Bad Mothers United

by Kate Long

  ‘Mrs Cooper? Are you there?’ went the wheelchair lady.

  I suppose it can’t be nice for them on the other end, either. ‘OK, send me the papers and I’ll get the ball rolling.’

  ‘I have to send them direct to your husband’s GP.’

  ‘Ex-husband. Oh, God, I’m not sure who his GP is. The surgery’s somewhere in Harrop. Round the back of the library, I think. Big pillars either side of the door. You must know it.’

  ‘Have you a street name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We do need a full postal address. Oh, and your ex-husband’s NHS number while you’re at it.’

  I made a huge effort not to swear. ‘I’ll call you back.’

  Spread across the table was a mountain of papers, scribbled phone numbers, care brochures, benefits information. Somewhere amongst this jumble might well have been Steve’s doctor’s address, but I couldn’t be certain. On top of it all was the Disability Living Allowance form I’d been attempting to begin on behalf of Steve, thirty-eight pages of such baffling complexity it required its own separate help-booklet. I’d only been able to fill in half of it because we still didn’t know how much Steve would be able to do for himself when he came out of hospital (or how we’d work it, or whether I could pack my bags and flee the country in time).

  Help with your care needs during the day (continued)

  Do you usually have difficulty or do you need help with dressing or undressing?

  Please tell us what help you need, how often and how long each time you need this help:

  I have difficulty or need help with:

  putting on or fastening clothes or footwear

  How often?

  How long each time?

  taking off clothes or footwear

  How often?

  How long each time?

  choosing the appropriate clothes

  How often?

  How long each time?

  I moved a few sheets of paper half-heartedly and uncovered two Get Well cards I’d failed to take in for him, plus the contact details of the police Accident Investigation Officer. I could feel my energy draining away.

  Help with your care needs during the night. By night we mean when the household has closed down at the end of the day.

  Do you usually have difficulty or need help during the night?

  This means things like settling, getting into position to sleep, being propped up or getting your bedclothes back on the bed if they fall off, getting to the toilet, using the toilet, using a commode, bedpan or bottle, getting to and taking the tablets or medicines prescribed for you and any treatments or therapy.

  Please tell us what help you need, how often and how long each time you need this help:

  I have difficulty or need help with:

  turning over or changing position in bed

  How often?

  How long each time?

  sleeping comfortably

  How often?

  How long each time?

  my toilet needs

  How often?

  How long each time?

  my incontinence needs

  How often?

  How long each time?

  taking medication

  How often?

  How long each time?

  treatment or therapy

  How often?

  How long each time?

  Sighing, I flipped the DLA form over, picked up a pen and went out to the hall to retrieve our Yellow Pages. Then I remembered I’d last Sunday shoved them under Will’s cushion so he could reach the big table while he did a bit of painting. At least he was at nursery this morning, that was one blessing.

  I hauled the book out, lugged it over to the settee and started flipping backwards and forwards through the thin pages. There it was – S – no, gone past it – hell, bloody thing’s shut itself. Come here, you bastard. Sliding off the bloody table now. Were telephone directories deliberately designed to be as awkward as possible? Storage Services, Supermarkets, Surveyors – nope, no surgeries there. Should I look under GPs? Someone knocked at the door. I ignored them. Gates, Gearboxes, General Practitioners see Doctors. OK. Distribution Centres, Driving Schools, Do It Yourself Shops, Doctors. That was more like it. Ashfields, Broome, Clayton, Coleman. What was the surgery called? See, I didn’t even know the name of the road. Had I an old A-Z knocking about anywhere, anything helpful like that? Course not. It was hopeless. I was going to have to wait until I saw Steve again. The doorbell rang. ‘Hang on!’ I shouted. I’d do one last scan through the addresses in case something jogged my memory. I put my finger on the page and ran it down: Park Lane, Littleacre, Millbank Cottages, Cheshire Street, Manchester Road, Bradwell Crescent—

  Someone was banging on my front door, or kicking it. The directory slid off the cushion and thudded to the floor, losing my page. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said under my breath. ‘Whoever this is interrupting me, you’d better have something important to say.’

  When I flung the door open, to my surprise it was little Leanne Waring and her younger sister, Courtney. I liked Leanne. I used to do worksheets with her when she was in Year Two because she’d had problems with her hearing and missed learning a lot of consonant sounds. Nice girl, very willing, and she’d caught up within two terms. She was in Year Six now, a Playground Buddy and a library monitor. Not the kind of child who’d batter my door for devilment.

  ‘Hello, you two,’ I said. ‘This is a surprise.’

  But Leanne’s face was mournful, and Courtney looked to be on the verge of tears. ‘Oh, Mrs Cooper.’

  ‘Whatever is it?’

  ‘Your cat, Mrs Cooper.’

  ‘Pringle? What’s he done now?’

  ‘There was this van. It came round the corner while he was crossing the road. It hit him.’

  Courtney started to cry. Leanne took her hand.

  ‘Where?’ I said, trying to see past them onto the street. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He ran off,’ said Leanne.

  Ran? So he was alive. Thank God. ‘Which direction did he go? Was he limping?’

  ‘He was dragging his leg . . .’

  They took me to the front gate and pointed to where they’d last seen him, apparently disappearing down the ginnel that leads round the back of our row. Then they showed me where the van had clipped him. There was blood on the tarmac. I wanted to cry out with horror.

  I said, ‘OK, look, girls, you’ve been very sensible coming to tell me, but I have to find Pringle now, so you take yourselves home and let me search. And for goodness’ sake, be careful crossing the road.’

  Leanne hesitated. I could tell she wanted to come with me, and perhaps if she hadn’t had her weeping sister in tow I’d have let her. I was a bag of nerves, I could have done with the support. All I could think of was that memory of Steve lying mashed in the road, his mangled bike nearby.

  I watched them safely across till they reached the Working Men’s Club car park, then I hurried to the ginnel to see if he was there. No sign of Pringle himself, but there was a spattering of dark red drops on the stone flags. I craned my neck to see past the wheeliebins and a fat curtain of Russian vine. The grass verges had died back in the cold weather, leaving the path pretty clear so at least the cat’s progress was easy to see: a sad row of bloodstains and, every so often, a heart-rending smear where the damaged leg had trailed. I felt sick at the thought of finding him, sicker at the thought of not.

  At the end of the path I stopped and looked right, in the direction of our back garden. Where might Pringle have gone to ground? I wondered if he’d taken himself into one of the bushes, or maybe the small gap between the shed and the fence, anywhere confined and safe. When Chalkie was poorly he’d always gone and hidden in the airing cupboard.

  I reached the gate and called Pringle’s name, got no answer. Had he gone back inside the house? I walked halfway to the bins, but there was no blood to be seen anywhere. Nothing by the shed or under the flowering currants either. For half a minute I
just stood and shouted, letting my panic flare up. Then I dropped to the ground to see if he might somehow have squeezed himself underneath the shed base. That’s when I noticed more blood smeared across the sagging fence panel and crossing into Eric’s jungle of a garden. Plenty of places to hide in there.

  I stepped gingerly over the larch lap panel and listened. What state would Pringle be in when I found him? What would I have to do? Pick him up? Try and get him in the car? And all the time knowing he was in agony. There might be bones sticking out, like there were with Steve. I didn’t think I could do it. I remembered Mum dealing calmly with Chalkie’s half-kills, snapping the neck of a mangled starling so it went limp straight away. Me, I’m hopeless. Even handling turkey giblets gives me the willies.

  Ahead of me through the grass was a cat-trodden path leading to the house. Of course, Eric still had his cat-flap, and Pringle in his hour of need had simply headed for his old familiar home. The dark staining on some of the grass blades confirmed it. I said a quick prayer, marched up to the kitchen door and knocked. There was Pringle-blood on the step between my feet, and smudged across the plastic frame of the cat-flap.

  The seconds ticked by and no one came. Shading my eyes with my hand I peered through the glass and saw only empty rooms. Damn. DAMN. I patted my pockets optimistically for my phone but really I knew it was in my bag, hanging in the hall. I’d have to run home, try and call Eric and hope he wasn’t working too far away.

  By which time Pringle could have bled to death. Scabby old mog that he was, I couldn’t bear it. Not coming on top of everything else. If he was still able to shift himself, there was a chance I could call him and get him to come out to me. After all, he’d got himself through the cat-flap once. I knelt on the chilly paving slabs and pushed open the plastic square with my hand. ‘Pringle,’ I called in a voice bright with false optimism. ‘Din-dins. Dinny-dins. Come on. Come and have your dinner.’

  I don’t know how long I stayed in that position, face squashed up against the UPVC, knee bones grinding the concrete. Pringle was inside but he clearly wasn’t for exiting. Nothing for it now but to take myself home and phone for help. I struggled to stand again, grabbing the handle to pull myself upright – and to my amazement, it gave and I heard the latch unclick. This door was open. Eric had gone out and left the place unlocked.

  I could have run back to phone him, check it was OK. But this was an emergency – a life was at stake. There was no one to ask. The house was empty. So God forgive me, I opened the door and walked right in.

  A knock on Walshy’s bedroom door made me jump.

  ‘Hey, lovebirds,’ Gemma’s voice boomed. ‘Wakey, wakey. Laine and I are off to a tutorial now, but someone needs to be up to let the glazier in. So put some clothes on, yeah? You don’t want him to find you running around in the nude, do you?’

  The window was my fault. Walshy and I had been playing catch in the hallway with a soapstone turtle.

  ‘We OK for lunch?’ I called back.

  ‘Yup,’ she said, and then I heard her thumping off down the stairs, Laine’s excited American greeting.

  I reached for my jeans.

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Walshy. ‘Don’t leave me.’

  ‘You want I should greet the glazier naked?’

  ‘We might get a discount.’

  ‘Pimp. Get some pants on, stir your stumps.’

  ‘In a minute. You’re really great, you know. I love to watch you.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Just moving about. You’ve got such an excellent arse, I can’t help myself.’

  ‘Oh, move it, Walshman.’

  He stayed exactly where he was. ‘Will the glazier be taking the boards down?’

  ‘Er, yeah, or we wouldn’t be able to see out, would we?’

  ‘Shame. I’m going to miss Lisa Simpson.’

  Gemma’s girlfriend Laine had decorated the boarded-up window for us with some liquid chalk pens we’d found in the kitchen drawer. She proved to be an excellent cartoonist.

  ‘Me too. Farewell Spongebob Squarepants. And Cartman. We should take a photo before it goes.’

  ‘Come back to bed, Chaz.’

  ‘I can’t. Some of us have work to do.’ I pulled on my sweater and scanned around for my boots.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, Daisy Miller to finish reading, an essay to start. I’ve to go into town later and check out pop-up tents for Will, for Christmas. Do you want to tag along? I thought, you know, with your vast yurt experience.’

  ‘Don’t mention the yurt. That was all a bit tragic.’

  While I’d been away seeing to Dad, a group of students had climbed on the canvas and bust the wooden frame. I was sorry. The garden looked bare without it now. ‘Yeah, but your dad’ll buy you a new one next summer. I’ll help you put it up.’

  ‘You won’t be here next summer. None of us will.’

  ‘No.’ I kept forgetting. ‘Anyway, are you going to come and keep me company or what?’

  ‘Trawling round the Early Learning Centre? I think not. Do I look like ELC material?’

  ‘Don’t make me answer that.’ I swung his wardrobe door open to check myself in the mirror. My hairbrush, I realised, was next door, in my room; really I should buy two and have one on each windowsill. Or was that too much of a commitment at this stage? I said, ‘Seriously, if you’re going to date me you’re going to have to embrace the world of pre-school equipment.’

  There was no smart come-back this time. When I turned round he’d squirmed down the bed and pulled the duvet over his head.

  ‘Walshy?’

  He only grunted.

  I closed the wardrobe door and left him to it.

  The first thing I did was snap the light on and bellow Pringle’s name down the hallway. Immediately I heard a noise from upstairs.

  I ran to the bottom of the banister and shouted again. I couldn’t see any blood trail here, but then the carpet pattern was black and brown swirls, a relic of Mr Cottle. You could have emptied a bottle of red wine over it and it would hardly have shown. It was odd Eric hadn’t replaced it, odd anyway that he’d started redecorating the upstairs and left the downstairs as it was because most of us begin with the rooms that are on show. Me, I’d have been gagging to scrape off this embossed bamboo stalk wallpaper and chuck out the ruched lightshades. But then old Mr Cottle had slept downstairs for years, so who knew what state the bedrooms had been in when he died. They might have needed gutting.

  ‘Pringle!’ I called again, and once more a faint sound answered me, like something hard rolling across a bare floor. He must have knocked a vase or a tin off a shelf.

  I raced up to the landing and checked the bathroom first. This was a place I’d already been in, so it didn’t feel as much of an intrusion. The shower was dripping and a towel had fallen off the rail onto the lino, but no cat. Nothing odd in the sink this time, either.

  The next door I tried was the airing cupboard which I checked anyway because it had been slightly ajar and I remembered Chalkie going to ground among Nan’s sheets, all those years ago. There were only piles of bedding and towels here, though, plus a cordless vac and a boxed fan-heater. Eric did keep the place neat.

  I had a swift hunt round Kenzie’s room, lifting his football duvet to peer under the bed, sweeping the curtain to one side, prising open the mini-wardrobe door. His toys were mostly tucked away in plastic storage crates and his small clothes hung or folded; the under-bed space was taken up by zipped suitcases. There was barely space for even a hamster to hide, let alone anything bigger.

  Which left Eric’s room. Fretting as I was about Pringle, I did hesitate at this point. It’s not nice to go poking round a bedroom without permission. Who knows what private things you’ll uncover? But then I heard another thump and a kind of scrabble coming from inside.

  I flung the door open and went in.

  Double bed with black and white duvet and black headboard, one wall decorated in black and white block wallpaper
. New-looking grey carpet, paintwork all fresh, top quality lined grey curtains. Walk-in wardrobe with mirrored doors stretching the entire length of the far wall. However much the downstairs might be in need of updating, this place had certainly had a makeover. Laid across the unmade bed was Eric’s navy dressing-gown, and below the window his slippers, a Thomas Harris paperback on the bedside table.

  I got down on my knees so I was mattress-height. ‘Pringle?’

  Mew.

  My pulse started to race. ‘Pringle, love, where are you?’ Hauling myself up again, I strained to listen.

  Miaow. Meringue.

  He was in the wardrobe. This time I had it.

  I dragged at the handle, sliding away the giant mirror along with my own harassed reflection. Inside, it was dark and half-empty, only a dozen or so shirts and jeans on hangers, work boots and trainers lined up on the floor. In the corner were some video tapes, a stack of magazines, a robotic puppy in its box, an artificial Christmas tree base.

  Meringue. I could hear him, so close now, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell where he was. I climbed right inside the wardrobe and blundered about, trying to watch where I put my feet. ‘Pringle?’ Had he got himself under the floorboards somehow? Inside the wall? I raised my hand and tapped experimentally.

  Mew.

  ‘Pringle! Pringle, love, I’m here!’

  Then, ‘Fuck it,’ said a woman’s voice, muffled but close.

  I staggered out against the bed in surprise as the back panel of the wardrobe started to open, sliding aside with the same action as the mirrored front. Behind was a space roughly the width of a toilet cubicle, fitted with shelves and hooks. I saw bottles of cosmetics lined up, stylers and tongs, racks of women’s shoes and, suspended against the wall like a market stall, several sets of clothing. Mainly, though, I saw a youngish woman in fleece pyjamas, standing squinting in the light. She had curly red hair, a pouty, angry mouth. I watched as she stepped towards me, first into the wardrobe proper, then out onto the bedroom carpet.