The Bad Mother's Handbook

by Kate Long

  I wondered if I was going to bump into him at the office. Theoretically students come between 10 and 12 to pick up their slips, but in practice there’s a seething crowd of hysterical teenagers round the front door by 9.50 and a mad rush when the head of sixth comes down to open it. I slid in with the general melee at 10.03 so I didn’t have to wait around being gawped at. Generally the students who come later are the ones who know they’ve either done really well or really badly. A lot of posturing goes on, class jokers pretending to be amazed they didn’t do even worse; huddles of girls patting and hugging tearful friends in an agony of embarrassment at their own success. The teachers stand around and offer congratulations where appropriate, and avoid eye contact where it’s not. The air is electric. I hated it last year, hated it again now.

  For those few minutes my pregnancy was completely forgotten. Anya and I stood in isolated pools of agony, tearing open the slips, gazing, absorbing, then shrieking at each other, at anyone who’d listen.

  ‘I got an A!’

  ‘Oh my God, so did I!’

  Anya put her arm round me, no mean feat, and we tottered out onto the drive like two drunks. Mrs Carlisle hurried after us.

  ‘Well done, both of you. Looking forward to next year.’ She smiled at me. ‘This is for you, my home phone number. You can call me at any time and we can get together to talk about how things stand.’ She passed me a sealed envelope. ‘Don’t let it fall into the wrong hands. I don’t want obscene calls all summer!’

  ‘She is so nice,’ said Anya as we walked slowly out of the gates towards the park. We passed the twins on their way in, mad with nerves, but there was still no sign of Daniel. It occurred to me he might be away or have arranged for them to be posted. But I couldn’t stop scanning the faces as one car after another drove past us over the ramp and crawled round the quad.

  ‘Do you want to talk about the baby?’ asked Anya unexpectedly. ‘Now, I mean, before the twins come out. Because we weren’t sure whether you’d like to or not, and we didn’t want to get it wrong.’

  Poor Anya. It must have cost her an effort to say that.

  I shook my head. ‘Thanks. No, I don’t, not this afternoon. I think I’d like to just be me, not Mrs Pregnant. Do you mind?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ There was relief in her voice. I wished then, so keenly, that I could have shed the pregnancy for a few hours, unstrapped the bulge and hung it up in the wardrobe. I wanted a break, time off for good behaviour, one last good laugh with the girls and then I’d be ready to go back to it in the evening. It was so part of me. I looked awful now and felt breathless most of the time, couldn’t bend down, constantly needed to pee . . . You’re a big parasite, I’d told the baby in the bath. Let it hear, I didn’t care.

  When the twins caught up (‘two Cs’) we strolled to the park and sat round the sunken garden, eating. And although there was this great black hole in the conversation, everyone including me trying to avoid the topic that was screaming in our faces, it was good because there were so many other things to talk about. Teenage things, trivia, plans, gossip. I couldn’t exactly join in, but I could listen and laugh and tease.

  An ice-cream van rolled up and Anya and I went to get 99s for us all. The sun was pretty hot now and there was a shimmer over the grass. As I cast my eyes over the red and white flower beds sloping up to the entrance I spotted Daniel walking quickly towards us. I didn’t know what to do, and anyway I had an ice-cream cone in each hand so I was a bit restricted. I smiled, then looked away in case that was too much. One of the ice-creams began to melt and drip over my fingers, so I twisted my hand round and tried to lick it off. Daniel broke into a run.

  ‘No!’ he shouted.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ I turned to Anya but she only shrugged.

  Without losing speed he charged at me and, like a jousting knight, knocked the 99 from my grasp. It splatted onto the floor, cone upended, and began to merge with the gravel.

  He overshot, blasted through a flower bed and staggered to a halt several metres away, panting. Anya pulled a Loony face at me.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ I asked. This was some bizarre revenge for rejecting him.

  He came up to us, wild haired and grinning.

  ‘That was a close one. Didn’t your midwife tell you about listeria?’

  ‘Yeah. Deadly bug. It’s in blue cheese and pâté and I don’t like either. So?’

  ‘And in soft ice-cream from vans, if you’re unlucky. Can’t be too careful. Can I treat you to a choc ice?’

  ‘Jesus.’ I turned to Anya with a despairing look. What would you do with him?

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, sniggering, and joined the goggle-eyed twins back on the bench.

  What could I do? ‘I’ll have a Zoom,’ I said grimly.

  We must have made an odd couple from a distance, me like a barrel on legs and him a tall streak of nothing. When he gave me my lolly he flourished his hand and bowed. I could have kicked him.

  ‘Listen, Prince Charming, do you want me to stick this up your nose?’ I hissed.

  We went over and joined the others but there were a lot of meaningful looks going on behind our backs and stifled giggles. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and say they were still a bit hysterical from the exam results.

  ‘Well,’ said Anya after about thirty seconds, ‘we must be off if we’re going to hit the shops. Are you coming into town with us?’

  ‘Not a lot of point me trailing round the Arndale at the moment. I’ll have to be getting back soon, anyway.’

  I knew they couldn’t wait to be on their own. They’d probably phone Julia from town and give her a blow-by-blow account of the Madman in Queen’s Park.

  We said goodbye with lots of hugging and promises to ring and good lucks, then they scarpered. Daniel was lying along a bench chewing his lolly stick.

  ‘Waiting for the E numbers to kick in,’ he said.

  ‘I think they already have. Did you take your Ritalin today?’

  ‘The only problem I’ve got is Grade Deficit Disorder,’ he said sitting up and shading his eyes.

  ‘Really? What did you get?’

  ‘B and a C. My parents will be scandalized. Still, serves them right for moving me at a critical period of my development.’

  I went and sat at the other end of the bench.

  ‘B C isn’t too bad. They’re only modules. You can retake, can’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. It’s OK, I’ve got all the spiel worked out in my head for when I get home. You got an A, didn’t you?’

  ‘More trouble at home; my mother’ll make me wear it round my neck like the albatross. How did you know?’

  ‘Lucky guess. Well done. My dad’ll be delighted, he thinks you’re wonderful.’

  ‘It was nice of him to drive me back last week.’

  ‘No problem. He enjoyed talking to you. He says you’re intelligent. I got a bollocking though for being too pissed to drive you myself.’

  ‘Were you? Pissed?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He inspected his lolly stick and read out the joke. ‘What zooms along the river bed at 100 m.p.h.?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘A motor pike and a side carp. Nice one.’ He pocketed the stick and got up. ‘I’ll give you a lift back now, if you want.’

  ‘I won’t say no.’

  And so, just like that, we fell back into step as if nothing had happened. Maybe both of us had too much to lose.

  ‘Do you mind if I don’t ask you in? Only I’m dead tired, I really need to lie down.’

  ‘I’ve got to get home myself. Face the music.’ Daniel grimaced. ‘Bloody parents, they’re a liability. See you!’

  He bibbed his horn and I trailed up the front path feeling suddenly depressed. Reaction, I suppose. I struggled with the door, tossed the results slip on the table and collapsed on the sofa. Nan came out of the kitchen, beaming.

  ‘Eeh, it’s our Charlotte. You’re looking bonny, love. Get
your feet up and Debbie’ll make you a cup of tea. She’s brought a little present for you.’

  I blew her a kiss.

  ‘I do love you, Nan,’ I said.

  *

  WHEN I GOT IN Milady was lying on the sofa admiring a tiny sleepsuit, Nan was massaging Charlotte’s feet and Debbie the cleaner was holding a needle and thread over her tummy.

  ‘I can’t tell whether it’s swinging in a circle or not,’ Debbie was saying. ‘And I can’t remember which way round it is, anyway. Can you, Nan? Is it a circle for a boy and a straight line for a girl?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a hermaphrodite,’ quipped Charlotte. I know for a fact neither of them know what that is, but they both laughed.

  I picked up the scrap of paper on the table and winced. It was the report fiasco all over again. Shame she didn’t get an A in Doing as you’re Damn Well Told.

  ‘You do know you’re throwing your life away,’ I snapped as I went past. She never even turned her head.

  ‘Ooh, I just saw the baby move!’ exclaimed Debbie. ‘Bless it.’

  ‘Can I have a feel?’ said Nan.

  THREE DAYS later I walked out.

  Chapter Nine

  THE DAY STARTED as per usual, with Nan wandering in and announcing it was morning. Up with the lark, that’s my mother. Back in her bedroom I changed her bag then she stumped downstairs and had a wash. Meanwhile I threw on leggings and shirt. Nan returned to her room to get dressed and I trailed down to the kitchen to make breakfast. It’s a kind of ballet sequence we’ve refined over the years, and the only one who ever throws a spanner in the works is Charlotte, rising unexpectedly early or locking herself in the bathroom for a pre-school hair crisis.

  But this morning I’d finished my toast and Nan still hadn’t made an appearance, so I went back upstairs to see what the matter was. She was sitting on the bed in her underslip glowering at the chair.

  ‘What’s up now?’ I asked. ‘Your Weetabix is going cold.’

  ‘I’m not wearing that.’ She pointed to the dress slung over the chair back.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘It’s not red.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. It’s a lovely frock, Mum. You wore it last week.’

  She glared at me.

  ‘I tell you what, why don’t you put that little maroon cardigan over the top? That’s reddish.’

  No answer.

  ‘Well, you can’t go to church in your underslip. Maud and Ivy’ll be here soon, you don’t want to hold them up.’ I opened the wardrobe door and rifled through her clothes. ‘Wait a minute, what about this?’ I pulled out a grey dress with scarlet flowers on the skirt. ‘This is a nice one.’

  ‘It’s not red enough.’

  With enormous control I put the grey dress back and walked out onto the landing to check the laundry basket. Maybe her red wool two-piece could be redeemed with a squirt of Febreze and a good shake. I rooted about and found it, but there was a soup stain down the front. I flung it back in and stood there thinking. I had four choices. I could throw myself over the banisters now, this very minute. Then they’d all be sorry. I could burst into noisy tears which no one would take any notice of. I could go into Mum’s room and slap her across the face – oh, I know it’s a terrible thought, I’m supposed to be her carer and it’s not her fault etc. etc., but believe me, there are times when I come so close I have to walk away and count ten. Or, and this was the plan resolving itself before my eyes as being the most reasonable course of action under the circumstances, I could run away.

  I went back into Mum’s room and pulled out all the spare bags and tape she needs for changing and put them on the dressing table. Then I got out the little scissors from her jewellery box and cut the right size openings in the top of every bag.

  ‘I’m old enough to do as I like,’ she snapped suddenly.

  ‘No, Mum, you’re not old enough, you’re too old, that’s the point.’

  I got the overnight case from the top of her wardrobe and took it into my room. (We’re off! We’re off!) My head started to sing a stupid song of Nan’s to the rhythm of my breathing. I packed a smart suit and a pair of courts, two pairs of leggings and assorted tops, knickers, travel wash, make-up and curling tongs. (We’re off in a motor car!) Walking past Mum’s bedroom I could see she’d lain down on the bed and closed her eyes. I carried straight on downstairs to the bathroom where I topped up my sponge bag, then in the hall I checked my handbag and address book. (Sixty bobbies are after us and we don’t know where we are!) Finally I scribbled a note to Charlotte saying I’d gone to stay with a friend for a few days but I’d give her a ring that evening and if she needed help to contact her dad or social services. It was completely irresponsible of me. I imagined the expressions of horror when Charlotte finally roused herself to let Maud and Ivy in and they discovered the truth together. Well, they’d just have to sort it out.

  I slammed the Metro door so hard the hinges all but fell off, then stuck a Madonna tape on full blast. All the way to Manchester I justified myself to the music. ‘Rescue Me’. ‘Secret’. ‘Bad Girl’. I couldn’t believe what I’d done.

  Then, as I drew into the half-empty car park, the tape came to an end and a man on the radio said Princess Diana was dead.

  I sat in the car for a few minutes, listening; a car crash, France, early hours of the morning, a high-speed chase. ‘The phone lines are open now for your calls,’ the presenter said. ‘Please do dial and let us know how you’re feeling about this terribly sad, this shocking tragedy; hello, Gemma from Radcliffe.’ Gemma, quavering: ‘I just can’t believe it, she was so young—’ I switched the radio off and got quietly out of the car.

  I walked up to the station, past the screaming headlines on the newspaper stand, past a huge chalk heart someone had scrawled on the wall near the cafe, R.I.P. DI. Unreal. I bought my ticket on autopilot and went to stand on the platform where a little group was talking to each other animatedly. Tight-faced fifty-something woman, nasty claw-shaped brooch on her coat; very thin man freezing in shirt sleeves; young lass in salwar kameez and anorak, towing meek child: normally they’d all be busy maintaining personal space. But this morning was different.

  ‘In a tunnel,’ claw woman was saying, ‘awful.’ ‘Those boys,’ murmured the young mum, shaking her head while her tiny daughter stood with her face upturned, watching pigeons fly between the metal rafters above our heads. The thin man balled his fists: ‘Bloody journalists. They want locking up. They’ve no bloody scruples.’

  ‘It said in our paper she was just Very Badly Injured,’ claw woman piped up, ‘I thought she was still alive till I put the telly on. I can’t believe it.’

  Thin man saw me staring at his Observer and handed it to me without a word. I held it up, saw the pictures and read the words, so it was true.

  Then the train to Euston slid in.

  As the coach lurched out of the station I sat alone in my corner by the window and thought about Diana, and about me. I remembered all the royal wedding celebrations, all that hope and happiness in the midst of my own messed-up life, her lovely smiling face and that rumpled fairytale dress. Everyone had seemed united, you’d felt like the whole nation was with you as you sat in front of the telly watching that balcony kiss. I’d kept the souvenir issue of the Radio Times and even copied the haircut, briefly. I thought she was charmed, then it turned out she’d been duped just like the rest of us. Confessing and crying on prime-time TV; I’d squirmed for her. And now after so much unhappiness she was dead, shocking proof that money and elegance and class and beauty, none of them mean anything in the face of Fate.

  Sadness tightened on my chest, and guilt. If she couldn’t get it right, what chance had the rest of us? Then my own failings and inadequacies seemed to rise up like a cold mist around me so that I suddenly found myself in tears and had to stare out of the window at the blurred countryside. I didn’t even know her, I thought, so why am I crying?

  *

  It was turning into a surreal
kind of day. No Mum, Dad in the kitchen unloading frozen ready-meals and tins of Nan food, and all the TV stations awash with the Diana story, whichever channel you flicked to.

  ‘I know it’s a shame, but I don’t know why there’s all these women in tears,’ I muttered. ‘You’d think she’d been personal best friend to a hundred thousand people. I reckon they’re putting it on for the cameras.’

  ‘I got you six of these mini pizzas ’cause they were on special offer,’ said Dad. He was well pissed off, you could tell. ‘What a flamin’ carry-on. I have to be at work tomorrow, you know. I’ve had that much time off the boss has given me a warning. But Ivy Seddon says they’re organizing a rota at the Over Seventies’, and I’ve been on the phone to social services and there’s a nurse coming round every morning for an hour. That Crossroads woman’s here tomorrow and then there’s that cleaner you have. It’ll be like Paddy’s market. You certainly won’t be on your own, love. I’ll come round every evening after I’ve had my tea. Anyroad, your mum might not be away so long, she could be back in a day or two.’

  ‘I’m not bothered, Dad.’ I wasn’t either. In some ways it was a relief to have her out the house. ‘She’s done it before, remember. That time she found a lump in her breast and took herself off to Fleetwood for a long weekend.’

  ‘Aye. And it were nowt in t’ finish. Do you think she really has gone to stay with a friend?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. She doesn’t have any.’

  ‘It’s norra man, then?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘She’s been horrible about the baby, you know. She wanted me to get rid of it.’

  Dad became very busy stacking the freezer compartment.

  ‘Well, she was only thinking of you. She thought it would be for t’ best. You know, your education and that.’