The Bad Mother's Handbook

by Kate Long

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forgive her.’

  Nan wandered in.

  ‘Where’s our Karen?’

  Dad and I exchanged glances.

  ‘She’s had to pop out for a while. Do you fancy a brew?’ Dad unplugged the kettle and held it under the cold tap.

  ‘I need my bag changing,’ she sighed.

  ‘Over to you,’ said Dad.

  *

  AS SOON AS I got off the train I found a mobile phone place, threw my credit card at the assistant and emerged with a Nokia, a charger and twenty quid’s worth of vouchers. ‘You’ve one blob left on your battery,’ the smart lad in the shop had said. ‘You’re telling me,’ I joked, but he’d lost interest. Then I went outside onto a grass verge, away from all the bustle, and read the instruction booklet. At last I felt ready to dial.

  Unluckily it was Steve who answered, so the first few seconds were him calling me every name under the sun. When I could get a word in edgeways, I told him my number and got him to write it down and read it back; it’s not that he’s thick, far from it, but he’s careless. I asked after Charlotte and Nan and got another mouthful of abuse, then I heard Charlotte’s voice in the background asking to speak to me. I knew if I let her I’d fall apart; I’d turn straight back to the station and climb on the next available train home. So I said quickly, ‘Tell her I’ll be home in a day or two. Battery’s flat. Got to go.’ Then I pressed End and switched off for half an hour. If I was going to do this right I needed to clear my head.

  I retraced my steps into the station, bought a street map off a stall and went down the escalator to the Underground. I stood in front of the Tube map for ages, trying to work it out while people barged into me and sighed with impatience over the top of my head. I reached forward and tried to trace the route with my finger, like a slow reader. Northern line, change at King’s Cross to the Piccadilly. That was OK. But which zone was I in and how much would that make the ticket? There was a massive queue at the ticket office so I spent ages studying one of the machines to a background of irritated tuttings from the woman behind me. At last I pressed the right button and a bit of card dropped into my palm. Now, which escalator? I stood like a rock in the middle of a swirling river. An oriental man with a briefcase stood on my foot. ‘Sorry,’ I said. He disappeared into the crowds without looking back.

  I made my decision, glided down past the adverts for theatres and museums, and found myself in a windy tunnel that smelt of burning rubber. Did I want platform 1 or 2? How should I bloody know? A quick check of my pocket diary and down the tiled walkway, then finally out onto a platform with a lot of bored-looking people. Almost instantly there was a terrific noise and the train shot out and slowed to a halt in front of us. The doors hissed open. I stood back politely and was nearly knocked over in the rush to get on.

  The last time I was in London was a school trip to coincide with the Silver Jubilee. We’d worn school uniform and our commemorative badges because, our form mistress had said, that’s what the Queen would want, not jeans and Kickers. We’d gone to stand outside Buckingham Palace and someone had said the Queen was definitely in because of the way the flag was flying, so she might have looked out of the window and seen us.

  The train came into King’s Cross, where there was a teenage girl begging with a baby on her hip. I thought of Charlotte and pulled out my purse. The girl’s top lip was covered in sores, but her eyes were pretty. Where was her mum, I wondered.

  ‘What’s his name?’ I asked smiling at the round-eyed snotty baby.

  ‘Ellie,’ she said and pocketed the note neatly.

  I thought about her all the way to Arnos Grove.

  At last I came up the steps into the sunlight, feeling bruised. I pulled out my street map and started walking. I was looking for Hemmington Grove and Mrs Mary Beattie.

  *

  Actually it’s no big deal, changing Nan (after all, I’ll be doing nappies soon). It used to freak me out at first, but now it just makes me sad. Nan lies meekly on the bed with a towel under her, her dress pulled up and her knickers and tights round her thighs. There are poor little white hairs between her legs and the skin is loose round her belly. You peel off the old micropore tape and the used bag and put them in something like a nappy sack. Then you wipe round the weird, amazingly clean hole in Nan’s flesh with a sterile tissue. You take the backing strip off the new bag, stick it down with the opening against Nan’s stomach, and Mum likes to make extra sure with some tape on top. Sometimes, if the skin’s red, we use Nivea but you have to be careful not to get it under the tape or nothing sticks and it’s a disaster. Nan remains glassy-eyed throughout, then switches back into life the minute you pull her dress back down. So there you are. Nothing to it.

  I was heading towards the bin after the lunchtime change when the doorbell rang. Dad was right, it was like Paddy’s market. I thought it was another of Ivy’s volunteers, but it turned out to be Daniel clutching a Moses basket.

  ‘One of my father’s patients asked if he could find a home for it. It needs a new mattress but it’s got a stand and some frilly gubbins to go round the sides.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ I took it off him and laid it on the sofa while he went to get the rest from the car. Maud and Nan crowded round to see.

  ‘Eeh, in’t it lovely?’ said Nan.

  ‘Better than a drawer,’ said Maud, peering inside. ‘That’s where me mother put me when I were born.’

  ‘Well, they did in them days,’ said Nan. ‘In’t it lovely, though.’

  ‘Where’s it going to go?’ asked Maud.

  Nan shrugged.

  ‘It can come in my room,’ I said. ‘It’ll have to. Be easier, anyway, if I’m getting up at night.’ I glanced out of the window and saw Daniel struggling with a stack of books and a froth of broderie anglaise. ‘Hang on.’

  I waddled down the path and opened the gate for him.

  ‘Come here, you daft ’aporth. Let me have some of the books, at least.’

  ‘They’re from Mrs Carlise. She thought you could be doing some reading before term starts. Don’t take too many now, just these from the top.’

  ‘Oh, God, I must phone her. I’ve been meaning—’ I broke off with a cry and the paperbacks fell on the pavement.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Daniel threw his stuff back on the seat and put his arm round me.

  ‘Get me in. Get me in, Dan.’

  We staggered inside and I sat down breathlessly.

  ‘What is it, Charlotte? Have you got a pain?’

  Nan and Maud were hovering anxiously.

  ‘Shall I make her a cup of tea?’ asked Maud.

  ‘Yes, that would be excellent. Thank you.’ Daniel came and sat next to me and fluttered his hands. ‘What is it, Charlotte?’

  I groaned. ‘It was Paul. Across the road, you didn’t see him. He was walking past with a Spar bag. He saw me—’ Oh Christ, the humiliation. He’d seen me and stared, then deliberately looked the other way till he was round the corner. He’d have run if he could. Bastard.

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dirty bugger,’ said Nan miming a spit. ‘He’ll come to his cake and milk.’

  ‘I’m not terrifically good at that sort of thing, but I’ll go after him and hit him if it would make you feel better,’ said Daniel. ‘All you have to do is tell me where he lives.’

  Even in the midst of my personal hell I couldn’t help but smile at the image. ‘Excuse me,’ Daniel would probably say first, ‘do you mind if I punch you in the mouth?’ Then Paul would knock seven bells out of him.

  ‘No, it’s OK. My dad’s tried that one. Silly sod.’

  Daniel let out a sigh of relief and Maud came in with the tea.

  ‘Look, are you definitely all right? Do I need to get you to a doctor?’

  ‘No, really, I’m fine. Just mortified, that’s all.’ I took a sip of tea. ‘Thanks, Mrs Eckersley. I could do with a lie-down, though.’

  ‘Good idea. Get your feet u
p.’ Daniel rose to his feet. ‘I must be going, anyway.’

  ‘Please stay,’ I said. ‘Come up to my room so we can talk.’

  Maud gave me a funny look and I nearly said to her, ‘For God’s sake, I can’t get any more pregnant, can I?’

  ‘I’m sorry the room’s so small,’ I said as Daniel folded himself into the beanbag chair.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’

  ‘Nothing. It seems strange you being here, that’s all.’ I was reclining on the bed with Nan’s V-shaped pillow behind my head, trying to find the right way to lie. ‘The trouble with being this size is you can never get comfortable.’

  ‘I suspect you’re going to get even bigger before you’ve finished.’

  ‘It’s all right for you, Slim-Jim.’ I lay back.

  ‘Shall I put some music on?’

  ‘Yeah, will you? The tapes are on that shelf by your head. Pick what you like, so long as it’s chilled. Actually, that one on the top is good, it’s what Julia did for me. Supposed to be my labour tape. Soundtrack to my agony.’

  ‘Everything’s very . . . to hand in this room.’ Daniel switched on the cassette player by leaning to one side and stretching across the shelf. The music started and we listened for a few minutes without speaking.

  What sense does love make?

  Your brain’s turned inside out

  A chemical illusion

  That makes you want to shout

  It was me who began. ‘The thing about Paul is, I hate him but in a way I still love him. No, not him, but the person I thought he was. He seemed great at first because he was so happy-go-lucky and I’m so serious; I actually thought he was good for me. Mad. Even now I can’t totally shake off the promise of those initial few weeks. My brain still hasn’t caught up with recent events. I know he’s a shit but he’s the baby’s father too.’

  ‘Not if he doesn’t want to be. You can’t force him to have anything to do with the child if he doesn’t want to. You might be able to extract a few quid out of him after the birth, but that’s about all.’

  ‘I know. But biologically . . .’

  ‘Biology’s nothing. Inserting your knob at an opportune moment.’

  We both blushed. The song finished and another one began.

  You are the star–sun–moon that guides me

  My lightship in the storm

  You keep me safe from harm

  Safe and warm

  Through the storm

  ‘The other problem is he’s practically on the doorstep, as demonstrated today. We’ll always be bumping into each other, it’ll be awful.’

  Daniel chewed his fingernail. ‘All the more reason to get your university place sorted, you can always defer it. Put that wanker behind you and get on with your life.’

  ‘I know, I know. You are right.’ I heaved myself up slightly and grinned feebly at him. ‘Actually, now I think about it, he was a wanker at primary school. He was one of those lads who used to set up trouble and then walk away. It was never him who got shouted at. But he was funny and good at football so he had a lot of mates. He knew all these rude songs.’

  ‘ “My Uncle Billy had a three foot willy”, that sort of thing?’

  I smirked. ‘It was four foot round here. You were obviously suffering from shrinkage down south.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Then there was the classic: “Ooh, aah, I lost my bra, I left my knickers in my boyfriend’s car”, and “Jesus Christ superstar, wears plastic knickers and a Playtex bra”, “All the girls in Spain wash their knickers in the rain”. It was all underwear.’

  ‘The knickers-knackers-knockers school of comedy.’

  ‘If you say so. He had this joke too; he’d go up to you and he’d say, “Are you a PLP?” If you said no, he’d say, “Are you not a Proper Living Person, then?” If you said yes he’d go, “You’re a Public Leaning Post, then,” and barge into you.’

  ‘Sounds like a genius.’

  ‘And once we had this student teacher in, a really nice bloke, actually. He was always changing in and out of his tracksuit like Superman or something, and one time when he left his shoes in the classroom Paul wrote WAN KER on the bottoms with Tipp-Ex. Or at least, that’s what he meant to write. But he got the shoes mixed up, so when this teacher sat on the floor with us at storytime with his legs out in front of him and his feet together, it actually said KERWAN on his soles. Everyone still thought it was dead funny, though.’

  ‘I suspect there’s a lot of inbreeding in this village,’ said Daniel.

  *

  NUMBER 80 WAS a neat Edwardian semi with white-painted sills, a black front door and two giant terracotta pots on either side of the step. I could see swagged Sanderson curtains at the bay window and a fern in a Wedgwood planter. I must have stood for ten minutes just staring; I suppose I was hoping someone would come out, but no one did. Eventually I picked up my case and carried on down the road, swinging my head from right to left as I searched for B & B signs. I turned right at the bottom of the road into a street where the houses were smaller and terraced and found a bed and breakfast place at once.

  The hall smelt of elderly dog and the wallpaper was grubby but I wasn’t too fussed. It was only a base. The wheezing old lady who led me up to my room asked lots of questions but then didn’t give me any time to answer, which suited me. I shut the door on her and took off my shoes; it was time to phone Mrs Beattie. Where was my mobile?

  I psyched myself up to press the on button, but this time the battery really was flat. Now that was Fate. I threw the phone down on the bed in relief. Then I had second thoughts and put it on to charge while I unpacked and had a wash in the poky little sink. Looking at myself in the mirror I wondered what my mother would make of me after all this time. I wanted her to be impressed, to think I’d grown up to be a stylish, together sort of woman. I wasn’t in bad nick, on the whole. My skin was quite good for my age – a few lines round the mouth, that was all – and my hair was in between cuts which is when it looks its best. I’d wear my suit and courts, and paint my nails if I had time. I lay back down on the bed and caught my breath with the enormity of it all.

  My mother.

  After an hour I tried the phone again. The screen lit up; it was time.

  A posh woman answered.

  ‘Am I speaking to Mrs Mary Beattie?’

  ‘Yes, you are. Can I help you?’ She sounded cool and professional, like a consultant’s receptionist: I’m sorry I can’t give you your test results over the phone.

  ‘Er, my name’s Karen Cooper. Mrs Fitton from Bolton Social Services might have rung about me. I think – she said you might be able to – can you help me find my birth mother? Her name was Jessie Pilkington. She stayed with you once, a long time ago.’

  ‘Yes, yes . . . Joyce Fitton did ring.’ She paused and I could hear my own breathing in the receiver. ‘Yes, well, what we thought you could do was come down and see me sometime and I’d talk you through—’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Are you actually in London?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m staying with a friend. I’d like to, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to come and see you.’

  ‘Let me check my diary,’ she said.

  I wandered over to the window and gazed down at the back yard. It wasn’t so different from a two-up, two-down in Wigan. It was more the feel of the place; it had to be London, somehow. It just didn’t feel northern.

  ‘Right.’ She was back on. ‘Can you manage tomorrow morning? Say, ten? Or is that too early? Where are you coming from?’

  ‘Ten’s fine. I’ll be there.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you,’ she said, and my heart dropped like a stone with terror.

  *

  That night it was antenatal class. I plonked myself at the back and tried to look older than I was, also as if I’d just left my loving husband at home instead of an angry dad and a mad grannie.

  The midwife held up a plastic pelvis and forced a dol
l’s head through it. I sat there, thirty-four weeks pregnant and still thinking: This isn’t me, this is not going to happen to me. I’m not ready. I can’t do it.

  ‘Burned your bridges now, girl, haven’t you?’ I heard my mother’s voice say.

  *

  I SAT ON the chaise longue, waiting for Mrs Beattie to make tea, feeling exhausted. All night long I’d been running after trains. One was going to America and I said to John Noakes (because he was with me), ‘How can it go across the sea?’ and he said, ‘Oh, anything’s possible.’ I got up far too early, felt cold, got back in bed again and painted my fingernails. I turned on the radio but it was all still Diana’s death. I had a little weep – half of it was nerves – and then went down to breakfast which I couldn’t eat. My landlady was clearly a big Elvis fan and all through the meal I kept my eyes fixed on the Love Me Tender wall clock whose hour hand was the neck of a guitar. Time moved so slowly I thought the thing was broken. Then I got dressed and was all ready to go by nine twenty, so I had to walk up and down the road several times. Even though Mrs Beattie wasn’t my mother I’d put on the suit.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said, passing me a china cup and saucer. I looked in vain for a safe place to put it down. If I spilt tea over this nice chintz! I perched the cup on my lap and took in the room.

  ‘This is such a lovely house,’ I said. It was too. Everything I’d seen, I wanted.

  ‘It’s rather big for me now I’m on my own. The stairs are becoming difficult too.’

  I wondered how old she was. Seventy? Very elegant, though. Nothing like Mum. ‘You could get one of those stairlifts.’

  ‘It might come to that.’

  We sipped our tea. What was she thinking? Inscrutable, that’s what she was.

  ‘Well, about my birth mother,’ I announced.

  She pressed her lips together and put down the cup on the slate hearth. ‘Yes. There are some documents on the bureau, if you’d like to fetch them over. Bring the side table and we can have it between us. I need to take you through this.’