‘Dr Wilmot says we can visit Mum any time, if we’re family.’
‘But I’m not family. Not any more.’
‘Yes, you are! You’re my dad. Of course you’re family.’
Dad parks the car and we go into the main hospital entrance. He peers around, looking bewildered. ‘Perhaps we’d better go to the reception desk.’
‘No, I know the way.’
I take Dad’s hand. It’s surprisingly sweaty.
‘It’s all right, Dad,’ I say. ‘I know some people get all freaked out in hospitals. Aunty Liz hated coming.’
‘Oh, Liz! I’d forgotten all about her,’ says Dad. ‘I don’t think she liked me very much.’
‘Well, I don’t like her much,’ I say.
I lead Dad down all the corridors. My own hand’s starting to get sweaty now. My tummy’s churning. I start whispering, ‘Oh, Mum, oh, Mum, oh, Mum.’
‘What’s that you’re saying?’ Dad asks.
‘Nothing.’
I say it silently instead. And then we’re in the right ward, and there’s Mum’s bed, and Dr Wilmot is bending over her, listening to her chest with a stethoscope.
She smiles when she sees me. She’s still smiling when she looks at Dad – and then blinks in surprise. ‘Hello, Ella. And . . . ?’
‘This is my dad, Dr Wilmot, my real dad.’
‘Mike Lakeland,’ says Dad, shaking her hand. ‘I’m Ella’s father. Sue and I used to be married.’
‘But not any more? You’re not still Sue’s next of kin?’
‘Oh no, no. That’ll be her new chap, Jack. No, I’m just here because Ella wanted to see her mum.’
‘Of course,’ says Dr Wilmot. She takes hold of one of Mum’s hands and strokes it lightly. ‘You’ve got two visitors to see you, Sue.’
Mum doesn’t stir. Dr Wilmot walks away, waving goodbye to me.
‘Mum, Mum, it’s Dad. He’s come specially to see you,’ I say, leaning down and rubbing my cheek against Mum’s. I look up at Dad. ‘Come and talk to her, Dad!’
Dad’s looking so strange, standing stiffly, as if his smart suit is made of cardboard.
‘Dad?’
He clears his throat. ‘Hello, Sue,’ he says, as if he’s meeting a stranger. ‘How are you doing?’
Mum breathes in and out, not taking any notice at all.
‘Mum,’ I say, giving her shoulder a little shake. ‘Open your eyes, Mum. It’s Dad.’
‘Don’t, Ella! You’ll hurt her,’ says Dad.
‘I wouldn’t hurt Mum!’ I say. ‘Oh, Dad, please, come and talk close up to her ear – and then try giving her a kiss.’
‘A kiss?’ says Dad.
‘Like in the fairy stories,’ I say, blushing because I know it sounds silly. But I don’t care if I sound like a stupid baby, I have to try. Dad might just make Mum better – he said he would.
‘Mum, Mum!’
‘Ella, leave your mum alone. She can’t hear you.’
‘Yes, she can. Dr Wilmot says – all the nurses say too – patients in comas can hear you, and one day they’ll wake up. Couldn’t you just try kissing her, Dad?’
Dad steps forward, bends awkwardly and kisses the air above Mum’s cheek. ‘There.’
Mum doesn’t stir.
‘You didn’t kiss her properly. You didn’t even touch her.’
‘Ella. You’re being silly. Let’s leave your poor mum in peace.’
Dad starts walking away.
‘But we’ve only just got here!’
He carries on walking.
‘Oh, Mum, I’m sorry,’ I whisper into her ear. ‘I’ll see if I can make him come back. I love you so. You look lovely here, just like Sleeping Beauty.’ I comb her hair with my fingers. I can smell soap and some sort of mouthwash: the nurses clean her gently every day. She doesn’t look or smell scary at all, so why why why couldn’t Dad kiss her properly?
I run after him. His face is very red.
‘Dad?’
He’s struggling. ‘She was always so lively, full of fun, tossing her hair around—’
‘We can go back and talk to her. Perhaps you can talk about the old days when we all lived together. I think she’d like that.’
‘Ella, there’s no point,’ Dad says sharply.
‘She will wake up soon, I know she will. You said she’ll get better.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t realize. Come on.’
I stop suddenly, remembering. ‘Do you want to see my little brother?’
‘What? Oh, the baby!’
‘I know the way to the nursery. Come and have a look.’
I take him along the corridors until we get to the nursery. A new nurse looks at us enquiringly.
‘No visitors just now, not in here,’ she says.
‘Oh please, can’t I just show my dad my little brother, Samson Winters?’
‘Baby Winters? The one whose mother’s . . . ? Oh. Well, just a peep.’
‘It’s all right, nurse, we’ll leave the babies sleeping,’ Dad says quickly.
‘Well, we can see through the window. That’s Samson there, in the corner. Oh, I think he’s crying! He’s missing Mum. We have to go to him.’
‘He’ll just be hungry. All babies cry, Ella.’
‘Did I cry?’
‘Lots.’
‘Did I look like Samson when I was little?’
‘All babies look the same. Small and wrinkly.’
‘Did you ever feed me, Dad?’
‘Yes, of course. Once or twice.’
‘Jack feeds Samson sometimes. I can too, if I want.’
Dad sighs. ‘You don’t want to feed him now, do you? Come on, that nice nurse will look after him. Let’s go and feed ourselves.’
We go back down the long corridors. I feel I’ve been trailing up and down them for ever.
‘No, Ella,’ says Dad as I try to turn down Mum’s corridor. ‘This is the way out.’
‘But we’re going back to Mum, aren’t we?’
‘No, we’re going for our meal out in the country.’
‘But we have to say goodbye to Mum!’
Dad sighs again. ‘Ella, she can’t hear us.’
‘She can, I told you.’
‘For goodness’ sake, will you stop arguing!’
I don’t say another word all the way out of the hospital and into the car. After five minutes’ driving Dad says, ‘Are you sulking?’
I shake my head, tears starting to spill out of my eyes.
‘Yes, you are! Come on, cheer up. You can’t expect to get your own way all the time,’ Dad says, and he reaches over and pats my knee.
I sniff.
‘You’re not crying, are you?’
‘I just – I so hoped – I thought you’d make Mum better. You said—’ I howl.
‘Ella, I hadn’t realized just how ill your mum is.’
‘But she is still going to get better, isn’t she?’
‘Well – I’m sure the doctors and nurses are doing all they can.’
Dad puts on the car radio, fiddling through the stations until he finds some pop music. ‘There! Shall we have a little sing-song?’
The last thing in the world I want to do is sing, but I’m scared Dad is starting to dislike me. I need to try to please him, so I sing, and he sings along too. He’s got a lovely voice, he’s singing really properly. Jack just mucks around and plays air guitar and acts like a fool when he sings. I look at my dad’s profile as he drives. He’s really good-looking. No wonder Mum fell in love with him. I wonder why they had to fall out of love.
‘Dad, can I ask you something?’
‘Mm?’ he says cautiously.
‘Why did you and Mum split up?’
‘What has your mother told you?’
‘Mum says you both decided to go your separate ways.’
‘Well, that’s exactly it.’
‘But did you just stop loving each other?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Did you stop loving me?’
br /> ‘No!’
Then why did you go off and leave me? But I can’t say it out loud. There’s something else I can’t say. The name Tina echoes in my head. Tina-Tina-Tina, like a terrible two-note song in my brain.
I’m starting to feel sick. I’m never very good at long car journeys. I think with horror about having to beg Dad to stop the car. I imagine throwing up in the gutter, with Dad looking and hearing and smelling. I close my eyes and keep very, very still, willing my cornflakes to stay in my stomach.
‘Look at the hills, Ella! Don’t fall asleep on me!’
I peer blearily at the hills, holding my breath as we go up them and down them – and then at last, just as I think I really am going to have to tell Dad, he draws up at a pub called the Grey Goose. I stagger out and take deep breaths, feeling terribly wobbly.
‘You OK?’
I give him a queasy smile and follow him into the pub. He must come here quite a lot because the man and lady behind the bar call him by his name, and then stare at me curiously.
‘This is my daughter, Ella,’ he says.
They look at me in surprise and make a fuss of me. I still feel so sick, I don’t say much when they ask me questions.
‘She’s going through a traumatic time at the moment, poor kid. Her mother’s very ill,’ Dad says.
They fuss even more. The lady gives Dad a glass of red wine and me a pink sparkly drink with lots of cherries bobbing on the top. It tastes so sweet and fizzy that my stomach lurches and I have to rush to the toilet. I’m a little bit sick, and then sit shivering on the lavatory for a while, wondering what on earth I’m doing there. I don’t want Dad. I don’t want Jack. I just want Mum. I want her to open her eyes and see what’s going on. I want her to pull out all her scary tubes. I want her to climb out of her bed and put on her own clothes. I want her to get in our old car and come and find me. I want her to put her arms round me and hold me tight and never let me go.
There’s a tapping at my cubicle. ‘Are you all right in there, dear?’
It’s Margie, the lady behind the bar. Dad must have sent her. I dry my eyes quickly with loo paper and then emerge sheepishly.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ What else can I say?
I wash my hands and splash my face with cold water and start to feel a little better. I still don’t like the pink drink very much, and I don’t like lunch either. I ask for sausages, but when they come they don’t look like proper sausages at all, they’re all coiled round and round like little snakes. I just nibble at one end and eat my mash, though that doesn’t taste right either – it’s got something weird and herby all the way through it.
‘Eat up, Ella,’ says Dad. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s lovely,’ I fib. ‘I’m just not very hungry, thank you.’
‘Ah, bless,’ says Margie. ‘Don’t you worry, pet. It’s only natural you haven’t got much appetite, given the circumstances.’
Dad eats up all his steak and offers me a few of his chips. ‘Ah, typical woman, you’re happy to eat off my plate,’ he says. He swallows the last of his wine. ‘Come on then, poppet, let’s go and find those farm animals.’
‘Oh, she’ll love them, Mike.’ Margie giggles. ‘Fancy you being a dad!’
‘Well, I’ve only been a part-time dad up till now,’ he says, pulling a funny face at me.
Up till now. Oh, I so hope he decides to be a proper full-time dad now. It didn’t work with Mum this time, but perhaps if Dad and I visit her regularly . . .
I reach out and hold Dad’s hand. He pulls me close and gives me a hug.
‘My little girl,’ he says.
We walk out of the pub door together, bumping awkwardly in the porch. Dad blows me a little kiss.
‘There! Did you like my friends?’
‘Yes, Dad.’ I pause, trying to think what to say. ‘I like going out with you, Dad.’
‘Well, that’s good, then. Come on, we’ll go up to the farm now.’
I’m not quite so keen on the farm. We have to leave the car at the entrance and walk up a very long muddy track. It’s hard work stepping this way and that, keeping my patent shoes clean. They’re really hurting now, stabbing my toes at every step.
Dad pays for us to go round the farm to see all the animals. There’s a lovely grey donkey and lots of sheep – and several goats, but I’m not so keen on getting in their pen. They have horns and spooky yellow eyes, and one tries to nibble the sleeve of my jacket. I get goat slobber all the way up to my elbow.
There are mostly very little kids going round with their mums or grannies, two-year-olds and three-year-olds, too young for school. I feel very big and self-conscious beside them. There’s a little animal enclosure full of rabbits and guinea pigs, and they’re very sweet. I squat down and stroke a fluffy little brown and white guinea pig. I can feel it quivering, but it doesn’t try to jump away.
‘Oh, I wish I had my own little guinea pig,’ I say, sighing.
‘Don’t you have any pets?’
‘Well, I had three stick insects at our old house, Sticky and Picky and Kicky, but to be absolutely honest I couldn’t tell which was which – and then they died. Mum said I could have a proper pet when we moved to the new house with Jack, and I so wanted a puppy, but she said it wouldn’t be fair leaving it on its own all day. She said she’d maybe think again after the baby was born, but now . . .’ My voice tails away.
‘I’m sure you could have a little guinea pig,’ says Dad. ‘Tell you what, there’s a notice over there: Young guinea pigs for sale. Would you really like one?’
‘Oh, Dad, I’d absolutely adore one!’
‘Then let’s see if you can choose your perfect pet,’ says Dad.
He talks to one of the farm women, and she takes us to an indoor room where there’s a special cage of weeny little baby guinea pigs.
‘Oh, they’re so sweet! How am I ever going to choose?’
I very gently stroke each one. They give little squeaks, as if they’re saying, Pick me! No, pick me! Oh, pick me!
I choose the littlest, who’s a beautiful brown all over, with black beady eyes and a pink quivering nose.
‘Can I really have one? Then can it be this one?’ I say, holding him.
‘Of course you can,’ says Dad, smiling. ‘Is it a little boy or a little girl?’
The farm lady picks it up and squints at its underneath carefully. ‘I think you’ve got a little boy here,’ she says.
‘Oh, I’m glad it’s a boy!’ I say.
‘What are you going to call him?’
‘I shall call him Butterscotch, because he’s exactly that colour,’ I say.
‘And have you got a proper cage for him at home?’
I look at Dad. He sighs. ‘Well, we’d better buy one.’
There are two different sorts: a very plain wire cage affair and an elaborate hutch with a special bed area.
‘Which do you think he’d like best, Dad?’ I say, dithering hopefully beside the big hutch.
‘I dare say he’d better have the special one. It’s a veritable Ritz for guinea pigs. Still, I don’t see why little Butterscotch shouldn’t live in style.’
I want to sit with Butterscotch on my lap in the car, but Dad says it isn’t safe – and he doesn’t want Butterscotch doing little poos and wees all over his upholstery. We put him into his very superior hutch, cushioning him with straw, and Dad wedges it on the back seat. My insides have started churning again. Dad’s bought me Butterscotch and his special hutch so he can live in his luxurious new home. Am I going to live in style in Dad’s luxurious home? I’m not quite sure where Dad lives. He had to drive a long way this morning. Will he be able to take me to see Mum every day?
‘I can still see Mum, can’t I?’ I blurt out.
‘What? Of course you can,’ says Dad.
I breathe out. I curl up beside Butterscotch’s cage and whisper little soothing words to him.
‘What’s that, Ella?’ says Dad.
‘I was just ch
atting to Butterscotch, Dad.’
‘You’re a funny little sausage.’
I think of the strange sausage I had in the gastro-pub. It’s not such a good idea. I’m starting to feel sick again. I slump down, my chin on my chest, my eyes closed. It’s very dark and swirly and scary inside my head. I wonder if this is what it feels like for Mum. I feel really bad for her. I’ll try to be extra soothing next time I see her. I want to see her right this minute.
‘Dad?’
‘What?’
I swallow. ‘Nothing.’ I know it’s no use asking him to take us back to the hospital today, not when we’ve already paid one visit.
Dad drives us straight back to the house. He knocks at the door, fingering the peeling part round the letter box. ‘For heaven’s sake, can’t he give it a lick of paint?’ he says.
‘Jack’s hopeless at stuff like that. The loo cistern kept dripping and he said he’d fix it, and he pulled the whole ballcock off and we had to get an emergency plumber who charged heaps, and Mum was very cross,’ I say.
‘No wonder,’ says Dad. ‘I don’t think he can be in yet. Lucky he gave us the key.’
He lets us in and parks Butterscotch in his hutch in one corner of the living room. He peers at the books crammed on the shelves and spilling over in piles on the floor. ‘I don’t suppose he’s a dab hand at erecting more bookshelves either,’ he says.
He looks at the wedding photo on top of our television: Jack with his arm round Mum, Mum with her arm round me. He doesn’t say anything, but he raises his eyebrows.
‘I’m wearing the same dress, see,’ I say. ‘And the same shoes.’ I unstrap them and rub my poor sore toes.
‘Are those shoes too small for you?’
‘A bit.’
Dad sighs. ‘Doesn’t anyone keep an eye on stuff like that? I mean, I send your mum lots of money for your keep – certainly more than enough for a new pair of shoes every few months!’
I don’t want to listen in case he’s getting at Mum. I look at Butterscotch instead. He’s cowering uncertainly in a corner of his hutch.
‘Can I get him out now, Dad?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
I unhook the cage door, very carefully take hold of Butterscotch round his fat tummy and hook him out. He looks more uncertain than ever, and squeaks pathetically.
‘I think he’s hungry,’ I say. ‘What do guinea pigs like to eat?’