‘We could also do a chapter on the history of whales. And whales in captivity. And all sorts of typical whale behaviour – hunting and feeding together, like we saw in that film on television.’
Just for a moment I wonder if I mind Joseph taking over like this. It’s becoming very much a joint project now. But it will only have one illustrator. I’m very glad Joseph isn’t so great at drawing.
We work happily until Joseph’s mum calls us for tea. She’s set it all out on the big wooden table in their kitchen: macaroni cheese, salad, fruit jelly and chocolate fudge, just as Joseph promised. Mrs Antscherl gives us great big helpings, but only serves herself a small portion of salad. But later, as we’re chatting, she absent-mindedly helps herself to the macaroni cheese left in the serving dish – and then pops several chocolate fudges into her mouth, one after another. She sees me looking.
‘I know, I know! I’m rubbish at sticking to my diet. It’s so unfair, Ella. Joseph and his dad eat humungously and stay as thin as pins, and I pile on the pounds just looking at fudge.’ She laughs and pops another chunk in her mouth. ‘And eating it.’
‘My mum’s the same,’ I say. ‘Well, she was. She can’t really eat properly now. She has a feeding tube.’
Mrs Antscherl reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze. ‘It must be so sad and worrying for you. Joseph’s told me all about it. Your mum’s still in a coma?’
‘Yes, but she will get better one day,’ I say quickly.
‘I do hope so,’ says Mrs Antscherl.
‘I’d quite like to be a doctor when I grow up,’ says Joseph. ‘Or a surgeon – one who does terribly tricky and delicate operations on people’s brains to make them function properly. Or maybe I could be a research scientist and find out why some people’s brains don’t work.’
‘What do you want to do when you grow up, Ella?’
‘Mm, I don’t know. I like drawing so maybe I could be an illustrator.’
‘I think you should be a marine biologist,’ says Joseph.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a person who knows about everything in all the oceans. So you could research whales. Mum, Ella and I are working on a new whale project together, seeing as her old one got partially destroyed.’
‘Oh dear. How did that happen?’
‘I had an argument with another girl at after-school club,’ I say. ‘It’s so lovely today – I don’t have to go because I’m having tea here.’
‘Well, perhaps you can come here on a regular basis. I’ll have a word with your dad when he comes to collect you,’ says Mrs Antscherl.
‘Are you serious? I wasn’t hinting or anything,’ I say (though perhaps I was, just a little bit).
‘I know. But it would be a big treat for Joseph to have someone to chat to, especially when I’m busy marking.’
‘Oh yes!’ says Joseph.
‘Are you a teacher, then? My mum was always doing marking. And my stepdad.’
‘I teach students part-time, so I have to mark great long essays.’
‘I bet they’re not as long as Ella’s original whale project, Mum. It was fifty-eight pages, and even I haven’t written anything that long.’
‘It wasn’t all writing though. There were lots of drawings,’ I say modestly.
‘Yes, Ella’s fabulous at drawing. She’s illustrating our new whale project – and she’s done all the pictures for our Tudor project at school. She’s especially good at drawing people in Tudor costumes.’
‘But I like drawing whales best,’ I say.
‘After tea I’d simply love to have a look at this famous project,’ says Mrs Antscherl.
We eat until there’s nothing left, not even one square of fudge, and then we all go down to the basement together. Mrs Antscherl sits cross-legged on the floor just like a child and we show her the newly assembled project. She looks at it at length in a very satisfying manner, taking her time, commenting on each and every picture, reading quite a lot of the words. She pauses when she comes to the section on humpback whales.
‘Ah, whale song! It says here that one humpback was recorded singing nonstop for twenty-two hours!’
‘Yes, that’s my absolute favourite fact. I don’t know what it actually sounds like though, whale song. I know it’s not like our singing.’
‘No, it’s very strange, but very magical and soothing.’
‘You’ve heard it?’
‘Yes. In fact I used to have a CD of whale song when I did relaxation classes before Joseph was born. I’ll go and see if I can find it.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ I say, so thrilled my voice has gone all husky.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ Joseph says gently. ‘We’ve got so much stuff in our house we often lose things for years.’
But Mrs Antscherl comes running back into the room, triumphantly waving a CD. ‘Here we are!’
She inserts it into a little CD player on the desk. There’s a pause, and then the strangest, oddest musical sound starts, low and eerie and rhythmic, utterly unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. I listen, transfixed, trying to work out whether there’s a pattern to the singing. Birds sing the same song over and over, but whales sing differently – and yet it doesn’t sound as if it’s random notes. Sometimes there are great soulful bellows, sometimes soft murmurs, as the whale sings earnestly, with great purpose. There’s obviously a mysterious meaning to his song.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Mrs Antscherl whispers.
‘It’s wonderful!’ I say.
She looks at Joseph. ‘Do you mind if we give the CD to Ella, chum?’
‘I think that’s a lovely idea, Mum!’
‘Oh no – I couldn’t possibly – but I’d absolutely love it!’ I burble.
Chapter 16
I play the CD all the time at home.
‘For pity’s sake,’ says Jack. ‘I already have to put up with the baby crying and the guinea pig squeaking. Do I really have to listen to your pet whales burbling and burping all night long?’
‘Yes you do!’ I say. ‘I want to play it to Mum too. I’m sure she’ll find it so soothing. Mrs Antscherl actually used it for her relaxation class, she said, so I know Mum would find it relaxing too. She needs to blot out all those horrid hospital sounds, the squeaking trolleys and the rattling cups and the click and hum of all the machines. Can we take our CD player into the hospital?’
‘I suppose we can try,’ says Jack. ‘Though I’m not sure there’s anywhere to plug it in.’
It turns out we don’t need to try to lug it to the hospital. When we go round to Liz’s on Saturday evening, she’s got more presents for us. (We’ve got presents for her too. Jack’s brought her a bottle of wine and I’ve drawn her a special card of very fashionable ladies with high heels and big handbags. Samson’s given her a present as well: a little photo of himself wearing his spouting-whale suit, looking so cute.)
Liz has bought us more food – and a special new present for Mum. ‘You unwrap it, Ella,’ she says.
It’s a little light rectangle in a bag.
‘Oh, Liz, an iPod!’ I say.
‘Wow! A very upmarket, state-of-the-art, expensive iPod!’ says Jack.
‘I thought you could plug it in for Sue – and if she is awake at all, it will help to pass the time. It must be so boring for her, just stuck lying there in that awful hospital. You don’t think it’s too crazy an idea then?’
‘It’s a wonderful idea, Aunty Liz! Mum will love it!’ I say.
‘You two can take it back home and download all Sue’s favourite tunes on it.’
‘We could download my whale music!’ I squeak. ‘That would soothe her. Oh please, let’s do the whale music!’
‘You’re a funny kid, Ella,’ says Liz, laughing at me. ‘Whale music?’
‘It’s so kind and thoughtful of you, Liz. You’re a great friend,’ says Jack, raising his wine glass to her. ‘Why don’t you come and visit Sue tomorrow? Then you can give her the iPod yourself.’
?
??I’d like to – but I just can’t bear it. I’ve got as far as the hospital car park twice and then chickened out,’ says Liz. ‘You two are valiant, trekking all the way there every day, with the baby too.’
‘Mum might be coming home soon,’ I say.
‘What? You don’t mean she’s come out of the coma?’ Liz gasps.
‘No, no, it’s just the hospital seem to have written her off,’ Jack says bitterly. ‘They’re suggesting I move her to some kind of institution – but we’re not going to do that, are we, Ella? Mum’s coming home with us. But we’ve got to have the house adapted, with a special bed and a hoist.’
‘Oh, Jack,’ says Liz. ‘Does that mean you’ll have to give up work?’
‘That’s fine. We’ll manage,’ says Jack, but his voice cracks.
He gets up to go to Liz’s bathroom. I think he’s gone to have a little private cry. Samson starts crying too. We’ve given him his bottle but he knows he’s not in his own house and he can’t settle down to sleep.
‘Oh dear, poor baby,’ says Liz. She takes a deep breath and then plunges her hands into his carry-cot and plucks him out. She holds him very gingerly, almost at arm’s length. Samson drools unhappily. He doesn’t feel at all safe.
‘Snuggle him against you, Aunty Liz,’ I say.
Liz looks down at her cream silk blouse.
‘Here,’ I say, and I take Samson and hold him close, his head peeping over my shoulder. ‘There now, let’s stop that silly crying,’ I say, and start walking him around the room, showing him all Liz’s ornaments and photos.
‘You’re very good with him, Ella,’ says Liz. ‘Your mum would be so proud of you.’ She sounds as if she might start crying herself.
I pause at a photo on the mantlepiece. It’s Mum and Liz when they were younger, with their arms round each other. They’re wearing very thick make-up, their smiling mouths almost black in the photo. They’re wearing worryingly short skirts and fishnet stockings and very high heels.
‘Did you and Mum used to go out like that?’ I ask, astonished.
‘What? Oh, that was some silly tarts and tramps dance. My God, look at the state of us!’
I stare at Mum in the photo. She’s pulling a silly face, sticking out her tongue. It seems so strange to see her clowning around like that. I’m so used to seeing her face blank and still, just like a mask. It really scares me. Mum has only been in a coma for a couple of weeks and yet that’s the way I think of her now, as if she’s always been lying immobile, like Snow White in her glass coffin.
Is that the only way little Samson will think of her? No, because I’ll tell him all about her and what she’s really like. Perhaps I can make him a Mum project, with pages and pages of descriptions: Mum running along the beach building sandcastles, whirling me round and round; Mum racing me down the road; Mum pushing me on the swings; Mum mock-wrestling with me in bed on Sunday mornings and then cuddling me close and telling me a story.
It’s very late when we get home from Liz’s, but Jack lets me play my whale CD very softly while he feeds Samson again and I get ready for bed. It’s the same CD, the same whales, but they sound different now, faraway and so sad, their song a mournful lament. I cry as I listen. Perhaps it will be too sad for Mum? I worry about it until Jack knocks on my door and puts his head round.
‘Samson’s gone out like a light,’ he whispers. ‘Are you and your whales settling down too?’
‘Yes,’ I say from under the duvet.
‘Ella.’ He comes nearer. ‘Oh, Ella.’ He sits down on the side of the bed. I nestle against him and he strokes my hair. ‘It’s sometimes good to cry,’ he whispers.
‘I’m worrying that the whale music is too sad for Mum,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to make her cry.’
‘Perhaps it will good for her too,’ says Jack. ‘I’ll put it on her iPod in the morning and we’ll see how she reacts. You try to go to sleep now. Night-night.’
‘Night, Jack,’ I say.
He kisses the bit of my head peeping out from under the duvet. I don’t move – but I make a kissing noise back at him.
After breakfast on Sunday he sits at his computer with the iPod, frowning and muttering – Jack’s not very good at technology – but thank goodness he works out how to download the whale song at last.
‘Shall we put some of Mum’s other favourites on too? Do you think she’d like some Take That? Or what about the Mamma Mia songs? She always loved singing along to them.’
‘It’ll be a bit muddly if it’s all jumbled up together. Shall we try just the whales first and see if she likes them?’
We go to the hospital first thing after lunch. It’s crowded out with visitors carrying bunches of flowers and baskets of fruit, bottles of squash and chocolates, magazines and books. It’s always so hard knowing we can’t bring Mum anything to eat or drink, not even anything to look at – but this time we have the iPod of whale music with us.
Mum is lying quietly on her back. Her hair is looking pretty, very shiny, spread out across her pillow. One of the nurses must have washed it this morning.
‘How’s my lovely girl today?’ Jack whispers, kissing Mum’s cheek. ‘Ella’s got a special surprise for you.’
I take the iPod, lay it beside Mum on the pillow, press the button and insert the earphones very gently into her ears. She gives a little start at my touch – and then sighs.
‘Oh, Jack! Did you see, did you hear?’ I gabble.
‘Yes! Yes, she moved. Just a little bit, but she moved – and she sighed too.’
‘She likes my whale song, she really likes it! We’ll play it for her every day, and we’ll ask Niamh and all the nicer nurses to play it for her too when they’re on duty. Mum can have her own love song playing in her head all the time,’ I say.
So we plug it in for her every time we visit – and every single time she starts and sighs. When we next see Dr Wilmot, Jack excitedly shows her the way Mum reacts.
‘Look at her! You saw that, didn’t you? You tell that Dr Clegg!’
‘Yes, I do think Sue moved a little,’ Dr Wilmot says gently.
‘Aren’t you going to write it down on her chart?’
‘Perhaps – perhaps it was just a little involuntary reaction to the headphones?’ Dr Wilmot suggests.
‘No, it wasn’t! It was deliberate. And she sighed too. She does that every time. Isn’t that proof that she’s becoming aware of things?’ says Jack.
‘She likes listening to the whales, I know she does,’ I say.
Dr Wilmot nods and smiles, but we can see she doesn’t believe us. When she’s finished checking up on Mum and goes away down the ward, Jack and I sit on either side of the bed, holding Mum’s hands, whispering our own love songs to her.
The next day we come in the evening, bringing Samson in his carrycot. Mum lies quietly, her eyes shut, her mouth slightly open, very very still. The iPod is on her bedside locker, its wire dangling.
‘I wish they’d leave it plugged in,’ I say. ‘I want Mum to be listening all the time we’re not here. I wonder if she’s listened for twenty-two hours yet: Mum, listen.’ I sit very close to her, my mouth by her ear. ‘Did I ever tell you the longest recorded whale love song lasted twenty-two hours?’
‘I think you have told her, Ella. You’ve certainly told everyone else,’ says Jack. ‘You and your whales!’
‘Jack’s always teasing me, Mum. But I shall ignore him,’ I say loftily. ‘Have you had a good day? Joseph and Toby and I handed in our Tudor food project today, and Miss Anderson said it looked incredible. Her exact words. Sally and Dory and Martha aren’t anywhere near finished their costume project, and none of them can draw for toffee, so their project doesn’t look very good at all. Sally asked if I could maybe draw them some of the court costumes, and so I started drawing a lady-in-waiting, putting in lots of little embroidered details, and Sally and Dory were saying how good it was, but then Martha nudged me hard and I got scribble all over the lady-in-waiting’s sleeves. Typical Martha. But I just
sighed at her. She can’t seem to help being spiteful sometimes.
‘Then Joseph’s mum came and collected us from school, and Joseph and I made fudge together, which was such fun and it tastes brilliant. I wish you could have a tiny little taste yourself. I’d rub some against your lips but I’m scared it might choke you. I ate lots, and so did Joseph and Joseph’s mum – but I kept some back and put it in a little paper bag and tied it with a ribbon, and then, when Jack came back to collect me, I gave it to Aunty Mavis. She’s always giving me lovely treats to eat so I thought it would be nice to give her something in return. She had a piece of fudge, and gave a tiny bit to Lily and Meggie, and they thought it was lovely too. Aunty Mavis even asked me for the recipe!
‘So it’s been a good day so far for me, Mum. How about you making it a very very very special day? I’ll plug in your whale music and you move a little bit more, sigh really deeply, and then we’ll know you’re listening. Will you do that for me, Mum?’ I say it every time.
‘Show them, Sue. Wake up properly and show them, sweetheart. We know you’re still our Sue, and we love you so. I need you, Ella needs you, and our little Sam especially needs his mum,’ Jack whispers. He says this every time.
Samson murmurs in his cot, as if he’s talking to Mum too.
I start my whales singing and put the earphones into Mum’s ears. She moves. She jerks her head. She sighs – not softly. A real irritable sigh – the sigh she used to make if I’d done something silly, when she’d put her hands on her hips and roll her eyes.
‘No more moany whales!’ she mumbles.
We stare at her. Jack clutches my hand.
‘Oh, Mum!’ I whisper, my throat dry. ‘Oh, Mum, you spoke!’
She speaks. She opens her beautiful blue eyes and looks at us. I put my face close, my nose touching Mum’s. I cry, and a tear runs down Mum’s cheek too. Jack kisses her, and her lips pucker as she tries to kiss him back. Samson lies in the crook of her arm and her fingers move to stroke him.
‘I’m so very happy for you,’ says Dr Wilmot, and she cries too.