Free Queenie by Jacqueline Wilson Page A

know!’ I whimpered, suddenly yanked out of my own funeral.
    ‘Perhaps – perhaps Doctor Malory can cure it at this stage,’ said Mum. ‘After all, you haven’t got a cough, have you?’
    I felt the tickle in my throat again. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, struggling.
    ‘And maybe you’ve made your wrist worse by scratching it,’ said Mum, examining it again.
    ‘I
didn’t
!’
    ‘You could have been scratching in your sleep. Anyway, we’d better get you to the doctor’s.’
    ‘Mum, if I
have
got TB—’
    ‘Ssh! Don’t go broadcasting it to all and sundry,’ Mum hissed, though we were entirely alone.
    ‘
If
I do, will I have to go to the sanatorium?’ I suddenly cheered up immensely. ‘I could be with Nan!’
    Maybe they’d let me have a little bed right beside hers. We could chat to each other all day and play with my pretend cats, and then hold hands at night. I was so comforted by this idea that I skipped on the way to the doctor’s, even though my leg ached.
    ‘Ah, you’ve perked up, young lady,’ said the receptionist, smiling at me.
    She didn’t let us jump the queue this time. We had to wait nearly an hour while Dr Malory called for everyone else in the room. I sat and read the
Beano
. I didn’t like it as much as my precious
Girl
because the stories weren’t as real, but it passed the time. Mum flicked through a very old copy of
Woman’s Own
, but she didn’t pause to read any of it – not even the problem page at the back. Then she simply stared into space, nibbling at a hangnail on her thumb. She always smacked me if she caught me pulling one of
my
hangnails.
    We were called in at long last. Dr Malory was sitting in his usual position, hands praying.
    ‘Ah, Elsie, and Mrs – Miss – Kettle. It’s good news,’ he said as we sat down on the chairs in front of his desk.
    ‘
Good
news?’ said Mum.
    ‘The results of your X-rays. You’ve both got perfect pairs of lungs – not a hint of a shadow.’
    ‘Oh, thank goodness! You’re absolutely sure?’
    ‘Absolutely,’ said Dr Malory.
    ‘There, Elsie! We were getting ourselves worked up into a state over nothing. You
must
have been scratching that wrist, you silly girl.’
    ‘Elsie’s wrist?’ asked Dr Malory.
    ‘It’s gone a bit pink and puffy where you injected her – but obviously it’s nothing to worry about now,’ said Mum.
    Dr Malory took hold of my arm and pushed up my cardigan sleeve. He stared at my wrist for a long time, looking grave.
    ‘It can’t mean she’s got . . . TB,’ Mum said, whispering the dreaded initials. ‘Not if her lungs are fine.’
    ‘Her lungs
are
fine, there’s no mistake there. But you can harbour the tuberculosis bacilli in many other parts of your body. Pop your jersey and dress off, Elsie. I’d like to examine you,’ said Dr Malory.
    ‘Oh Lord,’ said Mum, dragging my cardigan off and pulling my dress over my head.
    I bent over in shame, terribly conscious that my vest was grubby and I was wearing the awful frilly knickers.
    ‘Stand up straight, Elsie. Don’t be silly,’ said Mum.
    Dr Malory put a thermometer in my mouth and started gently but firmly feeling my spine and my arms and my legs. ‘She’s very slight,’ he commented. ‘Has she lost weight recently?’
    ‘She’s always been a skinny little thing. She takes after her grandma,’ said Mum without thinking. Then she went, ‘Oh!’
    ‘And does she run around a lot with all the other kids, or flop about at home?’ said Dr Malory.
    ‘I try to encourage her to go out and play,’ said Mum. ‘She’s shy. She doesn’t make friends easily.’
    I felt myself flushing scarlet. I tried to protest that I
did
have friends. Maybe Laura and I really might pal up one day? But I couldn’t speak properly with the thermometer in my mouth.
    ‘And what about a limp?’ said Dr Malory.
    ‘Well, she puts it on at times. She doesn’t like her shoes.’
    Dr Malory took the thermometer out of my mouth and peered at it.