Bad Mothers United

by Kate Long

  Again I nodded.

  ‘You’ve not brought her with you?’

  ‘You mean my mum? No. It’s a secret. I’ve come in secret.’

  ‘She’s not sent you?’

  ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘I thought she’d sent you.’ Jen frowned, as if I was being deliberately obstructive.

  ‘I reckoned it’d be a surprise when I went back home and told her.’

  Something flickered across her face.

  ‘How long have you known about me, then?’ she said.

  ‘Three years. I accidentally saw her birth certificate. But we haven’t talked about it much. She did tell me you were young when you got pregnant and you couldn’t cope. That’s all she said, though. I don’t think she knows any more details.’ I waited, expecting Jen to start filling in some gaps. ‘It must have been a rough time for you.’

  ‘Damn right it was. The worst.’ She sat back then, her lips a tight-closed line. Whatever had happened in the past, it didn’t look as though I was going to hear about it today.

  ‘So I don’t really know anything about you!’ I said. ‘But I’m excited to meet you, “Grandma”.’

  That made her laugh finally, a kind of croaky chuckle. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I suppose I am. No one else is ever gonna call me that, for sure. So, are you stopping for a cuppa?’

  While she disappeared with my bag and coat, I wandered round the room, too wired to sit any longer. I’d hoped there might be a few family photos I could check out, but the only framed item on display was a naff foil print of a howling wolf. The smell of air freshener was making me want to sneeze.

  ‘Anyway, your mum,’ she said when she walked back in. ‘Tell me what’s going on there.’

  She sat down on the sofa and patted the seat next to her. I came and rested on the edge of the slippery vinyl.

  Where to start? I wondered. How truthful should I be? Well, she threw away that card you sent, left it to stew under tea bags and toddler wipes. Best not. I said, ‘She’s the reason I’m here. I couldn’t really tell you the whole thing on the phone, but what it is, she’s really down at the moment, missing my nan, she can’t seem to get over it and I thought . . .’

  I hesitated, not sure how to put it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought you might be able to help.’

  ‘How’s that, love?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly. I suppose, lift her, bring her out of herself. Stop her dwelling on sad stuff. Give her a new focus. That kind of thing.’

  Jen just looked at me. The china pig went on cuddling the china duck. There was something malformed about the duck’s beak, as if prior to the cuddle the pig might have smashed it in the face. Then she said, ‘Your mum don’t want to see me, sweetheart. I’ve been writing to her for months and not a peep – ah, you didn’t know that, did you? I can tell by your face. She really hasn’t told you anything, has she? So then you ring me and I think, Oh, she’s coming after all. Only she’s not, it’s just you turns up. In secret, you say. Without telling her. But she must’ve showed you the cards I sent?’

  ‘No. I found one, by accident. How did you know our address?’

  ‘I had a friend who used to be with Social Services. She fixed it for me. Wasn’t supposed to, like. But I made a nuisance of meself till she gave in. I’m an expert at that.’ Jen gave another wheezy chuckle.

  I tried to picture Mum and Jen together, hugging on the doorstep or poring over a photo album.

  I said, ‘The problem is, she hasn’t got much confidence at the moment. And since my nan died last year, Mum’s been adrift. And I want her to move on. I’m pretty sure she would like to meet you, at least once, except she hasn’t felt up to it. That’s why she hasn’t been replying. Not because – well, I don’t think she’s let herself acknowledge you in case it gets too complicated for her to cope with. But honestly it would do her good to meet you, ask you some questions, hear some family history. She enjoys stuff like that. Sort of filling in the past and a new start at the same time.’

  How much of this was Jen understanding? Her eyes were needle-sharp, as if she didn’t trust me. I suppose when you’ve been hurt, you do put up a few barriers.

  ‘What do you think, Jen?’

  She stood up and walked towards the window, her mouth working as if she might be about to spit. I saw how hollow her cheeks were, and the harsh lines around her mouth. Everything about her looked dried out. At last she turned and spoke.

  ‘I was always going to leave it, see. Let the past stay the past. You know? But then lately I thought . . . It don’t matter what I thought. I sent a few cards but I weren’t going to bother again. I know a closed door when I see one.’

  This poor woman, I thought: how utterly bloody awful to be parted from your child for years, believe you’re going to be united at long last and then end up rejected. Watching the post every morning, and nothing. Silence. If that was Will and me I’d literally die of a broken heart.

  ‘The door doesn’t have to be closed,’ I said warmly. ‘I can act as go-between. I can help you get back together, if that’s what you want. We might have to tread carefully, ’cause Mum’s quite fragile right now. I think I can swing it, though. What do you say?’

  I got up and went to her and put my hand on hers, and it was chilled, the way Nan’s always used to be.

  I held the phone away from me for a second because I didn’t recognise the voice and I couldn’t for the life of me take in what this strange man was saying. The screen showed Steve’s number.

  Will wriggled free and began to tackle the stairs himself. Fortunately Eric ran up to help him. I suppose he must have seen the shock on my face.

  ‘Sorry, can you repeat that?’

  ‘I’m a paramedic,’ said the voice. ‘Your husband’s had a road traffic accident and he’s quite badly injured.’

  There was a scuffling noise and in the background I could make out Steve shouting, ‘No, I’m not. I’m all right. Tell her.’

  The paramedic said, ‘I’m going to put him on, OK?’ And before I could respond, Steve was speaking in my ear.

  ‘Karen?’ He did sound shaken.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s happened to you?’

  ‘I’ve come off my bike.’

  ‘What have you done to yourself?’

  ‘I’ve – I’ve broken my arm—’

  ‘Oh, you noodle. What happened? Were you going too fast?’

  There was a scuffling noise and a groan. The paramedic came back on. ‘Mrs Cooper, he’s on Grimstone Lane, do you know it? Two hundred yards before the motorway bridge. The road’s blocked off but if you speak to the ambulance crew, they’ll let you past.’

  I said, ‘We’re not married any more.’ Which was a stupid thing to come out with. I wasn’t thinking straight.

  ‘No, but you’re his next-of-kin,’ said the paramedic. ‘Could you get to him, please? Quick as you can.’

  Next thing I knew, Jen had dragged her hand free and started a coughing fit. I found myself stepping back as she heaved and retched, her eyes watering.

  I said, ‘Can I get you anything?’

  She shook her head. I supposed it was the shock catching up with her. She was old, after all; older than her years. And she didn’t look in tip-top health and this place felt damp.

  When she could get her breath again, she motioned towards the door. ‘Shall I make us that cuppa, sweetheart? You must be gasping after your journey.’

  ‘OK.’

  Jen’s kitchen turned out to be on the poky side and well knackered. Those TV makeover programmes would have had a field day. I mean, our kitchen’s dated, but Mum always keeps it fairly clean and neat. The units here were shabby and covered in a weird dark blue veneer; one of the doors hung wonky and there was dirt in the grooved edges. At the corner of the ceiling black mould mottled the wallpaper. The steel sink was stained down the sides, one of the taps bent forward and dripped constantly. The hob was coated in gunk. I was about to ask how l
ong it had been since she moved in when, without a word, she ducked out of the room and left me to it.

  I waited for a minute, then filled the kettle myself and began to hunt for tea bags and cups. A biscuit wouldn’t have gone amiss either. I cast about for a likely-looking tin, but aside from a sauce-smeared plate, a pair of trainers, a bunch of keys and a pile of newspapers, the work surfaces were clear. Cautiously I hooked my fingers under a cupboard door and pulled it open. No biscuits here, only a packet of cereal, five or six assorted cans of beans and soup, a jar of lemon tea granules and a handful of pasta screwed up in polythene. The top shelf held the end of a loaf of bread. I closed the door and tried another: this one housed a few mismatched plates and bowls and half a dozen drinking glasses. The first base unit I tried contained two pans, a balled-up tea towel and a bucket, and the one next to it an overflowing bin. Last chance was the modest-sized fridge where I hoped there might at least be butter or a lump of cheese. In fact, two of the racks were empty and the third was occupied by lager, Lucozade and a lone egg.

  Where was all the food? Didn’t this woman eat at all? Normal shopping aside, our kitchen at home was stuffed with emergency supplies, tins and packets and plastic containers of easy-to-prepare food, all the fall-backs of the busy working mum. There was always a stock of rice-meals and dried milk, tinned meat and fruit, cartons of custard, sachets of porridge. In the event of Armageddon, we Coopers could survive for months.

  My stomach whined. I should’ve eaten something on the train but I’d been too stressed. Now my fear had subsided, I was ravenous. As I contemplated nicking a slice of dry bread to keep me going, I heard the toilet flush. Jen reappeared.

  I said, ‘Is there anyone else I could meet? I mean, has Mum any other relatives round here?’

  She took two mugs from the cupboard and spooned lemon tea into them. ‘No. There’s no one else. ’Cause my parents are dead and – yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘Mum’s father?’

  ‘Him too. Just me, that’s all there is. ’Cept for Dex, he’s my boyfriend and he’s not a blood relation, obviously. He wants to meet you. He’s gonna pop round in a bit, say hello.’

  To be truthful, I wasn’t that fussed about seeing any boyfriend. It seemed ungracious to object, though. I checked my watch. ‘OK. I can’t stay much after three. Will you be able to give me a lift back to the station?’

  ‘Course, sweetheart.’ Her thin lips curved upwards. ‘I’d say that’s the least we can do.’

  It’s not something I want to witness ever again.

  I’d got it into my mind that when I arrived, Steve would be sitting on a verge holding his arm and looking rueful. Instead, once I’d got past the lorry they’d used to block the road, I could see he was lying across the tarmac with a pool of blood under him.

  ‘Come through,’ said the paramedic. He had hold of me by the elbow which was just as well because my legs felt like water.

  They’d taken off his crash helmet and cut his jeans up to the thigh, and that knee was splinted and strapped. I didn’t like to look at it too much. That’s where the blood was coming from. I crouched down and called his name. At first his eyes were closed but when he heard my voice he opened them. I’d forgotten his irises were so blue.

  I said, ‘Oh, love.’

  He gave a weak laugh. ‘Hit a sodding brick in t’road, that’s all it were. A sodding brick. And look at t’state of me. Only just started at t’warehouse, can’t even claim for sick pay. What am I like?’

  When I glanced to the left, I could see a bone showing through his arm and I nearly cried out with horror.

  ‘Are you in a lot of pain?’ Daft question.

  ‘It nips a bit. How’s my bike?’

  Sod the bike, I nearly said. But he seemed genuinely concerned so I got up again and went to check. The Kawasaki was laid out by a hedgerow, in one piece but with the front forks bent and the fuel tank dented. The speedometer case was cracked and the front wheel buckled. He’d want to know whether it was salvageable, and I had no idea. As I stumbled back to him, I found a silver dial lying near the white line which I thought must be the bike’s clock. I waited till the paramedics moved away, then I crouched back down and showed him. I had to hold it in front of his face because they’d braced his neck.

  ‘That’s not off the Kwacker, that’s what’s left of my watch,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  I made myself keep my eyes on his face, though the temptation was to glance down and see what state his wrist was in.

  ‘How is she, anyway?’

  ‘The bike looks fine,’ I said. To be fair, I didn’t know whether it was the kind of damage a lump hammer and a bit of determination could straighten out.

  ‘She flipped right up and threw me off, caught me as she came down . . . It were all over in seconds.’

  A spasm gripped him. His good hand came up and groped about for me. I could hear the ambulance men on their radios and a swell of helplessness came over me. What were they playing at? Why wasn’t he on his way to hospital right now?

  As if he’d read my thoughts, one of the paramedics came over. ‘We’re waiting for a helicopter.’

  ‘A helicopter?’

  ‘It’s the best way with accidents like this. Mr Cooper, we need you to keep very still and tell us if there’s any sudden change in sensation or pain levels, OK?’

  Steve licked his lips. ‘I’m not going anywhere, mate.’ Then his eyes closed.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ I told him. ‘You’re going to be fine.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I noticed the pool of blood had crept nearly to the edge of my shoe.

  ‘Will somebody radio that bloody helicopter to hurry up?’ I shouted.

  Then, over this tea that tasted of lemon Fairy Liquid, she began to tell me her own history. And what a train of misery it turned out to be: how her mother had persuaded her to move to London to escape the shame of being a single mum, how she’d changed her name because after all the upset she wanted to start again. Her years with a man who beat her (and held her arm against a hot stove and burst her eardrum and mashed her foot so badly with his boot she had no big toenail there). How afterwards she’d had a breakdown and spent several years in a sort of hospital, recovering. When she came out she’d married a nice man but they’d only been together two years when he got knocked down by a drunk driver and died on his way to hospital. For a bit she worked in a clothes shop, till one of the other assistants took against her and lied to the boss that she was stealing so she got the sack. Then she met another man who seemed decent and kind, only he turned out to have a drugs problem and stole money out of her purse and pawned her jewellery. In one particularly grim week she lost her job, her flat and her boyfriend. There were some bleak months hooking up with any bloke who offered so she’d have a bed to sleep in that night, and then by luck she wangled a job in a friend’s café, which is where she met Dex. ‘He saved me,’ she said. ‘Because he understood. He’s had troubles of his own. Terrible troubles.’

  Dear God, please don’t start unpacking those as well, I thought. Now she’d opened up, I found it a bit overwhelming. There seemed almost an element of competition, of boasting. See my hard-knock life, she was saying. Haven’t I suffered? I hardly knew how to respond. I felt dragged down under the weight of all her past woes, my face was stiff from sympathy.

  I said, ‘Don’t you want to hear about Mum?’

  ‘You’ve told me, sweetheart.’

  ‘I mean about her growing up and Nan and everything. There must be a hundred things you want to ask.’

  ‘Yeah, there are. Course there are. But I want to hear about you, too. Tell me more about this boyfriend who’s giving you gyp.’

  Suddenly we heard the key in the lock and the front door banged open. Two seconds later a man burst into the room. He was short, bald, wide, excited. Dex.

  ‘Has she brought it?’ His eyes glittered as they fell on me.

  ‘Brought what?’ I said.
/>   ‘Shut up,’ said Jen quickly.

  Dex’s smile slipped a little.

  I said, ‘What am I supposed to have brought?’

  ‘Nothing. Excuse us.’

  I watched in dismay as Jen hustled him out of the room. ‘Idiot!’ I heard her hiss. Whatever was going on, it didn’t feel right. Was she upset because I hadn’t come equipped with a photo album or some special memento of Mum’s? That didn’t seem likely. So far she hadn’t even seemed that interested in Mum, had reacted really weirdly when I suggested a meeting. The whole atmosphere was beginning to make me anxious.

  Partly to relieve my jittery legs I got up and went to stand in the hall. From there I could hear Dex’s voice quite clearly, even though it was coming from behind a closed door. ‘You were the one reckoned it would work,’ he grumbled. ‘You said she’d cough.’ Then Jen cut in, too quiet to make out words but very angry, I could tell from her tone. Then Dex again: ‘It’s not my debt, is it? Go back to friggin’ Archie’s, see how happy he is to give you another week.’

  There was a strange noise, a kind of strangled groan or yelp.

  ‘Yeah, but what choice we got?’ said Dex.

  And finally I understood. I pushed down the door handle and walked in.

  They were standing on either side of a bed, except it was really just a mattress with a duvet on top. Around the room were piles of clothes and assorted odd bits of junk: a computer keyboard propped against the corner, the parcel shelf off a car, an orange plastic planter split down one side, half a fireguard. One wall had been stripped down to plaster and the curtain was held up with drawing pins. There was no carpet. I thought, This isn’t the shambles of someone half-moved in. This is actual poverty. This is all they have.

  Jen froze when she saw me. ‘Give us a minute—’

  ‘You thought I was bringing you money.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Course we did,’ said Dex. He sounded defensive, as if the problem here might be mine.

  ‘So those cards you wrote to my mum were begging letters. When I said I was coming to London, you thought it meant she was sending me with cash.’ No response. My heart swelled with indignation. ‘For God’s sake, what makes you think we’re rich?’