The Bad Mother's Handbook

by Kate Long

  My heart thumped as she separated the sheets of paper one by one.

  ‘Do I take it you know nothing about your mother at all?’

  ‘Only that she was very young and she wasn’t married. Oh, I knew she’d stayed in London. Probably couldn’t wait to escape!’ I squeaked with nervous laughter. My voice was too loud in that quiet room.

  ‘Right,’ said Mrs Beattie carefully. She pushed a piece of photocopied paper towards me. ‘I want you to read this.’

  It was a newspaper report dated April 1971. A man and a woman living in Croydon had been charged with manslaughter after a child had died in their care. The six-year-old’s body showed signs of serious malnourishment and was covered in bruises and sores. She – it was a little girl – was described as looking like a child two years younger because of her small frame. Neighbours had become suspicious after seeing the girl foraging in dustbins and reported what they had seen to social services, but somehow the messages hadn’t got through. School noticed nothing because she was never there. She hadn’t even been on the At Risk register when she died.

  The little girl’s name was Emma and Jessie Pilkington had been her mother.

  I read it and read it and read it and it still didn’t make sense. Mrs Beattie reached out and took my hand. I was shaking.

  ‘Would she have been my sister?’ I whispered.

  ‘Half-sister.’

  ‘Oh, God. My little sister.’ I started to cry. Mrs Beattie sat back and let me, patting my hand. The clock ticked and traffic swooshed past the window; I wasn’t aware of anything else. We stayed like that for a long time.

  At last she said, ‘I have a photograph, but you may not want to see it.’

  I wiped my eyes. ‘Of Emma?’

  ‘Of all of them. Taken from a newspaper.’

  ‘I think it might break my heart.’

  She put her arms round me and I felt like I was a child again, Nan holding me the first time we knew Dad was ill. There was a ticking clock then as well, and the radio in the kitchen playing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’.

  I’m on your side.

  ‘Did Mrs Fitton know all this?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Beattie wiped her eyes. ‘But because I’m a trained counsellor and I used to work for social services she thought I’d be the most suitable person to talk to you about it. And, of course, I knew your mother.’

  ‘How could she do something so awful? I mean, your own child?’ Charlotte, baby Charlotte crying in her cot, toddler Charlotte throwing porridge on the floor, wetting the bed; beautiful Charlotte.

  ‘She became involved with a violent man, as a lot of women do, you’d be surprised by how many, all walks of life. She was a very . . . needy person, not at all able to stand up for herself, despite the big talk. So she stayed with this man even after he began to abuse her daughter – it wasn’t his child, she’d got pregnant by another man, which didn’t help matters. She always maintained she never actually hurt Emma herself. I don’t know if that was true or not. There certainly wasn’t enough evidence to convict her of direct cruelty; her defence claimed the only reason she hadn’t acted to save her daughter was that she was frightened he might start beating her as well. It may have been true. She got four years; he got fifteen, but he died of cancer before he was released.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Then when Jessie came out of prison she changed her name and moved. There was terribly bad feeling towards her from the public, as there always is in these cases, though I don’t think the press was as intrusive then as it is now. She’d had hate mail, death threats, so she tried to walk away from what she’d done and reinvent herself. By and large she succeeded.’

  I put my hands to my temples. ‘I still can’t take it in.’

  ‘It must be a great shock for you. Can I get you anything, a glass of brandy?’

  ‘No. I’ll take a couple of paracetamol, I’ve some in my handbag.’ But I knew paracetamol would never take away the cold clamping sensation in my heart, or stop me reliving those horrific phrases from the report.

  Mrs Beattie went off to get a glass of water and I found myself opening the file again, scanning for those pictures. Don’t do it! part of me was screaming, but I had to know. And there she was, a fine-featured little girl in a check dress and a cardigan, smiling away and looking as if she didn’t have a care in the world. I closed the file quickly. My heart felt as if it was going to burst with grief and fury.

  ‘So my m— Jessie Pilkington’s still alive?’ I asked when Mrs Beattie came back.

  ‘Yes, she is. I have a contact address for her, even though I haven’t spoken to her for many years now. She sends a card at Christmas, that’s all.’

  How could a child-killer send Christmas cards? ‘Don’t you hate her?’

  ‘It’s difficult . . . I hate what she did, certainly, but there are other factors. She’s been punished, of course, she’s served her time. You have to remember too that she was a victim herself in many ways. Her own father . . .’

  I put my hands over my ears. ‘Stop. Oh, please stop.’

  Mrs Beattie took the file and slid it under her chair. I wished I could have done that with the new knowledge in my head.

  ‘I feel like a different person,’ I said. ‘Nothing will ever be the same again.’ She nodded. ‘I need to go away now and think about this. Can I have Jessie Pilkington’s address?’

  ‘I have no right to withhold it from you.’

  ‘But you don’t believe I should have it?’

  Mrs Beattie pulled her cuff straight and smoothed her skirt. ‘I’m not sure you could do anything very constructive.’

  ‘All the same.’

  She went back into the file and pulled out an envelope. ‘It’s in there. Think carefully about how you want to handle this situation tonight, and come and see me tomorrow. We’ll talk it over together.’ She clasped my hand again. ‘You’ve been very brave. Whatever your life has been like, it’s made you a strong person.’

  ‘I don’t feel strong.’

  ‘Well, you are.’

  Then she hugged me again and I left.

  I DON’T KNOW why I did it. I should have gone straight home but I knew I’d never settle till I’d seen Jessie Pilkington, or whatever her name was, and talked to her face to face. I trailed back to the B & B, collected my stuff and set off for the Underground.

  Back on the Tube everything seemed squalid and threatening. People looked at each other out of the corner of their eyes; hardly anyone spoke. Even the beautiful young couple strap-hanging seemed like they were mocking the rest of us when they laughed together. The diversity was frightening too; every race, language, class and sub-class seemed to be on our train and it made my head spin. I unfolded the envelope and checked the address for the umpteenth time. Lewisham. What was that like, then? You hear the names of these London boroughs they don’t mean a right lot. Certain ones have memory-tags attached – Brixton (riots), Peckham (Del Boy), Lambeth (Walk) – but mostly it’s all pretty vague. Well, how many Londoners know the difference between Worsley and Whalley Range?

  Maybe she’d make it all right. She might say something that would explain and make it not so bad. It couldn’t be any worse. In any case it was what I needed to do.

  It didn’t take me long to suss out that Lewisham isn’t a top-class area full of millionaires. There were a lot of boarded-up windows, for one thing, and metal grilles on some of the shops. Big difference to Hemmington Grove. I got the feeling terracotta pots wouldn’t survive that long here. A filthy man with a droopy eye came up to me as I stood turning my street map round, and shouted something in my face. I put my head down and started walking.

  It took me nearly twenty minutes to find her street, Bewely Road, and it was grubby and depressing. I followed the numbers down until I came to a sixties block of flats, two storeys high, with coloured panels, orange and blue, stuck to the bricks under the windows. There are some flats like that in Wigan, just as you get near the town centre. They smack
to me of desperate mothers caged up with screaming toddlers, and teenagers pissing in the stairwells. Maybe I was being a snob; your house doesn’t make you who you are, I should know that. But I didn’t feel sure of anything much any more.

  She lived on the ground floor. I rang the bell – by now I was so nauseous and swimmy I had to lean against the jamb – and waited. The plain front door swung open and there she was.

  It was the toes I noticed first; she was wearing sandals and her toenails were painted red, but dirty underneath. Leggings, a baggy T-shirt, much like I knock about in when I’m at home, and a face that was mine but old and twisted with sourness.

  ‘I know who you are,’ she snapped in an accent that was still northern. ‘Mary phoned me. She warned me you might turn up.’

  ‘Can I come in?’ My mouth was very dry and the words sounded odd as I said them. ‘I’ve come a long way.’ Behind her I could hear a television going but I couldn’t see past her into the hall.

  ‘I don’t care how far you’ve come. You’ve to go away. I never asked to see you. What do you want to come rooting round and stirring up trouble for? Haven’t you got a life of your own?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, tell you what I’ve done with myself over the years. I thought you’d like to know. There’s things I need to ask you.’

  She pushed her greying hair behind her ears and lowered her voice. ‘Look, I just want you to sod off. If I didn’t want you when you were a sweet little baby I’m hardly likely to want you now you’re a bitter-faced thirty-year-old, am I? For God’s sake. I owe you nothing.’

  ‘I’m thirty-four, actually.’

  She made to shut the door.

  ‘Wait!’ I wedged my shoulder painfully into the gap and forced it open again. A smell of chip pan floated out. ‘Tell me about my dad at least. He might want to see me even if you don’t.’

  ‘You’ll have a job. He’s dead.’ She laughed meanly. ‘And a bloody good job an’ all.’

  ‘Well, who was he? I’ve a right to know.’

  ‘Oh, Rights, is it? We’ve all got Rights, love. Well, I’ll tell you, since you’re burning to hear the truth. He was an evil bastard. He just wanted rid of you. He’d have done it hisself if I’d let him, he did it to another lass. D’you get me?’ I must have looked blank. ‘With a – ’ her face screwed up and she made a kind of clawing movement with her hand – ‘coat hanger.’

  I clapped my palm to my mouth and took a step back, and she slammed the door. I noticed my suit had a black mark all the way down the front.

  *

  Daniel had come round again and we were watching children’s TV prior to our frozen pizzas. It was so relaxing without Mum there.

  ‘You won’t believe this but I need to pee again,’ I said heaving myself up off the sofa. There was a sudden rush of water between my legs. ‘Oh, my God.’ We both stared at the dark stain spreading over my skirt. ‘I think I’ve wet myself.’

  ‘That’s not wee,’ said Daniel.

  *

  I WAS STANDING on the platform at Euston when my mobile rang. I nearly had kittens when it went off.

  ‘Hello?’ I was expecting another ear-bashing from Steve.

  ‘Hello,’ said a polite young man. ‘I don’t believe we’ve ever met, but I’m just ringing to tell you your daughter’s in labour.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Shall I phone the hospital or your father first?’ Daniel asked as I struggled with the bath towel he’d brought me to mop up the mess.

  ‘God, I don’t know,’ I snapped. I was really frightened.

  ‘OK. I’m going to ring for an ambulance. Lie down and try to relax.’

  I stretched out on the sofa and willed the baby to keep moving. ‘My antenatal notes are on the sideboard. You might need to give them some details.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Daniel disappeared into the hall. I started to pray.

  When he came back he looked cheerful. ‘They’ll be here in ten minutes. Now, what do you need to take?’

  ‘There’s a sports bag upstairs. I’ll come with you.’ I started to haul myself up.

  ‘No. Stay horizontal. I’ll sort it.’

  ‘There are some extra things written on a Post-it note stuck to the handle,’ I shouted after him. ‘Don’t forget my Walkman. And try not to wake Nan. I can’t cope with her as well.’

  I lay there for about ten seconds, then got up. ‘Oh, little banana, hang on,’ I whispered. I shuffled to the phone, still holding the towel between my legs, and dialled Dad’s number. Thank Christ; he was back.

  ‘Yep?’ he said with his mouth full.

  ‘Dad? Can you come over right now? I’ve got to go to hospital.’

  ‘Charlotte? Are y’awreet, love? What’s up?’

  ‘We think the baby’s coming.’

  There was a choking noise followed by coughing. ‘I thought it weren’t due till October.’

  I started to cry.

  ‘I’ll be round straight away,’ he said. ‘Damn and blast your mother.’ He hung up.

  ‘Get back on that sofa,’ hissed Daniel over the banisters.

  When the ambulance came I wanted Daniel to come with me.

  ‘No, Charlotte, that doesn’t make sense. I’ll stay till your dad arrives, then I’ll follow in the car. That way I can come and go from the hospital; otherwise my car’ll be stranded here and I’ll have no transport.’

  I started to sob even though we were standing in the road with all the curtains twitching. ‘Don’t make me go on my own. Please come. I’m so scared.’ I grabbed his hand and squeezed the fingers desperately.

  ‘Has your father got a key?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I sniffed.

  ‘Fuck it, then. Come on, let’s get this show on the road.’ And he lifted his long legs and climbed into the back of the ambulance.

  *

  ‘I’m going to strap this round your tummy so we can hear your baby’s heartbeat,’ said the Irish midwife. ‘You’ll need to lie fairly still. Do you think you’re having contractions?’

  They’d met me with a wheelchair, which was pretty freaky – did they think the baby might drop out if I walked up to the ward? – and pushed me along the shiny corridors at speed, Daniel trotting alongside. Now he was lurking at the foot of the bed. I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. Mum was on her way; he’d telephoned her from the hospital foyer, but she thought it would be about another five hours.

  I didn’t know if I was having contractions or not. ‘There’s a funny feeling low down every so often but it doesn’t hurt.’

  The nurse nodded and pointed to a slip of paper hanging out of the monitor like a long white tongue. ‘This will tell us if you’re in the early stages of labour,’ she said. There was a black wavy line drawn along the centre.

  ‘It looks like a lie detector,’ said Daniel.

  Pyow-pyow-pyow-pyow went the baby. The midwife left the room.

  ‘Your mother thought I was Paul.’ Daniel grinned.

  ‘Oh, God, what did you say?’

  ‘ “I certainly am not.” Then she decided I must be a doctor.’

  ‘It’s the posh accent. My mum’s a sucker for BBC English.’

  ‘Look, I could wheel the telephone in here, there’s one outside, if you want to speak to her. She sounded fairly frantic. She said she’d never have gone if she’d realized, but that first babies usually came late.’ He fished in his jeans pocket. ‘I’ve got about a pound in silver.’

  ‘Put it away,’ I said grimly. He didn’t ask again.

  Ten minutes later a doctor arrived to Do An Internal.

  ‘I’ll pop outside,’ said Daniel and slunk away. Poor bugger, neither fish nor flesh nor good red herring.

  ‘My name is Dr Battyani,’ said the smily gentleman in the white coat. ‘I will try not to hurt you. Now, will you put your heels down, your ankles together and let your knees fall apart.’ He poked about for a minute or so while I stared up at the air vents in the ceiling, and it did
hurt, quite a lot. ‘You are only two centimetres dilated,’ he announced, pulling the sheet back over my shame. ‘But I can see from the monitor you are having mild contractions. Although your baby is early we will not try to stop your labour because of the risk of infection. What we might do is administer a steroid injection to help your baby’s lungs cope better.’

  My heart cringed with fear. ‘Will my baby be all right?’

  ‘You are in the best place,’ he said, and left.

  The contractions started properly about half an hour later.

  ‘It hurts but it’s not too bad,’ I said to Daniel, who was reading out the Times crossword to me. ‘I have to say, so far labour’s been quite boring.’

  ‘I wouldn’t complain, if I were you,’ he muttered, chewing his biro thoughtfully. ‘Whenever I’ve seen women on TV giving birth it always looks grim. Loads of gripping onto brass bedsteads and rolling about screaming. Maybe you’ve got a high pain threshold. Now, what about “seed pod”, five letters?’

  But an hour later, when the midwife was examining me again, I was sick as a dog. Daniel melted away again as I retched into a kidney basin and moaned. ‘It’s really hurting now. Can I have something for the pain?’

  ‘Well, you’re getting there. Six centimetres.’ She pointed to the chart by the bed which showed circles of increasing diameter. The biggest one was like a fucking dinner plate. I was never going to make it to ten, that was just plain ridiculous; what the bloody hell did they think I was made of, latex?

  ‘OhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,’ I panted miserably, overtaken by a wave of agony. My God, it was wonderful when it stopped, but it was like being in the eye of the hurricane. You knew it was only a temporary respite.