‘Then could my nan have one, do you think? She’s got TB too, but it’s in her chest. If she had a big splint to keep her still, would she get better quicker?’
‘Oh sweetheart, they don’t treat TB of the chest with splints. Is your nan in a sanatorium?’
‘Yes, and I was only allowed to see her once. She was ever so poorly – she just kept coughing. She didn’t really look like my nan any more,’ I said, the tears starting to splash down my cheeks.
‘Oh dear,’ said Nurse Gabriel, gently dabbing at me with her handkerchief. ‘Poor Elsie, you obviously love your nan very much.’
‘I love her the best in all the world,’ I said. ‘So how can Nan get better?’
‘She has to rest in bed, just like you. All you children are on total bed rest to stop your TB attacking the rest of your bones. Your nan will have special medicine and complete rest, and they might just collapse her lung for a little while.’
‘And then she’ll get better?’
‘Some people with TB do get completely better, yes, darling.’
‘But not everyone?’
‘No, not everyone,’ said Nurse Gabriel sadly.
‘Mum says Nan can’t do anything now. She says it’ll be a waste of time my writing to her because she won’t be able to read my letter,’ I said.
‘Perhaps a nurse could read it out to her. I think she’d love to get a letter from you, Elsie. It would be a lovely surprise. I don’t think she’ll be able to write back, not if she’s on complete bed rest. They have to be very strict with their patients in the sanatorium.’
‘I don’t mind. I just want to write to her.’
‘Of course you do. Well, you write the letter and give it to Mummy. Is she coming tomorrow?’
‘I think so!’
She hadn’t promised, and I knew it was a very long way, but I so hoped she’d come all the same.
‘And if by any chance she can’t make it, then I’ll post it for you.’
‘Oh Nurse Gabriel, thank you!’
I was prepared for Mum to be tired and snappy and in a bad mood if she’d had to make the journey out to see me all over again. I’d begged Nurse Curtis to brush my hair into two neat plaits to please Mum, and I’d practised saying a couple of Martin’s cleaner jokes to make her laugh. I thought if I prepared properly, it would somehow make her come. I even cajoled Queenie onto my bed and stroked her soft white fur and whispered into her delicate ears, ‘Please make Mum come, Queenie.’ She looked at me inscrutably with her green eyes, but purred encouragingly, as if she were definitely considering granting my wish.
But Mum wasn’t there at the start of visiting time. I wondered if she’d missed the bus and would come tick-tacking in on her high heels, all out of puff. I waited and waited. But she didn’t come at all. I was the only child on the ward without a single visitor.
‘I don’t care,’ I said, and started to write my letter to Nan. I didn’t have any writing paper or envelopes, so I used the back of an old temperature chart.
Dear, dear, ever-so-dear Nan,
I miss you so much and I hope you’re not too lonely in that hospital. I can’t visit you because I am in hospital too. I have TB as well, but mine’s in my knee. I have to wear a horrid splint thing but it will make it better. Now listen, Nan – you have to try to get well too. As soon as my leg gets better I will come and see you, and that’s a promise. And then I will take you home and put you to bed and look after you, and that’s another promise.
Lots and lots and lots of love from Elsie
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
I folded the paper up into quarters, and then wrote on the back, even though there were lines zigzagging all over the page. I drew Snow White and Sooty and Marmalade, with little thought bubbles above their heads saying We love Nan and Get better soon and You make us purr. Then I drew a big portrait of Queenie. I wished I had a white crayon to colour her in properly. All I could manage was blue biro for her eyes. I tried shading to indicate her general furriness, but it made her look as if she’d been to the hairdresser’s and had a blue rinse. I had to give her a large speech bubble:
Hello, Nan. I am Queenie, the Blyton Ward cat. I am REAL (but I’m not really blue, I am snowy white and ever so beautiful). I am Elsie’s friend. I come to visit her every day.
Underneath I wrote: Maybe you have a cat in your own ward, Nan? I do hope so.
Then I spent the rest of visiting time putting a kiss into every single square on the page. I kept my head down so I wouldn’t have to look at anyone.
Michael’s mother leaned over me and offered me a packet of dolly mixtures. ‘Go on, take a handful,’ she said encouragingly, so I did.
Then Martin’s dad stopped quizzing him about the rivers of the world and came and stood over me, casting a shadow on my page. ‘That looks very pretty,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
I didn’t want to tell him, and my mouth was still stuffed with dolly mixtures, so I just mumbled vaguely that it was a drawing.
‘Where’s your mother today then?’ he asked.
I heard Martin’s mum draw in her breath at his lack of tact and hiss at him.
‘She couldn’t come. She has to . . .’ I said, and then I couldn’t quite think what to say next, so I just chomped on my dolly mixture. They didn’t taste right. I wished they weren’t clogging up my mouth. My tummy churned uneasily.
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ said Martin’s dad. ‘She’s a very attractive lady, your mum. She brightens the whole place up a bit. Oh well, I expect she’ll be here next week . . .’
‘Oh yes,’ I said – but I remembered all the times Mum disappeared for months. I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. My tummy flipped right over. I was suddenly horribly sick – all over myself, my bed, and Martin’s dad’s sharply creased trousers.
IT WAS OBVIOUS I’d been eating a lot of dolly mixtures because they were bobbing about in the sick in a truly ghastly fashion. Nurse Patterson told me off royally when she’d wheeled me away to the bathroom to clean me up.
‘You mustn’t eat so many sweets at a time, Elsie! And I don’t think they were even your own sweets,’ she scolded.
‘Michael’s mum gave them to me,’ I whispered.
‘Well, that’s very kind of her, but you’re a big girl – you know the rules, even if Michael doesn’t. You have just one sweetie at visiting time and then hand the rest in. You were told that clearly yesterday. It’s very greedy to eat great handfuls at a time – and dangerous too for all you bed-bound children. If you can’t sit up properly, you could choke on your own vomit, and then where would you be? What would happen to poor little Angus if he tried to stuff sweeties down his throat?’
She went on and on and on. I tried to imagine the polar bears nuzzling round her knees, jaws snapping, trying to gulp great lumps of Nurse Patterson down their huge throats, and it helped distract me a little.
‘Take that smile off your face, you naughty girl! I won’t have this nonsense,’ said Nurse Patterson, going pink.
She didn’t slap me, but she sponged my face and chest a little too hard, her dabs so fierce they were almost like punches.
‘There now! I hope you’ve learned your lesson,’ she said when I was clean and dry again, in new sheets and a regulation hospital nightie. My cat pyjamas were in a soggy heap at her feet.
‘I can have my own pyjamas back when they’re washed, can’t I?’ I said.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Nurse Patterson triumphantly. ‘They’ll have to be sent to the laundry as your mother isn’t here to take them. Oh dear!’ she sighed, as if I might never see them again in that case.
‘I think you’re a very mean lady,’ I said.
‘And I think you’re a very rude, spoiled little girl. No stories for you this evening,’ she said.
She was as good as her word. When story time came, she wheeled me back to the bathroom in disgrace.
‘I don’t care,’ I muttered, over and over again, but I did care, and it
was particularly hard when Nurse Patterson came to take me back to the ward.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, pretending to be sad. ‘You missed the Land of Birthdays, Elsie.’
When I was back with the others, Martin said, ‘You didn’t miss much, Gobface. I think it’s a soppy book.’
‘Yeah, but it’s good, especially this last chapter,’ said Gillian.
‘It was lovely. They all had birthday presents, and there was a doll that could really walk and talk,’ said Rita, sighing wistfully. ‘I’d like a doll like that. I’ve got an Elizabeth doll at home, like the Queen when she was a little girl, but Mum won’t let me have her here in hospital in case she gets mucky.’
I thought of Nan’s plan to take me up to London to see the Queen’s Coronation, and it hurt so badly I had to screw my face up to stop myself crying.
‘Don’t cry, Elsie. I’ll tell you what happens,’ said Gillian, thinking I was fighting tears because I’d missed the story.
‘It’s OK. I’ll tell you what happens in my Land of Birthdays,’ I said quickly, sniffing. ‘Who’s coming up my tree, eh?’
‘You’re going to have them polar bears again and spoil it all,’ said Rita.
‘No, I said, it’s the Land of Birthdays. And I’m climbing the ladder, stepping through the clouds, and suddenly it’s brilliant sunshine, and so warm! All the ice has melted. There’s not a claw or a whisker left of the polar bears, because this is Birthday Land. The trees are hung with those little lights you get on Christmas trees, with huge pink balloons tied to all the branches, and there are all these little people—’
‘Fairies and pixies!’ said Martin in disgust.
‘No, they’re like that, but they’re real little special birthday people. They’re all singing “Happy Birthday” and dancing round and round. I’m dancing too. I’m doing ballet dancing. I’m in a pink ballet dress, a satin top with tiny straps and a sticky-out skirt, and I’ve got pink satin ballet shoes with pink ribbons—’
‘Pink, pink, pink!’ Martin moaned. ‘Pink stinks, Gobface.’
‘It’s what ballet-dancer girls wear, stupid. You don’t have to wear it. You don’t even have to come to my Birthday Land. It’s my birthday, see,’ I said fiercely.
‘Can I come?’ said Rita unexpectedly. ‘Can I have a pink ballet dress too?’
I paused, wondering which way to play this. ‘I’m not sure . . .’ I said slowly. ‘Can you do ballet?’
Rita didn’t have the sense to fib. ‘No, but I’ve always wanted to,’ she said.
‘Well then, obviously you can’t have a pink ballet outfit,’ I said.
‘Ohh,’ said Rita, sounding like a balloon deflating. She couldn’t see that none of us could do ballet now in our splints and braces and plaster. We couldn’t do it even if we were all little Margot Fonteyns. I didn’t like Rita much, and I despised her for being such a stupid little copycat, but when I craned my neck and looked at her, I realized she was near tears.
‘Only joking,’ I said quickly. ‘Of course you can have a ballet-dancer outfit, Rita. Do you want pink like mine? Or what about sky blue with blue satin ballet shoes to match? Or pure white, so you look like a little swan?’
That cheered her up, though she was flummoxed by the choices.
‘Pink too. No, maybe blue. Or would white be better?’ she burbled.
‘We want pink!’ said Maureen and Babette in unison.
‘Yes, you will be all in pink. You can even have pink knickers,’ I said, knowing Martin would groan again.
He did.
‘What about you, Gillian?’ I asked politely.
‘I don’t like all that fancy ballet lark,’ she said. ‘I like rock ’n’ roll jive-type dancing.’
I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure what this was, but I thought I knew the right clothes.
‘You can have a sleeveless blouse and one of those huge great swirly skirts,’ I said. Suddenly the magic finishing touch came to me. ‘And you’re wearing proper high heels – really high ones like my mum wears – but you don’t wobble in them a bit.’
‘That sounds smashing,’ said Gillian. ‘Red high heels! Can I have red, Elsie?’
‘Yep, and you’ve got proper nylons too, with a seam going all the way up the back,’ I said, inspired. I wanted to give her proper grown-up underwear too, but I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the boys.
Martin was growing increasingly restless. ‘This is so boring, Gobface. I think the land’s changing. The polar bears are coming back. It’s getting much colder. You’re all shivering in your soppy dancing clothes,’ he said.
‘Excuse me! This is my story. If you don’t watch out, you’ll be wearing a pink ballet dress and – and . . .’ I suddenly remembered the old taunt at school. ‘And frilly pink knickers to match!’
Everyone snorted with laughter. Everyone except Martin.
‘You shut up or I’ll punch you, Gobface,’ he muttered, though he was tethered in his bed, totally out of reach.
I knew I had to win him over.
‘You don’t have to join in any dancing, Martin,’ I said kindly. ‘This is just the beginning bit, anyway. This is the Land of Birthdays. Us girls are having a dance but the boys don’t have to.’
‘I’ll dance,’ said Angus. He said it very quietly but we all heard.
‘Dancing’s for girls, stupid,’ said Martin.
‘Not my kind of dancing,’ said Angus. ‘I’m doing Red Indian war dancing.’ He made a sudden wonderful Indian war cry.
‘Oh, that’s brilliant!’ I said.
‘Shut up! Old Nurse Patterson Big Ears will hear you making that row,’ said Martin. He was clearly in a grump because he hadn’t thought of such a great idea.
‘You can have a Red Indian outfit, Angus,’ I said. ‘With a full feather head-dress right down past your shoulders and war paint on your face.’
‘Me too, me too,’ said little Michael. He tried to do a Red Indian whoop, but his tongue kept getting in the way. ‘Show me how, Angus!’
Angus demonstrated, and Michael tried again, with little success but great enthusiasm.
‘Idiots,’ said Martin, but he sounded wistful.
‘Why don’t you be a cowboy, Martin?’ I said. ‘You could have one of those checked shirts and tight trousers with a gun holster round your hips, and a cowboy hat and cowboy boots – leather ones with tassels and those sticky-out things at the back . . .you know.’
‘Nurse Patterson’s ears?’ said Gillian, and we all laughed.
‘Spurs!’ said Martin, and I could tell I’d got him hooked at last. ‘And I don’t exactly do a dance. Cowboys think all dancing is sissy, but I whirl my lasso around, whipping it through the air, and then I catch a Red Indian with it!’
‘Catch me, catch me!’ Michael said.
‘Yes, I catch the littlest Red Indian and I tickle him,’ said Martin. ‘I tickle him till he squirms and begs for mercy.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Michael agreed happily, his chin on his chest, his arms flailing, giggling as if he really were being tickled.
‘So, the music plays and all my little birthday people dance and sing the “Happy Birthday” song and we all join in, and then Rita and Babette and Maureen and I do a birthday ballet in and out of the lit trees while the others cheer and clap us. We dance, all four together, and then I do a solo in a special spotlight. It’s called the Dance of the Roses, and I have a rose in my hair and I dance on rose petals. It looks lovely and it smells beautiful. At the end of the dance I pick up great piles of rose petals and shower them about. I smell of roses for the rest of the day.’ I sniffed my hands, and just for a moment I thought I smelled a sweet soft rose scent instead of hard carbolic soap.
‘We smell of roses too,’ said Rita. ‘It’s our rose dance as well.’
‘It’s a solo, Rita. That means just one person does the dance, and that’s me. But you can be my understudy, and one day, if I’m not feeling well, then you get to do the rose dance. You two can do it when you’re a bit o
lder, Babette and Maureen. Now, the music changes. It makes us all tap our feet and snap our fingers, and it’s your turn, Gillian.’
‘Yep, it’s my turn, and I’m jiving with Bill Haley. We’ve got matching kiss curls. He’s swinging me around like crazy,’ said Gillian.
‘But you don’t wobble a bit in your high heels, and your ponytail bobs about and your skirt flares out—’
‘Showing her knickers,’ said Martin.
‘You shut up, squirt. Yes, Bill and I dance and dance – jiving away. He flings me right over his shoulder—’
‘And you land on your bum,’ said Martin.
‘Listen – you shut up or I’ll give you a really good kick with my new high heels,’ said Gillian.
‘And now you and Bill Thingy sit down—’ I went on.
‘Can I sit on his lap?’
‘Oh Gillian! All right, you’re on his lap, and the music changes – it’s all sort of thundery and we can hear horses’ hooves, and it’s the cowboy and Red Indian dance.’
‘I don’t dance,’ said Martin.
‘OK, you don’t dance, you whip your lasso about, crack crack crack—’
‘And I catch the Red Indians.’
‘No, they’re doing their war dance. You catch a horse, a wild golden palomino horse, and it leaps and bucks but you tame it and get on its back and trot round and round with it—’
‘I gallop.’
‘Look, who’s telling this story, you or me? You can go galloping round and round in a circle, waving your cowboy hat, while Michael and Angus do their war dance. They’ve got red and blue war paint all over their faces and their hair hangs down in plaits.’
‘Girls have plaits, not boys!’ said Michael.
‘OK, you can have short hair, with a band, and just one bright feather because you’re still little, but Angus has his full head-dress.’
‘Can I have a tomahawk in my hand?’ asked Angus. ‘And I’m stamping my feet in my moccasins, leaping up in the air, going walla-walla-walla!’
‘Oh yes, that’s a great war cry – but softly: we don’t want Nurse Patterson to come.’
‘Yes we do, because I shall scalp her!’ said Angus.