‘Don’t argue with me, you cocky little madam,’ said Nurse Patterson. She took the brush and didn’t give it back. ‘I’ve sent it off to be thoroughly disinfected,’ she told me.
I asked for it the next day. She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
It was only a grubby hairbrush, a pink baby affair with a cartoon lamb on the back, but it was my hairbrush, one of my few remaining pieces of home, and I cried at its loss.
‘Don’t show her you care, or she’ll pinch something else of yours,’ said Martin. ‘She’s really got it in for you now.’
I kept a very careful eye on Albert Trunk and my kitten button box and my Coronation coach, clutching them all in bed with me at night just in case Nurse Patterson tried to steal them out of my locker. It was as well to be vigilant. One evening I spilled cocoa down my cat pyjamas and Nurse Patterson took the jacket ‘to soak the stain away’.
I waited twenty-four hours before confronting her. I did it in front of Nurse Curtis so she could act as a witness.
‘Please can I have my pyjama top back?’ I asked.
‘Which pyjama top, Elsie?’ said Nurse Curtis.
‘The cat one. My special one,’ I said.
‘Well, what have you done with it, chickie?’ said Nurse Curtis.
‘I spilled cocoa on it and Nurse Patterson took it away to be washed and she didn’t bring it back,’ I said.
I looked Nurse Patterson straight in the eye as I said this. She pulled a silly face, a cartoon of puzzlement.
Nurse Curtis frowned. ‘Oh Elsie, are you telling naughty stories again?’ she said.
‘No, she did take it,’ I insisted.
‘I think you’ve got a bit muddled, dear,’ said Nurse Patterson. The way she said ‘dear’ made it sound as if she meant the exact opposite. ‘I don’t do the laundry.’
‘I think maybe your mummy took it home after visiting,’ said Nurse Curtis. ‘Don’t look so worried. You’ve got a hospital nightie.’
I didn’t want a wretched hospital nightie. I wanted my own dear cat pyjama top.
‘Just you wait till my mum comes,’ I muttered.
But Mum didn’t seem that interested when I told her the next Saturday.
‘Typical!’ she said. ‘Hospitals are hopeless. They always lose stuff. When I was in the maternity ward having you, someone pinched my pearl powder compact right out of my handbag.’
‘That nurse took it. She doesn’t like me because she got into trouble about my leg. You know, when you got Sister.’
‘Yes, how is that sore leg? Any sign of it getting better?’ Mum peered under the covers gingerly, as if she might find a mouse under there. ‘It looks just the same to me. I don’t know, here’s you stuck in here, and your nanny in the sanatorium—’
‘Did you go and see her last Sunday, Mum? Did you give her my letter?’
‘What’s this, the Spanish Inquisition? I told you, she’s not well enough for visitors. Cough cough cough, every time she tries to talk, and spitting all the while into that little pot. It really turns my stomach.’
‘Oh, poor Nan.’
‘Stop that – there’s no point upsetting yourself.’
‘Mum, could you get me new cat pyjamas?’
‘All these demands! I can’t help feeling you’re getting a bit spoiled, lying back here like Lady Muck, being waited on hand and foot. I’m not made of money, you know, but I’ll do my best to get you another pair,’ said Mum.
‘Will you? Pink ones from Woolworths, with white cats all over them? Oh Mum, wait till I tell you! I’m still Queenie’s favourite. I am, I absolutely am – ask any of the others. She jumps right up on my bed every day and gives me such a lovely cuddle,’ I said.
‘I thought I told you to pack that lark in, it’s not hygienic. Oh my Lord, Mr Perkins is a stickler for hygiene. I made him a cup of coffee the other day and he noticed this teeny smudge of lipstick on the rim. Someone else must have used it, probably me! I’d just rinsed it clean under the tap. He nearly hit the roof, acting like lipstick was deadly poison or something. I had to take the coffee away and scrub that cup till I damn near broke it. Goodness me, what a palaver! He has this thing about germs. He’s always washing his hands. He leaps up to do it right in the middle of dictation. I thought he had a bit of trouble with his waterworks and was just going for a wee, but this is really just washing his hands . . .Lovely hands, they are, with very clean nails, not like most blokes. He’s clean all over. His shirts! They look so crisp and white it’s like each one’s fresh out the packet. And he’s got this lovely clean lemony smell about him. He never pongs even when he gets het up.’
I listened to Mum sing the Perkins praises for a full ten minutes without drawing breath.
‘Is he going to be another uncle?’ I asked eventually.
‘What? No! Good Lord, he’s much too posh and rich. He’s Perkins Ballpoint Pens Manufacturing, silly. They sell all over the country – all over the world. Think of it, all those Froggies and Eyeties scribbling away with their Perkins pens. I’ll see if I can bring you some – they’ll be good for your drawing. Mr Perkins is right out of my league – not to mention the fact that he’s got a snooty wife with a voice like she’s sucking acid drops. She’s forever phoning up about this and that. He’s got two kiddies too. There’s a photo of them on his desk. He lives in one of them houses up the hill – you know, the huge ones with big gardens. Ever so posh, they are. Seven bedrooms and just as many bathrooms. He can wash his hands in a different room every day of the week.’ Mum laughed uproariously at her own remark, tossing her hair about.
Martin’s dad was staring at her. So were the other dads. She was wearing her last year’s pink blouse with little puff sleeves and her pencil skirt. The blouse looked littler than I remembered. I was worried Mum was going to burst right out at the top.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Are you getting a bit fatter, Mum?’ I asked.
‘You what? Cheeky little devil! Still, I must admit this waistband’s a bit tight. I’m used to two hours’ dancing practice and a long show every night – and I’ve eaten fish and chips every supper time because I can’t be bothered to cook for myself. Oh Gawd, I am getting fatter, aren’t I?’
‘You could always wear them Stephanie Beauman knickers. Nurse Johnson wears them,’ I said.
‘No blooming fear!’ She sat up straight, sticking out her chest, smoothing her hands over her stomach. ‘Am I getting fat?’ she said again, glancing coyly at Martin’s dad.
He looked eager to reassure her, but one glance at his own wife made him keep quiet.
‘Your mum!’ said Martin, when visiting time was over.
‘What about my mum?’
‘Showing all her chest like that!’ he said.
‘It’s the fashion,’ I said fiercely.
‘That’s not fashion,’ Gillian muttered to Rita. ‘That’s dead common.’
‘Yeah, my mum calls her the blonde floosie,’ Rita whispered.
‘I heard that! You shut up about my mum. Your mums are just jealous because she’s so pretty,’ I said, burning.
I wouldn’t talk to anyone for the rest of the day. I called for Queenie, but she was out hunting in the grounds. I tried to pretend her, but it wouldn’t work. I was so used to her soft warm weight that I couldn’t conjure her up convincingly. I tried imagining Snow White and Sooty and Marmalade, but I hadn’t played with them for a while and they suddenly seemed like a baby game. I was so jangled up inside I couldn’t play anything. If only Nan could visit me instead of Mum.
I almost wished Mum wouldn’t come visiting at all – but when she didn’t come the next Saturday, I was devastated. I craned my neck for two whole hours, until I felt my head would snap right off and roll under the bed. I couldn’t help thinking something bad had happened and it was all my fault for being ashamed of her.
I plucked up the courage to ask Nurse Curtis if Mum had sent a message to say she couldn’t
come.
‘I’m sorry, dear. Maybe she’ll come tomorrow,’ she said, and she sat beside me and chatted for five minutes, telling me silly stories to distract me.
Even Nurse Patterson wasn’t quite so cool when she washed me ready for bed that night. She didn’t comment on my tear-stained cheeks, but when she’d finished me, patting me drier than the Sahara, she said, ‘Chin up, chicken.’
I kept my chin right down on my chest until Queenie came to see me. I’d been too distracted to save her any titbits, but she was very forgiving. She walked all round me, purring, and then curled up beside me, nestling into my neck.
‘Oh Queenie, what’s happened to my mum?’ I whispered.
‘Nothing’s happened to her, dearie,’ Queenie purred. ‘You know what your mum’s like. She’s a busy lady, especially now she’s got this new job with old Mr Perkychops.’ She yawned, clearly bored silly just at the mention of his name. ‘Tell you what, Elsie! I expect she went shopping. Yes, she’ll have gone to Woolworths and bought you another pair of cat pyjamas – very fetching, those jim-jams, with all those beautiful white cats.’ She preened herself, knowing that if there were a talking mirror in Cat Land, it would declare that she was the most beautiful of them all.
‘Do you really think she went to get me new pyjamas? So will she come with them tomorrow?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, of course,’ Queenie purred. ‘Now lie still and stop fussing so we can both go to sleep.’
I woke up convinced that Queenie was right – but I started to doubt as Sunday morning moved on. I was in a terrible state by visiting time. I so hoped Mum would be first in the queue of visitors, rushing out onto the veranda the moment the bell rang – but she wasn’t there.
I had to lie trapped in my bed all alone for the next two hours while all the other parents chatted to their children.
‘Where’s your mum this weekend then?’ asked Martin’s dad.
‘Oh, she’s – she’s had to work this weekend. She’s a top secretary, you know, and her boss is very demanding,’ I said.
‘I’ll bet,’ he said. ‘Here, our Martin, give us that Mars bar back. We need to share it with the little lass.’
I thought Martin would object, but he didn’t even murmur when his dad broke it in half. I usually thought Mars bars a great treat. I liked to nibble along the top until I got to the wonderful sticky caramel part – but this time I ate it properly. It tasted of cardboard. I was glad to brush my teeth that night to get rid of the taste.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone again. I pretended to be asleep when Nurse Gabriel and Nurse Johnson came on duty – but my dear Nurse Gabriel wasn’t fooled. We were friends again now, though neither of us risked referring to Nurse Patterson.
She sat on my bed and held my hand.
‘My mum didn’t come!’ I mumbled.
‘Yes, I saw the visitors’ book.’
‘And she didn’t come yesterday either.’
‘Poor Elsie.’
‘Do you think she’s . . .all right?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I’m sure she is. You mustn’t fret, Elsie. But listen, why don’t you write her a letter? I’ll post it for you.’
‘Oh, would you? Can I write it now?’
‘If it’s just a little letter and you’re very quick.’
‘And can I write to Nan again too?’
‘You can write to your nan tomorrow.’
‘Do you think she really got my last letter? She hasn’t written back.’
‘I don’t think she’ll be allowed to, not if she’s really poorly,’ said Nurse Gabriel. ‘Now, let’s get this letter written, lickety-spit.’
Dear Mum,
I hope you are all right. I missed you on Saturday and Sunday. Please come to see me.
Love from Elsie.
P.S. And please could you bring me some new cat pyjamas as I hate the hospital nighties.
‘There now,’ said Nurse Gabriel. ‘I’ll fetch you an envelope and you can write the address. Better print it to make it really clear.’
‘I’m not a very good writer, am I,’ I said, looking at my scrawl. My letters were wobbly and tipped uncertainly backwards and forwards.
‘Maybe you’re not so hot at writing things down – but I know you’re very good at making up stories in your head. I hope you’ll carry on with your storytelling, Elsie. The other children are missing their night-time treat. Poor Angus is quite upset.’
‘I’ll tell a story again tomorrow,’ I said.
‘That’s a good kind girl. Now, let me settle you down for the night.’ She turned my pillow over so I could have the cool side and plumped it up carefully. She smoothed my hair out of my face and tucked the sheets under my chin.
‘Night-night, sweetheart,’ she said softly, stroking my cheek.
‘Oh Nurse Gabriel! I wish you were my mum,’ I whispered.
She seemed startled, but she smiled at me sweetly. ‘And I wish you were my little girl, Elsie,’ she said.
I tried to dream that Nurse Gabriel really was my mum and we lived in a lovely house with a special bed for poorly Nan, and Queenie came to live with us too, and we all lived happily ever after. But when I fell asleep, everything got mixed up and terrible. Nurse Gabriel ran away and didn’t come back, and Queenie hissed at me, and poor Nan lay very still and grey in her bed, and she wouldn’t open her eyes no matter how hard I tried to wake her . . .
I didn’t get a letter back from Mum – but she came the next Saturday. She was right at the front of the queue in her pink blouse and tight white trousers, flip-flapping her way down the veranda in new high-heeled mules – and she had a carrier bag in her hand.
‘Oh Mum!’ I said, and I burst into tears.
‘Well, there’s a nice greeting! Come on, stop that silly bawling. Look, I’ve got a present for you.’
‘Is it – oh, is it new cat pyjamas?’ I said.
‘You have a little look,’ said Mum, thrusting the carrier bag at me.
There was a flat box tied with ribbon and the name of a fancy department store written again and again, the way I scrawled Elsie Kettle hundreds of times on my school jotter.
‘But this isn’t a Woolworths box,’ I said.
‘This is none of your Woolworths rubbish, silly. Take a look!’ said Mum.
My hands trembled as I undid the ribbon and opened the box. I had to scrabble amongst the tissue paper before I brought out my surprise. It didn’t seem to be pyjamas after all, just a blouse top with puff sleeves and yet another pair of terrible frilly knickers.
‘Well?’ Mum demanded. ‘Aren’t they absolutely darling?’
‘Yes, but – but I can’t wear proper clothes while I’m in hospital.’
‘They’re pyjamas, silly! Baby-doll pyjamas. They’re the latest thing. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve bought a pair for myself! As soon as I saw them I knew they’d be perfect for you. I had to buy them even though they cost a fortune.’
‘Are you sure they’re pyjamas, Mum?’
‘Yes, silly. Jayne Mansfield’s wearing a pair in my latest copy of Picture Show. And they’re ideal for you because they’ve got the panties, see. I know you can’t get pyjama legs over that awful brace thing. How is your leg? Let me have a look.’ She peered under the blanket, tutting.
I stared at the baby-doll pyjamas. ‘They’ve got little red hearts on,’ I said flatly.
‘Yes, aren’t they cute?’ said Mum.
They might be cute, but they weren’t cats. I wondered if I dared beg Mum to return the baby-dolls and buy the right pyjamas – but I was pretty sure I knew what her reaction would be. I bit my lip instead.
‘I don’t know how that leg’s going to get any better if they don’t give it any treatment. It’ll wither up if you stop using it altogether. I think you’d be much better off hobbling around to make it work again. I need you to get better and be a good strong girl. I want to show you off to Mr Perkins, and he’s very particular. He’s got a horror of hospitals and cripples. He says it makes h
is stomach turn over. He can’t even look at that little plaster boy with a surgical boot that stands outside the chemist’s shop – you know, the one where you put your money in the slot in his head and it goes to some sick kiddies’ charity.’
I knew and loved that plaster boy. Nan always let me put a penny in him when we went to buy cough sweets and milk of magnesia and sticking plasters. I called him the Penny Boy and pretended he was real. He stumped along beside me when we went to Woolworths, and I let him choose a toy from the penny counter and shared my packet of lemonade dip with him.
Now I burned with indignation on his behalf as much as my own. ‘Mr Perkins sounds silly,’ I muttered.
‘What was that? Don’t you go bad-mouthing him! He’s my boss and he’s a very important man,’ said Mum.
I looked at her. ‘He is your boyfriend now, isn’t he?’
‘Stop that cheek or I’ll give you a good slapping,’ said Mum indignantly. Her cheeks were as pink as her lipstick. Who did she think she was kidding? Of course he was her boyfriend.
‘Where were you last Saturday?’ I asked. ‘Why didn’t you come to see me?’
‘Gawd, another Spanish Inquisition! I was busy last weekend. I had to do overtime. We had a sudden big order and it was all hands on deck.’
‘So you were with Mr Perkins?’
‘There’s no need to say it in that way. I told you, he’s just my boss and I’ve got to do my best to keep in with him. He’s not a bit like the sleazy riff-raff you get in show business. You should see his suits! They’re all bespoke, Savile Row – and his shoes are so highly polished you can see your face in them. He wouldn’t be seen dead in suede. Now listen, I’ll do my best to trail over here to visit you—’
‘And Nan.’
‘Well, she’s not up to visitors, so stop giving me your orders, Miss Saucebox. Apparently she’s taken a turn for the worse,’ said Mum.
‘Oh no!’
‘Now now, no need to act like a little tragedy queen. They’ve collapsed her lung.’
‘What? Why did they do that?’
‘I don’t know. All these medical experts do this and that, but none of it seems to make any sense. All I know is she’s got to have complete rest and peace and quiet and no visitors. Maybe it’s just as well. TB is very catching. She’s already given it to you.’