Longest Whale Song (27 page)

‘There are no whales in the ark, not even little dolphins,' I say.

‘I expect they swam along
beside
the ark,' says Joseph. ‘Shall we look at my whale books now?'

He's got such
wonderful
books – not just about whales, about everything under the sun.

‘You don't need to go to the public library, you've got an entire library here,' I say when he shows me his library books too.

‘I'd like a
real
library of my own one day,' says Joseph.

‘Well, maybe if I work some more on my whale project, it'll get long enough to be made into a proper book and you can keep it in your library.'

‘In its own special glass case, and only very important people can borrow it – i.e.
me
!' says Joseph. ‘Let's have a look at it now.'

‘Martha tore up a lot of it,' I say mournfully.

‘Martha's a really scary girl. I hate it when she picks on you. Ella, do you think I should stick up for you more?'

‘No, I can stick up for myself. Well, sometimes. Look, here it is. I tried sticking the ripped pages with sellotape but they don't look very good.'

‘Why don't you rewrite them?'

‘Well, it will take such
ages
.'

‘I'll help you. I've got paper exactly that size. I'll do all the writing if you like, and you can do the drawing. You could come round to tea heaps and heaps and we could work on it together. Would you like that?'

‘Oh
yes
!'

I settle down to redrawing the title page, with an even more elaborate letter W. Joseph doesn't just have good felt tips with tiny points – he has
coloured inks
! I've never used these before and they are totally brilliant, especially the gold. My title page is going to look almost like a
real
illuminated manuscript in a museum.

Joseph doesn't just copy out a page or two, willy-nilly. He's getting my project
organized
, shifting all the pages around into chapters on humpbacks, killer whales, blue whales, etc.

‘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.

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! Avery 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 carrycot 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.