Bad Mothers United

by Kate Long

  Of all the times, though, why pick now?

  Ring-ring went the phone, like a drill-bit through my ear, and from next door I heard Will calling.

  I jerked myself up off the bed and snapped on the light. The candle burned steadily now. ‘Grandma’s coming, hang on a minute,’ I shouted.

  ‘This had better be an emergency,’ I muttered as I ran downstairs to pick up the receiver. Hell’s teeth, if it was just Charlotte calling for a moan, I was going to give her bloody short shrift.

  KAREN: I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about what it was like, working in the mill?

  NAN: Jarrod’s?

  KAREN: Yeah. Did you like it?

  NAN: (laughs) It were better than picking coal on Pit Brow. That’s what my mother used threaten me with.

  KAREN: How old were you when you started?

  NAN: Thirteen.

  KAREN: And that was straight into full-time?

  NAN: Well, they used t’have what they called Half-timers, where you’d go part-time to work, sometimes a morning and then swap over to an afternoon. And be at school rest o’ t’day. That were when you were twelve. But they finished wi’ that a few year before.

  KAREN: You didn’t enjoy school, did you?

  NAN: That were our Jimmy – I didn’t mind it much. Except for t’stick. They gave you t’stick for being late, for not knowing your lessons, for nowt, really. Our teacher, Miss Hartly, once asked the girls what you needed to check before shaking your duster out the window, and I said, ‘Whether the neighbours are watching to see how dirty your house is.’ Ooh, she were that cross with me. She thought as I were cheeking her, see.

  KAREN: What should you have said?

  NAN: Check which way t’wind’s blowing. That were th’ answer she were after. So I got t’stick for it. And she beat a lad who said th’ equator were ‘an imaginary lion running round the earth’.

  KAREN: Oh dear.

  NAN: Six strokes across his palm for that. They weren’t nice with you, teachers. Not like they are today. Not like you are.

  KAREN: So what did you do in the mill?

  NAN: When I first started, I had to clean under four looms.

  KAREN: While they were running?

  NAN: No. Early on, i’ t’morning, while they were quiet. And then I got put wi’ a woman as taught me how to piece ends, that’s tie the broken threads together, and that were called tenting. But you had to learn quick or you were in trouble. Later on, they taught me to weave in designs: you had these cards with a duck on or a lamb, only if you didn’t place your card in t’right place you ended up with a duck’s head on one towel and its body on another (laughs).

  KAREN: And you liked the other women? You went on trips together?

  NAN: We’d hire a charabanc.

  KAREN: We’ve a photo of that. Whistling Rufus, it was called.

  NAN: That’s right. Twice we went to Southport. Lytham, we went to. Keighley.

  KAREN: So you enjoyed working at the mill?

  NAN: Aye, they were good times. But then again, you had to like it. You’d no choice, there were nowt else for you.

  CHAPTER 5

  On a day in May

  10 a.m., Student-land. We were in the lounge, watching TV and eating our various breakfasts – yoghurt for Gemma, vintage pizza for Walshy, crispbread for Roz and a bowl of Lucky Charms for me – when Tony Blair came on the screen. He was grinning like the Joker out of Batman.

  ‘God, what’s he done now?’ said Gemma.

  The cameras cut to Cherie Blair holding a white bundle fondly in her arms.

  ‘Dropped a sprog, by the look of it,’ said Walshy.

  ‘Whoa, that’s some achievement. How old is she, about fifty?’

  ‘Forty-five. So, ancient, basically. Respect.’

  ‘Well, she can sod off!’ Roz blurted out, throwing her plate down on the settee and unleashing about a million crumbs. We stared as she flung herself towards the door, wrenched it open and slammed it hard behind her.

  I said, ‘Ooh. I didn’t have her down as a Tory.’

  ‘She isn’t,’ said Gemma. ‘Her family’s Labour, very strong. Also Methodists and teetotal.’

  ‘Which explains her moderate approach to alcohol,’ said Walshy.

  Not ten hours before, we’d heard her slouch in from the pub and start retching down the toilet. Another top night out.

  I took her plate and knelt to round up the worst of the crumbs. ‘She tries to keep up with Gareth. That’s where she goes wrong.’

  ‘Well. Someone had better see if she’s all right,’ said Gemma, never taking her eyes off the screen. The TV now was showing tanks and soldiers and broken buildings, could have been anywhere in the world.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said.

  Walshy pushed the last of the pizza into his mouth. ‘No, I will.’

  ‘Probably best if you don’t?’

  He frowned.

  ‘I’d go myself,’ said Gemma, ‘only, not the way she is with me at the moment. If I cornered her in her room, God knows what conclusions she’d leap to. I don’t want to add to the hysteria.’

  There was no answer when I knocked on Roz’s door, but she didn’t tell me positively to go away so I turned the handle and went in. I saw straight away that her fur-fabric cushions had been thrown on the floor and her pink bedspread pummelled into a heap on the carpet. Geology books were scattered widely, as if they’d been kicked. Roz herself was standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, staring at her full-length reflection.

  ‘You OK?’

  She shook her head miserably.

  I said, ‘Are you worrying about your weight again? Because you’re not fat, honest. You’ve got a lovely figure. Proper curves.’ I made an hourglass shape with my hands.

  At once she began to cry. ‘Oh, Chaz.’

  ‘What? What is it?’ The naked distress on her face made me feel frightened. ‘Is it Gareth?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it – is it Walshy?’

  ‘No!’ The syllable came out like a howl. She covered her face with her hands and sat down on the bed.

  ‘Because he’s a daft flirt and you mustn’t take him seriously. He’s only attention-seeking.’

  ‘It’s NOT Walshy!’

  ‘What, then? Are you ill or something?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  This was getting us nowhere. ‘Shall I go away and leave you alone, then?’

  ‘Oh, I’m bloody well pregnant, aren’t I?’

  My gaze slid down to her stomach. She didn’t look pregnant. There was a bit of a belly, true, but she’d always had that. ‘Are you sure? Have you done a test? ’Cos you can be really late sometimes and still be OK.’

  ‘Of course I’ve done a fucking test. I’m not stupid.’ I must have winced because she apologised at once. ‘Shit. That was out of order, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s just so awful.’

  ‘How far on are you?’

  ‘Don’t know. Six weeks?’

  ‘Have you told Gareth?’

  Roz shook her head. ‘Haven’t dared. He’ll go mental. He’s always slagging off girls who get pregnant by accident. He says either it’s deliberate, or they’re too stupid to be allowed to have sex in the first place.’ A quick glance up and down at me. ‘No offence.’

  ‘What about your mum and dad?’

  Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. ‘Are you kidding? They’d kill me. My mum would literally die of shame. She wouldn’t be able to go to church or anything. She’d have to hide in the house – no, they’d have to move.’

  ‘Or what? The morality police’ll come round and haul them off to jail? You’re talking like it’s the 1960s. Look, if you really are pregnant and you go to them for help, they might surprise you. My mum was upset at first. Boy, was she upset. But she came round. Eventually.’

  ‘You don’t get it, Chaz. It’s completely different. My parents have got really high standards.’

  Ouch a
gain.

  ‘I don’t mean your mum and dad are scum or anything,’ she went on. ‘It’s just, they were so proud of me studying for a degree. Now I’ve messed it up. All my A levels, it was for nothing.’

  I plonked myself onto the bed next to her. ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘You think? Oh, Chaz. You’re the first person I’ve told. I’ve been dying to talk to you because you’ve been through it, you know what it’s like. What was it like? Was it hell? How did you cope?’

  How did I cope? There was a question. Pretty damn badly, as I recall. First off, I tried simply to ignore the possibility I might be pregnant. Believed I could stop biology by the pure power of denial. Then, when Daniel persuaded me to take a test, I blamed him for the positive result even though he wasn’t actually my boyfriend at the time. Went round to see Paul, the baby’s father, and got told to fuck off. Finally Mum spotted my bump and we had the row to end all rows. If it hadn’t been for Nan and Daniel I might have had a trip to Piccadilly and chucked myself under a tram.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t easy,’ I said.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ Roz looked fearful.

  ‘I mean, the pregnancy itself was tricky – people weren’t always that great with me. But the point is, once the baby’s born, that turns a lot of stuff around. There’s no arguing; the baby’s there, you’re its mum, everyone has to get on with it.’

  ‘I don’t want to be “turned around”! I like things the way they are. God, how did I get into this state? It’s so unfair. I’m on the pill.’

  ‘Perhaps you were sick one time.’

  Roz shifted awkwardly. Yup, I thought. That’ll be it. She said, ‘Was it that with you? The pill going wrong?’

  ‘No. A condom came off.’

  ‘How totally bloody awful.’

  ‘It was.’

  A sudden wave of sorrow for my past self washed over me. Seventeen, I was, when I’d got caught: humiliated, terrified, alone. And to think of Roz going through the same kind of experiences made me fiery with protectiveness. I wanted to reach up now and smooth the furrows from between her brows, kiss and shush her the way I did with Will when he was upset.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’ll help you as much as I can, but you have to start the ball rolling. So here’s what you do. You go see the doctor and get the pregnancy confirmed, see how many weeks along you are. Then, assuming it really is positive, you go ask about advice and counselling at Student Services.’

  ‘I can’t. If people see me there—’

  ‘Then phone up. Or I’ll phone. Or I’ll go along with you and sit in the waiting room.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘We girls have to stick together.’

  ‘Promise you won’t say anything to the others?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Not even if they ask you straight out?’

  ‘I don’t see why they would, but no. Not a word.’

  She took hold of my hand and gripped it hard. ‘Thank you, thank you, Chaz. Thank you.’

  ‘No probs. And later on you can have a chat with your tutors, ask about a sabbatical, maybe.’

  Her face was strained with hope. ‘It will turn out all right in the end, won’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I lied. ‘Course it will. In the end. You’ll be fine.’

  I did tell her not to come home specially. I said, ‘I’ll be all right, Charlotte, you mustn’t interrupt your studies.’ I didn’t expect her to go, ‘Oh, OK.’

  Then again, it was always going to be difficult, whoever was in the house with me. Perhaps if it had been a weekday it would have been better, but the first anniversary of Mum’s death fell on a Saturday, when there was nothing to hide behind. So I decided to go with it and just devote the time to her.

  As soon as we were breakfasted and dressed, I settled my grandson on the rug with some paper and crayons while I spread out my family history project on the dining-table to begin working on Jimmy’s page. Three photographs I had – one of him as a baby in his lacy christening dress, a formal one of him suited and booted with Mum and Polly, and the fountain picture Ivy had passed on. And it struck me how strange it was that people in the past seemed to keep hardly anything to remember their children by. Our Will wasn’t three yet, but we had a drawer stuffed full of mementoes. Charlotte had taken plaster imprints of his hands, plus we had his hospital bracelet, his first baby blanket and socks and sleepsuit, and even the plastic clip that had clamped his umbilical cord. Virtually every scribble he committed to paper, every nursery daub was dated and stored in shoe boxes. I reckoned we must already have taken about a thousand photos of him, easy. This documented generation.

  ‘Well, we won’t forget Great-Uncle Jimmy,’ I said out loud.

  Across the room, Will dropped his crayon and looked up.

  ‘How you getting on, love? Have you done me a nice drawing?’

  He sat back to admire the red and black spirals he’d scored in the paper. It was like a migraine in art form. ‘Farm,’ he said.

  ‘I see. Where are all the animals?’

  Will thought for a moment, then stabbed the crayon’s point into the centre of the paper several times. ‘Chickens.’

  ‘A chicken farm.’

  He nodded. There was a smear of baked bean across his cheek that I’d somehow missed when I was dressing him, and more bean-smears at the margin of his drawing. That probably meant orange fingerprints all round the house. I’d have to go round later, checking.

  Then I thought, Actually, wouldn’t it be nice if I decorated Jimmy’s page with toddler hand prints, as a way of linking the past and the present, a sort of meeting between the two of them? They might not have the same genes but they were family. I could get Will to finger-paint on a separate sheet, then cut round the best results and stick them in, alongside the photos.

  I opened my mouth to ask if he’d like to get the paints out later, but stopped, because of the way he was staring at the armchair in front of him. His gaze was fixed, as if he could see something I couldn’t. For once his body was perfectly still.

  I moved to one side so I was looking at the chair from more or less the same angle. There was nothing unusual about it, no inexplicable dents in the cushions or against the head rest. Only a rash of cat-plucking in the material down the arm, and a Duplo figure wedged into the corner crack along with God knew what else. ‘What is it, Will?’

  He flicked his eyes to me and took a sharp breath. I thought he was going to tell me something, but instead he did a massive sneeze. ‘Bless you,’ he said, wincing.

  ‘Do you need Grandma’s hanky?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was on the chair?’

  ‘Got cows on my farm,’ he said, picking up the purple crayon and squinting at his picture critically.

  I sat and watched the armchair for another minute while Will added half a dozen thick dark lines across the middle of his swirl. Nothing else moved in the room, not the tremble of a curtain, not the slightest sway of a lampshade. Over the sideboard, Dad’s tenor horn hung on the wall, next to the barometer he and Mum had received as a wedding present off Bank Top Brass Band. If I opened the door to the hall her mohair scarf would be hanging up yet, smelling of Coty L’Aimant.

  This time last year it had been an ordinary Friday over half-term. I’d popped into Mayfield nursing home on my way back from shopping with a car boot full of frozen food – Lord knows why I did it that way round – so I hadn’t stayed long, but it was all right as we were coming up to dinnertime and also Mum was pretty sleepy. The nurses had dressed her, but she’d said she felt tired and got back into bed. I’d sat by the footboard and told her about Charlotte’s last text, and Will calling a frog a fish, while she lay with her eyes closed. She was lucid enough, asked if I was going to the hairdresser’s and what was I having for tea. The Golden Labrador they keep at the home wandered in and let me stroke its back for a minute. Mum said, ‘He’s called Bertie,’ and I said, ‘I know. Bertie and I have been friends for a while now.’ At one
point she complained she was thirsty, so I moved up the bed and put my arm round her shoulders to help her sit up. I let her have a few sips of water out of a lidded beaker, and then before she lay back down I gave her a hug. I’m really glad now I did that. I could so easily not have done. She said, ‘Stranger on the shore,’ which meant nothing at the time. Afterwards I wondered if it was my dad she could see.

  I’d not been home above an hour when the Matron rang. ‘It was over in seconds,’ she said. They’d brought Mum through for her dinner, were actually serving up, when she just slumped forward. A nurse came running, but there was no pulse. ‘Did she cry out? Did she say anything?’ I’d asked. ‘She never made a peep,’ said Matron. You have to be grateful for small things. Weeks later, when I popped back to fill in some forms, one of the other residents told me the confusion had proved too much for Bertie and he’d jumped up and stolen Mum’s sausage off her plate. I know she’d have liked that.

  ‘Finished,’ said Will, giving his paper a final stab. He pushed it across the rug, then rolled back on his heels into a sitting position and straightened his short legs out in front of him. Once again his eyes wandered to the armchair.

  ‘Is there somebody in the chair?’

  He shook his head. ‘Kit Kat?’

  Of course there wasn’t anyone there.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘But first we’re going to do some finger painting.’

  I left Roz mopping her face and went and sat in my own room with the radio on. I like noise. Noise is my friend.

  I thought, If only I could have reached back in time and taken my own hand, the way I’d taken Roz’s. Why didn’t I get support, advice? Before, more than after. No wonder I ended up in trouble, there was no one to ask. The girls at school I’d assumed would either mock my ignorance, or put me down as a slag. And Mum was always so touchy – about everything, but especially sex. She was always so determined I wasn’t going to repeat her Big Mistake. She’d fallen pregnant before she was ready and she was damned if I was going the same way. But you know what? Sex education requires a touch more than just barking Don’t do it! at your teenager. What I’d needed was to be able to confide in her, to know that she wasn’t going to have a blue fit if I mentioned the subject. If I could have gone to her and said, ‘This is the situation: my boyfriend Paul, who you didn’t even know about, wants to go all the way and I’m feeling pressured. Is virginity such a big deal? How many times can you keep saying no? Are condoms really safe?’