‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. When she’d finished rubbing at me, I tried to nestle up to her the way I’d done in the train, but she sat me down properly on my own chair.
‘Careful – you’ll spill it again!’ she said.
That was my mum for you, always blowing hot and cold. I saw her hot on the train, her face lipstick-red all over, her embrace like fire – and now I saw her freezing cold with snow in her hair and icicle fingernails. She was tapping those nails on her cup, fiddling with the paper from the sugar cube, crossing and uncrossing her legs, all of a fidget. Maybe she was scared too.
We needed Nan to calm us both down, but she wasn’t there. I trailed off to spend a penny and sat there on the toilet, praying to Nan as if she were God.
‘Dear Nan, please let it be all right. Please don’t let the doctors do scary things to me. Please let the nurses be kind. Please don’t let the other children be horrid to me. Oh, please let me get better quick, and you get better too, so we can both come back home together.’
‘Elsie? What are you doing in there?’ Mum called, rapping on the door. ‘You haven’t locked yourself in, have you?’
I looked at the lock on the door and seriously wondered about keeping it bolted for ever. I could creep out every night and eat stale buns from the refreshment room and run up and down the empty platforms for exercise, and then scuttle back at dawn and lock myself away again . . .
‘Elsie! Come out this instant!’ Mum commanded.
I unlocked the door and shuffled out sheepishly. We went to wait at the bus stop outside the station. We waited and waited. Mum kept consulting the gold wristwatch Uncle Stanley had given her.
‘Don’t say we’ve missed the bally thing!’ she said – but at last we saw the single-decker red bus looming in the distance.
‘At last!’ said Mum. ‘This hospital’s at the back of beyond. I’m sure Doctor Malory’s sent you there on purpose, just to make life more difficult.’
We got on the bus and I stared anxiously out of the dirty window, looking for some large ugly Nissen hut like poor Nan’s sanatorium. The bus hurtled down narrow country lanes for what seemed like hours.
‘We must have gone past it,’ said Mum, consulting her watch again. ‘Hey, conductor! I thought you were going to tell us when we got near Miltree Hospital.’
‘So I will, duck, when we get there. In another ten minutes,’ he sang out cheerily.
‘Duck!’ Mum muttered. ‘Does he think I’m some daft old biddy? I’ll give him duck!’
When the conductor announced the hospital at last, Mum swept past him haughtily, tugging at me to do the same. My leg had gone funny after all the sitting down. I stumbled and dropped my suitcase. It burst open, and my new pyjamas and underwear and Albert Trunk and the button box came flying out all over the deck.
‘Whoops!’ said the conductor, bending down and helping me. ‘Don’t want you to lose your frillies!’ He flapped my terrible knickers in the air and half the bus sniggered. I was scarlet by the time I’d retrieved all my treasures and shot off the bus.
‘Do you have to show me up?’ said Mum, giving me a little shake. She looked around at the trees and hedges. ‘I think that bally fool has turfed us out at the wrong stop. There’s no sign of any hospital.’
There weren’t even any proper pavements. We walked along the narrow strip of grass, Mum having to pick her way on tiptoe because she didn’t want her high heels sinking into the mud. She peered over the hedge and then stopped.
‘Hell’s fire, is that it?’ she said. ‘I think it must be.’
I was too little to see over the top. ‘Does it look horrid, Mum?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s like a blooming palace,’ said Mum. ‘It’s huge – and there’s gardens all over – and, oh my Lord, a fountain! Here, breathe on me, Elsie. I wouldn’t mind getting your lurgie if I can stay here too!’
I bounced up and down, but I had to wait until I came to a gap in the hedge before I could see for myself. It truly was like a palace in a fairy tale, a huge soft-grey mansion with a turret and towers, set in beautiful formal gardens.
‘Oh Mum!’ I said. Then, ‘It can’t be the hospital!’
‘No, you’re right, it can’t be,’ said Mum – but when we got a little nearer we both saw the sign: MILTREE ORTHOPAEDIC HOSPITAL. ‘Oh my! Doctor Malory’s turned up trumps after all.’
I was still scared stiff, but when the hospital was in full view before us, I stared at it in awe. I furnished it with red carpets and gold chairs and twinkling chandeliers. All the patients had four-poster beds in private rooms with little maids. My bedroom would be up in the tower. Maybe I would let my hair grow like Rapunzel, and I’d wear beautiful pink and blue and white silk princess dresses every day and my cat pyjamas at night . . .
I pretended all the way along the drive and up the big stone steps – but the moment we stepped inside the big arched door I was slapped back to the real world with a vengeance. There was a horrible hospital smell of strong disinfectant, and no carpet, red or otherwise – just miles of polished brown wooden floor that made our shoes squeak horribly in the silence. The walls were painted cream and green, just like school, and there were no private rooms at all, just stark signs to all the different wards.
‘Which ward will I be in, Mum?’ I whispered.
‘How on earth should I know?’ she said.
There was a big reception desk to one side of the vast hallway but no one was sitting behind it.
‘Excuse me?’ Mum called into the air, but no one came. ‘Oh well, we’ll have to find out for ourselves.’ She took my hand. ‘Come on, Elsie.’
‘I don’t think we’re allowed,’ I whimpered, peering around fearfully. ‘Shouldn’t we wait till someone comes?’
‘Don’t be daft, there isn’t anyone! Come on, I’ve got to get all the way home again. I can’t hang around here, waiting.’
Mum set off up the corridor while I struggled along beside her. We turned a corner and were suddenly in a big bleak ward with rows of beds, all with green coverlets and pale patients.
‘It’s just like Nan’s sanatorium,’ I said. ‘Oh Mum, I don’t like it!’
‘Stop whining, Elsie, it’s getting on my nerves,’ said Mum, peering around for an empty bed.
A nurse with a complicated white hat and a blue dress came bustling out of a side room and stared at us in astonishment. ‘Whatever are you doing here? You’re not allowed on this ward!’ she said. ‘You must leave immediately.’
‘See!’ I said, tugging at Mum’s arm.
‘But we’ve been told to come here,’ she said, standing her ground.
‘We only have visiting hours at the weekend, from two till four – and even then we don’t allow children, except in special circumstances,’ said the nurse crisply.
‘This is Elsie,’ said Mum, giving me a little shake. ‘She’s going to be a patient. The doctor sent us here.’
‘We don’t admit patients now. It’s nearly five o’clock! You’ll have to bring her back tomorrow at two, the proper time.’
‘If you think I’m taking the kid all the way home on the bus, the train and the tram and then trailing her back here tomorrow, you’ve got another think coming,’ said Mum. ‘Who do you think you are, Mrs Hitler?’
There was a little snort of shocked laughter from the nearest bed.
The nurse flushed. ‘You can’t leave her here. This is the women’s ward, as should be obvious. The children’s wards are in the annexe. You have to go out and round the back. But they won’t admit her, not at this time,’ she said.
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Mum, and she marched us away.
‘What a bossy little madam!’ she muttered. ‘It’s the same old story – give them a uniform and they think they’re it. Well, I’m not letting some jumped-up queen-of-the-bedpans tell me what to do.’
‘Oh Mum. Can’t we come back tomorrow?’
‘No, of course we can’t. I haven’t got enough for the train fare all over ag
ain for a start.’
‘Can’t we just go home, and I’ll rest there, like you said?’ I begged.
‘I can’t leave you there on your own, day after day.’
‘I wouldn’t mind, not a bit.’
‘Somebody’s tongue would wag and they’d end up carting you off to a children’s home. I tell you, it was touch and go when you were little, before we went to live with Nanny.’
‘Mum—’
‘Do shut up. You’re not making this any easier. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault. I didn’t give you this dreaded illness, did I? Blame Nanny, coughing her germs all over you.’
That really did shut me up. I couldn’t bear to blame Nan. We tramped all the way round the side of the big grey building in silence, down a lot of stone steps at the back, and followed a path across the big lawn to a long low modern building with a veranda all the way round.
There was a sign outside:
MILTREE ORTHOPAEDIC HOSPITAL, CHILDREN’S ANNEXE.
BLYTON AND RANSOME WARDS TO THE RIGHT.
STRAIGHT ON FOR POTTER WARD.
TURN LEFT FOR CHRISTIE.
‘Well, which are you, do you think?’ said Mum. ‘I suppose we’d better find someone and ask.’
The door to the annexe was closed. We had to ring the bell. My tummy was churning. Mum rang again, and knocked loudly at the door too.
‘Mum!’ I said in agony. ‘They’ll be cross!’
‘I’m cross, hanging about here in the cold before they’ll deign to let us in. You’ve got a serious illness. It’s not good for you.’ She knocked again – and the door opened at last.
Another nurse stood there, in an even stranger white hat with wings. It looked as if a starched seagull had landed on her head.
‘What on earth do you want?’ she said. Her voice was starched too, cold and crisp.
‘I should have thought it was blooming obvious,’ said Mum fiercely. ‘My poor little Elsie has got TB and we’ve travelled for hours and hours to get here. She’s an urgent case – the doctor says she’s to be hospitalized straight away.’
‘Did he not tell you our admission hours?’ she said.
‘I don’t give a fig about your admission hours,’ said Mum. ‘We got here as soon as we could. Now, will you kindly tuck my little girl up in bed where she belongs. Call yourself a nurse!’
‘I’m not a nurse, I’m the Sister here – and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head,’ she said, but she stood aside and beckoned us in.
There was more green and cream paint, more polished floor. She turned right and we followed. She opened a door into a smaller whitewashed room with a sign saying BLYTON WARD, with two rows of beds.
‘Oh my God,’ said Mum.
I clasped her hand tightly. I almost snapped her fingers off. The children were nearly all buckled into weird pulleys and splints so that they couldn’t move. Two were flat on their backs with their legs held apart in frames. One boy was encased in plaster like a rigid little snowman.
‘What are you doing to them?’ asked Mum.
‘We have to immobilize their affected joints,’ said the Sister.
‘You’re not doing that to my Elsie!’
‘We will proceed as we see fit to make the child better,’ the Sister told her. ‘We shall keep her under observation for a day or two while the doctors assess her. You can visit her on Saturdays and Sundays between two and four. I’m afraid we can’t have any visiting whatsoever at any other time. Now, come with me into my office so we can start your paperwork.’
‘It’s like a torture chamber in here – the poor little mites,’ said Mum, still staring around.
‘Keep your voice down – I don’t want you upsetting my patients!’ said the Sister. ‘Come with me!’
I stumbled along between Mum and the Sister, peering back fearfully at a boy in the middle of the row, trussed up and tied down in a terrifying steel frame. He was lying so still and looked so waxily pale I wondered if he was actually dead, but then he crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at me.
‘Will they strap me down too, Mum?’ I whispered, tugging at her arm.
‘Not if I can help it,’ she said – but she didn’t sound too sure.
I SAT ON Mum’s lap while the Sister filled in all the forms. I looked around all the shelves and worktops in her room, but I couldn’t see a jar of Smarties anywhere. I was trying so hard not to cry that my throat felt as if it were stoppered with cotton wool, so maybe I wouldn’t have been able to swallow one anyway.
‘Elsie Kettle,’ said the Sister, printing pains-takingly. ‘And your full name, Mrs Kettle?’
‘I’m Sheila Alice.’
‘And Mr Kettle?’
‘There isn’t one.’
The Sister sniffed. ‘Can I have the name of Elsie’s father, please?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ said Mum. ‘We don’t have any contact with him.’
‘Nevertheless, I need his full name and address for the sake of our records.’
‘Well, you’ll know more than me if you put his name and address down. I think his name’s Frankie something but I haven’t got a clue where he lives. I met him at a party in Fulham – and never saw him again,’ said Mum.
I was momentarily distracted from my terror. I wriggled on Mum’s lap excitedly. My dad was a man called Frankie! I had asked Mum many times, but she always said I didn’t have a dad. I’d asked Nan too, but even she had just shaken her head, wrinkling her nose and pursing her lips in that Don’t-ask-me-dear expression.
Frankie of Fulham. It wasn’t much to go on. I screwed up my eyes to think as clearly as possible. I was pretty sure I’d never been to Fulham. I wasn’t even certain where it was. The only time I’d heard the name was during the football results on the wireless: Fulham two . . . Fulham one . . . Fulham nil.
Frankie. There was a Frankie in my class at school. Well, he was Francis really, Frances Thorpe, but everyone called him Frankie. I didn’t like him much. He wore such long underpants they hung down an inch below his short trousers, and he frequently picked his nose and then smeared it under his desk. I was always very glad I didn’t have to sit next to him.
I pictured a grown-up version of Frankie, in grey-white underpants, picking his nose. I couldn’t have a dad like that. Mum would never want that sort of a man for a boyfriend. I thought of all my uncles. They’d either been good looking or they’d had lots of money.
I suddenly thought of Frankie Vaughan the singer. Nan had one of his records, and there was a picture of him on the cardboard cover. He was good looking, and he must be rich if he was a famous singer.
Oh, what if I were Frankie Vaughan’s daughter? I wasn’t good looking, I wasn’t dark, and I couldn’t sing, but it suddenly seemed just a slight possibility. Mum was in show business, after all. Maybe she’d been one of Frankie Vaughan’s backing dancers and they’d had a whirlwind romance? And perhaps she wasn’t allowed to tell anyone because he was married, and famous to boot.
‘Stop fidgeting, Elsie! Do you want to go to the lav?’ asked Mum.
I did, but I shook my head quickly, embarrassed. The Sister continued to fill in all the forms, copying now from a letter on her desk.
‘Is that from Doctor Malory?’ said Mum. ‘What does it say?’
‘It’s confidential because it’s a medical document. Please try to be patient, Miss Kettle. I have to do things properly,’ said the Sister.
There was clearly not going to be a courtesy Mrs as far as she was concerned. When she had finished the forms at last, she asked Mum to sign at the bottom.
‘What for? I’m not signing my kid away!’ said Mum.
‘It’s standard procedure. We won’t accept any child here as a patient unless their parent gives us full permission to proceed as we see fit. You want Elsie to get better, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. But she’s my kid, not yours. Just you remember that,’ said Mum – but she signed her name.
‘Ther
e!’ said Sister. Then she looked at me. ‘Say goodbye to Mummy, dear, and then I’ll tuck you up in bed.’
I clutched Mum hard.
‘Now, you’re not going to be a silly girl, are you?’ said the Sister.
I felt I was very silly indeed. The tears started welling in my eyes.
‘Don’t start bawling, Elsie, or I will too,’ said Mum, giving me a quick hard hug and then tipping me off her lap. ‘You be a good girl and I’ll come and visit you on Saturday. All right?’
It was so not all right that I couldn’t even start to protest. My mouth just opened in a silent Oh.
‘Come on, now. Shut that little gob or the flies will get in,’ said Mum, and she tapped me under my chin, kissed my forehead, and stood up.
‘You’d better look after her,’ she said threateningly to Sister, and then ran out of the room.
I could hear her high heels clop-clopping away into the distance. I stuck my knuckle into my mouth, trying to stopper the sobs.
‘Now, now,’ said the Sister, patting me on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get one of my nurses to take care of you. You’ll get along very well, Elsie. All the other children like it here.’
I stared at her as if she were mad. She rang a little bell and a nurse appeared in the doorway as if by magic.
‘This is the little Kettle girl. Her mother’s only just arrived with her – but I suppose it’s better late than never. Take her off and put her to bed please, Nurse.’
‘Certainly, Sister,’ she said. She held out her hand. ‘Come along then, Elsie,’ she wheedled in a loud clear voice, as if I were a little dog. ‘There’s a good girl.’
I didn’t like her any more than the Sister, but I took her hand obediently. She was a tall, lumpy lady with wispy hair and sticking-out ears that didn’t suit her nurse’s cap. She was chewing busily.
The Sister raised her eyebrows.
‘Sorry, Sister,’ said the nurse, swallowing.
I had to trot along beside her.
‘What a time to arrive!’ she said. ‘Right in the middle of my tea break! By the time I get you sorted, all the others will have scoffed the lot, and it’s ginger cake, my favourite.’