Longest Whale Song (9 page)

THERE'S A MESSAGE
on the telephone when we get back.

It's Dad!

Well, I don't even know it's him at first – his voice doesn't sound the way I remembered – but it
must be Dad because he's talking to me.

‘
Hello. This is a message for Ella. It's all right, darling. Don't worry. I'm sure Mummy will get better very soon. I'll take the day off work and come tomorrow.
'

I stand transfixed. Then I play the message again – and again – and again.

‘There,' says Jack. ‘I told you I left a message for him.'

‘Shh! Let me
listen
,' I hiss.

‘You've heard it three times,' says Jack, and he goes off to the kitchen to fix us tea.

He spends ages fussing around. He's done a big shop today and he says he's going to cook a proper meal. I don't know why he's bothering. I'm not the slightest bit hungry. I just crouch in the hall listening to my dad, whispering along with his message because I've learned it by heart.

Jack comes back into the hall. ‘Give it a rest now, Ella, eh? Would you like two sausages or three?'

‘I don't want any sausages, thanks.'

‘Don't be silly, of course you do. Sausages are your favourites,' Jack says. ‘And I'm doing my special creamy mash. And we've got broccoli too – vitamin C, very important.'

‘I hate broccoli.'

‘Ella. Stop it. Look, come and give me a hand. I'll teach you how to cook sausages.'

‘I
know
how to cook sausages.'

‘Well, great, come and cook them.'

‘I don't want to.'

‘Oh, for God's sake!' Jack marches back into the kitchen and slams the door.

I stand there in the hall, my heart thudding. I feel just a little bit mean . . . but I decide it's not fair. I don't have to do what Jack says. He's not my dad. My
real
dad is talking on the telephone to me, and he's coming to see me specially tomorrow. He must really, really care about me to take the day off work.
And he says Mum's going to get better!

‘Mum's going to get better!' I say, and I whirl round and round the hall.

Maybe Dad will fall in love with Mum all over again when he sees her lying asleep in hospital. He'll be like a fairytale prince and waken her with a kiss. Then Mum and I can live with Dad like a proper family. We can send Jack packing. And Samson. Although he's Mum's. When he lies on her chest he looks like he really belongs to her.

I get worn out trying to work out how everyone can live happily, together and apart. Jack can just shove off all by himself. It's just tough luck that Samson's his little boy too. But I think of Jack's
face when he was watching Samson snuffling on Mum's chest. I feel cross. I don't don't don't want to feel sorry for Jack.

I can smell his sausages cooking. Perhaps I feel a little bit hungry after all. Maybe he's in such a sulk with me now that he won't let me have any.

But eventually he opens the kitchen door and calls, ‘Supper's ready.'

I stand still, wondering what to do. I could be really fierce and yell back, ‘I don't want any of your horrid old supper.' Then he might get really mad. He might even smack me. So I'd smack him back. Even though he's a lot bigger than me.

I could just ignore him altogether and slope off to my room. That would be mega-effective. He couldn't even tell me off for being cheeky because I wouldn't have said a word.

But I am actually quite hungry now, so I shuffle into the kitchen and sit down at the table. Jack has put two and a half sausages on my favourite plate, the orange one with the little gold elephants. There's a small mound of mash with a knob of butter on the top and four little sprigs of bright green broccoli. It all looks very nice – even the broccoli.

I don't say anything, but I pick up my knife and fork and start eating. Jack starts eating too.
I decide I will maybe just eat the half-sausage, but once I've started I feel ravenous and in ten minutes it's all gone, apart from one tiny sprig of broccoli, because I feel I have to leave something.

Jack looks at me. ‘Was that good?' he asks in a neutral sort of voice.

‘Yes,' I say. I wait. ‘Thank you.'

Jack nods at me. ‘You're very welcome, Ella.'

I stand up and start stacking the dishwasher.

‘Oh, thanks, love,' he says.

‘J-a-c-k?'

‘Yep?'

‘Can I phone my dad now?'

‘Yes, I was going to suggest it. We need to fix up exactly when he's coming.'

He gives me the number. My fingers go a bit trembly as I'm dialling. Mum never gave me the number. We didn't ever phone Dad. I'm not really sure Mum would want me to. She always said we didn't need him. But we need him now, badly.

So I dial the number and wait. The phone rings, once, twice, three times, four, five. There's a click after the sixth ring and the answerphone message starts up.

‘
Hi there. Mike and Tina can't get to the phone right now. Can you leave a message and we'll get back to you as soon as possible.
'

Mike and
Tina
? Who's she? My thoughts spin, trying to find a suitable explanation. Perhaps Dad has a dog called Tina. I make her up in my head: a cream Labrador, very sweet and gentle, with big brown eyes. Dad takes her for walks every morning and evening and feeds her special titbits, and she crouches at his feet all night. No, perhaps Tina is a cat, and she sits on Dad's lap when he watches television and purrs softly to herself. But it's no use. No matter how hard I try to imagine a Tina dog or a Tina cat, a new type of Tina keeps sidling into my mind. Agirlfriend. She's curling up with Dad at night, she's sitting on his lap, she's whispering softly . . .

I put down the telephone.

Jack puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Didn't you want to leave a message?' he says gently.

I shrug his hand away. I don't want him feeling sorry for me. ‘There's no point leaving a message. I'll be seeing him tomorrow,' I say.

I can't get to sleep for ages and ages. I hear Jack getting up at some point and making himself a cup of tea. I wonder about calling out to him to make me a drink too. I feel ever so thirsty – but I won't call out. I imagine what it must be like for Mum. She could be feeling terribly thirsty, terribly hungry, but she can't call out. She's lying there all
alone in that strange hospital bed and she can't call for a cuddle . . .

I start crying again. After a minute or two Jack comes knocking at my bedroom door.

‘Ella? Are you OK?'

What a stupid question! Of
course
I'm not OK. I burrow underneath my duvet, and sob there, where he can't hear me. He opens my door.

‘I'm here if – if you need anything,' he whispers.

I don't answer and he goes away again. I fall asleep in a sodden heap under the covers. When I next surface it's morning.

Jack stares at me when I go down to the kitchen. I'm in my best black and white dress again, though it's a bit creased and crumpled now.

‘Why aren't you in your uniform?'

‘Because my dad's coming!'

‘Yes, I know, but you've still got to go to school, silly.'

‘No, I can't! Dad said he's taking the day off work. He'll be coming this morning!'

‘Look, he knows you have to go to school.
I
can see him, we can come and meet you at school together.'

‘No! No! If I'm not here he might go away again!'

‘Hey, hey, calm down. Of course he wouldn't do that.'

‘Yes, he might. He said last time he'd come back to see me really soon, maybe the next Saturday, and then he didn't come back – he didn't come back
ever
.'

‘Well, what kind of a father is that?' Jack snaps.

I flinch as if he's slapped me.

Jack puts his hand over his mouth. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't really mean that.'

‘Yes, you did!'

‘Look, tell you what. We'll phone your dad again, and see what time he reckons he'll be here.'

‘All right, let
me
talk to him,' I say.

We only get the answerphone again.
Mike and Tina, Mike and Tina, Mike and Tina
. . .

‘There, see! His answerphone's on. Which means he's left already. He could be here any minute!'

‘He lives in Sussex – it'll take him hours to drive here.'

‘I bet he got up first thing. I bet he's been driving for hours already.'

‘Ella—'

‘I'm not going to school, Jack. You can't make me.'

‘But we've just got you settled back into going to school.'

‘I'm not going, I'm not going, I'm not going!'

‘All right! You're not going. I think we've
established that. Only
I
have to go out and do one thousand and one things. I've still got childminders to find and nurseries to see, I've got to meet this social worker, I need to buy all the food and stuff I forgot yesterday . . . How am I going to do all that?'

‘You can do that when my dad's here.'

Jack sighs. ‘You're so like your mum, Ella. She always has to have the last word too.'

Then he puts his cup of tea down, looking stricken. I sit silently at the table. Mum can't have the last word now. She can't say any words at all.

Jack pours me a bowl of cornflakes. We eat morosely. Then the phone goes and I rush to answer it – but it's just the Garton Road head teacher wanting to speak to Jack. He's on the phone for ages. I sit stirring my cornflakes aimlessly, watching them go soggy and sink to the bottom.

‘Well, I need to go to my school
soon
, even if you don't,' Jack says, coming back into the kitchen. He yawns and stretches. ‘I'm going to set my class a whole load of stuff to make it easier for the supply teacher. If you insist on staying home, you can do the work too.'

‘That's not fair! You teach Year Six!'

‘Well, you're bright, aren't you?' says Jack.

‘I'll do my own schoolwork,' I say.

Jack clears the kitchen table and we sit at either end doing our work, Jack typing away on his laptop, me drawing. I draw lots more whales. I draw a blue whale that takes up the whole paper because it's the biggest whale ever. Its tongue weighs as much as an elephant! It eats four tons of food a day. I imagine four tons of little shrimpy things getting sucked into that great mouth every day. Blue whales live in little family groups, so I get more pieces of paper and draw a great big mother blue whale and then a baby blue whale that only takes up half the page.

I'm almost certain Dad will be here by the time I finish my family of blue whales. I run to the door several times, just checking that the bell's working. ‘You did tell Dad we live in this house now, didn't you, Jack?'

‘Yes, of course. I gave him the postcode so his satnav can take him straight to us,' says Jack, writing rapidly.

‘Mm,' I say.

I flip to a new page about pilot whales. They look funny, with big bulging foreheads and wide mouths, showing their teeth. They act like they've got brilliant satellite navigation themselves. They can home in on big schools of fish many miles away.

It's an odd way to think of talking about fish. I imagine a fish school. I draw a little fish Sally dividing twenty shells by four. I draw Dory edging up to her, admiring Sally's shiny scales and pointy tail. I draw Martha doing a back flip, her fins raised, showing off like mad. I draw Joseph with his nose in abig book strewn with seaweed.

‘What's a book with a fishy title?' I ask Jack.

‘
Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea
,' says Jack.

There's no way I can print all that on the cover of one little book, so I make do with
Under the Sea
. Then I draw a Miss Anderson big haddock with a smiley mouth and curly hair and a coral necklace.

‘What subject is that schoolwork?' Jack asks, still typing away.

‘Science.'

‘Well, that drawing doesn't look very scientifically accurate,' Jack says. ‘What's it supposed to be?'

‘A school of fish.'

‘What? Oh, I get it.'

‘And this pilot whale is homing in on them fast,' I say.

I give Sally and Joseph and Miss Anderson extra fins so they can flap them quickly and escape. It looks like Dory might be in trouble. And as for
Martha, flashing her fins and drawing attention to herself – she's going to disappear in one gollop.

I sit up and stretch. I can't believe that only twenty minutes have gone by.
Come on, Dad. Please please please come now.

I sigh and yawn and rock my chair.

‘Don't tip it like that – you'll go right over and bump your head,' says Jack.

‘That's such a teacher thing to say.'

‘Well, tough, I
am
a teacher. Now shh, Ella, I'm trying to work out this wretched lesson plan. Draw another whale.'

‘I'm a little bit
tired
of whales,' I say. ‘They'll have gone on to something else in science today.'

‘Well, you could work on doing your own special whale project at home,' says Jack.

I think about it. I don't usually like any of Jack's suggestions simply because he's Jack – but I suddenly see a big glossy folder with MY WHALE PROJECT carefully printed in fancy lettering, with little whales spouting up and down the page. Joseph once did a special planets project and showed it to Miss Anderson, and she was positively ecstatic.

‘Do you have a special folder, Jack? Preferably a blue one?' I ask.

‘What do you think I am, your local branch of
Paperchase?' says Jack. ‘But I expect I can buy one for you. If you're very good and don't disturb me now.'

I draw a grey whale with lots of scars on his poor head, scraping his way along the ocean floor, eating lots of little creatures. Then I copy out all the things the book says about grey whales and pilot whales and killer whales.