Longest Whale Song (13 page)

‘And you could read her your story,' says Jack. ‘Yes, great idea. Ready to go out? We've got some ladies to see before the hospital. I've been fixing up appointments.'

‘Ladies?'

‘Ladies who can look after little Sam while we're both out at school.'

‘Is he coming out of hospital then?'

‘Yes, he needs to start a bit of family life, poor
little chap. I can't stand the thought of him being stuck in the nursery all the time.'

‘But what about Mum?'

‘We'll bring him with us to visit her every day.

‘So he'll be with us in the evenings and all through the night and in the early morning?'

‘Yep. He's our baby, so he'll live with us.'

‘Do you know how to look after babies, Jack?'

‘How hard can it be? We'll feed him – and change him—'

‘You can do the changing!'

‘And give him a bath and put him to bed in his special cot. Plus give him lots and lots of cuddles. Here's the bargain, Ella. You don't have to change him, you don't have to bath him or feed him, not if you don't want to – but you must give him lots of cuddles. I'll cuddle him too, but I'm all hard and hairy. You're little and smooth and soft, like a mini version of your mum. You must cuddle him so he knows what it feels like to be loved by a mummy.'

‘Yes, I'll cuddle him lots, I promise,' I say solemnly. ‘I'm good at cuddling.'

I hook Butterscotch out of his cage and hold him tenderly to my chest. He squeaks and scrabbles for a few seconds, but then relaxes. I stroke him. His fur's so soft.

‘Look, Jack?'

‘Yes, you're great with him. And you'll be even greater with your little brother.'

We set off in the car to meet the childminders.

‘You come in with me too, right?' says Jack. ‘You imagine yourself a little baby and work out which one you'd sooner have looking after you. This first one, Mrs Chambers, is the one the social worker recommended. She certainly sounded very pleasant on the phone.'

Mrs Chambers lives in a neat black and white house with a very tidy garden.

‘No dandelions for Butterscotch here!' says Jack, and he knocks on the door.

Mrs Chambers opens it immediately, a dazzling smile on her face. She's wearing a bright white overall to match her startling teeth.

‘Mr Winters! Do come in. And is this your daughter?'

‘I'm his
step
daughter,' I say quickly.

We're shown through the pale cream hallway into the children's playroom. Alittle boy is sitting on the floor playing with building blocks on a rug. Atoddler girl is staggering around the room, pushing a dog on wheels.

‘Here's my little family,' says Mrs Chambers. ‘This is young Sean – you're building a tower block,
aren't you, sweetie? And this is little Molly taking Doggy for a walk.'

Sean and Molly stare at us solemnly. Molly sneezes and Mrs Chambers rushes forward with a tissue to wipe her dribbly nose.

‘That's better, dear,' she says brightly. She throws the tissue away in a bin and then goes into the kitchen. We hear her washing her hands thoroughly. I can't help thinking that if little Sean or Molly needs a nappy-change, Mrs Chambers will give herself a surgical scrub, Dettol up to her armpits.

She makes Jack and me a cup of tea. I try to sit up straight and not slurp. I hope for chocolate biscuits but Mrs Chambers says she doesn't want to spoil our lunch. She shows us she's cooking a very healthy fish pie for little Sean and Molly.

‘I don't believe in that tinned rubbish for small children.
I
don't want to eat out of a tin and so I'm not going to serve it to my charges,' she says proudly. ‘You don't need to have any worries about little Sam, Mr Winters. I'll feed him the very best formula milk and get him onto solids in a matter of months. I'll give him tip-top care.'

‘I know she'll look after Sam splendidly,' Jack says as we walk down the path to the car. ‘Like I said, she's the one the social worker recommended.'
He looks at me anxiously. ‘What do you think, Ella?'

‘I think she's too . . . clean and smiley and sensible. She's like a lady in an advert. She doesn't seem real.'

‘That's true. What if our Sam takes after me and is a scruffy little tyke? Maybe she's not the right one for us. We want someone a bit more laid-back for our little boy.'

Mrs Brown is so laid back she barely moves. Once she's shown us inside her flat, she lounges on her sofa, her great mound of tummy straining against her tracksuit bottoms. I'm not sure if she's having a baby herself or if she's just got very fat. She's just minding one child, a little boy strapped into a baby chair, sucking on a crust of bread as he watches television. He's certainly scruffy: he's got jam all round his mouth and his nose is running and there are stains all down his jumper, but he looks happy enough. He kicks his legs and grins at Jack when he squats beside him to say hello. I keep my distance, breathing shallowly. I'm pretty sure his nappy needs changing.

Jack tries to tell Mrs Brown all about Sam, and she smiles and nods.

‘Don't worry, I'm sure he'll be fine with me. All my babies are very happy. You're a happy boy,
aren't you, ducks?' she says, giving the baby in the chair a little nudge. He giggles at her and dribbles all down his chin.

‘I'm sure Sam would be very happy with her too,' says Jack when we get back in the car, ‘but I'm not too sure about it. I wouldn't want him stuck in front of a television all day long. I don't know, maybe I'm just being too picky. I keep thinking of your Mum, Ella, and what a lovely job she'd make of bringing up our boy. All these other women just seem
wrong
.'

‘No one could ever be as good as Mum,' I agree.

We don't say any more as we drive to the last lady on the list, Mrs Smallwood. We don't speak because we're both trying not to cry.

Mrs Smallwood lives in a little old house at the very end of her street. It's covered in ivy, with a wild, untidy garden, though there are lots of rose bushes, some still in bloom. Mrs Smallwood herself is little and quite old. She's got a soft grey perm curling all over her head like dandelion fluff. She smiles as she opens her door. A delicious warm savoury smell escapes.

‘Mrs Smallwood?' says Jack.

She laughs. ‘Nobody calls me that, dear. I'm Aunty Mavis to one and all. So you're the poor gentleman with the sick wife? And who are you,
darling?' she says, rubbing my cheeks with her fingers.

‘I'm Ella. I'm his stepdaughter. It's my mum who's sick.'

‘You poor little lamb. Well, come in, come in!'

We go into her house. The hall is choc-a-block with toys: a push-along cart, a spinning top, a toddler trike, beach balls and a family of floppy teddies. In an alcove there's a cardboard box with a rug and a cushion in it, a saucepan and several spoons, and some old dresses and shoes trail down the stairs.

‘We've been playing house and cooking and dressing up,' says Aunty Mavis. ‘Come and say hello to my girls.'

She opens the kitchen door. There are two smiley-faced little girls sitting at the table with big bibs tied round their necks. Their cardie sleeves are rolled up as they stab at their food with plastic forks. The girls are comically identical, with big blue eyes, pink cheeks, and tiny bunches tied with cherry bobbles.

‘This is Lily, and this is Meggie. Say hello, girls,' says Aunty Mavis. She's reaching for two more plates and getting a half-served shepherd's pie out of her oven.

‘We're having our din-dins,' says Lily, or maybe Meggie.

‘We eat it all up and then we get pudding,' says Meggie, or perhaps Lily.

‘Well, your din-din looks very yummy,' says Jack. ‘I'm so sorry to call at such a stupidly inconvenient time, Aunty Mavis.'

‘You're not sorry at all, you're practically licking your lips, hoping I'll offer you a plateful. Here we are, I've made heaps. Sit yourselves down, both of you. Now, tell me all about this little baby of yours. I don't generally take on kiddies so young, but your little lad sounds like a special case.'

‘He's called Sam,' says Jack, looking joyfully at his plate of shepherd's pie.

‘Samson.'

‘Very distinctive,' says Aunty Mavis. ‘Would you like to help yourself to carrots and peas, Ella? Show these two girlies what a sensible grown-up girl you are. I have a terrible job getting them to gobble up their veggies. Don't I, you hopeless pair!'

She tickles Lily and Meggie under their chins and they giggle and squirm. ‘Would you like a little baby boy to come and play with us, girls?' she asks.

‘Is he a nice little baby?' asks Lily (or Meggie).

‘Is he a smiley baby?' says Meggie (or Lily).

‘He's a sad little baby at the moment,' says Jack solemnly. ‘Because his mummy can't look after him right now.'

‘So we'll all look after him instead – his daddy and Ella and Lily and Meggie and me,' says Aunty Mavis. She looks at Jack. ‘Yes?'

Jack looks at me. We both smile and nod. We don't need to consult each other. Aunty Mavis is perfect.

Jack and I go straight to the hospital to see Mum. He sits on one side of her, I sit on the other. We both hold a hand.

‘OK, Sue, we've found a lovely childminder for little Sam,' says Jack.

‘She's called Aunty Mavis, Mum, and she's ever so kind.'

‘She makes the best shepherd's pie I've ever tasted. Well, apart from yours, of course,' says Jack.

Mum's never made a shepherd's pie in her life, she just heated up pies from the supermarket, but I suppose Jack's trying to be tactful.

‘Aunty Mavis will look after Samson, Mum – but not as well as you would,' I say, because I can be tactful too.

Mum doesn't say anything – she doesn't open her eyes, she doesn't squeeze our hands – but we feel better for telling her.

‘Would you like to give Sam a cuddle right now, Sue?' Jack asks. ‘We'll go and fetch him.'

We go to the nursery together. Sam is in the corner, wailing dismally.

‘It's all right, my little boy. Daddy's here,' says Jack, picking him up. ‘Oh dear, your nappy's a bit soggy. I think we'd better change you. Now, where do those nurses keep the clean nappies?'

‘Jack! I'm sure we're not allowed to change him,' I say anxiously. ‘Wait till the nurse comes back.'

‘It's not like it's a complicated surgical procedure, Ella,' says Jack, peering in different cupboards. ‘Ah, here we are, clean nappies. We'll have you dry and comfy in two ticks, little Sam.'

Jack lies the baby down on a table and unpops his sleepsuit. I see Samson's alarming pink boy bits and back away.

‘Want to give me a hand, Ella?' asks Jack.

‘No thanks!'

‘This is just wee, so it's fine. I believe it can get a
lot
muckier,' says Jack, dabbing at Samson's bottom with a babywipe. ‘There! You like having a little kick about, don't you, son?'

Samson gurgles and waggles his funny little feet in the air.

Jack closes the nappy with its sticky tabs and grabs each little leg to stuff back into the sleepsuit. ‘I told you – piece of cake!' he says, poppering up Samson's legs.

He lifts him up. One leg is all puckered up. Jack tries to straighten it out but it won't go.

‘You've done the poppers up wrong, silly,' I say. ‘Here, let me.'

I sort them out in a jiffy.

‘OK. Let's make a bargain. I'll do the undressing and deal with the nappies – and you do the dressing. After all, you must have had lots of practice with your dollies,' says Jack.

‘As if I still play with
dolls
!' I say witheringly – though I still do in secret. I wouldn't ever tell anyone, not even Sally. She'd laugh at me and call me a baby.

I wonder what she's doing now. Has afternoon school ended yet? I hope it hasn't been too lonely for her all day. I hate it when Sally's off school with a cold or a tummy bug, because there's no one to whisper to in class and no one to play with at break times.

‘Jack, can I ask Sally round to ours for tea?' I ask.

‘Oh, Ella, I'm finding it hard enough to feed you and me – and now there's the wretched guinea pig too. Tell you what, let's give little Sam
his
tea now. Don't fuss, I know exactly how to do it.'

He gives me Samson to hold while he goes into the kitchen at the side to hunt for baby bottles. Sam quivers at the change of arms. His little face puckers up.

‘Don't cry, Samson! It's OK. I'm Ella, your sister, remember?'

I jiggle him in my arms. He gives a tiny whimper. It's not a full-blown cry, but he looks doubtful.

‘Are you hungry? Your dad's just fetching you a bottle and we'll give you a lovely drink – and
then
we're taking you for another cuddle with Mummy. She's the best mum in the world but she's very sick at the moment, so she can't look after you properly. But your dad will take care of you. And Aunty Mavis. And I can look after you too, if you'd like that.'

Samson looks thoughtful.

‘Shall I take that as a yes, then? I've got a new little guinea pig at home – he's called Butterscotch. I think you'd like him. When you get older, I'll let you hold him, so long as you're very gentle. And I've got some old teddies – you can play with them if you like. You can't really borrow my felt-tip pens for ages and ages because you'll muck up all the points and maybe poke your eye out – but I'll draw for you if you like. I'm getting very good at drawing whales. Would you like me to do you your own whale picture, Samson?'

Samson seems quite keen because he nuzzles against me, his little mouth opening and shutting, as if he's whispering me a little message.

Jack comes back into the nursery with a baby bottle full of milk. ‘Here we go. Now, you sit on that chair, Ella, with Sam on your lap. Rest his head on your left arm. That's it. OK – feeding time!'