Bad Mothers United (13 page)
Read Bad Mothers United Online
Authors: Kate Long
Once Will was safely in bed I brought the photos upstairs and laid them out on my duvet. Next I took my notepad and began to write up everything Ivy had told me.
I wrote about working in the cotton mills and Walking Day parades, about cats mobbing the fish cart and children begging ropes off the greengrocer so they could swing from lamp-posts. I wrote
about scarlet fever and whooping cough, and about waking to the sound of clogs on cobbles and how in winter kids would pack the iron soles into platforms with snow and totter about. A whole other
Bank Top my mother had lived in, and yet here it was, still just within reach as long as I took the time to search it out, to record and set it all down. Otherwise it would vanish, for good. More
than ever I felt I had a mission. These pictures laid across my duvet, there were places and stories here that shouldn’t be forgotten. And people, of course. I picked up the photo of the
drinking fountain again, imagined young Jimmy trotting across the graveyard with his saucepan full of tadpoles, his round face bright with mischief. All those summers they thought he had in front
of him.
A sudden chill came over me, and the urge to check on my grandson.
I’d only put him to bed half an hour before so it was a risky strategy even to open his door two inches. There was every chance he’d hear me and immediately ping awake, and then
I’d never get him to lie back down quietly. Not this coming night, not for weeks after. It’s the finest of sciences, toddlers’ bedtime.
This evening, though, I was in luck. By some miracle he’d gone straight off and his eyes were shut, his chest rising and falling evenly. I pushed the door aside gently, then tiptoed across
and bent over him, holding up his lamp to check his skin wasn’t flushed or his forehead sweaty. The nights I’d sneaked in here to sit in the gloom after Charlotte left, because the
weight of responsibility felt too heavy for me to sleep. A grandmother’s watch. My penance for wishing at the start that he’d never been conceived.
There’d been no mixed feelings with Mum, of course. She’d welcomed Will with nothing but joy. He’d been the light of her life. Later, on days no one else could get through the
fuddle of her dementia, she’d a smile for the baby, always. Despite the losses she’d suffered in her life, she never held back on love.
I wondered whether she was here now, watching over the nursery invisibly. There had been a couple of occasions, just after we moved her into Mayfield, she’d been home for a visit and
we’d managed to haul her up the stairs. Then she’d sat by the cot like a queen on a throne, beaming.
‘Mum?’ I whispered. There followed a long silence where I traced the outline of his alphabet frieze with my eyes,
Annie Apple
through to
Zig Zag Zebra
, and then
Will let out a deep sigh that ended with a whimper. Was he having a bad dream? Again I moved in to check, but already his limbs were relaxing, his breathing steadied. I pictured Mum’s hand on
his brow, comforting.
Years ago I’d seen a TV programme where a psychic had lit a candle in a haunted house and invited a spirit to blow it out. No idea whether it actually worked, because Mum chose that moment
to mention she’d found mouse dirt under the sink, and Charlotte had gone into a five-star panic and insisted we put traps down there and then. Six wood mice we killed that winter. Every damn
box of cereal was chewed to buggery.
I could almost hear Mum chuckling.
Well, see, your Pringle would sort that if it happened now. That would be your reward for tekkin’ him in.
There were tea lights in Charlotte’s bedroom, and matches in the kitchen.
I stepped away from the bed. Will slept on.
Who else was there to phone when I was down, but Daniel? That’s what he was there for.
‘Sorry, it’s pretty noisy in here,’ he said when he picked up. ‘You’re going to have to shout.’
Shout? He could sod off, I wasn’t shouting. No way was I going to bare my soul at top volume for everyone else in the house to hear. ‘Where are you?’
‘Pub.’
‘A pub?’
‘It’s a building where they serve alcohol to the general public.’
‘All right, clever-dick. I meant, what are you doing at the pub?’
I knew I was being unreasonable – for God’s sake, he was a student, obviously he could go down the pub if he wanted. It’s just that right at this minute I wanted him to be
home at his flat, in the quiet, so he could give me his full attention. I needed to know we were OK.
‘I’m with the planning group. You know, this
Twenty-First Century Rocks
thing.’
‘Oh. The charity event?’
‘Yup.’
‘With Amelia.’
‘Amelia’s part of it. There are actually about fifteen of us here—’ The receiver became muffled for a moment. ‘
He’s not, is he? The whole lot at
once?
’
‘Daniel—’
A roar in the background.
‘Is something up, Charlotte? I’m sorry I didn’t ring earlier, only as I said, I was in this meeting. Hang on, tell you what, I’ll go outside—’ Ragged
cheering and a thumping noise as if something had fallen over. ‘
Jesus. Mainly over Rob, I think. Ask at the bar for a cloth
.’
For God’s sake, I wanted to shout. I’m your girlfriend! Bloody pay attention. I need a bit of reassurance, not evidence of you enjoying yourself without me.
I caught a woman’s voice, posh and slightly strident. I couldn’t tell what she said but the intonation sounded like a question. ‘
No, it’s fine
,’ Daniel
replied.
Is it, now? I thought.
Ten seconds later he was back with me. ‘Everything OK?’
I should have said no. Straight away I should have nailed the conversation, come right out with the fact that tonight I was low and lonely and there was a freaky atmosphere in the house that
made me want to pack my bags and jump on the first train back to Bank Top. But I didn’t. I did that stupid stupid thing of lying and then hoping he’d guess. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘You sound a bit cheesed off.’
My second chance. ‘No, I’m good. Just a bit bored.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. I just called to chat. Don’t turn it into a big deal.’ And there was the hat-trick.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Great. Listen, I nearly called you earlier: did you hear that amazing story about the guy in Belgium with the pillars of ham? We were all just talking about
it.’
‘Pillows of ham?’
‘Pillars.’
‘Of ham? Like you’d put in a sandwich?’
‘Yup, ordinary ham. He’s wrapped these slices of meat, about eight thousand of them, round some columns on the university building and covered them in plastic and now he’s
waiting for the flies to come and turn his sculpture alive.’
‘Why?’
‘To contrast the permanence of science and knowledge – the university – with the fact that bodies rot, he says.’
‘Sounds yuk.’
‘It does, but at the same time it gets the philosophical point across. And I rather like the idea of public decay.’
‘Bobbins.’
‘No, people need to appreciate what is a really fascinating and vital natural process. Nature’s waste-disposal. Amazing.’
‘Wait till the vermin come. It won’t look too philosophical when he’s knocking rats away with a broom-end.’ From where I sat I could see myself reflected in the window.
I was pale without my make-up, and my hair needed a wash. ‘What a tosser.’
Daniel said, ‘Why are you always so dismissive, Charlotte?’
‘I’m not. It’s just, this weirdness. Why do you always go on about stuff that doesn’t matter? I mean, bloody ham.’ And I thought about Mum once telling me how she
and Dad were never interested in the same things, and that was one of the reasons the marriage failed.
I heard him clear his throat. There was still a lot of background noise, faint music, laughter. Any minute now he would apologise. Perhaps he’d end the call and go straight back to the
flat, ring from there. I waited.
The girl’s voice came again, this time clearer; she must be standing closer. She was telling him she’d brought his drink through before someone had it.
‘
Thanks
,’ he said. ‘
Cheers
.’
‘Daniel?’
‘Look, you want to tell me something but you won’t say what, or you want me to come out with a particular line and I’ve to guess—’
‘No—’
‘But it’s obviously not the right time for this conversation. It’s too busy here and I can’t –
Yeah, I’m coming, one minute
– and I’m
in the middle of a meeting and I don’t know how long we’re going on for here. It’s better if I ring you first thing tomorrow, yeah? Then we can have a proper talk. OK? Chin up,
Charlotte. We’ll thresh it out, whatever it is. Love you.’
And he hung up. I couldn’t believe it.
I was always the one who hung up first.
I found a better candle, a scented job in a glass jar that one of the kids at school had bought me.
Alpine Fields
read the label. I took it into Charlotte’s room
because that had been Mum’s, before Mayfield.
I struck a match and held it for a moment till the flare died down. Then I put it to the wick and placed the candle on the dressing-table, where its reflection wobbled in the mirror. I turned
the lights out and went to sit on the bed.
It wasn’t right to speak out loud, I decided, so I just asked Mum in my head if she’d come. For a minute or so I focused on the brightness of the flame, studying every slight
movement. The shape of it varied, sometimes fat and sometimes stretched-up and thin, with a thread of black smoke coming from the tip. It stayed pretty upright, though.
I found myself thinking of the times I’d helped her make this bed, and how she liked to sing to housework even though her voice was awful, quavery and off-tune. ‘Come Down, O Love
Divine’ was a favourite.
O comforter, draw near, within my heart appear
.
On Mondays, which was washing day, her fingers would stay reddened till teatime; on Wednesdays, which was Downstairs, they’d be marked with Duraglit. If I concentrated now, I could smell
it over the top of Alpine Fields.
True lowliness of heart, which takes the humbler part
And o’er its own shortcomings weeps with loathing.
The flame began to quiver, then bend.
‘Mum?’
Immediately it swayed upright again, then set up a juddering vertical motion. The shadows on the walls jigged in sympathy, disorientating me.
‘Mum, are you there? I need to tell you something. I need to say I’m sorry for looking elsewhere. Do you understand?’
Some tiny reassurance, that was all I needed.
For maybe ten minutes afterwards I paced the room, sweeping stuff off my desk into the bin, kicking furniture that got in the way. Why hadn’t I been able to tell him
what was wrong? Why hadn’t he tried harder to guess? And what the fuck was this Amelia up to? I was desperate to call him back, but I knew how weak that would make me look. My head felt
like it was going to burst apart.
I said, ‘I never wanted another mother. You were my mum, always. Going to London was a mistake. I’m glad you adopted me. And I wish I’d said that to you, I
wish we’d talked about the adoption instead of pretending it never happened. Do you understand? Can you hear me? Is there something you want to say to me?’
The flame wobbled, as if under a breath. Darkness closed in from the sides of my vision and a sense of calm crept over me.
So in the end I phoned Mum. That’s how upset I was.
Then the phone went.
I tried to ignore it. I let it ring for ages, willing it to stop, till it dawned on me that no normal person keeps trying for that long. This was someone with a point to make. Or a crisis, some
news I had to deal with straight away. God.
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.
