Bad Mothers United

by Kate Long

  Meanwhile, nothing else was getting done. We weren’t bothering with Christmas presents except for Will. Mum said I’d already had mine because she’d discovered the hole in our savings account and assumed I’d blown it on clothes. To say she was cross was an understatement, but thanks to Daniel’s advice I’d been semi-prepared and just gritted my teeth till the rant was over. As for a Christmas present, I wasn’t fussed anyway; I’d passed my driving test the week before so that was as good as anything you could gift-wrap.

  Christmas Day dinner would most likely be Iceland turkey roll and oven chips, and we’d sent out no cards, not one. We hadn’t even put up the ones we’d received, just stuck them in a pile on the windowsill. In that pile was a card from Gemma and Laine, who were boycotting Gemma’s house and spending the holiday instead with Laine’s super-cool aunty in Oxford. There was one from Roz and Gareth with a picture of Santa falling drunk over Rudolph. Martin had sent a postcard of St Mark’s Square in snow, and a message telling me to relax over the holiday and eat well and read up on the Lyrical Ballads for our first tutorial. Near the bottom of the pile, because it had come early on, was Walshy’s effort, a simple robin on a branch. To Chazzer, it said. How do you keep a northerner in suspense? Tell you next term. X

  The letterbox rattled now, making us all jump.

  ‘Go get the post, will you, Charlotte?’ said Mum, her eyes glued to the spider.

  I went without complaint. I’d been first at the doormat every day since I got back, just in case a letter came from Jessie that I needed to intercept. I understood really there’d be nothing more from her, but you know how sometimes you can’t stop yourself doing something irrational because it feels like insurance against Fate? This morning there were four cards and a catalogue and a bank statement and two charity circulars and something from the NHS. I flicked through the cards, checked they were all local postmarks, and I was about to go back through when I heard a thump, a clatter and my dad swearing.

  ‘God, are you OK?’ I called.

  Dad was still in bed, but holding aloft his plastic urinal and looking mighty pleased with himself. ‘He shoots, he scores.’

  ‘Watch, it’ll climb out,’ said Mum urgently. ‘Put the lid on!’

  Through the milky plastic sides you could make out the dark shape of the spider as it scrambled from one side of the base to the other.

  ‘Let me,’ I said, surprising myself. I went back out into the hall and opened the front door, then I grabbed the bottle off Dad and made a run for it. The urinal clattered onto the path and the spider, after a few seconds, charged out of the funnel end and disappeared into the flowerbed. As I stood watching, a filthy-looking man walked past leading a tatty wolfhound. He glanced over and nodded. ‘Awreet?’

  ‘Fine,’ I snapped, as if hurling urinals about the garden was an everyday occurrence.

  He gave me this yucky grin which showed his yellow teeth. Sometimes I love Bank Top, sometimes I hate it.

  When I went back inside, Mum was bending over Dad. I don’t want to think about what they were doing with each other.

  ‘So even in this state I’m not completely useless, am I?’ I heard him say.

  While Charlotte sat and read Steve the motoring section from the Bolton Evening News, I went and tackled the breakfast washing-up. Some days we had a sinkful by teatime, what with everything else I had to wade through. Just getting Steve dressed swallowed up half the morning.

  He was being good, though. Always said thank you for the help I gave him, always tried to think what he needed while I was still on my feet. And that’s not always how caring for someone works. There was a woman at Mayfield had the nurses up and down like they were on elastic: where was her hanky, the curtain needed pulling across, her duvet wasn’t straight, she’d dropped toast crumbs in the bed. I think she did it because she was bored, or for the power. Mum never demanded much. She was just pleased to see you and sad when you went.

  I turned the taps on full and stared out the window at the back lawn. It was raining hard, water streaming off the coal-shed roof and puddling in the broken flags by the downspout. It had been pouring down the day Steve came home. I’d had to go out with an umbrella and hold it over his chair as they wheeled him in. But at least you know where you are with rain. It’s a known factor, it’s not storing up any kind of disappointment for later. Rain doesn’t show up the smears on your glass or the dust on your furniture the way sunshine does. I watched the garden spring and quiver greedily under the onslaught. At the far end of the lawn was the new row of larch lap fence panels I’d made Eric install before he left: that had been one of my conditions.

  ‘I didna start off meaning to do it,’ he’d said, finally collaring me as I wheeled the bins out through the ginnel.

  ‘I don’t want to hear, Eric, I’ve told you. Go away.’

  But he just carried on. ‘Maria really did leave me, I really had no idea where she was. That was why I moved. Then she decided to come back. Only by then she was set up, y’ken – she’d got her own flat and she was claiming housing benefit and council tax and Job Seekers’ Allowance. We sat down and worked out how much we’d lose if we told the social she’d moved in again, and we realised we just couldna manage. No way. But she’s Kenzie’s mum. I wasna going to shut the door on her.’

  ‘So she’d arrive after dark.’

  ‘And leave early.’

  ‘Not the morning I came round.’

  ‘She’d slept in that day.’

  ‘Nice for some! And she always came and went through the back, didn’t she? Across my fence.’ So bloody obvious now what was going on, but I suppose you don’t see what you don’t want to see.

  ‘Not every night, Karen. A few times a week. But they call that living together and they take your benefits. They have these vans, hidden cameras. They go through your bins. They watch your house. She had to park on Pinfold Lane and walk round. Because everyone’s a spy, y’ken. You’d be amazed how many busybodies are queuing up to report you.’

  I could have smacked him for his self-righteousness. ‘Is it any wonder?’

  ‘Ach, come on. You know what it’s like trying to cover the bills, all these demands coming through the letterbox and kiddies to clothe and feed. I thought you’d understand. Everyone cheats a bit where they can. Bit of cash-in-hand here and there. It’s not the crime of the century.’

  The smell of something rotting rose up from the bin, and I gripped the handle tightly with both hands.

  ‘I’d say you’ve been a sight more organised about it than that, Eric. Do you know how hard I’ve had to fight to claim the Disability Living Allowance we genuinely need and are entitled to? I’ve had to jump through bloody hoops while people like you are ripping off the system. Entangling me in your lies, how dare you! How could you spin me all those lines about being on your own, a single parent? Bloody hell, I bet there wasn’t even a Little Beavers nursery. You were dropping Kenzie off at hers, weren’t you? Don’t bother trying to deny it. In fact, why did you ever need me to babysit?’

  ‘Because sometimes a job came in and it was short notice. And sometimes she was out—’

  ‘Working?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘While she claims JSA? How many scams have you got going, Eric?’

  ‘I’m just trying to scrape by, like you.’

  ‘No, not like me! Good God. Apart from anything else, I would never take advantage of a friend the way you did. What a very low opinion of me you must’ve had, using me as your stooge. And I was stupid enough to think—’

  Think what? That he’d had feelings for me? Most likely he just couldn’t resist exercising his own charm.

  ‘I told you, it wasna like that. I really admire you, Karen. You’ve been a pal.’

  ‘Personal information I shared with you. Really personal.’

  ‘I know, and I tried to help. I did help, didn’t I?’

  That I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

  ‘Karen, I’m no’ a bad man.
I just backed myself intae a corner.’

  ‘I’ll put you in a bloody corner,’ I said, ramming the bin in his direction so he had to jump aside.

  I began to trundle it down to the entrance, but he ran after me. ‘Please don’t report us. I’m begging you. Think of Kenzie. Me and his mum, we could go to prison.’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic.’

  ‘We could. They bang people up for fiddling benefits. Especially if it’s not your first offence.’

  There was genuine fear in his voice. I thought, He’s right, I hate what they’re doing, but I don’t want to be responsible for separating either of them from their child.

  I halted the bin and turned to face him.

  ‘OK, right. I am thinking of Kenzie here, because somebody needs to. Straighten yourselves out – I’m not asking, I’m telling. Move Maria back in if that’s what you want, but then you go speak to the DSS, adjust your finances, and give that lad a chance to settle in a normal, open atmosphere. No lies, no secrets. I don’t know exactly what you’ve told him; he knows something’s odd in the way the house works but he doesn’t understand what and he’s terrified to speak in case he lets something slip that he shouldn’t. He’s at school now, with all the pressures that brings, and it’s not fair. You’re the adults, you take responsibility. I’ll not stand by and see a child suffer.’

  ‘Ach, Kenzie’s not doing so bad. Children are very adaptable.’

  ‘And that’s one of the biggest lies going. I won’t say it again, Eric. Put yourself on the level or I will report you.’

  He was trying to keep his body language casual but his face had gone pale.

  ‘Ok, I’ll deal with it, Karen, I swear.’

  ‘You’d better.’

  I’d left him leaning against the entry wall, looking shell-shocked. He could tell I wasn’t bluffing.

  Two days later they did a midnight flit. God knows where they’d gone to this time.

  Now the house stood empty again, the grass lapping at the doorstep and the windows blank. As soon as I realised they’d left, I went round and superglued the cat-flap shut, to prevent any more Pringle episodes. At least there was nothing for me to explain to Charlotte and Steve. Eric was just gone, full stop. I thought how far I’d come since the day I tried to give Mr Cottle his windmill back, how many areas of my life had changed. Steve home, Mum quiet in my mind. No more Daniel. Things I’d never have believed, for better or worse. Every day some shift, some adjustment, even if it was only Will learning how to get the lid off the biscuit barrel himself, or Charlotte running me a bath without being asked because she thought I looked tired.

  I could hear her now, giggling with her dad over some daft tale in the paper. Late last night, on her way to bed, she’d paused in the doorway and said, ‘I wonder if we’re one of those families who need a crisis to work properly?’ And Steve had laughed and I went, ‘For God’s sake, don’t say that, Charlotte.’

  She could have been right, though. To be honest, I was too knackered to tell.

  I had intended to drive – drive! – to nursery to pick up Will, but the rain slackened off and Dad started getting tetchy and tired and Mum said we should have a walk, give him some space.

  ‘He has his mobile in an emergency,’ she said. ‘But really he needs his painkillers to kick in and a nap. He had a bad night.’

  She’d put on one of Nan’s plastic rain-hoods. I thought she looked hilarious.

  ‘Blimey. It’ll be a Pac-a-Mac next. You’re turning into your mother.’

  ‘There are worse ways to go,’ she said crisply.

  I didn’t know whether she meant that I should be happy to grow like her in my old age, or she was happy to become Nan. Then I thought, Isn’t it fantastic she just assumes that’s where she’s headed, how it never crosses her mind to consider the influence of that other mother, the one she doesn’t know and who we must never mention. I’d studied Mum, really studied her since my trip to London, and there was nothing of Jessie in her that I could see other than the colour of her eyes, an arch to the brow. Nothing that mattered. Some nights I still had dreams about that tatty flat, about the little girl Emma, and sometimes in the dream I was trapped in a room and sometimes Jessie was crying and sorry. Then the next morning my head would be so full I felt ready to burst with the memory. I knew I’d never breathe a word, though. How much of genuine love rests in the words you hold back as the ones you speak.

  I felt so protective of Mum as we turned onto Church Street that I almost put my arm through hers. I didn’t, though, because then she’d have asked what was up and I’d have had to fib or come out with something soppy. We traipsed past Spar and the butcher’s and the beauty clinic and the library. It started to rain again, thick blobby drops on the verge of sleet.

  Mum suddenly said, ‘Will you be coming back to Bank Top when your degree’s over?’

  I laughed because that same question had just been forming again in my own mind. Probably it was the walking past the library that had sparked a bit of nostalgia in both of us. I’d spent half my life in there as a kid.

  ‘Well, will you?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I haven’t liked to ask much because you’ve been that distracted. I suppose you’ve had a lot to deal with lately. But you do need to be thinking about it now.’

  ‘I do think about it. All the time.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, useless. I get nowhere. Everyone’s been telling me how to run my life for so long, and now it’s “Right, Charlotte, over to you”. But I seem to have lost the ability to make decisions. I’ve absolutely no idea what I want to do in the future. I can’t see it.’

  ‘Come on, Charlotte, you must have some clue. What made you choose an English degree?’

  ‘I think you chose it for me.’

  She turned, ready to be indignant. Then she saw I was smiling. ‘Cheeky madam. What does your tutor say?’

  ‘I’ve not asked him. He can’t solve all my problems for me. I’ve been to the Careers Department, though, had a look at their profiling stuff.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing sounds right.’

  ‘You always told me the beauty of English as a subject was that it could take you anywhere.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the trouble. Too much choice.’

  We passed the Health Centre and the council offices.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘the real issue is, I’m petrified. It’s so scary, stepping out into the real world. All the things you have to manage, and how do people manage? Is there some kind of class you can go to, to learn things like mortgages and pensions and tax codes and how to get your car serviced? I just don’t feel ready for any of it. I know it’s pathetic of me.’

  I waited for the lecture I was sure was coming. Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte. You’re twenty-one, that is grown-up. You’ve a university education behind you, which is more than I ever had. You’ve savings in the bank, a driving licence, the world’s at your feet. Buck up.

  Instead she said nothing, only frowned and pulled the strings on her rain-hood loose, re-tying them tighter in the face of the sleet. Then she said, ‘Well, I’ll let you into a secret: it is scary. It’s always scary, and that never stops, no matter how old you are. There’s no magic age where you’re finally on top of everything and in control. You think I know what I’m doing, day-to-day? I race about, trying to look as if I have a clue. Sometimes I feel like a pinball pinging round the place. At night I lie awake worrying and making lists. And honestly, the only way through is to get on with things. Pretend to yourself and everyone else that you’re coping, and then somehow you do. But it’s a scramble. I might be heading towards forty but there are moments I still want just to turn to your nan and ask her to sort it out for me.’

  This time I did reach across and squeeze her arm. ‘Oh, Mum.’

  ‘Now Nan was a good mother.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘As i
f we aren’t.’

  Mum snorted. ‘Pff. You’ve called my maternal skills into question on a few occasions, if I remember rightly. Oh, yes, you have, don’t look like that. At least I’ve tried to put things right. Every mother makes mistakes, we’re all failed mothers, to some degree or other. The minute your child’s born you join the club. Because there’s always something you shouldn’t have said, or something you should, an innocent decision that leaves its little scar. Life’s too random for that never to happen. But it seems to me the best mums are the ones who admit when they go wrong and attempt to make amends. I have tried to do that, Charlotte, however it’s come across to you.’

  ‘I know.’

  She stopped and stared at me, her eyes searching mine. Wet hair clung to my cheeks and my nose was moist with the cold.

  ‘It’s important you do, love, because one day all children turn round and call their parents to account. You might not believe me, but they do. And you need to have your answers ready.’

  She’ll be standing where I am in a decade or two. She thinks she won’t because she lets Will stay up late and she makes his socks talk to each other in funny voices and she sticks spaghetti-hoop eyes on his mashed potato, everything for fun. She’s so determined he’s going to be 100 per cent happy. But wait till he’s on her hands full-time and she’s forced to lay down some serious rules. Then there’ll be tears. Sometimes you have to let your child hate you a bit, even if it breaks your heart.