The Bad Mother's Handbook

by Kate Long

  I was genuinely confused. He didn’t even know Paul.

  ‘Spooky leather trousers. Give you crotch-rot. Apparently. Not that I’ve ever worn them.’

  ‘Oh, I get you. He – it wasn’t—’ I stopped. If I started to explain he’d think I was a right tart. Bloody hell. Why did I attract these weirdos? What bloody business was it of his anyway? ‘It’s not really your place to comment,’ I snapped and stuffed the rest of the KitKat into my mouth.

  For a moment he seemed crushed. ‘No, fair enough. Scrub that bit. Foot in bloody mouth again. The Aztecs used cocoa beans as a simple form of currency, you know.’ He snatched up the hot chocolate and took a deep swig. Then he put the plastic cup back down on my spider diagram and grinned hopefully. I scowled back. He took the scrap of silver foil and scrunched it deftly into a four-pointed star shape, which he stuck on the end of his finger and waved around. The star dropped off and skittered away, leaving a red dent in his skin. Finally he picked up my retractable biro and began clicking it on and off rapidly.

  ‘Right, well, having fucked up big time I might as well go the whole hog.’ He fixed his gaze on me. ‘Would you – go out with me?’

  And it seemed to me he shouted those words and they went echoing round the ceiling, because the hum of chat suddenly dropped, like it always does exactly when you don’t want it to.

  I was completely amazed. It wasn’t only that he looked a bit odd and talked posh bollocks, but it had been popularly assumed since he arrived at the school that he wasn’t interested in girls. Electrical gadgets, maybe; human relationships, no. He’d been here a term and a half and never asked anyone out, never got off with anyone at a party, never even seemed to notice the opposite sex in any way. Julia had reckoned he might be one of these God-botherers. There was an intensity about him that made you feel fidgety. He certainly wasn’t like anyone else in the year.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit. I’ve done it wrong, haven’t I? I ought to have said, “I’ve got two tickets for a gig,” or “Do you fancy coming for a drink sometime.” ’ He threw down the biro and scrumpled up the KitKat paper in anguish. ‘And then you’d say, “No, sorry, I’m bathing the dog that night,” and I’d crawl off and die quietly in a corner somewhere. Much as I’m going to do now.’ He flushed and rose to his feet, scraping the chair loudly on the parquet so that the Year 11s put their pens down and turned right round to watch the show. ‘Don’t know what I was thinking of. Sorry. Catch you later,’ he muttered. Then he slunk off, banging the double swing doors behind him.

  I slumped forward and bowed my head till my brow touched the wooden desk. Absolutely fucking marvellous. Just what I needed at the moment, to be responsible for someone else’s misery.

  That lunchtime I watched him in the common room. He was sitting, as usual, with The Two Nerds (subjects: Maths, Further Maths, Maths With Knobs On, Complete Bastard Maths). One’s tall, the other’s short but they both have bad haircuts, crap clothes and look about forty. Daniel looked almost elegant beside them, with his good suit and expensive shoes (I don’t think they’re short of a bob or two in his house).

  The Nerds were playing chess and Daniel was making a show of reading an Asterix book. There was this aura of unhappiness around him. I edged my chair closer to Julia and laughed loudly at something Anya said. The realization made the hairs on my neck prickle: he reminded me of myself.

  *

  I DIDN’T MIND school, on the whole. Now our Jimmy hated it. As soon as it were time to go, he’d want the toilet. He’d stay in, and when the factory whistle went at nine he’d come out. Of course it were no good then, ’cause you got the stick across your hand if you were five minutes late. He were worst on Monday mornings when his class had to go through the books of the Old Testament. Gen-esis, Ex-odus, Levit-icus, Num-bers. He had a block, he said; he could do them at home. First and Second Sam-uels, First and Second Kings. You could hear him chanting it through the toilet wall. But the minute he got his bum on t’ long wooden form with th’ others, it went straight out of his head. So he’d get t’ stick again.

  One day there were a bit of excitement. The big lads in the top class – some of them were fourteen, and tall – turned on the headmaster, Mr Avis. He were a vicious man, he had it coming. He used to cane pupils for nowt, humiliate them, just to show who was boss. Nobody ever learned anything in his class, you were too frightened. Six of ’em carried him to the window, opened it up, pushed him out and held him over the sill by his ankles. It was his good luck that there were some workmen in the hall below who heard his shouts and came running. The pupils pulled him back in sharpish and sat down meek as you like at their desks, so by the time the workmen arrived the only evidence that summat had been going on was Mr Avis’s red face and his broken suspender. He was far too embarrassed to admit the truth in front of them, it would have finished him in the village, and we weren’t going t’ say owt, so he picked up his cane, laid it across his desk and said he was going home because he felt unwell. He resigned t’ same day. I think he went to teach at Lytham in the finish.

  Startin’ work wasn’t much of an improvement. You still got the stick – well, you did at our place anyroad, and across your legs too. At thirteen I started in the cotton mill; it was that, or the bleachworks or pickin’ coal at Pit Brow. You hadn’t a right lot of choice in the matter. I had to clean under four looms before they started up, and you got sixpence extra for that, what they called your ‘spender’. But it meant gettin’ there early, and y’ ad to walk it in all weathers. You got put wi’ a woman as ’d learn you how to piece ends, that were called tentin’, but if you were slow she’d rap your legs. They got paid by how much cloth they wove, you see, an’ they didn’t want to waste time on sortin’ out such as me. And every mornin’ the boss’d be waitin’ outside, ready to knock money off if you were late, which was worse than any stick.

  They say ‘The Good Old Days’, but they weren’t nice times, not really.

  *

  I think worries are like Russian dolls; almost anything can be eclipsed by something worse. You think a terrible emergency is, say, a monster spot or a bad grade, but that would be nothing if your house burnt down, which would still not be as bad as if you found out you had incurable cancer. (I suppose the only calamity that could top that would be full-on nuclear war.) So it’s a matter of scale.

  I wondered, as I searched desperately for my completed Keats essay that Thursday night, why on earth I’d ever been concerned about a loon like Daniel Gale. I’d left the essay on my desk, in a blue Slimpick wallet, ready to hand in next day, which would leave the weekend free to do some last-minute revising for the exam. But it had vanished. I looked in all the pockets of my school bag, my course books, my Oxford pad; I got down on my hands and knees and peered under the bed, moved magazines, shoes, clothes; school bag course books Oxford pad under the bed again, then downstairs: house magazines, table drawer, letter rack, under the sofa, under the chairs, in the sideboard, kitchen surfaces, kitchen cupboards, bread crock, bin inside, bin outside (quickly, because it was dark and smelly), airing cupboard, bathroom cabinet, top of the cistern. There aren’t that many places in a house the size of ours. Then I really started to panic.

  ‘Mum. Mum! Mum!’ I bounded back up the stairs and burst into her bedroom.

  ‘God, Charlotte. Is there no privacy in this house?’ she snapped, shutting the wardrobe mirror quickly. I vaguely took in the fact that she was wearing a black miniskirt and a shiny white blouse, like a waitress, and she’d been blow-drying her hair in a sad attempt at a Rachel. ‘Do you think you might knock before you come barging into my room?’ Crossly she pulled on her old grey sweater over the blouse; it was nearly as long as the skirt. She saw me staring. ‘I’m only thirty-three. Look at Madonna.’

  ‘Thirty-four tomorrow. What’s Madonna got to do with it? Look, Mum, I’m desperate. Have you moved a blue folder from off my desk?’

  She clocked the state I was in. ‘Give me a minute,’ she said reaching for her leggings.


  We both knew it was Nan. ‘Let me talk to her, you’re too hyper.’ She went into Nan’s room and I heard low voices. Please God, let her remember where she’s put it, I prayed as I hung outside the door biting my thumbnail. But Mum’s face was glum as she came out.

  ‘Oh, God, Mum! I spent hours on that essay! I haven’t even got my notes any more! Can’t you have another go at her?’

  We could hear Nan singing, so I knew it was hopeless.

  ‘Oh the moon shines bright on Charlie Chaplin

  His boots are crackin’

  For want of blackin’

  And his owd fustian coat is wantin’ mendin’

  Before they send ’im

  To the Dardanelles.’

  ‘I know where we’ll find it.’ Mum’s expression was suddenly bright and I noticed then she’d got lip gloss on.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The Tin.’

  She slipped back into Nan’s room and I heard the wardrobe door go, a scuffle as Mum shifted footwear aside, then the lid of the large biscuit tin Nan keeps full of Spam and canned baked beans in case of war. I twisted impatiently and peeped round the jamb. Nan was flat out on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  At last Mum stood up. ‘Sorry, nothing. We’ll try downstairs again.’

  ‘Jesus! Why do I have to live in this bloody hole!’ I exploded at her. ‘You can’t put anything down without someone interfering with it. I’m completely sick of this house! When I get my ‘A” levels, which I probably won’t do at this rate, you’ll not see me for dust. God Almighty! What am I going to tell them at school? My nan ate my homework?’ I was close to tears. ‘I can’t do all that work again. I’m so tired, and what about my revision? I haven’t time to do both, I’m just going to fail. I don’t know why I bother.’

  ‘You’re hyperventilating. Calm down. We’ll have another look and I’ll write you a note.’ She squeezed past me and began to go downstairs.

  ‘A note?’ I shouted over the banisters at the top of her head. ‘Do you know how old I am? It’s not like I need to be excused games! A note won’t do any good.’

  She turned her face up to me. ‘Do you want me to help you or not?’

  ‘Christ!’ I turned on my heel and threw myself into my bedroom, slamming the door. Papers fluttered off the desk, but not the right ones. I sank onto the bed in a welter of self-pity. No one else had to put up with this continual family sabotage. Why hadn’t I been born into a different life?

  Except, I nearly was, wasn’t I?

  I’d been trying not to think about it, because the implications were too big and too scary. Only you can’t not think of something, it’s impossible. By making a conscious effort to blot it out, you give it life. Try not thinking of a blue elephant. See?

  Later on, it must have been about 2 a.m., I crept in to see Nan. She looked awful without her teeth, her head lolling, little snores coming from the back of her throat. Close to you could see the pink scalp through her thin hair. One day she’ll be dead, I thought, she’ll be lying like this but there’ll be no breathing and her skin will be cold. I took her small hand, loving and hating her at the same time. I’m here, in this house, in this life, because of you, I told her. She didn’t stir.

  Just before I went to sleep I remembered Mum’s birthday present. The Stately Semi: How To Achieve The Neo-Classical Look In The Suburban Home. She’s forever decorating, trying to paint out the council house, rag-roll away her roots. I supposed I ought to wrap it, so I tiptoed downstairs for some Sellotape and there, as I clicked on the light, sitting on the table were some narrow-ruled sheets covered with my handwriting. My heart leapt. But it wasn’t the essay, it was only my notes. There was orange spaghetti bolognaise sauce on the top page which my mum had tried to wipe off. She must have trawled through the wheeliebin after I’d gone to bed. I wrapped the present quickly and left it for the morning.

  *

  WHAT IS IT about kids? I’d lie down in front of a tram for Charlotte without a second thought, but most of the time I want to beat her about the head with a blunt instrument. Do all mothers feel this way?

  *

  WHEN THEY laid her in my arms I thought I was going to die with happiness. I used to wheel her up the street in that big pram and old Mrs Moss used to be leaning on her gate, and she’d say every time, ‘Whose babby’s that? Wheer’s tha getten’ it?’ And I’d say, ‘She’s mine.’ Mrs Moss would suck her teeth. ‘She never is.’ I’d look down at the little fingers poking out over the top of the crocheted blanket. ‘Oh, yes she is. She’s mine. She’s mine.’

  *

  ‘Not enough sex. That’s what causes aggression in middle age.’ Daniel Gale was twittering at me as I blew my nose into his enormous handkerchief. ‘It’s true. Those ones who write in to Points of View to complain about the pronunciation of “controversy”, or constantly moan on to the council about their neighbour’s Leyland hedges, those maniacs shouting their mouths off in restaurants and reducing the waitresses to tears, those are the types you know just don’t get laid enough. You’ve got to feel sorry for them, really. I mean, Mrs Stokes must weigh about fifteen stone, and she’s got that moustache. We know there’s a Mr Stokes, but I don’t suppose he’s panting to exercise his conjugal rights of an evening. That’s why she was such an A1 bitch. Nothing to do with you at all.’ He hovered at my chair, not touching it, not sitting down. We were in the library; he’d followed after seeing me storm out of cow-bag Stokesy’s office.

  ‘But I’ve never been late with a piece of work for her, ever.’ I was still crying with temper. ‘She said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Charlotte, you’re the fifth person today with an excuse. I can’t make an exception for you. Monday, 9 a.m.” So I get penalized because of someone else’s laziness.’ I put my head down on my arms. ‘And I’m so tired. I want to sleep all the time.’ I’d been too angry to be embarrassed with him at first so he got it all, blow by blow, from Nan downwards. Now I’d finished, though, I wanted him to go away. ‘Here.’ I lifted my head up and gave him back his handkerchief. I knew my mascara must have run, so it was imperative I get to a mirror as soon as possible.

  ‘You can keep it, if you like.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘You’ve got a bit of . . .’ He gestured to his own cheek. ‘Do you want me to . . . ?’ He was wrapping the hanky round his finger, the way mums do with mucky toddlers.

  ‘No! Sorry, no, it’s OK. I need to wash my face anyway.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m fine now. Nothing a hatpin and a voodoo doll won’t cure.’ I smiled feebly.

  ‘Right.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘See you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And thanks,’ I called after him faintly. He didn’t acknowledge me.

  But on Monday, after I’d handed in my essay and before the exam started, he found me again.

  ‘You been here all weekend? Sorry, stupid joke. I won’t hold you up.’ He nodded at my open textbook. ‘I just wondered if this was any use.’ He plonked a plastic bag down on the table. I peered in, and nearly swallowed my biro in shock.

  ‘My God, Daniel, it’s a laptop! You can’t give me this!’

  His hands went fluttery and he swept his hair back several times. ‘No, no, it’s simply a glorified typewriter. We’ve had it for ages. My dad was literally throwing it out, well, he was going to put it in the loft, anyway. He doesn’t bother with it now he’s got the PC. It’s yours to borrow – indefinitely – if you think it’ll help.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You can save your essays on disk as you type them. That way it wouldn’t matter if you lost a copy, you’d always have a backup. It’s an absolute doddle to use. The instruction booklet’s in there, and I’ve formatted a couple of disks for you so it’s all ready to go. Just be careful not to pull the lead out while you’re in the middle of something, that deletes it all. Best to save your text as you go along.’ He was gabbling now. ‘Oh, there’s this as well.�
� He fished out a small cardboard box and flashed it at me before dropping it back into the bag. ‘Iron tablets. You’re probably a bit anaemic, that’s why you’re so tired. My sister used to take them, before she ran off to join the circus, well, read medicine at Birmingham. Not these actual tablets, obviously. I’m not trying to palm you off with drugs that are past their sell-by date.’ He gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Anyway, give them a try – or not – as you like.’

  He let go of the back of the chair he’d been gripping, and stalked off towards the doors.

  Well, bugger me, I thought. You’ve got to give the lad credit for trying.

  I picked up the bag and ran after him, squeak squeak across the parquet. Everyone looked.

  I bundled him outside and held up the typewriter.

  ‘I understand. You can’t accept it. Say no more.’ He sighed and made to take the handles of the bag off me.

  ‘No, no, it’s fab. I’m really grateful. Tell your dad thanks. And – if you want, if you’re not doing anything on Saturday afternoon, I usually go to Tiggy’s for a coffee about three. Do you know where I mean? So . . .’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’ He grinned manically and all but ran off down the corridor.

  Straight away I wished I hadn’t done it. He was bound to get the wrong idea.

  In the event it didn’t matter. Not at all. That Saturday, at about three, Daniel, the essay, the exam were a million years ago. I was in my bedroom, amongst the posters and the pictures of impossibly beautiful women, staring at my naked body in the full-length mirror. Downstairs Mum was lecturing Nan at top volume, and through the chink of curtain I could see the light of a keen, bright spring afternoon.