Bad Mothers United (20 page)
Read Bad Mothers United Online
Authors: Kate Long
The post was waiting on the mat. Our new postie’s nice but he’s slow, likes to chat and wonder aloud about what he’s handing over. I only see him on Saturdays
because by the time he delivers I’ve usually gone to work.
I picked up the pile of letters and went into the lounge. Eric’s van was just swinging onto the Working Men’s car park for a U-turn. I waved but he didn’t see me.
One by one I dropped envelopes – a bumper crop of rubbish today – onto the table. Two special offers from catalogues, a flyer from Sky, a suggested tariff change from British Gas, a
leaflet about swimming classes, a Dear Occupier and a letter from Social Services asking if I wanted to join in this autumn’s Carers’ Events. Still I get this stuff, even though
it’s three years since I looked after my mum at home. You get onto some database and then it’s like trying to scrape chewing gum off your shoe.
The last was an envelope – pink this time rather than blue – another greetings card. The writing I knew.
My heart began to thump.
Don’t open it!
went my sensible side.
Put it straight in the bin.
But sometimes your hands don’t do what you tell them to. I put a finger
under the flap and ripped.
FROM YOR MUM IN LONDON
it said. Painting of some Venetian bridge on the front, smudgy biro print on the inside lower right corner. I vaguely thought, That’ll be useful if I have
to go to the police. Then I shook myself out of it. I wasn’t going to dignify this nasty-minded mischief by contacting the law. The best way to meet it was with a blank.
I forced the card back in its envelope, took it by its edges and ripped ripped ripped till the pieces were the size of cornflakes. Then I swept them into a cupped hand and carried them outside
to the wheeliebin. The only mum I’d had in London was a five-star bitch and I’d rather have put my own eyes out than let her anywhere near my family.
As the carriage trundled out into the light, Roz went, ‘You know, I can’t imagine being a mother. Do you think I’ll be a good one?’
‘You’ll walk it,’ I said.
Just because a lie’s well-meaning doesn’t make it any less of a lie.
Afterwards I went and stood at the bottom of the garden for a while. I was safe here, I had nothing to worry about. No one was coming for me. And say she did turn up, I’d
simply march her off the premises and then call the cops. I wasn’t frightened. Just bloody angry.
The sun was strong and I had to shade my eyes against the glare coming off the stone flags. I scanned the lawn, taking in the patches of browning moss and cat scrattings. Mum’s hydrangeas
were in full flower now, and her Michaelmas daisies, and I thought how pleased she’d have been to see them. I remembered playing in front of these bushes as a child – Dad kept a pile of
builder’s sand here for a while – and watching Mum as she bustled down the path that ran behind the rest of the houses in our row. Some errand she’d have been on, visiting an
elderly neighbour, or trimming back the verges beyond our gate. Sometimes Chalkie would be following her. In this bed by the fence were her flowering currants, now coming into fruit. I stood and
breathed in the scent of the leaves, not because it was especially nice but because it was one of those smells that took me back and calmed me, like privet and grass clippings. Lux soapflakes used
to do the same.
Bloody hell, though, what was this? Broken stems and snapped-off daisy leaves, green leaves squashed into the dark soil. I bent to examine. The damage was slight, but annoying. Pringle, that
would be, landing badly off a jump, or rolling about in the sun or pushing his way through on some catty mission. Little sod. Could he be any more of a nuisance? I’d have to stake some of
these taller plants, see if that would protect them. Maybe I’d get some citronella sticks. Beat him about the head with one.
On the other side was the wilderness of Eric’s garden, gone to weed and featuring a pile of decorating debris on the grass, broken furniture and paint-splotched rags. Well, not everyone
was a gardener, and when did he have time to bother about flowerbeds? He obviously had enough on, sorting out the interior. I wondered what had changed since I’d last been in the house, on
the day of Mr Cottle’s death. I craned to see.
Downstairs, the blinds were drawn so I couldn’t look in. But across an upstairs window I thought I saw something move. I stared for half a minute: nothing. Only the sky reflected. It must
have been the image of a bird flying past.
KAREN: What was it like when you were a girl? Did you have a happy childhood, would you say?
NAN: Aye.
KAREN: You don’t sound so sure. (Pause.) Are you tired? Shall we leave it till another day?
NAN: Aye. We used t’play piggy. I’ve shown you a piggy, hant I?
KAREN: There’s one in the box under the bed, it must be yours. Did your dad whittle it for you?
NAN: Aye.
KAREN: And a wooden top, you know, for a top and whip.
NAN: Oh, that were Jimmy’s. My dad made that. He said he’d mek me one an’ all and he did, but not for about a year after, and when it come I didn’t want
it. I swapped it for some ribbons. (Laughs.)
KAREN: He carved you a boat, didn’t he?
NAN: He made Jimmy a boat. It had a mousetrap inside it and when you pressed t’side, th’ whole thing flew apart. I wonder what happened to that.
(Pause.)
KAREN: And you sang playground rhymes?
NAN: Oh aye.
KAREN: Can you sing some now?
NAN: No. I can’t remember.
KAREN: (chanting) ‘Karen Cooper is no good, chop her up for firewood. When she’s dead, jump on her head—’
NAN: ‘And then we’ll have some currant bread.’
KAREN: See? I knew they were still there. What was that one about toffee?
NAN: Oh. ‘You’re daft, you’re potty, you’re made of treacle toffee, I like treacle toffee but I don’t like you.’ (Laughs.)
KAREN: And you knew some about Charlie Chaplin?
NAN: Aye, a few. (Chanting.) ‘Charlie Chaplin, meek and mild, swiped a sausage from a child, when the child began to cry, Charlie socked him in the eye.’
(Both women laugh.)
NAN: Eeh, I dunno.
(Pause.)
KAREN: And what else do you remember?
NAN: Cards, we used to mess about with, sometimes. Jacky Ollerton, he had a pack and we’d go in t’Labour Club back porch and play there.
KAREN: Play what?
NAN: All sorts.
KAREN: For money?
NAN: No. For a flirt of your nose.
KAREN: What do you mean?
NAN: Like a flick. Come here, lean over. Like this.
KAREN: Ow!
NAN: So if you won, you flirted t’other person’s nose.
KAREN: Flipping heck, Mum. That’s brought tears to my eyes.
NAN: Aye, it did sting. And when your nose got too sore, you’d play for a flirt o’ th’ ear.
KAREN: (Blows nose.) I can’t see there’s much fun in that. Would it not have been easier to play for something else? Matchsticks or stones?
NAN: I suppose. We didn’t, though. It was just, that was our game. That’s how we used to play.
KAREN: They must have built you tough. Crikey. (Blows nose again.)
NAN: Aye, I think they did. Hey, Karen, your eyes are really watering, did you know?
CHAPTER 7
Last day of Second Year and I was gathering up my stuff to go home. Ends of term always make me slightly sad, even though I’m on my way back to Will and ecstatic about
that. I suppose there’s an element of nostalgia – we’ve had some laughs in this house, I’ve been as happy here as I could have been. But probably the root of it’s
that I’m frightened. This time next year I’d be finished as a student, packing up for the last time. And then what? Panic, that’s what. Limbo, the hideous wideness of the
world.
Mind you, however wobbly I was feeling about the future it was nothing compared with Roz’s state of dread. I’d sat up with her till the small hours talking through how her parents
might react when she got home and told them she was pregnant. ‘Do I show?’ she’d asked, getting up and standing sideways on.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t guess, not yet.’
‘Thank God for smock tops.’ When she lifted her shirt, the top button of her jeans was undone.
‘If you buy some maternity trousers, they expand with you. They fit you when you’re slim and when you’re fat.’
She’d looked appalled at the suggestion. ‘Maybe next month, when I really start to change shape.’
She said she was going to confess to her mum first because she was the calmer of the two. ‘If I can get Mum on my side, Dad’ll come round. Then we can talk about how we’re
going to manage things at home. And I’ll tell them about you, how well
you’ve
coped.’
‘Right,’ I said, embarrassed.
‘Then I’ll break it to Gareth.’
‘I bet he’ll be fine, once he gets over the shock. He loves you, Roz.’
‘Did Will’s dad love you?’
‘You know he didn’t. Not ever. Don’t even go there because it’s just not the same.’
To get us finally to bed I’d come out with all the usual stuff, about how everything would turn out right in the end and how everyone loved babies once they were here. She’d hugged
me very tight and told me how sorted I was. I admit, it did give me a bit of a kick. ‘And when you come back next term,’ I said, ‘we’ll have a chat about birth plans and
equipment. It’ll be great. You’ll have a proper bump then, yeah? Everyone’ll be so excited for you.’
Her face had fallen about a mile.
I dropped the lid on my big suitcase and opened up my little one ready to pack all my dressing-table stuff. Daniel was picking me up at midday and it would be the first time we’d seen
each other in over a month. Never, since we’d started dating, had we spent so much time apart. We’d both been mired in exams, of course, so the gap wasn’t sinister. Or possibly
it was. He hadn’t come with me during my last visit home, but then it wasn’t fair to drag him away from his revision. The way his course works, his exams count for more than mine. And
it’s no bother for me to hop on a train once in a while.
I paused to check the room; considered the hair-crimpers. We’d all be coming back to the house next term so I could leave a few items if I wanted. The vase of peacock feathers I
wouldn’t bother with, for instance. No point carting that home only to have Mum throw a superstitious fit over it. My posters were staying up on the walls (Bette Davis in
Jezebel
,
two freaky fractal images courtesy of Daniel) along with Nan’s kitten picture, Will’s scribbles and a selection of postcards Mum had sent in my First Year featuring Views of
Industrial Lancashire. I was only taking half my CDs.
That made me think I’d like some music on, so I fired up the laptop and selected some Oasis to load. ‘Where Did It All Go Wrong?’ suited my mood this morning
.
I
wanted to be soulful and resigned. Only, when the screen loaded, I saw that Walshy must have sneaked in at some point yesterday and changed the wallpaper to a picture of himself with cartoon
goggle eyes and a speech bubble over his head saying ‘Happy Holidays!’.
‘You knob,’ I said out loud. Poking about on my hard drive: what if he’d seen something personal? I’d have to change my password again.
A movement on the landing outside my room.
‘Roz?’ I called.
‘It’s me,’ said Gemma, stepping forward.
‘Oh. How’s the packing going?’
She cast her eyes about as if she was embarrassed. ‘I’m nearly done. Hell of a job but I wanted to do a stock-take, check I wasn’t hanging on to any books that weren’t
mine . . .’
‘And? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s a bit awkward. I’ve realised I’m missing a couple of things.’
That made me sit up. What was she saying? Did she think someone in the house had been thieving?
‘What things, Gemma?’
‘Oh, some notes on Thomas Cromwell. A book on the Reformation. A Ventolin inhaler. An earring in the shape of a fish.’ She counted them off on her fingers.
‘Interesting selection.’
‘I know.’ She laughed and shuffled her feet. ‘I think they might be in Walshy’s room.’
We both cast a glance across the corridor towards his closed door. ‘It’s been months since you broke up with him, Gemma. Didn’t you notice you were missing stuff? I mean,
I’d have thought you’d need the inhaler.’
She shook her head. ‘Nah, it was only a spare. The earring I kept thinking would turn up. The book and notes, I haven’t been doing that period. I’d like it all back, though,
if I can find it.’
‘Well, go ask if you can look.’ I didn’t see what the problem was.
‘I can’t. He’s left.’
‘Ring him.’
‘I did. His phone’s switched off.’
‘Just go in, have a quick poke about, then. He won’t mind.’
Gemma looked doubtful. ‘Do you think?’
‘He’s been in here this morning fiddling with the settings on my laptop, so I wouldn’t say he’s in any position to take the moral high ground. Listen, I give you
permission to go search his room. Will that do?’
‘Can you come with me? I’ll feel creepy if I do it on my own. Mad-stalker-ex type scenario.’
Her expression was so anxious, so unlike her usual laid-back self, it made me smile. ‘Give me ten minutes to shift these magazines and I’m all yours,’ I said.
This time, I saw the card as soon as it came through the letterbox. I was combing cat hairs off my cardigan when it dropped onto the mat. My neck prickled straight away.
Don’t tell me how, I just knew there’d be a London postmark before I even picked it up. As if I’d ever want to get back in touch with that bitch.
I walked straight out through the kitchen, opened the back door and threw the card in the wheeliebin. When I came back inside I washed my hands. Silence, I knew, was the best way forward here.
Meet any communication she sent with a blank. That way I stayed in control.
Will was at the table playing innocently with a new set of Play-Doh that Maud had bought him. His cheeks were very flushed. Tooth coming through was my guess. I’d equipped him with a small
plastic knife, a toy rolling pin and a tractor for making wheel patterns.
