Queenie by Jacqueline Wilson Page B

Smarties like Doctor Malory said. There will be nurses, and they’ll all look pretty in their blue dresses and white aprons and funny white hats. They will tuck you up in bed and look after you until you are better. Nan will get better too and—’
    I couldn’t keep up the pretence any more.
    ‘Nan!’ I wailed, and I keeled over onto the cold lino and howled, my inflamed wrist tucked into my armpit. I cried for a very long time, until my whole face was slippery with tears and snot, and I’d made my new sweet necklace uncomfortably sticky. I fell asleep in a little sodden ball and didn’t wake up until I heard Mum coming in the front door.

‘WELL, EVERY CLOUD has a silver lining,’ said Mum as we rattled along in the train. ‘Imagine me, personal secretary to a managing director!’
    I stared out at the little gardens flashing past. Two boys stood on top of an air-raid shelter, pointing. I wasn’t stupid: I knew they were simply pointing at the train and then making a note of the number – two harmless little train spotters – but it felt as if they were pointing straight at me.
    There goes germy Elsie with her TB!
they might be writing.
Keep clear of her!
    ‘I’d really only gone for the receptionist’s job – any girl with a pretty face can do that – but Mr Perkins asked about my typing and shorthand,’ said Mum.
    A large collie dog barked at the train. He barked right at me, and I had to hold tight to Snow White and Sooty and Marmalade, who hissed and squirmed in my arms. They’d wriggled out of a crack in my suitcase and were trying to comfort me. I gave them each a special stroke.
    ‘Stop dabbing your hands about – you look gormless,’ said Mum. ‘Yes, I was a bit worried when I had to take dictation. I haven’t done shorthand since I was at school and I was never that good at it, to be honest – but I looked him straight in the eye and said I was a bit rusty because I’d been pursuing a career on the stage, and he was ever so understanding.’
    We passed a school and I could see all the heads of the children sitting at their desks. Some of them looked out at me. ‘Did you hear about Elsie Kettle?’ they whispered. ‘She’s got TB!’
    I thought about my own school. Maybe they’d found out already.
    ‘We always knew Elsie Kettle was dirty,’ Marilyn and Susan said in chorus.
    ‘Just think, I nearly made friends with her!’ said Laura.
    ‘Poor little Elsie, I hope I haven’t caught her horrid germs,’ said Miss Roberts, washing her angora cardie just in case it was contaminated.
    I gave a little moan.
    ‘Yes, I think he rather liked the idea – said he’d always been very partial to theatre-going. He asked which plays I’d appeared in. I had to be a little vague – I doubt he’s ever been to the Saucebox Follies! Though I don’t know – there was a naughty twinkle in his eye for all he was so gentlemanly in his pinstripe suit. Elsie . . . ? Oh Elsie!’
    She’d seen the tears rolling down my cheeks.
    ‘Cheer up, you silly sausage. You’re going to be fine. They’ll make you better in hospital. All you have to do is lie in bed and rest. Sounds good to me!’
    I carried on crying. I was scared she’d get cross, but she cuddled me in close and stroked my hair with her long cool fingers.
    ‘There now, little bunny,’ she murmured.
    She used to call me Bunny when I was very little and had a hood on my jacket with furry rabbit ears. I nestled against her and she didn’t even tell me off when my nose dribbled onto her smart suit.
    ‘What’s up with the little moppet?’ the woman opposite asked. ‘She’s going to hospital, you say?’
    I felt Mum stiffen.
    ‘Yes, she’s hurt her knee,’ she said quickly.
    The woman launched into a long and harrowing account of her son’s stay in hospital when he was a little boy.
    ‘Starved him, they did. Just gave him a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy for his dinner. I ask you, is that food fit for a growing lad? I should