Jack puts on the television, the sound turned up extra loud. We both stare at the screen. At least it means we don’t have to talk. I leave most of my pizza. Jack only manages half of his. He snaps open a can of beer, and then another. I sniff, because I know Mum doesn’t like him drinking too much.
‘Can I get you a drink, Ella?’ Jack asks. ‘I think we’ve got some Coke in the fridge. Or juice. What about juice? That’s healthier. Or there’s always milk.’
I shake my head at all his suggestions. I tuck my feet up in my armchair, wrapping my arms round myself.
‘I think it’s getting on for bed time,’ Jack says after a while.
‘Bed time?’ he says.
I hunch up, still ignoring him.
‘Ella?’ says Jack. ‘Come on, you’ve had a very long, exhausting day.’
I get out of my chair and march out of the room without looking at him.
‘Night-night,’ he calls. ‘I’ll come up when you’re in bed.’
‘You don’t need to,’ I say quickly. ‘Goodnight.’
Mum always comes and tucks me up. She keeps me company when I’m cleaning my teeth and washing my face. When I’m in my pyjamas, I hop into bed and she sits beside me. Sometimes she reads to me, all these old-fashioned girly books she liked when she was young: Ballet Shoes, A Little Princess and Little Women. Sometimes she’ll make up a story specially for me. She used to tell me a story about a superhero girl called Ella-Bella who can fly. I’m too old for little Ella-Bella stories now, but sometimes if I’ve got a bad cold or I’m feeling fed up, Mum will make up a brand-new Ella-Bella story for me. I would give anything to have her tell me an Ella-Bella story now.
I go to the bathroom, then get undressed and crawl into bed. I arrange my soft toys around me. I hug Harriet the Hippo to my chest, putting my hand inside her plush jaws. Baby Teddy cuddles up on the other side, his head flopping on my shoulder. They don’t feel right. Mum always tucks them in beside me.
I’m fidgeting about, rearranging them for the fourth time, when Jack knocks and puts his head round the door. ‘Shall I tuck you up?’ he says.
‘No! I said, you don’t need to.’
‘Ella—’
‘I want to go to sleep. I’m tired,’ I say.
‘All right, sweetheart. Night-night then,’ says Jack. ‘If you wake up in the night, you can always come and knock on my door, OK? Try – try not to worry too much.’
I don’t get to sleep until long after I hear Jack go to bed himself. Then I wake up about four o’clock, my heart thumping, so hot my pyjamas are sticking to me. I’ve had the most terrible nightmare. Mum’s had the baby, and then she’s got desperately ill, and now she’s lying in a coma in hospital. I’m still so scared even though it’s just a dream, so I sit up and open my mouth to call for Mum . . .
No, wait. It isn’t a dream at all. It’s really happened. Mum isn’t here. There’s just Jack. I can hear muffled sounds coming from his bedroom. He’s crying.
I pull the covers up over my head, clutch my old toys, and cry too.
Chapter 4
I don’t go to school again on Tuesday. I think, just for a split second, Oh, goody-goody! Because we go swimming on Tuesday mornings, and I feel sick on the coach, and I hate all the noise in the baths, and I can’t swim very well and so I don’t get to splash in the top set with Sally. Then I feel dreadful because I’d sooner swim all day in a shark-infested pool and have Mum wide awake and completely well.
I don’t know what clothes to put on. I don’t know whether to dress up smartly or wear my old jeans. In the end I wear my black and white spotty bridesmaid’s dress to please Mum, even though I think it looks awful, especially now, as I can’t find any clean white socks and so I wear red ones which don’t go with my shoes. I can’t fix my hair either. It needs washing and it just hangs limply, especially my fringe. I’m nearly in tears as I tug at it. I so want to look lovely for Mum. I feel if I can only look like the perfect daughter, she’ll open her eyes to take a proper proud look at me.
Jack isn’t trying at all. He hasn’t even shaved and he’s tugged on the same shirt and jeans he had on yesterday. He looks awful, his hair sticking up, his eyes all red and bleary. I wrinkle my nose at the sight of him.
‘What?’ he says.
‘Nothing.’
He sighs and rubs his hands over his face, then takes a deep breath. ‘OK, what shall we have for breakfast? Toast? Cereal? Bacon and eggs?’
‘I don’t want anything.’
‘You need something inside you, Ella. It’s going to be a long day. Come on, don’t be difficult. I’ll make you anything. Pancakes?’
I stare at him as if he’s mad. ‘Let’s just go to the hospital to see Mum,’ I say.
‘Bowl of cereal first, at the very least,’ he says, but when he takes the carton of milk out of the fridge he peers at it doubtfully, and then sniffs it.
‘Oh God,’ he says, pouring it down the sink. ‘I’ll have to go shopping sometime.’
We have toast instead, nibbling in silence. Then the phone rings just as we’re about to go. It’s the head teacher at Garton Road, Mum and Jack’s school.
‘Look, I told you, I can’t possibly come in, not when Sue’s so seriously ill. What? Look, I can’t help it if they’ve both got gastroenteritis. I couldn’t give a stuff if the entire staff are throwing up all over the school. I can’t come in and teach because Sue’s in a coma, hanging onto life by a thread—’ He sees me staring and says quickly, ‘I’ve got to go now.’
Is Mum really hanging onto life by a thread? I imagine a long white thread tied round her ankle, tethering her to the bed, while she rises up and up and up . . .
‘I didn’t really mean that! I just needed to get my point across,’ Jack says. ‘Come on, Ella.’
We drive to the hospital again and walk down the long corridors. I hope and hope and hope that Mum will be just a little bit better – but she’s still lying there, eyes closed. I shout, ‘Mum!’ right in her ear but she doesn’t stir.
‘No, no, dear, don’t, you’ll hurt Mummy,’ says a new nurse crossly.
I shrink back, horrified.
‘She was just trying to rouse her. She didn’t mean any harm,’ says Jack. ‘She’s very close to her mother.’
The new nurse sniffs. Her blonde hair is pulled very tightly into a bun, and the elasticated belt round her waist is at full stretch. She looks as if she could explode in all directions at any time.
‘She shouldn’t be in here then, it’s too upsetting for a little girl,’ she snaps. ‘Small children aren’t supposed to be running about these wards.’
Yet later they bring a very, very small child to Mum: the baby. The young lady doctor with long dark hair carries him into the room.
‘Hello, remember me? I’m Dr Wilmot,’ she says. ‘I thought it would be good for Susan to have her baby with her for a while – and good for him too.’ She rocks him gently, stroking his little wisps of hair.
‘I keep forgetting he’s so tiny,’ Jack says, his face screwing up. ‘It must be awful for him. All the other babies have their mothers.’
‘He’s still got a mother. I think he needs a little cuddle with her right now,’ says Dr Wilmot. ‘You hold him for me for a moment.’
She hands the baby to Jack and then bends over Mum and starts untying her nightie. I draw in my breath.
‘I think Mum would like to cuddle up really close with the baby,’ Dr Wilmot says to me. ‘I’m sure she used to cuddle you like this when you were tiny.’
She takes the baby from Jack, unwraps his shawl and takes off his little nightgown too, so he’s just in his nappy. He cries a bit, waving his legs about. They’re so small, but he’s quite strong, kicking his funny little feet. It’s just the way he kicked when he was inside Mum’s tummy. He’s not really a little stranger – we’ve known him for months and months. We just couldn’t see him.
Dr Wilmot lays him down very gently on Mum’s bare chest, his head between her breasts. He
gives a little snuffle, almost like a sigh, and then lies still, nestling in.
‘There! He’s a happy little chap now,’ Dr Wilmot whispers, but she’s looking at Mum. We’re all looking at Mum. I clench my fists, praying for a miracle. She’ll open her eyes and clasp the baby close . . . Her eyes stay shut. Her arms are still. She doesn’t move at all, apart from breathing in and out, her chest rising and falling underneath the baby. He stays curled up there, his eyes shut too.
I wish Jack and Dr Wilmot and the grumpy nurse could vanish. I want to climb up on Mum’s bed and curl up with them too.
Dr Wilmot puts her arm around me. I lean against her, sucking my thumb.
‘Has he got a name yet, your little brother?’ she asks.
‘We thought we might call him Georgie – or Harry – or maybe Will,’ says Jack. ‘Something quite plain and simple.’
‘No! He’s going to be called Samson,’ I say. ‘Mum said.’
They stare at me.
‘Samson?’ Jack echoes, looking astonished. ‘Your mum didn’t say anything about calling him Samson!’
‘She did, when he was kicking inside her. She said he was big and strong, like Samson.’
‘Oh, I see! Like the strong Samson in the Bible. But she was joking, Ella,’ says Jack.
‘No, she wasn’t! I was there, you weren’t. She wants him to be Samson, Jack, truly.’
‘Well, let’s think about it. We don’t have to name the baby just yet.’
‘But he can still be Samson, can’t he?’
‘Perhaps he could have Samson as a middle name?’ Dr Wilmot suggests.
‘Mum chose Samson for his first name, she really did, honestly. Mum and I think it’s a brilliant name,’ I say. ‘Samson. That’s his name.’
‘But it’s not up to you, missy,’ says the grumpy nurse. ‘It’s Mummy and Daddy who choose their baby’s name. And your mummy can’t say what she wants at the moment so Daddy has to choose, not you.’
It feels as if she’s kicking me in the stomach. I can’t even argue. Jack’s not my daddy and I can tell everyone that – but he is the baby’s dad, that’s a fact.
I swallow and don’t say anything.
The grumpy nurse nods as if to say, That’s settled her hash.
Jack’s looking at me too. He waits until the nurse is out of the room and Dr Wilmot is carrying Samson-Georgie-Harry-Will back to the nursery for a change and a feed.
‘Hey, Ella?’
I still don’t say anything. I sit beside Mum, tying up her nightie, smoothing her hair.
‘How about Sam? It’s like it’s short for Samson. Will that do?’
I nod very slowly, though I still don’t look at him. I’m angry with him now because he’s trying to be kind. I don’t want him to be nice to me. We’re supposed to be deadly enemies. It’s horrible having to spend so much time with him. Minute after minute, hour after hour, throughout the whole day.
‘You don’t have to sit here all the time,’ says Dr Wilmot when she comes back. ‘Why don’t you take Ella for a bit of a walk, stretch her legs. There’s a park at the end of the road.’
We both twitch.
‘We’d sooner stay here,’ says Jack.
Dr Wilmot pauses. ‘Look, as far as I can see, Sue’s stable now. She’s deeply unconscious but she’s breathing by herself, which is great. She’ll be fine. We’re all keeping an eye on her.’
I know what she means. She’s saying, Don’t worry, Mum won’t die if you go off to the park. That’s why we’re here all the time. We’re so scared she’s going to die, every second is precious.
‘Do you want to come and find this park, Ella?’ says Jack.
I shake my head. He doesn’t try to persuade me. We sit it out. Some of the teachers from Garton Road come after school. They’re not allowed to see Mum but they stand in the corridor with Jack. They all hug him, even the men. One of the women starts crying. They’ve brought all sorts of presents – flowers and baby things and bottles of wine. Mum can’t drink wine. I suppose they’re presents for Jack.
It’s not fair – Jack can see all his stupid old teacher friends but I can’t see my best friend, Sally. I feel a huge pang. I suddenly miss Sally so much. I only saw her on Friday but already it seems like years ago.
When Jack and I go home eventually, I say I want to ring Sally.
‘Isn’t it a bit late? Won’t she have gone to bed by now?’
I think he’s maybe right, but I take no notice. ‘Sally stays up ever so late, ten, eleven o’clock, even later,’ I lie.
‘Well, finish your sweet and sour pork first,’ says Jack. ‘It’ll be horrid if you let it get cold.’
I think it’s horrid anyway. We got the Chinese takeaway on the way home. It’s supposed to be a treat.
‘Please let me phone Sally now,’ I whine.
Jack sighs and says OK, if I really want to. He keeps giving in to me now Mum’s ill. It feels so weird. He used to be strict, always ticking me off and bossing me about, telling Mum she let me get away with murder – and then, when I sulked, he’d crack silly jokes and expect me to laugh along with him. It would be bad enough having Jack for a teacher. It’s absolutely awful to have him as a stepdad.
I hate it when he’s mean to me, but I think I hate it even more when he’s kind. It makes me feel as if I’ve been turned inside out. I need to be twice as mean back to him to try to make it seem normal.
He’s giving me this understanding, encouraging smile as he sits there on the sofa. I don’t give him even the merest glimmer of a smile back. I shut the living-room door on him, making it plain I want a bit of privacy.
I dial Sally’s number on the phone in the hall and then stand waiting, heart thumping.
It’s Sally’s mum. I find my eyes filling with tears. Sally’s soft blonde mum who puts yoghurt raisins in her packed lunches and gives her chocolate cookies when she comes home from school, and still reads her bedtime stories – Sally’s mum, who’s almost as lovely as my mum.
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ she says.
‘It’s me, Ella,’ I whisper.
‘Oh goodness, Ella! You’re phoning very late, sweetheart. Sally’s already upstairs in bed. Has Mum had the baby yet?’
‘Mm.’
‘Oh, wonderful! Is it a little girl or a little boy?’
‘A boy.’
‘What’s he going to be called?’
‘Samson.’
‘Oh, that’s a very special name. So, is Mum back from the hospital yet?’
I swallow painfully. ‘Not yet. Please may I speak to Sally, Mrs Edwards?’
‘Well, I’ll go and see if she’s still awake. Won’t be a moment, pet.’
I wait, rubbing my eyes, standing on one foot and then the other. ‘Please please please let Sally come to the phone,’ I whisper, over and over.
‘Hello?’ she says sleepily.
And then I don’t know what to say to her.
‘Hello? Ella, are you still there? What are you playing at?’
‘I’m here. Hello, Sally,’ I say in a tiny voice.
‘What? I can hardly hear you! Why haven’t you been at school? I’ve phoned you twice but you weren’t there. It’s been horrid without you. I haven’t had anyone to go round with at play time. I ended up playing Piggy-in-the-Middle with Dory and Martha. Dory’s OK, she’s quite good fun. Remember when she brought that mouse to school in her pocket? But I can’t stick Martha – she’s always showing off. Ella? Are you ill?’
‘No,’ I say, though I realize I’ve been feeling ill for days. My head hurts and I feel sick and my tummy’s tight all the time.
I can hear Sally’s mother talking in the background.
‘Oh, Mum says your mum’s had her baby!’
‘Yes.’
‘You lucky thing! I’d give anything for a baby brother or sister. I think babies are so cute.’
‘You’ve got Benjy.’
‘Yuck, he doesn’t count, and he’s not a baby, he’s more like an animal
. Is your baby a boy too? Watch out he doesn’t grow up like our Benjy, he’s enough to drive you mental. Did I tell you he broke my pen the other day? You know, my real fountain pen. He stabbed me with it and bent the nib in two.’ She pauses. ‘Ella? What’s your baby like then? Are you allowed to feed it and dress it and all that?’
‘Well, I suppose so. When he comes home.’
‘Is he still in hospital then?’
I hear Mrs Edwards muttering again.
‘Is he . . . all right?’ says Sally.
‘Yes. Yes, he is. He’s fine,’ I say. I feel the tears spilling down my cheeks. ‘It’s my mum.’
‘What do you mean, your mum?’
‘She isn’t all right. She’s had something go wrong inside her head. She’s gone to sleep and she won’t wake up,’ I whisper.
‘You mean she’s dead?’ says Sally.
Her mother exclaims and snatches the phone. ‘Oh, Ella, sweetheart, how awful!’ she says, sounding truly shocked.
‘Mum’s not dead, but – but she’s in this coma thing.’ I’m crying so hard now I can barely talk.
‘Let me speak to your dad, dear,’ says Mrs Edwards.
‘He’s not my dad, he’s my stepdad,’ I gabble, and then go running for Jack.
He stays on the phone to Mrs Edwards for ages. It’s not fair. I wanted to have a proper talk with Sally. I wanted her to tell me how sorry she was and how she’d give anything to make it up to me. I needed her to tell me she’d be my best friend for ever, no matter what. I wanted her to say all those things but she didn’t get a chance – and then Jack hangs up the phone before I even get to say goodbye to her.
‘I didn’t get to talk to her properly,’ I sob.
‘I know. But it’s getting really late now. And I think you should go to school tomorrow, so you can see her there and catch up with everything,’ says Jack. He flops down wearily on the sofa and opens a can of beer. He’s hardly touched his Chinese either.
‘I can’t go to school, not when Mum’s ill,’ I say, outraged.
‘Ella, it looks like Mum might be ill for a long time,’ says Jack. ‘You can’t stay off school week after week. And neither can I. I’ve got to go back soon too.’