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crying.
    I pull the covers up over my head, clutch my old toys, and cry too.

Chapter 4
    I DON’T GO to school again on Tuesday. I think, just for a split second,
Oh, goody-goody
! Because we go swimming on Tuesday mornings, and I feel sick on the coach, and I hate all the noise in the baths, and I can’t swim very well and so I don’t get to splashin the top set with Sally. Then I feel dreadful because I’d sooner swim all day in a shark-infested pool and have Mum wide awake and completely well.
    I don’t know what clothes to put on. I don’t know whether to dress up smartly or wear my old jeans. In the end I wear my black and white spotty bridesmaid’s dress to please Mum, even though
I
think it looks awful, especially now, as I can’t find any clean white socks and so I wear red ones which don’t go with my shoes. I can’t fix my hair either. It needs washing and it just hangs limply, especially my fringe. I’m nearly in tears as I tug at it. I so want to look lovely for Mum. I feel if I can only look like the perfect daughter, she’ll open her eyes to take a proper proud look at me.
    Jack isn’t trying at all. He hasn’t even
shaved
and he’s tugged on the same shirt and jeans he had on yesterday. He looks awful, his hair sticking up, his eyes all red and bleary. I wrinkle my nose at the sight of him.
    â€˜What?’ he says.
    â€˜Nothing.’
    He sighs and rubs his hands over his face, then takes a deep breath. ‘OK, what shall we have for breakfast? Toast? Cereal? Bacon and eggs?’
    â€˜I don’t want anything.’
    â€˜You need something inside you, Ella. It’s going to be a long day. Come on, don’t be difficult. I’ll make you anything. Pancakes?’
    I stare at him as if he’s mad. ‘Let’s just go to the hospital to see Mum,’ I say.
    â€˜Bowl of cereal first, at the very least,’ he says, but when he takes the carton of milk out of the fridge he peers at it doubtfully, and then sniffs it.
    â€˜Oh God,’ he says, pouring it down the sink. ‘I’ll have to go shopping sometime.’
    We have toast instead, nibbling in silence. Then the phone rings just as we’re about to go. It’s the head teacher at Garton Road, Mum and Jack’s school.
    â€˜Look, I told you, I can’t possibly come in, not when Sue’s so seriously ill. What? Look, I can’t help it if they’ve both got gastroenteritis. I couldn’t give a stuff if the entire staff are throwing up all over the school. I can’t come in and teach because Sue’s in a coma, hanging onto life by a thread—’ He sees me staring and says quickly, ‘I’ve got to go now.’
    Is Mum really hanging onto life by a thread? I imagine a long white thread tied round her ankle, tethering her to the bed, while she rises up and up and up . . .
    â€˜I didn’t really mean that! I just needed to getmy point across,’ Jack says. ‘Come on, Ella.’
    We drive to the hospital again and walk down the long corridors. I hope and hope and hope that Mum will be just a little bit better – but she’s still lying there, eyes closed. I shout, ‘
Mum!
’ right in her ear but she doesn’t stir.
    â€˜No, no, dear, don’t, you’ll hurt Mummy,’ says a new nurse crossly.
    I shrink back, horrified.
    â€˜She was just trying to rouse her. She didn’t mean any harm,’ says Jack. ‘She’s very close to her mother.’
    The new nurse sniffs. Her blonde hair is pulled very tightly into a bun, and the elasticated belt round her waist is at full stretch. She looks as if she could explode in all directions at any time.
    â€˜She shouldn’t be in here then, it’s too upsetting for a little girl,’ she snaps. ‘Small children aren’t supposed to be running about these wards.’
    Yet later they bring a very, very small child to Mum: