The Bad Mother's Handbook (31 page)

We’re nearly at the bridge.

‘Come on,’ says Jimmy, ‘only a cock-stride now.’ He pulls me
along by the hand and his eyes are shining. I want to run,
because suddenly I’ve all this energy, maybe I could just jump
the canal, but as I put my fingers on the coping stones darkness
comes up round the side of my vision and everything falls away.
And while I watch, there is a pin-point of light, tiny, getting
bigger. It’s coming towards me very fast, very fast

‘MRS HESKETH! Nancy! Can you hear us?’

You’ve to go away. It’s hurting my eyes. I’m dead.

*

I
SAT IN
that hospital corridor for hours. Might as well
have moved in, the amount of time I was spending there.
One floor up in another wing I’d sat with Charlotte while
she gave birth; now I was waiting to see whether my
mother was dying. Sorrow and joy a few hundred yards
from each other. Turn left, up the stairs and through the
double doors.

Over my head the strip light hummed. My eyes were
sore with lack of sleep. Even when I’d managed to snatch a
few hours it had all been trains again, exhausting, only this
time I’d known where I was headed; I was trying to get
back home. I would have done too if that bloody platform
hadn’t turned into Chorley market.

I kept having to blink to stop the reflections in the
night-sky window from flickering. Every time a trolley
went past it felt like the rubber wheels were trundling right
over my heart, the rattling and clanking dislodging bits of
my brain. I wondered whether Emma had been to hospital,
sat in Casualty while nurses tended broken bones and
exchanged glances over bruises.
Why
hadn’t anyone done
anything? Why hadn’t
Jessie
? Every time I tried to think
about that a gulf of incomprehension opened up in my
mind and instead I saw again her face, hard, sour, in the
crack of the door. It was fear in her eyes at the end, not
anger; she’d been afraid of me. She’d always be running
away from the past, there’d be no rest. Nor should there be.

I wondered if he’d suffered at the end, that man. I
hoped he had. I hoped he’d had terrible pain for a long
time, and then gone to hell. I could understand now these
stories of ordinary people hiring hitmen. In the face of
such evil, what else is there to do but wipe it off the face
of the earth?

You try not to think about life’s darkest things, but
sometimes they just flood into your head and you can’t
stop them. In a place like this, in this no-man’s-land of
time, you’ve no chance. Because being in a hospital
reminds you how every second sees someone off or ushers
someone in, souls squeezing in from the dark or flitting out
into it. There are supposed to be ten ghosts behind every
living person, aren’t there? And what about the ones
waiting to be conceived, baby-ghosts of the future? If they
knew what pain was waiting for them, how many would
choose not to be born? Awful images were flying into my
mind one after another. War reports on the news, Diana in
a hospice with a little bald lad, NSPCC posters, even that
mocked-up TV ad for immunizations where the tiny baby
rolls about on the edge of a cliff. Curtains closing on Dad’s
coffin. A strange sea in front of Buckingham Palace.

The hospital clock ticked on taking lives with it and the
dead queued up to be remembered. I’d been waiting for
ever. I ached to hold Emma and make it all right; she was
there, surely, just by me, I could feel her; and behind Emma
all those other children who cry at night from fear or pain
or loneliness crowded round and reached out little hands
to me until I thought I was going to scream—

‘Could I have a word?’ The doctor was a young Indian
woman, very pretty, slightly beaky nose. I looked up at her
gormlessly and struggled to my feet. My handbag dropped
down my arm onto the floor but I was too tired to bother.
We stood facing each other and I searched her expression,
trying to guess. There was a lash on her cheek and a stray
hair coming down over her forehead. I wondered if she
ever wore one of those red spots on her brow. All this in a
fraction of a second. Make eye contact, I pleaded, because
if you don’t, I’ll know it’s bad news.

*

Nan was in
a room off the main ward on her own when
we went. I wondered if that was a bad sign. She certainly
had enough wires and tubes coming out of her.

‘They won’t know what damage has been done to her
brain until she comes round,’ Mum had told me. ‘But she
might be able to hear us, they say it’s the last sense to go.
So watch what you say. She’s no teeth in so she looks a bit
grim, anyway.’

I’d forgotten she was so small. There didn’t seem to be
anything of her under the covers, and her hands resting on
top were like little turkey claws.

‘Mum?’ I whimpered, but she shushed me and patted
me forwards.

‘Let’s get his lordship installed first.’ She hoisted the
baby’s car seat onto a chair – he was sparko from the
journey – and drew one up for me. Then she sat down
herself and started unpacking all the goodies people
had sent. ‘I thought I’d tell her about them even if
she couldn’t see them, something might filter through,
and she’d be so pleased everyone was thinking about
her. Now. Mum?’ She leaned over the bed and raised her
voice. ‘Mum, Charlotte and the baby are here, they’ve
come to see you. And I’ve brought some presents and
cards. They’re all asking at church after you, your name
was read out for special prayers, apparently. The vicar
sends his love.’ She fished in a Morrison’s carrier bag.
‘I’ve all sorts in here for you, shall I put them on the
bed? No, best not, they might interfere with one of these
tubes. Anyway, Ivy’s given you some lemon-scented
tissues, they’ll be useful.’ She plonked them on the bedside
table. ‘I’ve brought a stack of
Woman’s Weeklies
from
Maud, and a cologne stick. Mrs Waters from the library’s
sent you a big bag of Mintoes, here, and Reenie’s given me
a pot of honeysuckle hand cream for you. I could put a bit
on for you now if you like.’

There was absolutely no response, it was awful, but
Mum just chattered on.

‘There’s all sorts of cards too, I’ll read them out in a
minute. Oh, there’s a bottle of Lucozade from Debbie,
and Nina from Greenhalgh’s brought round a tin of Uncle
Joe’s Mintballs . . .’

I sniggered with nerves.

‘What?’

‘Sorry. It’s the name. It always makes me laugh.’

‘What, Uncle Joe’s Mintballs?’

‘Yeah.’ I was fighting giggles; it was that or tears.

Mum smirked; I think she was on the verge too. ‘Well,
you know what they say about Uncle Joe’s Mintballs,
don’t you?’

‘No.’

Mum lowered her voice. ‘
Uncle Joe’s Mintballs keep
you all aglow, Give ’em to your granny and watch the
bugger go.
’

We stared at each other for a second and then burst
into hysterics. I laughed until my ribs hurt, we laughed so
much Mum went red and I got hiccups, then she knocked
the tin off her lap and it rolled all the way to the door,
which was hilarious, and the baby woke up and Mum
tried to pick him up but she couldn’t undo the straps
which was also incredibly funny.

And then Nan opened her eyes and said, ‘Blast id.’

*

I SCREWED my eyes up tight. If I didn’t open them happen I
could get back. I could almost feel that warm stone under my
palm still. When I’d looked down at Jimmy he’d got dandelion
seeds stuck in his fringe and I wanted to brush them out with
my fingers and feel his bonny hair again. But a wall of black had
come up between us and I knew he was gone, Bill was gone, all
of ’em. I’d missed the boat. I couldn’t stand it.

*

‘Wake up
, Nan, and give my little boy a name. We’re
waiting on you to christen him. We can’t go on calling
him Banana-baby for ever, he’ll get teased at school.’ I
chafed her small cold fingers under their tape while Mum
went to call for a nurse. My mouth was dry as I watched
her eyelids flicker and wince. ‘Nan? Nan!’ She sighed
deeply but made no other movement. If she dies now they
might think it’s my fault, I thought. ‘Come on,’ I hissed.
The baby suddenly sneezed twice and I felt Nan’s body
twitch. I put my face close to hers on the pillow and saw
the lashes flutter and a huge tear roll out and pause, then
spread into the wrinkles of her cheek. Her lips pursed and
I could see she was trying to say something. The lines
round her mouth deepened.

‘What, Nan, what?’

The breath came out of her in little pants but no
words. I dropped her hand and ran for Mum.

*

LET ME get back, I wanted to say. Give me summat, quick,
while I still remember how to get there. If I can just go to sleep
and if they’d just turn this blasted light out. I tried and tried but
I couldn’t make my mouth work.

*

‘What’s she saying?’
Mum asked me as the nurse held
Nan’s wrist, counting.

‘I couldn’t tell. Her teeth . . .’

The nurse adjusted some machines and wiggled
tubes, then unhooked the chart at the end of the bed
and made some notes. Nan snorted a little and moaned.
The nurse put down the chart and bent lower, putting her
ear to Nan’s lips, frowning. We waited. She straightened
up.

‘Apparently she’s won a holiday. For two. I’ll just
fetch the doctor.’

*

THAT wasn’t what I wanted to say at all.

*

It was baby’s
naming day and Nan’s birthday. The
nurses stood round the bed clapping while I took a photo
with one of those disposable cameras; Nan in a new bed-jacket
holding a cake on her lap. The walking frame was
just visible in the corner but to cut it out of the picture
I’d have had to chop Nan’s arm off. I told her this.

‘Might as well chop it off, all the use it is,’ was her
comment. ‘Do you know why they clap when someone
old says their age? It’s because you’re not dead yet,
that’s all.’

‘I see it hasn’t affected her speech, then,’ muttered Dad
to me.

‘No. She’s been lucky, really. If you call not being able
to walk properly or feed herself without stuff going everywhere
‘‘lucky’’. She’s getting very frustrated though, stuck
in bed. She used to be so active. How many eighty-one-year-olds do you know who can still touch their toes?’

‘Aye, well, she’s short. She dun’t have so far to bend
down.’

‘Stop it. I think she’s really depressed.’

Dad looked chastened. To be fair, he’s not good at
tragedy. He only came because Mum put the screws
on, how it might be her last birthday and she’d always
thought so much of him.

‘So how’s she going to go on when they turf her out of
here? I mean, Karen’s got her hands full with you and the
baby, never mind hauling miniature pensioners about.
What’s she going to do?’

‘It were t’ best place for her t’ ’ave a stroke,’ said Ivy
loudly, grasping Dad’s arm. She nodded at Nan. ‘I were
sayin’, it were t’ best place for you. You’ve some beautiful
flowers.’

‘Blood and bandages.’ Nan pulled a face at a vase of
red and white carnations. ‘They’re bad luck. I’ve told the
nurses but they don’t do owt.’

‘Let’s have one of you, William and me on the bed
with her,’ said Mum. ‘Steve,’ she handed him the camera,
‘if you’ll do the honours.’ Mum and I settled on the metal-framed
bed either side of Nan, with Will like a fat white
grub on her lap. ‘Ready.’

‘Right-oh. Say Hard Cheese.’

‘Eh, it’s a poor do,’ said Nan closing her eyes.

*

I
F THE TIMES
had been different I’d have felt completely
disorientated by Nan’s uncharacteristic gloominess, but
you’ve got to be realistic. It was chaos in our house, and
you can only take on board so much at a time. I was going
all out to be a Better Mother in the most trying of circumstances,
I mean the house looked like several bombs had
hit it. Nan was out of the way for the time being, true, but
I was trailing off to visit nearly every day and Charlotte
had me going up and down those stairs like a demented
yo-yo.

—Mum, Mum, my jeans still won’t do up!

—That’s because you had a baby six weeks ago. Your
figure’ll come back, give it time. Dry your eyes and we’ll
have a cup of tea.

—Mum, Mum, his stump’s fallen off!

—Well, they do. Wipe round his tummy carefully
and watch you don’t catch it when you’re changing his
nappy.

—Mum, Mum, there’s all bits in his poo!

—That’s normal. Come on now, Charlotte, stop worrying
about
every little thing
.

—Mum, Mum!
Mum!
I’ve forgotten how to bath him!

—Oh, for Christ’s sake, Charlotte, just have a go! His
head’s not going to drop off! Five minutes’ bloody peace
with the
Bolton Evening News
, that’s all I wanted.

Etc.

I can’t believe how she’s changed; she used to be so
damned independent and now she’s on my back all the
time. Secretly, though, it’s quite nice. I like being able to
tell her what to do and have her listen for once. She
hangs on every word, asks me constantly about when
she was a baby. We talk like we haven’t done for years.
When the baby blues hit she went down like a rag doll,
completely useless. He’d got jaundice, and I
told
her it
was very common and not serious but she kept yammering
on about him turning into a banana; I thought she
was going mental. Then she came out of it and two days
after we were joking about the size of her boobs. ‘Look
at this, Mum,’ she said, holding up one of her old bras
against her massive chest. ‘It’s like a fairy bra.’ We were
two double laughing. She’s doing ever so well, really.
There’ll always be rows, the habit’s too ingrained, but
I really do feel as if I’d been given a second chance with
her.

*

People think
I’m coping but I’m not.