Queenie (37 page)

Then I went off with the officer. It was cold outside and I didn’t have a proper coat, but she’d brought one with her. I didn’t think much of it: a boy’s navy windcheater. I felt very ugly in my boy’s coat and my sturdy boy’s shoes. At least I had a pretty pinafore dress and an angora bolero and silk ribbons. I also had my frilly knickers, and I was dreading bedtime at the children’s home. I was dreading
everything
at the children’s home.

But it wasn’t actually quite as bad as I’d feared. I wasn’t sure if it was the same home I’d been in when I was little, or a different one. It was a big dark building with lots of domes and towers, like a haunted fairy castle, and certainly the Matron in charge was like an old witch – but some of the staff were quite kind, though none were anywhere near as loving as Nurse Gabriel.

She came to visit me, just as she’d promised. She
brought
me sweets and a notebook and some new crayons, and pale pink writing paper and envelopes with a separate little sachet of stamps. She also bought me several balls of new angora wool – dark purple this time so it wouldn’t get too grubby. I’d gone off knitting, but I thought the needles might come in useful for poking the other children.

They thought Nurse Gabriel was my mum. I was very happy to let them think that. I didn’t expect to get along with any of them, but the big fierce ones mostly left me alone. They found out I’d had TB and they were scared of catching it from me. There were a few Marilyn and Susan type girls of my own age, but I didn’t take much notice of their teasing and they soon got fed up with it. I got on much better with the little ones. They flocked around me like sparrows, wanting cuddles and silly games and endless stories. They especially liked my Queen stories – though everyone thought I was making it up when I told them about the day the Queen came to the hospital and had her very long conversation with me.

There were no cats in the children’s home. This was the biggest disappointment of all. I missed Queenie terribly at nights, when I couldn’t sleep.

I spent Christmas there, and it wasn’t too terrible, because we had a big Christmas tree with fairy lights, laden with brightly wrapped presents. I got a
chocolate
mouse, a Knitting Nancy set and a magic painting book. You didn’t need any paints – you just used a wet brush and dabbed at the paper and the picture coloured itself in very pale pastels.

Before Christmas, Nurse Gabriel gave me a big white toy cat just like Queenie. She also brought a present that had been sent to me at the hospital – a parcel from Canada. It was a very big box, but quite light. Inside was a pink satin party frock, all over bows and flounces. There were matching knickers and a pair of beautiful pink satin shoes, one and a half sizes too small for me. There was a jolly Santa Christmas card from Mum too. Inside, she’d written:
This is for when you get better! Love from Mum xxx
. There was no address – just a Canadian postmark on the wrapping paper.

‘What a lovely present,’ said Nurse Gabriel.

I shut the outfit back in its box, shoes and all. ‘I like my white cat best,’ I said.

But on Christmas Eve I was given the best present ever ever ever. We were all gathered at the window after dinner, looking out for cars. A few very lucky children were going away for Christmas – to aunties, to grandparents, to kind friends.

They arrived in relatively modest Morris Minors and Fords – but then an enormous shiny black Rolls-Royce came up the driveway, making all the kids gasp.

‘A Roller! A real Roller! Look at it!’

‘Who is it? Who on earth’s got such a swanky car?’

‘Oh my, it’s fit for a queen!’

‘It
is
the Queen,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s my friend the Queen, and she’s come to invite me to spend Christmas with her!’

Some of the little ones actually believed me. I started elaborating on the Christmas treats at the palace as I watched the chauffeur get out of the car and open the back door. Then my voice tailed away. I
knew
this silver-haired man in the elegant three-piece suit who stepped out onto the driveway. It was Sir David Royale.

‘Never thought the Queen would be wearing a waistcoat and trousers, Elsie Kettle!’ said one of the kids, jeering.

‘Oh, ha ha,’ I said weakly. ‘It’s not the Queen after all – it’s my Sir David!’

‘
Your
Sir David? Just shut up telling your stupid stories.’

But within a minute the Matron came into our sitting room. ‘Elsie Kettle!’ she called. ‘You’re to come at once. There’s a special visitor for you. Run and wash your hands and face and put your coat on, quick sharp!’

All the children gasped and stared. I ran around in a dither, not understanding. I couldn’t even zip up my
unattractive
windcheater because my hands were trembling so much. I darted into the Matron’s sitting room.

‘Come here, Elsie,’ said the Matron. ‘Here she is, Sir David.’

‘Well well, Elsie Kettle, it’s good to see you rushing around! How is your knee?’ asked Sir David.

‘It’s . . . it’s very well, thank you,’ I said.

‘I’m glad that all our patient care has proved so beneficial, my dear. Now, I was wondering if you’d care to come for a little spin in my car with me?’

I nodded dumbly.

‘Say yes
please
, Elsie!’ said the Matron.

‘Yes please,’ I whispered.

I didn’t know for sure where he was taking me. I could only hope. I got in the back of the Rolls beside him. All the children were staring, their noses squashed flat against the windowpane. I gave them a slow regal wave as if I were the Queen herself.

Then we were off. Sir David sat back, pointing out various landmarks, giving me little lectures on church architecture and war memorials and bombsites. I couldn’t take any of it in. I kept wanting to interrupt and ask where we were going – but I didn’t quite dare, just in case all my hopes were dashed. But then I saw a signpost:
GENEVA SANATORIUM.

‘Oh!’ I gasped.

Sir David smiled at me. ‘Yes,’ he said, and he patted my hand.

I was out of the Rolls before it was properly parked. I started running – and Sir David hurried with me. He had to steer me through the wards to one right at the end. It wasn’t quite as severe as the ward I’d been in before. There were tables and chairs, and most of the patients were sitting up in their dressing gowns.

There was one lady in an armchair, knitting a red jumper with a white polar bear pattern. She had grey hair straggling around her shoulders, but she’d clipped it neatly behind her ears. She was wearing a big tartan dressing gown, but you could tell by her bony wrists and ankles that she was painfully thin. Her face was as pale as paper, and there were sharp creases across her forehead – but to me she looked like the most beautiful woman in the world.

‘Nan!’ I cried.

She looked up and dropped her knitting. Her mouth worked but no words came out. She blinked as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Then she opened her arms – and I ran into them.

‘Nan – oh my nan!’ I cried.

‘My Elsie!’ she said – and we clung to each other as if we could never, ever let go.

I DID GET
to live with Nan – but not until the following Easter, when she was completely better and no longer infectious. We couldn’t live in our old basement flat because Mum had let it go. We were able to go to the top of the waiting list for a council flat, and we got our own brand-new two-bedroomed flat – very modern, with central heating
.

Mum turned up not long after we’d settled in, expressing astonishment that we were both better. She was in a bad way herself. Mr Perkins had left her for a young Canadian lady and she’d had to find her own fare home. She’d had enough of being a secretary and went back into show business. Sometimes she lived with us. More often she was away working
.

Nan and I were much happier when it was just the three of us – Nan, me and Princess. Queenie had had a litter of four kittens, one ginger, two ginger and white, and one little snowy-white girl just like her
mother
. Nurse Gabriel asked if we wanted her – and of course we said yes please
.

So we really did live happily ever after – for eight years anyway, until my lovely Nan died. I was devastated, but by then I was old enough to fend for myself. And now I’m even older than my nan was, which feels very weird indeed – but though my own hair is grey and my forehead lined, I’m still me, Elsie, inside. I’m still telling stories too
.

Life is very different now. All milk in this country is tuberculin tested and one hundred per cent safe to drink – and hospitals are far more relaxed and child-friendly. I doubt there’s another nurse in existence as lovely as my Nurse Gabriel though
.

It’s nearly sixty long years since the Queen’s Coronation, and at the time of writing she’s still splendidly reigning. I have my own little granddaughter now. I wonder if I’ll ever get to take her to see a king on his Coronation Day?

About the Author

Jacqueline Wilson is one of Britain’s bestselling authors, with more than 35 million books sold in the UK alone. She has been honoured with many prizes for her work, including the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award and the Children’s Book of the Year. Jacqueline is a former Children’s Laureate, a professor of children’s literature, and in 2008 she was appointed a Dame for services to children’s literacy.

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QUEENIE
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 446 47984 1

Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Random House Group Company

This ebook edition published 2013

Text copyright © Jacqueline Wilson, 2013
Illustrations copyright © Nick Sharratt, 2013

First published in Great Britain by Doubleday, 2013

The right of Jacqueline Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.