The Bad Mother's Handbook

by Kate Long

  I kept having to blink to stop the reflections in the night-sky window from flickering. Every time a trolley went past it felt like the rubber wheels were trundling right over my heart, the rattling and clanking dislodging bits of my brain. I wondered whether Emma had been to hospital, sat in Casualty while nurses tended broken bones and exchanged glances over bruises. Why hadn’t anyone done anything? Why hadn’t Jessie? Every time I tried to think about that a gulf of incomprehension opened up in my mind and instead I saw again her face, hard, sour, in the crack of the door. It was fear in her eyes at the end, not anger; she’d been afraid of me. She’d always be running away from the past, there’d be no rest. Nor should there be.

  I wondered if he’d suffered at the end, that man. I hoped he had. I hoped he’d had terrible pain for a long time, and then gone to hell. I could understand now these stories of ordinary people hiring hitmen. In the face of such evil, what else is there to do but wipe it off the face of the earth?

  You try not to think about life’s darkest things, but sometimes they just flood into your head and you can’t stop them. In a place like this, in this no-man’s-land of time, you’ve no chance. Because being in a hospital reminds you how every second sees someone off or ushers someone in, souls squeezing in from the dark or flitting out into it. There are supposed to be ten ghosts behind every living person, aren’t there? And what about the ones waiting to be conceived, baby-ghosts of the future? If they knew what pain was waiting for them, how many would choose not to be born? Awful images were flying into my mind one after another. War reports on the news, Diana in a hospice with a little bald lad, NSPCC posters, even that mocked-up TV ad for immunizations where the tiny baby rolls about on the edge of a cliff. Curtains closing on Dad’s coffin. A strange sea in front of Buckingham Palace.

  The hospital clock ticked on taking lives with it and the dead queued up to be remembered. I’d been waiting for ever. I ached to hold Emma and make it all right; she was there, surely, just by me, I could feel her; and behind Emma all those other children who cry at night from fear or pain or loneliness crowded round and reached out little hands to me until I thought I was going to scream—

  ‘Could I have a word?’ The doctor was a young Indian woman, very pretty, slightly beaky nose. I looked up at her gormlessly and struggled to my feet. My handbag dropped down my arm onto the floor but I was too tired to bother. We stood facing each other and I searched her expression, trying to guess. There was a lash on her cheek and a stray hair coming down over her forehead. I wondered if she ever wore one of those red spots on her brow. All this in a fraction of a second. Make eye contact, I pleaded, because if you don’t, I’ll know it’s bad news.

  *

  Nan was in a room off the main ward on her own when we went. I wondered if that was a bad sign. She certainly had enough wires and tubes coming out of her.

  ‘They won’t know what damage has been done to her brain until she comes round,’ Mum had told me. ‘But she might be able to hear us, they say it’s the last sense to go. So watch what you say. She’s no teeth in so she looks a bit grim, anyway.’

  I’d forgotten she was so small. There didn’t seem to be anything of her under the covers, and her hands resting on top were like little turkey claws.

  ‘Mum?’ I whimpered, but she shushed me and patted me forwards.

  ‘Let’s get his lordship installed first.’ She hoisted the baby’s car seat onto a chair – he was sparko from the journey – and drew one up for me. Then she sat down herself and started unpacking all the goodies people had sent. ‘I thought I’d tell her about them even if she couldn’t see them, something might filter through, and she’d be so pleased everyone was thinking about her. Now. Mum?’ She leaned over the bed and raised her voice. ‘Mum, Charlotte and the baby are here, they’ve come to see you. And I’ve brought some presents and cards. They’re all asking at church after you, your name was read out for special prayers, apparently. The vicar sends his love.’ She fished in a Morrison’s carrier bag. ‘I’ve all sorts in here for you, shall I put them on the bed? No, best not, they might interfere with one of these tubes. Anyway, Ivy’s given you some lemon-scented tissues, they’ll be useful.’ She plonked them on the bedside table. ‘I’ve brought a stack of Woman’s Weeklies from Maud, and a cologne stick. Mrs Waters from the library’s sent you a big bag of Mintoes, here, and Reenie’s given me a pot of honeysuckle hand cream for you. I could put a bit on for you now if you like.’

  There was absolutely no response, it was awful, but Mum just chattered on.

  ‘There’s all sorts of cards too, I’ll read them out in a minute. Oh, there’s a bottle of Lucozade from Debbie, and Nina from Greenhalgh’s brought round a tin of Uncle Joe’s Mintballs . . .’

  I sniggered with nerves.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s the name. It always makes me laugh.’

  ‘What, Uncle Joe’s Mintballs?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I was fighting giggles; it was that or tears.

  Mum smirked; I think she was on the verge too. ‘Well, you know what they say about Uncle Joe’s Mintballs, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  Mum lowered her voice. ‘Uncle Joe’s Mintballs keep you all aglow, Give ’em to your granny and watch the bugger go.’

  We stared at each other for a second and then burst into hysterics. I laughed until my ribs hurt, we laughed so much Mum went red and I got hiccups, then she knocked the tin off her lap and it rolled all the way to the door, which was hilarious, and the baby woke up and Mum tried to pick him up but she couldn’t undo the straps which was also incredibly funny.

  And then Nan opened her eyes and said, ‘Blast id.’

  *

  I SCREWED my eyes up tight. If I didn’t open them happen I could get back. I could almost feel that warm stone under my palm still. When I’d looked down at Jimmy he’d got dandelion seeds stuck in his fringe and I wanted to brush them out with my fingers and feel his bonny hair again. But a wall of black had come up between us and I knew he was gone, Bill was gone, all of ’em. I’d missed the boat. I couldn’t stand it.

  *

  ‘Wake up, Nan, and give my little boy a name. We’re waiting on you to christen him. We can’t go on calling him Banana-baby for ever, he’ll get teased at school.’ I chafed her small cold fingers under their tape while Mum went to call for a nurse. My mouth was dry as I watched her eyelids flicker and wince. ‘Nan? Nan!’ She sighed deeply but made no other movement. If she dies now they might think it’s my fault, I thought. ‘Come on,’ I hissed. The baby suddenly sneezed twice and I felt Nan’s body twitch. I put my face close to hers on the pillow and saw the lashes flutter and a huge tear roll out and pause, then spread into the wrinkles of her cheek. Her lips pursed and I could see she was trying to say something. The lines round her mouth deepened.

  ‘What, Nan, what?’

  The breath came out of her in little pants but no words. I dropped her hand and ran for Mum.

  *

  LET ME get back, I wanted to say. Give me summat, quick, while I still remember how to get there. If I can just go to sleep and if they’d just turn this blasted light out. I tried and tried but I couldn’t make my mouth work.

  *

  ‘What’s she saying?’ Mum asked me as the nurse held Nan’s wrist, counting.

  ‘I couldn’t tell. Her teeth . . .’

  The nurse adjusted some machines and wiggled tubes, then unhooked the chart at the end of the bed and made some notes. Nan snorted a little and moaned. The nurse put down the chart and bent lower, putting her ear to Nan’s lips, frowning. We waited. She straightened up.

  ‘Apparently she’s won a holiday. For two. I’ll just fetch the doctor.’

  *

  THAT wasn’t what I wanted to say at all.

  *

  It was baby’s naming day and Nan’s birthday. The nurses stood round the bed clapping while I took a photo with one of those disposable cameras; Nan in a new bed-jacket holding a cake on her
lap. The walking frame was just visible in the corner but to cut it out of the picture I’d have had to chop Nan’s arm off. I told her this.

  ‘Might as well chop it off, all the use it is,’ was her comment. ‘Do you know why they clap when someone old says their age? It’s because you’re not dead yet, that’s all.’

  ‘I see it hasn’t affected her speech, then,’ muttered Dad to me.

  ‘No. She’s been lucky, really. If you call not being able to walk properly or feed herself without stuff going everywhere ‘‘lucky’’. She’s getting very frustrated though, stuck in bed. She used to be so active. How many eighty-one-year-olds do you know who can still touch their toes?’

  ‘Aye, well, she’s short. She dun’t have so far to bend down.’

  ‘Stop it. I think she’s really depressed.’

  Dad looked chastened. To be fair, he’s not good at tragedy. He only came because Mum put the screws on, how it might be her last birthday and she’d always thought so much of him.

  ‘So how’s she going to go on when they turf her out of here? I mean, Karen’s got her hands full with you and the baby, never mind hauling miniature pensioners about. What’s she going to do?’

  ‘It were t’ best place for her t’ ’ave a stroke,’ said Ivy loudly, grasping Dad’s arm. She nodded at Nan. ‘I were sayin’, it were t’ best place for you. You’ve some beautiful flowers.’

  ‘Blood and bandages.’ Nan pulled a face at a vase of red and white carnations. ‘They’re bad luck. I’ve told the nurses but they don’t do owt.’

  ‘Let’s have one of you, William and me on the bed with her,’ said Mum. ‘Steve,’ she handed him the camera, ‘if you’ll do the honours.’ Mum and I settled on the metal-framed bed either side of Nan, with Will like a fat white grub on her lap. ‘Ready.’

  ‘Right-oh. Say Hard Cheese.’

  ‘Eh, it’s a poor do,’ said Nan closing her eyes.

  *

  IF THE TIMES had been different I’d have felt completely disorientated by Nan’s uncharacteristic gloominess, but you’ve got to be realistic. It was chaos in our house, and you can only take on board so much at a time. I was going all out to be a Better Mother in the most trying of circumstances, I mean the house looked like several bombs had hit it. Nan was out of the way for the time being, true, but I was trailing off to visit nearly every day and Charlotte had me going up and down those stairs like a demented yo-yo.

  —Mum, Mum, my jeans still won’t do up!

  —That’s because you had a baby six weeks ago. Your figure’ll come back, give it time. Dry your eyes and we’ll have a cup of tea.

  —Mum, Mum, his stump’s fallen off!

  —Well, they do. Wipe round his tummy carefully and watch you don’t catch it when you’re changing his nappy.

  —Mum, Mum, there’s all bits in his poo!

  —That’s normal. Come on now, Charlotte, stop worrying about every little thing.

  —Mum, Mum! Mum! I’ve forgotten how to bath him!

  —Oh, for Christ’s sake, Charlotte, just have a go! His head’s not going to drop off! Five minutes’ bloody peace with the Bolton Evening News, that’s all I wanted.

  Etc.

  I can’t believe how she’s changed; she used to be so damned independent and now she’s on my back all the time. Secretly, though, it’s quite nice. I like being able to tell her what to do and have her listen for once. She hangs on every word, asks me constantly about when she was a baby. We talk like we haven’t done for years. When the baby blues hit she went down like a rag doll, completely useless. He’d got jaundice, and I told her it was very common and not serious but she kept yammering on about him turning into a banana; I thought she was going mental. Then she came out of it and two days after we were joking about the size of her boobs. ‘Look at this, Mum,’ she said, holding up one of her old bras against her massive chest. ‘It’s like a fairy bra.’ We were two double laughing. She’s doing ever so well, really. There’ll always be rows, the habit’s too ingrained, but I really do feel as if I’d been given a second chance with her.

  *

  People think I’m coping but I’m not.

  All these secrets women keep. Actually, I can understand why; after you’ve given birth you feel as if your body’s been turned inside out and left hanging on the line for a week. If word got out what it was really like, nobody would get pregnant ever again. I’m certainly not up for it a second time, no way, Will’ll have to resign himself to being an only child. I’m such a mess down there it’s horrific. I can feel these knobbly stitches; they’re supposed to dissolve on their own but I’m not convinced. I touch myself in the bath and it’s not my body any more.

  My breasts aren’t mine. They’ve changed into tender, meaty bags of milk and they go knobbly too if Will sleeps through a feed. Then I have to go and milk myself into the bathroom sink like a big cow. It sprays out in tiny jets, it’s just weird.

  The baby’s weird, too. He’s got pathetic scrunched-up little legs and a huge tummy now, and eyes that scan your face as if they’re going right inside your head; I hope to God they’re not. His willy’s funny, a tiny soft teapot-spout of a thing. When you’re cleaning the poo off it you think it’s impossible that one day it’ll be this huge hard veiny stalk with wiry hairs all round it. Mum says he’s a good baby to what I was, he only wakes once or twice in the night and goes back down after a feed, but it’s killing me getting up to him at all hours. How do people manage without sleep? Sometimes I lie awake in the dark, waiting for him to cry, and I wonder if he can read my thoughts and whether that starts him off.

  Once, and I haven’t told anyone this, he was crying and crying in his cot and it was half-past three in the morning. He had wind but I didn’t know, I thought he was doing it to spite me. I picked him up and he carried on screaming into my ear and my whole body started to tremble because of the urge to shake him hard. A good shake will show him, make him stop, I thought. Then I came out of it and remembered what Dad had said, but as I went to put Will back down he let out a huge burp and stopped crying immediately. I went down and had a cup of tea anyway.

  He is a sweet baby. I call him Will, Mum calls him William, to Nan he’s Bill or sometimes ‘Bonny Brid’. Dad refers to him as ‘t’ little belter’. I can change his nappy now no problem, I sing him songs by Oasis; he’s gaining weight and he might have smiled for the first time today. Mum said it was a smile, anyway.

  But I’m still a fraud. I put him to the breast and look down at his fragile skull and I think: I don’t love you yet. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you, I’d fight off a tiger with my bare hands if you were in danger. And yet there’s a gap inside me where I’m sure I should be feeling something more. You shouldn’t just be fond of your baby, should you?

  What have I done?

  *

  THE HOUSE is full of cards and people troop up the path almost daily with bits and pieces for the baby. Mr F sent a book of lullabies from around the world; Debbie’s sister brought a bag of clothes, 3–6 months, she’d finished with. All Mum’s friends from the Over Seventies’ have given something, knitted cardigans and teddies and what have you. Mrs Katechi from the Spar gave us a scrapbook entitled ‘Baby’s First Year’; Pauline came with a bag of gifts from the staff and kids, even a couple of parents had chipped in. A lot of it’s second-hand but that doesn’t matter, William’s not going to complain, is he?

  Charlotte wanted to know why everyone was being so nice.

  ‘I don’t know half these people. Why have they bought me presents?’

  I was writing thank-you notes at the table but I stopped and put my pen down. ‘Do you know, it’s funny, I remember thinking exactly the same, but I can understand it now. It’s because a new baby’s a blank sheet, it’s not made any mistakes like an adult has. People want to get in on that innocence and celebrate it while it’s there. It’s very attractive, that unspoilt life, sort of magical. It gives us all hope. The baby’s got a chance of getting it right where we�
��ve failed.’

  Charlotte snickered. ‘Steady on, Mum. Isn’t it just that babies are cute?’

  William, who was lying naked on his changing mat with his chubby legs kicking, snorted and sneezed.

  ‘Maybe. That’s only my take on it. Hey, you’d best put his nappy on before he wees. It goes a long way with boys, I’ve discovered.’

  ‘I know, it’s like a fountain.’ Charlotte knelt – she’s getting so capable with him – and started to strap him up. ‘Yeah, I can understand people being nice with him, who wouldn’t be? But I thought some of them might be a bit off with me, you know, not being married and that. The older ones, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, love, there probably isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t think, There but for the Grace of God. The older ones especially, I shouldn’t be surprised, because when they were young it was a lot easier to get caught.’

  Charlotte snapped the last popper on William’s suit. ‘Oh, God, imagine, Mum, imagine Ivy Seddon . . . and Maud Eckersley . . . on their backs, in the grass!’

  ‘Stop that now, madam, you’ve a nasty mind. I’ve got to give them both a lift to the hospital this afternoon. I think all those hormones must have affected your head. Hell’s teeth, what an image, though.’

  ‘But they must have been young once. They must have courted and that . . .’

  I put the last card in its envelope.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. Sex wasn’t invented until the 1960s, you know. Before that everybody behaved themselves.’