of family life, poor little chap. I can’t stand the thought of him being stuck in the nursery all the time.’
‘But what about Mum?’
‘We’ll bring him with us to visit her every day.
‘So he’ll be with us in the evenings and all through the night and in the early morning?’
‘Yep. He’s our baby, so he’ll live with us.’
‘Do you know how to look after babies, Jack?’
‘How hard can it be? We’ll feed him – and change him—’
‘You can do the changing!’
‘And give him a bath and put him to bed in his special cot. Plus give him lots and lots of cuddles. Here’s the bargain, Ella. You don’t have to change him, you don’t have to bath him or feed him, not if you don’t want to – but you must give him lots of cuddles. I’ll cuddle him too, but I’m all hard and hairy. You’re little and smooth and soft, like a mini version of your mum. You must cuddle him so he knows what it feels like to be loved by a mummy.’
‘Yes, I’ll cuddle him lots, I promise,’ I say solemnly. ‘I’m good at cuddling.’
I hook Butterscotch out of his cage and hold him tenderly to my chest. He squeaks and scrabbles for a few seconds, but then relaxes. I stroke him. His fur’s so soft.
‘Look, Jack?’
‘Yes, you’re great with him. And you’ll be even greater with your little brother.’
We set off in the car to meet the childminders.
‘You come in with me too, right?’ says Jack. ‘You imagine yourself a little baby and work out which one you’d sooner have looking after you. This first one, Mrs Chambers, is the one the social worker recommended. She certainly sounded very pleasant on the pho
ne.’
Mrs Chambers lives in a neat black and white house with a very tidy garden.
‘No dandelions for Butterscotch here!’ says Jack, and he knocks on the door.
Mrs Chambers opens it immediately, a dazzling smile on her face. She’s wearing a bright white overall to match her startling teeth.
‘Mr Winters! Do come in. And is this your daughter?’
‘I’m his stepdaughter,’ I say quickly.
We’re shown through the pale cream hallway into the children’s playroom. A little boy is sitting on the floor playing with building blocks on a rug. A toddler girl is staggering around the room, pushing a dog on wheels.
‘Here’s my little family,’ says Mrs Chambers. ‘This is young Sean – you’re building a tower block, aren’t you, sweetie? And this is little Molly taking Doggy for a walk.’
Sean and Molly stare at us solemnly. Molly sneezes and Mrs Chambers rushes forward with a tissue to wipe her dribbly nose.
‘That’s better, dear,’ she says brightly. She throws the tissue away in a bin and then goes into the kitchen. We hear her washing her hands thoroughly. I can’t help thinking that if little Sean or Molly needs a nappy-change, Mrs Chambers will give herself a surgical scrub, Dettol up to her armpits.
She makes Jack and me a cup of tea. I try to sit up straight and not slurp. I hope for chocolate biscuits but Mrs Chambers says she doesn’t want to spoil our lunch. She shows us she’s cooking a very healthy fish pie for little Sean and Molly.
‘I don’t believe in that tinned rubbish for small children. I don’t want to eat out of a tin and so I’m not going to serve it to my charges,’ she says proudly. ‘You don’t need to have any worries about little Sam, Mr Winters. I’ll feed him the very best formula milk and get him onto solids in a matter of months. I’ll give him tip-top care.’
‘I know she’ll look after Sam splendidly,’ Jack says as we walk down the path to the car. ‘Like I said, she’s the one the social worker recommended.’ He looks at me anxiously. ‘What do you think, Ella?’
‘I think she’s too . . . clean and smiley and sensible. She’s like a lady in an advert. She doesn’t seem real.’