Bad Mothers United

by Kate Long

  Why does she feel she can speak to me like that? Why do I let her? Who is it looking after her child two-thirds of the year? I sat and stewed for at least an hour afterwards, TV on and no one watching.

  I heard the engine revving outside our house but I didn’t take any notice. Why would I? The curtains were drawn, Will was in bed, the day was practically over as far as I was concerned. How could I ever get myself to a salsa class feeling as drained as I did? It took me all my time to stagger to the biscuit tin and back.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  Bad news, I thought, the way I always do now Charlotte’s so far away.

  When I opened the door I nearly screamed. Right there on my step was a man in a leather jacket and a motorbike helmet with one of those scary blacked-out visors. I thought he’d come to burgle the house. We’d had a policeman round two weeks ago warning us about gangs selling counterfeit dusters.

  ‘What do you want?’ I snapped. ‘I’ve a big pit bull in the back.’

  The visor flipped open to reveal Steve’s squashed-up features. ‘Have you heck as like.’

  With a monumental effort he prised the helmet off his head and stood grinning at me. His skin was flushed and marked from the straps. Behind him, lit by a pool of streetlight, was parked a blue and green motorbike with a jumbo chrome exhaust.

  ‘Oh my God. You bloody well haven’t, have you?’

  ‘I bloody well have. Smart, int it? One hundred and fifty horses.’

  ‘And how have you managed to afford it?’

  ‘Cashed in some assets.’

  What assets did my ex-husband own? His house was full of junk, and I mean genuine tat. Flammable sofa, temperamental TV, ring-marked tables, buzzing fridge. All the taps dripped, and you had to turn the cooker on with a pair of pliers because the knob had come away. Not even a charity would have touched his stuff. ‘You’ve flogged your Linda Lusardi mug?’

  ‘I’ve sold my Escort.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  He turned and eyed the bike lovingly. ‘I did a part-exchange. The car weren’t worth a stack, but it was worth more than this. And don’t worry about our Charlie’s driving lessons. With the bit of cash I got over, I’ll pay for her to have professional ones. Be better than me confusing her. I teach it all wrong.’

  ‘But you were really suited with that car.’

  ‘I’m really suited with this Kwacker. It is a belter. You should hear the engine when it starts up. Magic. I thought you’d want to see. Shall I give you a demo?’

  ‘Only if it heralds you climbing on the thing and riding away. Preferably forever.’

  I’ll say this for Steve, he’s not easily knocked back.

  ‘OK, great, listen to this.’ He squeezed the crash helmet on again, and gave me the thumbs-up. Then he sauntered down the path and through the gate. I leaned against the door jamb with my arms folded, watching. For maybe two minutes he was twiddling keys and knobs and tweaking the handles, for all the world like someone who hadn’t a clue. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a small dark shape skulking at the edge of the lawn: that would be Pringle doing a poo. Marvellous.

  At last Steve climbed onto the Kawasaki, twisted his wrist, and the bike roared into life. He revved a couple of times experimentally. Then he was off, weaving down the road, the exhaust growling and sputtering. Ex on a death-machine. Something else for me to add to the worry-list.

  I stepped back inside, my insides wound tight as a watch-spring. Suddenly, for the moment before I pushed open the lounge door I had the strongest feeling I was going to see Mum sitting by the television, methodically unravelling the wool from an old jumper into a ball. Her face would lift, showing her soft wrinkles and her brown eyes, and she’d look right at me. My skin prickled with the certainty of it.

  What, Mum? What is it? I’d say.

  Don’t fret, Karen. It’ll come round. It allus does.

  The door swung forwards. The room was empty, the TV playing to itself.

  NAN: Eeh, you love. You little love.

  CHARLOTTE: Hasn’t he grown, Nan? His trousers are showing his ankles, and before they were hanging right down over his toes. And they’re nine-months-plus. The health visitor reckons he’s going to be really tall.

  KAREN: Pop him on the bed next to her, Charlotte.

  NAN: That’s right. Come and sit here wi’ your nan. That’s a lad. Soon be spittin’ in t’fire, eh? Who’s bonny? Who’s a little bonny brid?

  CHARLOTTE: Why does she call him that?

  KAREN: Bonny brid?

  CHARLOTTE: Yeah.

  KAREN: It’s a poem, she used to recite it at Mothers’ Union concerts. ‘Th’art welcome, little bonny brid, But shouldn’t ha come just when tha did.’

  CHARLOTTE: Charming.

  KAREN: No, it’s nice. About how times are hard but the baby’s loved anyway. I’ll look it out for you when we get home.

  NAN: He does favour Bill, dunt he?

  CHARLOTTE: (whispers) She always says that and he can’t do, can he?

  KAREN: Ssh. Mum, we’ve found this photo of a little girl with no name on it and we were wondering if you knew who it was. Can you reach across with it, Charlotte? Ta.

  NAN: Oh, that’s your dad, that is.

  KAREN: What, in a lacy dress?

  NAN: Aye. They put all babies in dresses then. My little brother Jimmy, all of ’em, all t’ lads. I think it were easier. Or cheaper, passing clothes down. Y’ad to count every penny.

  KAREN: I see. Blimey. Was it tough when you were growing up?

  NAN: Well, it were for my mother because my dad were never around. He were in and out like a cat, and then he’d turn up and Grandma Florrie’d be wanting to bolt the door against him and my mother’d be weeping and shouting for her to let him in. It wasn’t her house, see, it were Florrie’s. She never had a home of her own. And I loved my dad, he were my dad, but he led my mother a terrible dance. It was very shaming for her. And we had no money.

  KAREN: Did you go hungry, ever?

  NAN: There was allus food on t’table. I don’t know how my mother did it. But it weren’t what you eat. Nettle pop, we had, and cow heel. Tripe, that come round in a cart.’

  KAREN: Belly pork. You still like your belly pork, don’t you?

  NAN: Belly pork, aye. Prayta Pie. Once our Jimmy were messing about lobbing bricks in t’farmer’s pond an’ he killed a duck. I were for running off, but he waded in and fetched it home and my mother plucked it and put a crust on it. Oh, and charity loaves you could get, off t’church, two a week. And you’d barter, so’s if you grew goosegogs like Grandma Florrie did, she’d swap ’em for someone else’s onions. There were a lot of that went on. A bit of scrumping, on t’side. (Laughs.)

  KAREN: And how did you manage for clothes?

  NAN: My mother used to say, ‘If it weren’t for our backs and our bellies, we’d be rich.’

  KAREN: I’m thinking shoes, for instance. Kids grow out of them so quickly.

  NAN: Aye. Well, your clogs lasted forever. You could pass a pair down four or five times – just put new irons on t’soles and they’d be grand. Everybody wore ’em. And a chap used to come round every few months wi’ a cart full of clothes – second-hand, like – and we’d get fixed up off him. Sort of a mobile jumble sale. I did have a new dress for Walking Day – that would have been 1930 because I’d turned thirteen and I had a bit of a bust coming; nowt fitted. (Laughs.) But I think even then my mother just ran it up out of material from Grandma Fenton’s bedcover – that were my dad’s mother.

  KAREN: Times were tough?

  NAN: Y’ad to be inventive. There were a lot worse off. Miners out of work, begging on t’streets, squatting on t’corners. They say people are poor nowadays, but in them days . . . See, we were only childer, we didn’t feel t’worst of it. I think it wore my mother out, though, shielding us.

  KAREN: You don’t know you’re born, Charlotte.

  CHARLOTTE: Yeah, and I’m glad about that, aren’t you?

  CHAPTE
R 3

  On a day in March

  ‘There used to be this sitcom on TV,’ said Daniel as we climbed the stairs to his first-floor flat, ‘called My Wife Next Door. About this couple who’d split up only to find they’d accidentally bought adjoining semis.’

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘It was ages ago, right back in the Seventies.’

  ‘How come you’ve seen it, then?’

  ‘My dad had it on video. We used to watch it when I was little. Wishful thinking on his part, probably.’

  We stopped on the landing and he fumbled for his key. Music boomed down through the ceiling, some wailing female vocal.

  ‘And your point is?’

  The key turned, and Daniel cast a nod towards the ceiling. ‘I could probably write some kind of hilarious sequel. My Mum Upstairs.’

  It was a slightly weird set-up. When Daniel’s parents had divorced last year his dad had got rid of the family pile and invested in this three-storey Victorian terraced house, installing his ex-wife on the top floor and Daniel in the middle, plus some Ukrainians on the ground floor. Meanwhile Dr Gale himself moved into a flat across the other side of the city. The idea was sold to Daniel as rent-free student accommodation plus on-site domestic support – his mum could help with cooking, cleaning, shopping and washing, leaving Dan free to concentrate on his studies. He’d have his independence, but as a sort of, ha ha, payback he could keep half an eye on his mum. Provide her with a bit of company from time to time, make sure she was coping. Everyone a winner. Dr Gale walking away, dusting his hands and smiling. We all knew the real score, but none of us was saying.

  Daniel pushed open the door cautiously. His mother has a key; I suppose he’s never quite sure what he’s going to find on the other side.

  But the flat, when we walked in, was tidy and freshly hoovered. The cushions on the sofa were square and plumped, and the window open to air the room. Evidently Mrs G hadn’t been necking Chardonnay the whole day. Upstairs, the music rolled on in sentimental waves.

  ‘What is that?’ I asked, pointing upwards.

  ‘Rita Coolidge.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mum filched the CD off Dad before she left. It’s one of his favourites.’

  ‘Why would she do that? To annoy him? Doesn’t it upset her, listening to it?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So why doesn’t she put a sock in it?’

  Dan sighed. I know I should keep my mouth shut. The thing is, though, Mrs Gale was such a prize cow to me after Will was born. Like, I’d bring the baby round and she’d bugger off into a different room, out of the way. Once we were in the kitchen and I asked if she wanted to hold him and she actually shuddered, a big dramatic shiver. I mean, for fuck’s sake, my little baby. Then these thought bubbles started appearing over her head: Don’t forget, that child’s got nothing to do with this family. Why don’t you go and see his biological dad’s mother and foist your infant on her? Or perhaps you aren’t even sure who the father is.

  To which I could have replied: OK, first off, I DO know who the father is, and second, he was the only boy I’d ever slept with, and third, we did try and use contraception, and fourth, it wasn’t my fault he turned out to be a git. Also, Daniel’s free to choose who he goes out with – do I look as though I’ve got him in an armlock? Anyway, it was your affair ruined your marriage so you’re hardly in a position to preach to anyone. Look to your own house, Mrs G, look to your own house.

  Obviously I never said any of this out loud, which makes me some kind of saint.

  From time to time Mrs G and I did manage an ordinary civil conversation – we saw each other too much not to – but always she’d find a way to turn the topic onto Daniel’s university place, Daniel’s glittering career path. Like I was just destined for the gutter. As far as she was concerned, I was some council-estate slapper out to snare the first sap who wandered past. ‘It’s not that she’s against you personally,’ Daniel had once said. ‘She worries about me, that’s all.’ But I knew that even without Will on the scene, she’d have been anti. Essentially I was just too common.

  So, now that life had brought her down, some devil in me couldn’t resist prodding, drawing attention to the fact she was struggling. Because it’s supposed to be us young mothers who screw up our lives, isn’t it? Feckless teenage mums perpetually on the scrounge, draining the economy. We’re the root of all evil: morally corrupt, educationally impoverished, greedy, casual, selfish. Slated in the papers every day (or at least the papers Mrs G reads). Yet here, in front of me, was this doctor’s wife – smart, middle-aged, wealthy, Oxbridge-educated – threshing around in a total fuck-up because she couldn’t keep her hands to herself and the screw cap on the bottle.

  ‘Right, here you are,’ said Daniel, reaching behind the sofa for a plastic bag.

  ‘You genius. Is it purple?’

  ‘As you ordered.’

  I opened the bag and drew out the velvet jacket, unrolled it, shook it by the shoulders. The colour was rich and gorgeous.

  ‘Ooh, smart. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Twenty-five. You can give it to me later. It’s a nice jacket, no flaws in the pile that I could see. The lining’s frayed near the collar but I didn’t think that mattered.’

  I turned the jacket this way and that. The light caught the velvet in a wavy sheen down the sleeve.

  ‘Eew, though, it’s not her size.’

  ‘The measurements are exactly what you told me.’

  ‘But it’ll be too big. Wait.’ I pulled off my jumper, dropped it on the sofa, and slipped the jacket on over my shirt. It hung loose on me but it wasn’t completely enormous. ‘Hmm. Actually, I think it will be OK. If you’ve got some scissors handy, I can cut the label out.’

  ‘Sorry, no can do. My mother borrowed them last week and now she can’t remember what she did with them.’

  ‘Oh well. Have you got the photo?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He took the bag off me and rooted round. ‘Here.’

  The picture still made me smile. Mum, about fifteen, in a jacket almost the spit of this one plus a gypsy-style skirt and wedges, her hair all flicked and lacquered. With her were two girls, one plump and one skinny. The plump one was wearing a checked shirt and jeans and the skinny one was kitted out entirely in black. They were standing against a brick wall – could be the side of our coal shed – smiling self-consciously.

  I’d found the photograph stuck between the pages of one of Nan’s ancient books, The Altars of Sacrifice. Mum had screeched when I showed her, then she’d gone quiet, studying the detail for ages. I’d asked her who the other girls were and she said the thin one was Dee, her best friend who’d moved away straight after O levels, and the plump one was Donna. ‘Works for the Halifax in Exeter now, does Donna. Getting on very well, her mother says.’ And she’d pulled a strange face, half-wistful, half-jealous.

  But staring at the photo afterwards I’d felt sorry for her because once upon a time, before me, she was oblivious to the future, and hopeful. ‘I did love that jacket,’ she’d said. So I thought, her birthday’s coming up. Get Daniel down to Affleck’s Palace in Manchester, he might be able to root around the vintage clothes stalls there and dig me out a reasonable substitute. And he had. Good man.

  ‘Brilliant, you’re brilliant. Thanks,’ I said warmly. He looked surprised and pleased.

  ‘No problem. Though the leather and bondage stall right next door was a touch intimidating.’

  ‘Really? I was going to ask if you could pop in there next week and get me a new gimp mask.’

  He reached round and gave me a light smack on the bum. Then he kissed me. I kissed him back. I stroked his hair and traced his jawline with my finger while he closed his eyes. Above us Rita warbled on. We’re all alone, we’re all alone.

  I’d have gone on with the kissing, but after a few moments Daniel broke away. ‘Sorry, do you mind if we just nip up and see Mum before we go?’

  That’s the problem. Just as I
think I’m into him again, he does something to break the spell.

  So, close the bedroom door, open the wardrobe mirror and let the thirty-eighth-birthday inventory begin.

  Face: OK, no deep lines yet, no under-eye bags, jawline coming a bit loose but not horrific. None of the appalling white chin bristles my mother developed in her later years. I’ve decided I’ll shoot myself if I find I’m sprouting any of those.

  Hair: quite nice when it’s just been dyed and styled, otherwise greying at the temples and suddenly tending to wiry at the front. Keep changing shampoo, conditioner, waste of time. It goes mad in damp weather.

  Body: honestly, not great. I put on a stone in weight after Charlotte first went to York, then another last year after Mum died. I’m not fat-fat, but I’m not myself. This shape isn’t me. I hold my arms out and the loose skin underneath goes wibble wibble, makes me look like a flying squirrel. Perhaps by the time I reach forty I’ll be able to take off and soar away into the sunset.

  My legs are quite good, except no one ever gets to see them. Well, Steve does, but I mean no one who counts. There’s a funny thread vein popped up above my knee, could have done without that. It doesn’t seem to have put him off, mind.

  It is amazing what the years do, how they strip your power. When I was a teenager I could climb on a lad’s lap, wriggle a bit and straight away feel a lump rise up in his trousers. That was all I had to do to turn him on. If I plonked myself on someone’s knee these days, they’d probably just moan I was too heavy.

  Sometimes, in the long evenings after Will’s gone to bed, I watch these TV programmes where young girls fret over their appearance, confiding how they’re desperate for bigger breasts or liposuction or nose jobs, and they’re crying, a lot of them, over how disgusted they feel at their own bodies. Radiant, beautiful, glossy and firm these girls are, but they just can’t see it. And I find myself shouting at the screen, Don’t start already, love. Believe me, this is your high point!

  I stand here now in front of this wardrobe mirror in my bra, tights and knickers, jiggling my revolting bingo wings, and I wonder, Why do we women hate ourselves so much? Who was it implanted this soundtrack in my head? Not Mum, she always used to say I looked nice whatever state I was in. And Steve was never one to pick holes. In fact, he laughs when I whinge about my figure. He says women are daft to worry so much. He says boobs are the most brilliant things ever invented, and I could wear an old sack and a pair of wellies and he’d still want to go to bed with me.