Bad Mothers United

by Kate Long

  ‘Thought I’d take a shower.’

  ‘Go take one, then.’

  ‘In a minute. Don’t rush me.’ With infuriating slowness he opened the fridge, extracted a bottle of Yazoo milkshake and began picking at the silver-foil cap.

  ‘Is that even yours?’

  ‘It’s Gemma’s. She won’t mind. You’re using her nail-polish remover, so you can’t say too much.’

  ‘It’s not the same. God, you’re annoying.’

  I watched him puncture the foil with his thumbnail, hold the bottle to his lips and drink. Then he stuck the bottle back in the fridge, wiped his mouth with the hem of his kimono – another nice flash of his pants – and hoisted himself up onto the unit where he sat with his bare legs dangling.

  ‘Why do I annoy you so much, Chazbo? What is it about me that squeaks your inner polystyrene?’

  Because I fancy you, you git, I thought. I fancy you beyond reason and I hate myself for it.

  ‘Well, see the state of you. At least tie your belt. What would Gemma say if she walked in? What would it look like?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘It matters to me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Walsh.’

  The machine choked and spat and juddered. Walshy picked up a jam-smeared knife that someone had left out and began to lick it. I shunted together a few dirty plates and lowered them into the sink.

  ‘So when’s Dan the Man making his next appearance?’

  I ignored him. Scummy water was backing up from the plughole, which meant the u-bend was blocked again. Possibly a wiggle with a spoon handle might do it, but more likely it would need chemicals and a blast with a plunger.

  ‘Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,’ sang Walshy.

  ‘Act useful for once and find the Mr Muscle.’

  ‘Aren’t I muscly enough for you?’

  ‘Only if you can unblock the sink with your bare hands.’

  The appeal to his manliness worked. He oozed off the counter in a slither of silk and began to roll up his sleeves. I knelt to open the cupboard where the plunger lived.

  I said, ‘Did you honestly have no idea about Gemma?’

  ‘About her being gay? Nope. Did you?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘I dunno. Girly sixth-sense or something?’

  ‘Sorry, passed me right by.’ I lifted the plates out of the way and passed him the plunger. ‘Right, you know what to do with this.’

  But he shook his head. ‘My sleeves won’t stay up. They’re too floppy. I need to take my robe off.’

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t.’

  In the drawer by the back door we kept a handful of clothes pegs. I fished out two, snapped them in Walshy’s face like miniature crocodiles. ‘Hold out your arms.’ I gathered his cuffs up concertina-style and clipped them above his elbows. ‘There. Now off to work you go.’

  ‘I bet I look a right knob.’

  ‘No change there, then.’

  While he assaulted the plughole I went and sat at the table. Suddenly a memory of bathtime Will swept over me: Will sitting behind a wobbling mountain of bubbles, shrieking and blowing foam up the tiles. What would he be up to right now? It was too early for his nap. Had Mum taken him up the shops or to the library? Was she clicking him into his toddler reins, wiggling his weeny hands into stripy mittens, persuading his boots over his socks? But it should be me! I should be doing that! For a moment I felt stricken, wanted to run out of the front door there and then and jump on the nearest train – but I breathed calmly and made myself sit.

  There was a drainsy sound like a troll clearing its throat, then some sputtering, followed by a huge burp from the plughole.

  ‘Aha,’ Walshy said.

  ‘Have you done it?’

  ‘I have.’ He peered one last time over the sink then laid the plunger on the worktop, where it began to drip filth into the cutlery tray.

  ‘Bloody hell, Walshy, watch it.’

  ‘What now? Oh.’

  I came over and pushed him out of the way. There was a bottle of Parazone somewhere in the cupboard. ‘The whole area needs bleaching now. Unless you want to contract galloping salmonella. Remind me again why we moved in with you?’

  ‘For daily glimpses of my excellent pecs, of course. And because I’m the only one here who doesn’t have a complete sparky fit if I see a spider. Because of my even temperament, my ability to knock up cocktails from limited means, my—’

  ‘Because you don’t mind if we’re late with the rent and you let us use drawing pins on the walls.’

  As I wiped bleach round the worktop and drainer I remembered the night Gemma had first mentioned him to us. ‘There’s this guy on my course with a house looking for people to share. He doesn’t mind boys or girls, but we’ve got to move quick. Are we interested?’ And Walshy had been charming at that initial meeting, shy and hesitant. A total act.

  I said, ‘You promise it won’t be a problem, you and Gemma now?’

  ‘It’s fine at this end. I can’t speak for her. Although she seemed all right last night. Honest, she did.’

  ‘As far as you could tell.’

  ‘I’m just a man, what would I know? You’ll claw it out of her, over one of your girly chats.’

  That was going to be an interesting conversation, I thought.

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘enough of my love-life. What about yours? How’s it really going with Desperate Dan? I haven’t seen him for weeks. Nothing wrong, is there?’

  Nothing wrong that wasn’t wrong before, no.

  ‘It’s fine, thanks for asking. He’s coming up this weekend.’

  ‘Ah. That’ll be nice for you.’

  ‘Yeah, it will, actually.’

  ‘Cool. Hey, fancy sharing brunch? I’ve a malt loaf and tin of fruit pie filling somewhere.’

  Walsh pulled off his clothes pegs, snapping one onto the kettle flex and the other onto the rim of Gemma’s Churchill mug.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to go see my tutor now,’ I said crisply.

  ‘Oh, deep joy. Mmmmartin. Mmmm. I heart Martin Eavis.’ He drew the shape in the air.

  ‘Take the washing out as soon as it finishes and hang it up,’ I told him. ‘And if those pegs aren’t back in the drawer when I get in, there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  I gave him the finger, and left.

  Wet playtime in primary school: what joy. Normally Leo herds the kids into the hall and contains them there, but we were having building work done and it was temporarily off-limits. Glum teachers had been forced to take their afternoon coffee and sit in classrooms to police the mayhem. Which left just me and Sylv the secretary with the staff room to ourselves.

  ‘Well, it was bound to be a shock for you,’ she was saying as she tipped sugar into her mug. ‘Lying there all dead and that. Eugh. I think I’d have fainted.’

  Not known for her finesse, isn’t Sylv. I don’t know why I always end up telling her my private business.

  I said, ‘It wasn’t the body; he just looked like a tired old man. What got me churned up was how cool the niece was. She obviously wasn’t fussed at all. And all right, yes, Mr Cottle wasn’t the most likeable person, but no one deserves to be unmourned like that. Sitting there dying with only Carol Vorderman for company.’

  ‘And his cat.’

  ‘Oh, heck – yeah, the cat. I’m so cross about that. The last thing I need right now is to be taking on an ailing pet. Pringle, he’s called. Moth-Eaten would be more like it.’

  Sylv arched her pencilled eyebrows. ‘I thought you used to have a cat? You’ve talked about a cat.’

  ‘Chalkie. That was ages ago, when I was a kid. But that was then, this is now. I haven’t the time to be homing strays. I’ve enough on, what with looking after Will.’

  ‘So drop the cat off at the vet’s, have him put to sleep. You said he’s on his last legs. Problem solved.’ When I glanced across she had her handbag mirror ou
t and was inspecting her lipstick. A hard woman. She’s our designated first-aider, but the kids don’t go near her unless they’re on the verge of collapse.

  ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘No problem. Your trouble, Karen, is you worry too much. It’s putting years on you.’

  ‘You really speak as you find, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, yeah. That’s why I’m a good friend to have.’

  ‘Right-oh.’

  On the wall above Sylv’s head a cheery poster spelled out Have a great day! in twenty-four different languages.

  I said, ‘The thing is, I’ve no choice but to worry. Seems to be one crisis after another at the moment.’

  ‘Yeah? Such as?’

  I blew out a long breath. ‘Well, for one, I think our Charlotte might be mucking about with a boy up in York.’

  ‘No. Are you sure? I thought her and Daniel were practically engaged. How long’s it been now – three years?’

  ‘Coming up to that. And they were fine, it was love’s young dream till last autumn. Now, though . . . she’s restless, I can tell. Something’s happened. I’d try and talk to her about it but she’d only go off in my face.’

  Sylv smoothed her skirt and considered. ‘Hmm. There’s probably nothing you can do about that one. I mean, she’s grown-up, she’s got her own life. You can’t make things work out between them. Either they will or they won’t; you poking about isn’t going to solve it. Anyway, you might be wrong about the York lad. They might just be flirty-friends. Loads of people have those. Haven’t you ever had a flirty-friend?’

  ‘No.’

  Why am I not surprised, said her expression. ‘OK, what’s next on the list?’

  ‘Just the usual fretting about Will, whether I’m doing a good enough job. Because Charlotte’s very particular, everything has to be her way, even though she’s not here. I do my best with him but he’s got so much energy it’s exhausting, and then at night when I should be sleeping I’m all strung out. Recently I’ve started forgetting things, and that causes extra hassle. I forgot where I’d put all those Year Four reading tests the other day, and twice I’ve left my car lights on and drained the battery. What I really want to do is to go lie in a darkened room for a month, but there isn’t time to flake out, or be ill, anything like that, because I’ve people depending on me. Even the children here, kids like Lucy Medlock and Felix Burrows who struggle in that big class of Pauline’s need my little group or they’d sink without trace. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my job but it’s like there’s never any break from the pressure. I feel like Atlas holding up the sky. And some days I can’t cope. Except I have to.’

  Through windows running with water I could see young Robbie Talbot being led across the rec by his mum, bound for one of his speech therapy sessions. The tarmac was so wet you could see his figure reflected below, sole to sole. Rain swept by in sheets. The gutters foamed.

  Sylv lowered her compact mirror and dropped it in her bag.

  ‘You know what the root of it is? You’re missing your mum still. That’s why you’re all over the place. You’re depressed. You want to get yourself to the GP and ask for some tablets.’

  ‘I’m not taking tablets.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Nothing wrong with a few happy pills to help you through a rough patch, loads of people take them. At least two members of staff here. Not that I’d name names.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask.’

  That made me wonder, though. How many of us were silently struggling, under the surface? It was like the way we covered the tatty school paintwork with cut-out caterpillars and poems and paintings of poppy fields, and then, at the end of every term, when the work was taken down, you saw the real state of the building. The chips, the flakes, the sinister cracks.

  I said, ‘I just find myself stressing over what constitutes normal grieving and what crosses the line.’

  ‘How do you mean, Karen?’

  I hesitated for a second. ‘Well, I know it’s mad but I have this really strong sense Mum’s still around. I mean I understand that she isn’t, I’m not delusional, but at the same time I can’t quite make myself believe it. I often feel like she’s in the house with me. Maybe in the next room, or on the other side of a door. I can smell her perfume. I think I’m going to hear her calling.’

  ‘Ooh. As if you’re being haunted?’

  ‘I don’t know. As if – and this does sound unbalanced – she might have something to tell me.’

  Sylv leaned forward in her seat. Now she was properly interested. ‘Like a message? There was this woman on TV a couple of nights ago who reckoned her late husband was making fruit jump out of the bowl. Apples plopping out and rolling across the floor all on their own. She didn’t know what it meant, though. And I said to Gavin, “You’d think the dead would have something better to do than shunt fruit around, it’s a bit obscure.” Have you thought about consulting a medium and asking if there are any communications for you from beyond? Your mother might have a warning for you, something along those lines. And then there are these psychic shows where the audience can shout out requests.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like that at all.’ No way was Mum being turned into a stage act.

  ‘But if she did have something she wanted to tell you?’

  ‘No, forget it. I’m being silly. I should never have said anything. It’s probably just that she’s on my mind a lot what with putting together this family history project. And because it was her house and she lived in it all her married life, she’s everywhere. I went to dig out Charlotte’s spare phone charger the other day, and I pulled open the cupboard and there’s one of Nan’s old moustaches from her Mothers’ Union plays.’

  ‘No wonder you’re upset, all those reminders.’

  ‘I know. I ought to clear out some of it. I suppose what’s really getting to me is how death leaves things unfinished – ideas go round and round my head. I think, if I could just, if I could just have ten more minutes with her . . .’

  And right there the sequence unravelled in my mind: the night I found Mum on the kitchen floor ill and rambling, and she let slip I was adopted. Not hers, she said. Not who I thought I was. My struggle over the following weeks, the appointments with counsellors and social workers. Setting out on the sly in search of my birth mother, lying to everyone about where I was going, telling my own daughter I was having a seaside break. Seaside break! The reality – cold station platforms, cold London streets, cold eyes peering out at me, a door slammed in my face. Cruel words branded across my memory. A hidden history I’d dragged up that I could never un-know, or share. And the continual battle now to blot it out, the guilt I carried round. Mum, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wish I’d left well alone.

  Sylv was staring at me.

  ‘. . . I’d tell her that I loved her, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll have known that.’

  ‘Will she, though?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. My God, Karen, is that what’s really getting to you?’

  I made myself nod. I wanted to say, What do you think the rules of the afterlife are? If Mum is still about, how much is she able to see? When you pass over, do you find out stuff that people kept hidden from you while you were on earth? Can the dead look down and see the secrets of our hearts?

  Without warning the electric bell went off above our heads, jangling at top volume and making me jump and spill my coffee. Break was over. It was time for Phonics with Year Three.

  Sylv snapped her handbag shut and stood to watch me dab my skirt with a hanky.

  ‘Listen, I can’t begin to untangle your head right now. But here’s an idea. Why don’t you come out with me and Maggie one evening? Or join Pauline’s salsa class? It’s a giggle. Let your hair down, have a night off? It’d do you the world of good. Stop you brooding so much.’

  I blinked at her. ‘Salsa?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Me doing Latin dance? Thump thump crash.’

  ‘It’s not a serious class
, it’s not competition standard or anything. Just a bunch of us having a laugh.’

  ‘Oh? OK. Sounds fun. Maybe I will.’

  I think we both knew I was lying.

  ‘The offer’s there anyway. And you know me, Karen: I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean. Think about it.’

  And with a squeak of the fire door she was gone, spiky heels tap-tapping down the lino.

  So I’m on my way back from the library, replaying my session with Martin and feeling a whole lot better about the day, when Mum rings and starts blethering on about some neighbour she reckoned I knew. I kept saying I didn’t, and even if I had I wasn’t interested. Then I catch the words ‘sitting there dead’ and ‘windmill’. I said, ‘Hang on, who’s dead? What’s going on? Is Will OK?’ and she said, ‘He’s fine, he didn’t see the body.’ So then I totally freaked because it dawned on me she’d taken him right into this man’s house, had him playing just a few feet away from a corpse. I felt sick, actually.

  ‘He didn’t touch anything, did he?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I gave him a pot frog.’ Pot frog? I mean, honestly, if that had been me saying something like that, she’d have been calling the drugs helpline.

  Eventually I got the full story out of her and it was just so bloody weird, and she was gabbling about Nan’s moustache and then a cat, and I said, ‘What cat? What are you on about, Mum?’

  And she said, ‘I’ve taken in Mr Cottle’s cat; it was homeless.’

  I said, ‘You got a pet and you didn’t think to ask me first?’

  Why? she wanted to know. What was wrong with having a cat?

  ‘Because of Will.’

  ‘He’s not a baby,’ she said. ‘It’s not going to sit on his face and smother him.’

  ‘But you should have asked me. It might not have been suitable.’

  And she went, ‘We’re not talking about a bloody tarantula, Charlotte. Get a grip.’

  And that’s when I really lost it.

  ‘DON’T go installing any more animals in the house without consulting me,’ she was yelling down the phone at me. ‘And don’t keep dragging him round to see corpses either.’

  I was that gobsmacked I just said, ‘No.’ Then the phone went dead.