The Bad Mother's Detox

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘Diabetes isn’t cancer,’ I said. ‘You never know. If she loses weight, she might be healthier than before.’

  ‘I don’t want her having injections from now until forever,’ Dad said. ‘And she doesn’t need to lose weight. I love her the way she is.’

  But the truth is, Mum’s weight puts a lot of stress on her body. Even holding in a fart gives her backache.

  ‘Weight loss will do her the world of good, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘But she’ll be miserable,’ he argued. ‘Your Mum lives for a good meal.’

  ‘She’ll just have to start liking healthy food,’ I said.

  Dad pointed to the sky and said, ‘I suppose if God can make stars burn bright like that, anything is possible.’

  I wish I were Christian, like Dad. It must be very reassuring.

  I blame my primary school for making us sit cross-legged on a hard floor while we sang hymns. Also, cold churches with their wooden pews. Why not move with the times and get sofas?

  Sunday 12th March

  Call from my Cafcass officer today – an upbeat man called Johnny Jiggens.

  He’s threatened to visit soon with puppets and ‘feelings’ emoji cushions.

  ‘I want to find out about Daisy and her living environment,’ he said. ‘And how you and Nick work things out.’

  ‘We don’t work things out,’ I said. ‘I do. Nick is irresponsible.’

  Johnny said, ‘Fathers have a very hard time these days. We want to be involved. But society has expectations. I do a lot of work with Fathers for Justice, and there are so many dads who are great guys just trying to get it right … I mean, are you sure you’re not just perceiving your partner as irresponsible? Just because he’s a man? Sexism works both ways.’

  Am not looking forward to the meeting.

  Monday 13th March

  Work training has finished, so tomorrow I’ll be doing my job for real.

  Want to make a good start, so am getting the 7.30am train.

  Mum has agreed to childmind, as long as Daisy is handed over fed and dressed.

  Want to arrive on time, so have bought an instant porridge pot to speed along Daisy’s breakfast.

  The only trouble will be getting her into her clothes.

  Daisy is getting very wilful, and refuses to wear certain items – usually clean, pretty dresses that make me look like a good mother.

  Her favourite outfit is a black swimming cap, felt-tip stained dungarees (which she calls ‘dunga jeans’) and a pair of spotty tights – the last one not on her legs, but worn around her neck like a scarf.

  It’s all very creative – Althea heartily approves.

  Told Althea I was still worried about Daisy’s walking.

  ‘But she’s holding onto stuff, isn’t she?’ said Althea. ‘And pulling herself about.’

  ‘Yes, she’s cruising,’ I said. ‘But not walking.’

  ‘Cruising?’ said Althea. ‘Isn’t that something middle-aged men do in Amsterdam’s red-light district?’

  Tuesday 14th March

  Work.

  Because training is over, I had to bring in my own biscuits and coffee.

  Spent the day getting to grips with my new job.

  Hari told me I’d be working closely with deputy manager, Lloyd – a nineteen-year-old, shaven-headed lad in a shiny nylon suit.

  ‘Lloyd fires up our cash tractors every morning,’ Hari explained, giving the teenager a proud shake of the shoulders. ‘He turns the ignition key and sends them out to harvest all that lovely money. Lloyd – tell Juliette how it’s done.’

  Lloyd fiddled with his overlong shirt cuffs and said, ‘Well … uh. I just sort of hand out cans of Red Bull and play really loud house music.’

  ‘The team are due any minute,’ said Hari, throwing Red Bull into the fridge. ‘Better put their petrol on ice.’

  Lloyd cranked up the Ministry of Sound album and shouted, ‘Woo! Yeah!’

  Wednesday 15th March

  Yay!

  Alex is back tomorrow. He’s catching the overnight train from Edinburgh, and has a ‘quick meeting’ in the morning, but will take me out during my lunch break.

  Managed an early breakfast with Daisy before work today.

  She’s really babbling now, saying all sorts of half-words.

  Unfortunately, those half-words often sound like swearing.

  She calls yoghurt, ‘buggert’, and for some reason has picked up the phrase ‘fucking about’.

  Callum is being very patient with her, explaining what she can and can’t say. ‘No Daisy. Only Nana and Mum can say “fucking about”.’

  Thursday 16th March

  Lunch with Alex.

  He took me to a posh Spanish restaurant near King’s Cross, with ham hanging from the ceiling.

  All the staff knew Alex by name.

  Halfway through lunch, the manager came over to greet Alex personally, and the two of them spent the next twenty minutes talking about the best mosaic for swimming pools.

  When the manager finally left, I said, ‘I thought we were having lunch together.’

  Alex said, ‘We are having lunch together.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve been sitting here smiling like an idiot, while you talk business.’

  ‘I have a lot on this year.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘But do it in the other twenty-three hours of the day, when we’re not having lunch.’

  Alex frowned at his plate. ‘I don’t respond well to orders.’

  ‘And I don’t respond well to being ignored.’

  ‘Perhaps you can arrange to meet Nick Spencer again,’ said Alex. ‘He seems to be paying you plenty of attention.’

  We ate in silence for a moment.

  Then Alex said, ‘I’m sorry. You’re right – I haven’t seen you in weeks. I should have told Emelio to leave us in peace. How’s the job going?’

  ‘It’s okay. The training has finished now. I’m finally seeing what I’ve got myself into.’

  ‘And what have you got yourself into?’

  ‘I don’t like my boss,’ I admitted. ‘He’s morally corrupt.’

  Alex’s lips tilted up. ‘No surprises there.’

  Friday 17th March

  St Patrick’s Day

  Nick texted, wishing me a happy St Patrick’s Day and asking if things were ‘cool’ between us.

  Was a bit taken aback.

  Said I wasn’t thinking about killing him right at this moment, if that’s what he meant.

  Nick texted smiley faces and a knife emoji. Then he asked if he could see Daisy tomorrow.

  I hate how he does that – just assumes Daisy will be waiting around, dressed in bows, ready to see him.

  Told him no.

  Saturday 18th March

  A sobering thought – court isn’t far away. Have never been to court before. Will have to ask Mum and John Boy what to expect.

  Sunday 19th March

  Too tired to write today.

  And stressed.

  Keep thinking about court.

  Monday 20th March

  Oh my god. OH MY GOD!

  Laura is PREGNANT!!!

  She’s eight weeks gone, so Zach must have knocked her up in February.

  I’m delighted.

  Laura told us the news over lunch with the family.

  I should have known something was up. She never usually eats Mum’s Yorkshires.

  We all bombarded her with questions.

  Would she and Zach get married? (me)

  Had they ‘done it on purpose’? (Mum)

  How about Star or Blue for names? (Brandi)

  Can I buy the baby pick and mix sweets, and eat the foamy strawberries? (Callum)

  Can you get Adidas tracksuits for babies? (John Boy)

  Would Laura please now consider buying a sensible family car with a tow bar? (Dad)

  Tuesday 21st March

  Phoned Alex about Laura’s pregnancy.

  He didn’t seem surprised.


  ‘Did you know?’ I asked.

  ‘I had an inkling.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Didn’t you have an inkling?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted.

  Feel a bit upset, actually. That Laura didn’t tell me earlier.

  ‘Imagine how my mother is going to feel,’ said Alex. ‘She has a certain opinion of you Duffy girls.’

  ‘Which would be?’

  ‘That you’re all vixens out to trap her innocent boys. She won’t be cracking open the champagne, put it that way.’

  God!

  ‘How can you put up with that?’ I said.

  ‘I can’t change her,’ Alex replied. ‘It’s just how she is. She’s one of the two people in my life I have no control over. But in your case, I live in hope.’

  ‘Can’t you tell your mum how nice Laura is?’

  ‘It won’t make the slightest bit of difference,’ said Alex. ‘I doubt she’ll even come to the wedding.’

  ‘What wedding?’

  ‘Zachary and Laura’s wedding.’

  I nearly spat out my tea. ‘They’re getting married? Since when?’

  ‘With a baby on the way, I’m assuming it won’t be long.’

  ‘You can have children without getting married,’ I said.

  Alex snorted. ‘I’d think you of anyone would be championing marriage before babies.’

  ‘It’s the twentieth century, Alex.’

  ‘As I said before, it’s the twenty-first century, Juliette. And human nature doesn’t change. Tradition is there for a reason. You should have married Nick Spencer before Daisy came along.’

  ‘Nick never would have married me before we had Daisy,’ I said. ‘He’s not the marrying type.’

  ‘Exactly. That should have been your first warning. You’re now tied to a feckless layabout for the rest of your life. And if our relationship continues, so am I.’

  ‘Thanks, Alex.’

  ‘It’s the truth, Juliette.’

  ‘Sometimes the truth hurts,’ I said.

  ‘If you don’t like the truth, I’m the wrong person to spend time with.’

  He had to go then. Another typical Alex emergency. Three crates of Scottish smoked salmon were stuck in traffic, and needed airlifting to the Chelsea Dalton.

  Wednesday 22nd March

  Johnny Jiggens visited today, armed with cushions and puppets.

  He was a ‘hippy turned corporate’ sort, with a blond ponytail, patchy beard and the kind of ill-fitting, found-it-in-a-sale suit you knew he’d only bought for work.

  ‘I’m here to make sure Daisy’s needs are being considered,’ Johnny explained, arranging his cushions on the corduroy sofa. ‘Often parents get so wrapped up in their own needs, they forget about the children.’

  The cushions were primary colours, with different emojis sewn onto them to represent emotions.

  ‘How are you feeling today, Daisy?’ Johnny asked, gesturing to the cushions. ‘Can you choose a face to show us?’

  Daisy grabbed her favourite colour.

  Red.

  The angry emoji.

  ‘You’re feeling angry today?’ Johnny said, making a note.

  Daisy nodded happily. ‘Hungry. Hungry. Biscuit?’

  ‘She’s a bit young for this, don’t you think?’ I said.

  ‘Oh you’d be surprised how these cushions help children express themselves,’ Johnny replied.

  Then he asked Daisy how she liked living at the pub.

  She grabbed the sad and scared emoji cushions, and tried to build a house with them.

  ‘Anxious,’ said Johnny.

  ‘But she loves it here,’ I said. ‘Honestly. She doesn’t even wake up at kicking out time.’

  Johnny made another note. ‘What about Daddy’s house?’ he asked Daisy.

  Daisy picked up the smiley face cushion.

  ‘She’s never been there,’ I said. ‘At least, not to his new house.’

  ‘That must be very painful for Daddy,’ said Johnny. ‘I don’t get to see my little girl very often. Her mum thought life would be better in Australia. No consideration for Daddy’s life. Or the extortionate cost of airfare …’

  ‘Baddy! Baddy!’ Daisy shouted, cuddling the smiley face cushion.

  Johnny said, ‘Sometimes children tell other adults things they can’t tell their parents.’

  ‘But she doesn’t even know what these cushions mean,’ I said. ‘Look – she’s using them to beat up her toys.’

  We watched Daisy, chattering away. ‘Naughty Spiderman. You get hit now.’

  Johnny made a note.

  ‘It’s her cousin, Callum,’ I explained. ‘He has all these violent games.’

  ‘Callum bollocks,’ Daisy agreed.

  Johnny made another note. ‘If you can lessen her contact with aggressive children ...’

  ‘We can’t do much that,’ I said. ‘Callum lives here.’

  ‘Here?’ said Johnny. ‘With you and Daisy? And … so his mother … how does that work?’

  ‘His mother lives here too,’ I said. ‘She’s my little sister, Brandi.’

  ‘Right,’ said Johnny, making a note.

  John Boy swaggered into the lounge then, shirt off, scouting around for his baccy pouch.

  ‘Hello,’ said Johnny cheerfully. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jules’s cousin,’ said John Boy, looking Johnny up and down. ‘Who are you?’

  Johnny stuck out his hand. ‘Johnny Jiggens, Cafcass Officer. Just here to find out more about Daisy. Do you live here too?’

  ‘At the minute,’ said John Boy, shaking Johnny’s hand.

  ‘So that’s …’ Johnny started counting his fingers. ‘Seven of you? Is that right?’

  I glared at John Boy.

  ‘What?’ said John Boy, holding up his hands. ‘What did I say?’

  After an eye-watering puppet show, during which Johnny put on pretend mummy, daddy and child voices, he packed up his bag of tricks and left.

  God knows what he made of us.

  Probably best not to think about it.

  Thursday 23rd March

  Met Althea for lunch in Shoreditch today.

  She chose a Mexican canteen where you could serve your own margarita from a glass soda fountain.

  Foolishly, she let Wolfgang try her margarita, so he could ‘learn about flavours’. But then he wanted the whole thing, so she had to wrestle him to the floor shouting, ‘No Wolfgang! Mummy’s booze!’

  Wolfgang’s hair is extremely long now – it’s practically down to his shoulders. If he were one of those pretty little boys with rosy cheeks, he could get away with it. But teamed with those ferocious eyebrows, long hair gives him a wild, feral edge.

  In honour of the Mexican theme, Althea had dressed Wolfgang in a ‘Day of the Dead’ shirt, complete with black-and-white sombrero.

  Wolfgang kept pulling at the hat and blurting out ‘Arg! Arg!’, but Althea wouldn’t let him take it off. She’s child-led about most things, but when it comes to fancy dress she’s very strict.

  Over lunch, I told Althea about the Cafcass visit, and how worried I am about the court hearing.

  ‘You don’t need to worry,’ she said. ‘The courts always favour the mother. Unless she’s a drug addict or something. It’s still sexism, but for once it’s in our favour.’

  Then she talked about a Big Issue article she’d just read that mentioned Give a Damn.

  ‘It’s a shameless capitalist enterprise,’ she said. ‘Only 5% of last year’s profits went to charity.’

  That didn’t surprise me.

  To be honest, I’m amazed any money goes to charity, now Hari is at the helm.

  Friday 24th March

  First Hearing Dispute Resolution Appointment on Monday – aka court.

  The fact it has the word ‘first’ in the title suggests there will be a second court hearing. Which bothers me. Although Jeremy says that if I’m lucky, everything could be ‘wrapped up’ first time.

&nbs
p; We’ll see.

  Saturday 25th March

  To cheer me up about the court hearing, John Boy has bought Daisy a pair of fluorescent-yellow Nike trainers.

  At £50, the trainers are a very generous present – meaning I can’t really tell John Boy how hideous they are.

  They’re so bright that the lady next door thought her two tropical Macaws had escaped onto our trampoline.

  Daisy loves them and refuses to take them off.

  ‘Shoe! Shoe!’ she shrieks, whenever I stoop down to undo the Velcro. ‘MY shoe! MY SHOE MUMMY!’

  I nearly lost my temper at bath time, but we compromised – Daisy could keep her shoes on in the bath if she let me cut her fingernails.

  Sunday 26th March

  Little family get together, to celebrate Laura’s pregnancy.

  Nice tea at the pub with fizzy wine, triangular sandwiches, crisps, nuts and fresh fruit.

  Of course, Mum complained about it ‘not being a proper bloody meal’. But she’s doing quite well at cutting back. Ordinarily, she would have slapped a microwave lasagne between two slices of bread to ‘pad things out a bit’.

  Laura only drank Cranberry juice, despite Mum’s chiding that ‘one glass of fizzy won’t do the baby any harm. I drank pints of Guinness when I was expecting you …’

  Everyone is reassuring me about court tomorrow.

  But am still worried. I mean it’s court.

  Monday 27th March

  First Hearing Dispute Resolution Appointment.

  Because it was a first hearing, things were supposedly informal and we all sat together in a sort of classroom at county court – me and Jeremy Samuels, Nick and his solicitor Penny Castle, Johnny Jiggens and an elderly judge with a walking frame.

  The jolly old judge asked if anyone wanted ‘a nice cup of tea’, but we were all too nervous or professional to say yes.

  Then the judge asked about Daisy and the nature of Nick and I’s relationship, where we were living and so on.

  After that, Johnny Jiggens was called upon to dish the dirt, re: living arrangements. He spoke about the crowded nature of the pub, and how people seemed to be ‘coming and going’. He also talked about Nick’s new home and how ‘Mr Spencer’ offered ‘exceptional’ living arrangements.