The Bad Mother's Handbook (23 page)

‘Mum does cake decorating for weddings and parties,’
said Daniel dismissively. ‘She works for Relate too.’

He’d taken me out through French windows into the
lovely garden and introduced me to his father, brought us
drinks, then left us alone to have a chat.

‘So, have I set your mind at rest?’ asked Dr Gale. ‘You
don’t want to be brooding and worrying just now, especially
over something that’s perfectly normal. Try to keep
yourself calm. Calm mums-to-be make calm babies, so the
research has it.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes. You think about it. There are all sorts of
chemicals passing between you, including all the ones
your body releases when you’re under stress. In the later
stages of pregnancy it could have an effect on the foetus’s
eventual personality. And at this point, well, you’ve got a
viable baby in there now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that if you went into labour tomorrow there’d
be a good chance the baby would survive. Provided it got
immediate and proper care. It’d be a skinny little chap but
it would have all its parts, more or less.’

I laughed and stroked my bump. ‘It’s certainly pretty
active.’

‘Good.’ Dr Gale took a sip of his drink and looked out
over the lawn.

I wish I could move in here with you for the next three
months, I thought.

Dinner was grilled trout and salad and, guess what,
Mrs Gale had grown all the parsley and dill herself. I
thought of Mum’s Herb Garden two summers ago, a row
of pots along the back windowsill. Most of the herbs grew
fantastically tall and then fell over; some of them didn’t
grow at all. Nan kept putting her used teabags in the pot
nearest the drainer, which didn’t help.

‘Daniel tells me you’re hoping to read English at
university,’ said Mrs Gale pleasantly. I say pleasantly, but
really she was gritting her teeth to stay nice. I had some
sympathy. There was her precious son bringing home
some pregnant slapper who clearly didn’t know which
knife to use and, having wrecked her own life, was
hatching God knows what plan to wreck his.

‘I’d like to go to Oxford,’ I said through a mouthful of
fish.

‘We wanted Tasha to apply, but she had her head
set on Birmingham, for some reason.’ Grimace. ‘Still.
Daniel’ll probably apply to Lincoln. David went there.’
Mrs Gale nodded at her husband.

‘Smashing. Is that a nice university, then? Isn’t it very
hilly?’

Dr Gale coughed politely. ‘I think you’ve misunderstood.
I went to Lincoln
College
, Oxford.’

How we all laughed. I gave up the battle with the fish
and put my cutlery down. I’d begun to feel sick if I ate too
much at one go.

‘Gillian went to St Hilda’s. We met at a May Ball.’

‘How romantic,’ I said, meaning it. These were people
who’d got everything right, done their lives in the right
order.

‘Yes, she was with a chap I detested. Ended up punching
him in the mouth.’ He smiled at his wife and raised his
glass. ‘Marvellous days.’

‘And you were with Elise Osborne, owner of the most
irritating laugh in Oxford,’ replied Mrs Gale smartly.
‘Finished with that plate, Charlotte?’

I helped clear away and we finished with fruit, which
is also something which never makes an appearance in
our house due to it generally sitting in a bowl till it goes
mouldy and then getting thrown out. Poor Mum. She’d
love to do this: Italian bread, wine, five cheeses, grapes.
She used to try us with different foods but she’s given up
now. Nan’s preferred dish is belly pork, two disgusting
bow-shaped pieces of meat covered in a thick layer of
fat which Nan eats with her fingers; she’d have it for
breakfast, dinner and tea if Mum’d let her. Alternatives
are a nice bit of tripe, Fray Bentos steak pudding,
Greenhalgh’s whist pies or potted shrimps. Oh, and tinned
salmon. Should Mum ever be foolish enough to serve up
something mad like rice or pasta, it ends up in the bin,
untouched. How Nan got through the war I’ll never
know.

I’m a grazer and don’t like sitting down to meals. I
eat yoghurts by piercing the lid with my thumbnail and
drinking them down in the light of the fridge door. Makes
no mess, you see. You’d think Mum would be grateful for
this low-maintenance approach, but no. If I want a biscuit
I have to go through all the palaver of extracting a plate
from under a tower of cups or bowls – quite often I’ll have
scoffed the biscuit by the time I’ve got the plate down –
and then there’s the washing up and putting away again
for what would have been a twenty-second eating experience.
As if a few crumbs mattered. If she had a life, then
they wouldn’t.

So we all sat round and ate fruit nicely. And apart
from a few sly looks from elegant Mrs Gale, the meal was
great.

‘Coffee?’ she asked at the end.

‘Not for Charlotte, she’s gone off it.’

‘It’s true.’ I didn’t tell her what I’d told Daniel, though,
that I thought it tasted of piss. ‘I’ll have another grape
juice, though, if that’s OK.’

Daniel moved round to pull my chair out for me. ‘And
I’ll have some more of that wine. We’ll take it outside.’

It was still nearly as light as day but cooler out on the
patio. I breathed in the evening and felt rejuvenated.
Banana-baby rolled and wriggled inside me, making
strange shapes I could feel under my palms. The greens of
the lawn seemed to glow under the evening sky and my
eyes fixed and unfocused on a cloud of midges swaying
over the pond near the hedge. It must be so much less
stressful being this far up the social scale, to have the
space and the cash and the knowledge about the world.
I thought of Mum and wished I didn’t have to go back
home.

‘It’s a lovely garden. God, that heady scent . . . Makes
me think of Keats:
I cannot see what flowers are at my
feet
. Although presumably that wasn’t because he was
straining to see over an enormous bloated belly.’ Baby
heaved, a blackbird began singing near us and for a
moment I felt as though I was on a film set. ‘You’re so
lucky, you know.’

Daniel helped lower me onto the steps and sat down
beside me. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

‘No supposing about it.’ I wondered whether to count
his blessings for him – nuclear family, pots of money,
social poise – but decided it might be in bad taste. In the
end I said: ‘Your house is incredibly calm.’

‘Is it?’

I looked at him but he was gazing at the horizon.

‘Oh, yeah, amazingly. Well, compared with my place,
it is. So is Beirut, probably.’ The bird finished singing and
flew away, a cut-out black shape across the streaky sky.
‘Don’t you like it here?’

‘Not much.’ He rested his chin in his hand. ‘Actually
I was quite happy in Guildford.’

‘Why did you move?’

He sighed. ‘Dad got an offer he couldn’t refuse from
an old university chum. He wanted to start up a practice
with my dad as a partner. Dad said it was Fate and went
off to see, and liked the place. So we all upped sticks
and followed. If it had been one year earlier or later we
probably wouldn’t have gone, they wouldn’t have wanted
to disrupt my education, but I’d just finished GCSEs.
Conveniently.’ There was a bitter note to his voice. ‘I’d
chosen my options for Year 12 and I was looking forward
to a great year dossing with my mates – I had some, down
there. Miles and Toby. We used to have some great laughs.
And they weren’t like those geeks I sit with in the common
room; God, they’re so boring they even bore themselves.’

I moved away slightly and stared at him.

‘I had no idea you were so fed up.’

‘We email each other, but Miles has got a girlfriend
now so I don’t expect I’ll be hearing much from him for a
while. Anyway, it’s not the same.’

‘Maybe you’ll move back there,’ I said, ‘if your dad’s
job doesn’t work out.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He picked up a piece of gravel and
flicked it out over the grass. ‘You see my mum was having
an affair, so we won’t ever go back.’

I drew in my breath. ‘God.’

‘He was one of her Relate clients. She broke every rule
in the book. She’d have been chucked out pronto, but
luckily for her everyone involved decided to keep their
mouths shut. He went back to his wife. We had a family
conference about what to do, not that anyone was very
interested in what I wanted. Then this job offer came up.
Dad reckoned it was the only way to keep the family
together. But he’s still really angry, and so’s she, for
different reasons. Mad! In some ways it might have been
better if they’d split up. I don’t know. It hacks me off the
way we pretend, like this evening.’

It was shocking to see him like this. I’d not thought of
him having his own problems, he was just someone who
supported me through mine. I edged nearer again and put
my arm round his shoulders.

‘It’s the wine talking. No, it’s not the wine talking,
it’s me.’

‘Oh, Daniel.’

‘You’re the only thing that keeps me sane, I think,’ he
said, and in a swift movement turned his head and kissed
me on the mouth.

I didn’t stop to consider, it wasn’t a conscious decision,
but I pushed him away and put the back of my hand
to my lips. The sour tang of wine and guilt. He jerked
backwards and stared, then dropped his head down so I
couldn’t see his face.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Stupid—’

I couldn’t make out the rest.

‘No, I’m sorry, Daniel. I really am. Sorry.’

Behind us the French windows slid open, then we
heard the click of his mother’s heels on the patio. A chill
breeze passed over my shoulders and at the end of the
garden the leaves of the beech tree stirred suddenly.

‘Have you two finished with your glasses?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Daniel. ‘We’ve definitely finished.’

*

T
HEY PHONED ME
at work, on the last day of term. The
kids were all high as kites, clearing display boards and
turning out drawers. Year 6 were running round the building
trying to find drawing pins to prise off the walls
because Mr F had promised a Mars Bar to the child who
brought him the most.

Sylv took the message, so she was beside herself with
importance by the time I hit the office at morning break.

‘Social services have been on. They want you to make
an appointment to see a Joyce Fitton as soon as you can.
Here’s the number. Is it about your adoption?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I didn’t have the energy to lie.

‘Oh, Mr Fairbrother, Karen’s found her birth mother.’

Mr F, who had just popped his head round the door to
ask for the stapler, looked at me in surprise.

‘No,’ I corrected. ‘Sylv’s a little ahead of herself. I’ve
got an appointment with social services, that’s all. They
might have some information, then again they might not.
A lot of it’s talking, you know, assessing.’

‘Assessing what?’ asked Sylv.

‘Can I break in here and ask you to find a file on the
computer?’ said Mr F. ‘Only it’s quite urgent. See you later,
Karen.’

I backed out gratefully and went to ring from the staff
room.

I
HADN
’
T SPOKEN
to Joyce on the phone, it was another
woman who took down my name in the diary, so I didn’t
know what she’d found out. Surely, this time, she’d have
the address of my mother. The desk was a sea of papers
and there was a plastic carrot stuck on the computer next
to the gonk. It didn’t look very professional to me. Someone
had had a go at the blinds, though.

Joyce put her glasses on and opened a cardboard
folder with my name on the front.

‘I’m not able to disclose the address of your birth
mother today, Karen,’ she began.

‘Fucking hell! What do we pay our fucking taxes for?’
I felt like shouting. Fucking social workers! What do you
do all day, sit round and drink coffee? ’Cause you don’t do
any fucking work, that’s obvious.

‘What’s the delay?’ I managed.

‘Are you disappointed?’ Joyce inclined her head sympathetically.

‘I seem to have been waiting for ever.’

‘It’s hard, isn’t it. Well, what I can give you now is a
contact for your mother, someone who does know where
she is and, if you like, can act as an intermediary.’

‘Why? Doesn’t she want to be found?’

‘It’s a little complicated.’ Joyce put the file down and
leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped. ‘After
she left the mother and baby home she went to stay with
this lady, who was like a kind of foster-carer. She offered
the girls who didn’t have any support in the area a halfway
house, until they’d got themselves set up with a job and
lodgings, or decided to go back home. When your mother
left she kept in touch over the years – I don’t believe she
had anything more to do with her own family back in
Wigan. She settled in London and, er, changed her name.’

‘You mean she married?’

‘You need to speak to our contact, Mrs Beattie, Mary
Beattie. She’s expecting you to call and arrange something.’

‘Right, well. You’d better give me her address.’

Joyce handed over a sheet of paper.

‘What you can do, as I said, is use her simply as an
intermediary; you don’t have to meet your mother at all if
you don’t want to. You could just exchange letters through
Mary without giving your own address.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘I’m only telling you your options, Karen.’ Joyce
folded her hands over the closed file. ‘And obviously
I’m here if you feel you want to talk it through afterwards.’

All this bloody mystery, what a fuss over nothing. They
make a job for themselves, social workers. Still, at least I
could sort things out myself now, and we’d get on a damn
sight faster too.

‘Thanks,’ I said, standing up and putting the paper in
my handbag. ‘I’ll have to run, I’ve got a date.’

‘Good luck,’ said Joyce.