Longest Whale Song (19 page)

‘See if
I
care,' I mutter. ‘I'm not the slightest bit interested in doing your silly costume project anyway.'

‘What's going on?' Miss Anderson calls. ‘What's the matter, Ella?'

I badly want to tell her – but I can't tell tales on Martha
again
, especially not in front of the whole class. So I just shrug a little and mumble, ‘Nothing, Miss Anderson.'

‘Are you four going to do your project together?' she asks.

‘No, we're doing Tudor costume and Ella says she's not interested,' says Martha.

She's such a mean pig. And now
she's
telling tales, sort of.

‘Oh well, perhaps you'd better have a delve through the Tudor book box and see if there's anything you
are
interested in, Ella,' says Miss Anderson.

She's not really telling me off at all, but I feel myself blushing. Martha is sniggering delightedly.
It's not
fair
. I don't want to do a Tudor project by myself. I flick through a book listlessly. I don't know what to pick. Unless . . . could I do a project on Tudor whales? They must have
had
whales in Tudor times. Whales go right back to ancient days in the Bible, because there was that whale that swallowed Jonah. (Oh, how I wish a whale would swallow Martha!) I could do a project on Tudor sailors and ships, and how they sailed all over the seas discovering new countries – but perhaps those same sailors stuck harpoons into whales and killed them and chopped them up into little pieces and boiled their blubber into oil.

I think of all those old whales swimming along so happily, kings of the sea, with only the odd giant squid to worry about. Then suddenly cruel men start killing them, thousands and thousands and thousands of whales for century after century after century, until some sorts of whale are almost extinct. No wonder the poor creatures moan and groan.

I droop down onto my desk, laying my head on the book. Then someone taps me timidly on the back. It's Joseph again.

‘I'm doing a Tudor food project with Toby,' he says. ‘Would you like to join up with us?'

Toby's certainly very interested in food. I don't really want to join up with them – girls never do
projects with boys – and I don't think drawing a side of beef or a leg of lamb will be particularly inspiring, but I smile because Joseph's being very kind.

‘Thank you, Joseph. Yes please, I'd like to join up with you,' I say. My voice is a bit croaky because I've been trying not to cry. I look at Toby anxiously in case he objects, but he grins at me cheerfully enough. Toby is always nice to everyone, even when he gets teased. If only Joseph and Toby were girls they'd be wonderful best friends.

I move my chair up beside them and peer at their project. They've done
pages
and
pages
, mostly in Joseph's scratchy handwriting. It starts sloping when he gets really enthusiastic, so half the lines tilt downwards dramatically and the bottom line gets squashed completely. They haven't left any room for drawing whatsoever.

I get a fresh piece of paper.

‘What do Tudor tables look like then? I'll draw a big banquet,' I say.

It's quite good fun drawing in different platters of food at their suggestion. Toby gets a bit carried away, suggesting all
his
favourite foods – pizza and spaghetti bolognese.

‘That's
Italian
food. These are
Tudors
, not the Medicis,' says Joseph, sighing. ‘They were like
Italian royalty. Our English King Henry the Eighth would have liked roast beef and goose and swan—'

‘
Swan?
'

‘I think it was only for special occasions,' says Joseph. ‘Like wedding feasts.'

‘Well, he had a lot of those,' I say. ‘He had six wives, didn't he?'

I draw fat King Henry with his fork stuck into a great platter of swan. Then I sketch three wives on either side of him, all with crowns on their heads.

‘That's so good, Ella. You're ace at drawing,' says Toby.

‘I agree, but it's not actually historically
accurate
, because you wouldn't have had them all sitting there together. In fact half of them would be dead.'

‘It's OK,' I say, whipping out my eraser and rubbing out two of their heads. ‘They're the ghosts of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, without their heads – and I'll make Jane Seymour look very poorly because she died after having her baby—' I stop. There's a short agonized silence. Then Joseph reaches out and squeezes my hand.

‘Your mum isn't going to die, Ella. She could get completely better,' he says. ‘You read all those printouts I did for you.'

‘And tell you what, we go to church every Sunday and there's a bit in the service where you pray for sick people. I'll ask everyone to say a special prayer for your mum,' says Toby.

‘Thank you,' I mumble. My voice has gone croaky again.

They are being so sweet to me, yet I'd give anything not to be sitting here with them working on this pointless project. I don't even want to be sitting beside Sally. I just want to be at the hospital, murmuring into Mum's ear and making sure she's still alive.

SCHOOL SEEMS TO
have lasted six years today. I can't
wait
for it to be home time. When the bell goes at last, Sally gives me a big hug.

‘I hope your mum's a little bit better when you see her tonight,' she says kindly – but then she
hurries off with Dory. She hasn't
said
, but I think she's going to play round at Dory's house.

Martha stomps off to after-school club, glowering. Toby rushes off, simply thinking of his tea, but Joseph hangs back.

‘Are you going to show Miss Anderson your whale project?' he asks.

‘Yes, if she'd really like to see it.'

Miss Anderson is busy talking to one of the other teachers, but she mouths at me,
Be with you in a minute
.

‘Well,
I'd
like to see it too. If that's OK,' says Joseph.

So I get it out of my school bag and show him. He makes appreciative little grunts and murmurs. He especially likes the drawings.

‘I'd love to do a proper whale project too, but I could never make it
look
good like yours. My writing's all wonky and I'm rubbish at drawing.'

‘I'll always draw something for you, Joseph. I
like
drawing,' I say. ‘It's all the word bit that gets me down sometimes. Especially the long foreign words.'

‘I like the Latin bits the
best
!' says Joseph. ‘I like saying all the names over and over until I know them by heart.'

‘Maybe I'll try to learn some of them too,' I say.
‘I know
cetaceans
already.
Cetaceans.
So I can speak Latin now.'

‘Actually, I think that's from a Greek word,
ketos
, meaning sea monster. It said so in my book.'

‘Oh, Joseph! How on earth did you get to be so brainy?'

‘I'm just good at remembering,' he says modestly.

Then Toby charges back into the classroom, out of breath. ‘Joseph! Your mum's getting all fidgety. She said she told you to run out of school early because you're visiting your gran.'

‘Oh! I forgot!' Joseph meets my eye and chuckles. ‘See! I'm not always good at remembering,' he says. ‘Bye, Ella.'

‘Bye, Joseph, bye, Toby,' I say.

The other teacher goes at last and Miss Anderson smiles at me.

‘Right, Ella! Now I'd like to see this special whale project. Though won't your dad – your stepdad – be wondering where you've got to?'

‘He said he's going to be a bit late fetching me,' I say. ‘Here's my project, Miss Anderson. See, I've done heaps, and I'll probably do some more tonight.'

‘Oh, Ella! You
have
worked hard! It looks lovely.' She flicks over the pages, looking really interested.
‘And do I gather that you might be collaborating with Joseph?'

Teachers have the most amazing flappy ears that can hear everything.

‘He's
such
a nice boy,' says Miss Anderson. ‘He's been really worried about you, Ella. Well, we all have. How
are
things with your mum?'

I shrug. ‘About the same.'

‘Oh well . . .' Miss Anderson pats my arm sympathetically. ‘There now. Off you go. And try not to get too upset about Martha. She's got her own troubles, you know.'

Huh! I'd like to know what troubles
Martha's
got. Miss Anderson can be pretty stupid sometimes.

I trail outside to the playground. It's practically empty now, just two little kids and me. They've rolled up a jumper and are kicking it around like a football. It's pretty muddy already. They're going to be for it when their mums come.

One mum turns up and doesn't fuss too much because it's not
her
kid's jumper. The other mum is taking ages. So is Jack. Where has he
got
to, for goodness' sake? It's not
that
far to drive from Garton Road.

I sigh. The little kid sighs.

‘Want to play footie?' he asks.

‘OK. But you're going to get into trouble for getting your jumper all dirty.'

Correction.
I'm
the one who gets into trouble when his mum comes puffing into the playground at last, pushing two howling babies in a double buggy. I just happen to be the one kicking the jumper back to her boy when she spots it.

‘Oi! What in heaven's name are you
doing
, kicking our Davy's jumper about like that? Look at the state of it! You should know better!'

I wait for the little kid to explain. He doesn't say a word, just sticks his thumb in his mouth and looks sheepish. The mum rants on at me.

‘What would
your
mother say if you kicked
your
good jumper all over the ground?' she yells.

I burst into tears because my mum can't say anything now. The kid's mum looks alarmed.

‘Come on, there's no need to blub like a baby. My two are already making enough noise to wake the dead. Don't cry now – I dare say you won't do it again. Here.' She fishes in her pocket, finds a crumpled tissue and dabs at my eyes. ‘There now. So where's your mum got to then?'

‘She's in hospital,' I sniffle.

‘Oh dear. Now you're making me feel dreadful. You have got someone coming for you though?'

‘Yes, my stepdad.'

‘That's all right then. Well, I'd better get my little lot home for their tea.'

I wave goodbye to them and carry on snuffling into my tissue. I want
my
tea. I'm starving. And little Butterscotch will want his tea too. He must have felt really lonely all day today with no one to talk to him. And how about Samson? He'll be fretting at Aunty Mavis's house, wondering when on earth we're coming to collect him. And then there's darling
Mum
. Maybe inside her head she's wondering where on earth we are and worrying that we've stopped caring about her.
Oh, Mum, I'm never ever going to stop caring. I'm going to visit you every day of my life, I promise. Come
on
, Jack, what are you playing at? Whatever time is it?

I hear a distant clock strike four. It's getting really late now. Jack said he'd be a
bit
late but I'm sure he didn't mean as late as this. I start trudging up and down the playground. It's so mean of him to keep me waiting like this, when he
knows
I'll worry.

I count up to a hundred, two hundred, three hundred, straining my eyes to see his old black car, but it doesn't come, it doesn't come, it doesn't come.

I'm starting to cry now, like a baby. I want Mum so. We're supposed to go to the school office and tell
someone if no one comes to collect us – but I don't like the secretary, she's always cross. I want Miss Anderson – but the classroom's empty. I run down the corridor and a cleaning lady looks up and says, ‘What are you doing here, eh? Have you been kept in for being a bad girl?'

I shake my head and run back down the corridors. My whole
life
seems to be spent going down corridors now. I wonder if I'll ever get to the end of them. It's twenty past four now: Jack's nearly a whole hour late. I can't believe he can be so mean. Perhaps he's gone off with his teacher mates and forgotten all about me? No, he wouldn't forget me – he certainly wouldn't forget little Samson. What if something's happened to Jack? Maybe he's had an accident in the car. He was very tired because he was up a lot with Samson in the night – and he's had a whole day teaching. Maybe he got so tired he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed the car? Maybe
Jack's
in the hospital now?

So what am I going to do? Who will look after me now? Dad doesn't want me, Liz doesn't want me. I haven't got anyone – anyone at all.