Confessions of a Bad Mother (16 page)

We say hello – and goodbye – to the Incredible Lynn. Maureen
hugs Lawrence and tells us: ‘The plaster on his forehead is because he
had a little fall on the sofa.’ She gestures at the reading area. The
sofa is made of wood. ‘He’s got a little cut, but he’s fine.
Aren’t you, Lawrence?’ And indeed, he is not bothered at all.

‘Goodbye, good luck!’

‘Goodbye. Thanks for everything!’

‘Bye!’

‘Wave bye-bye, Lawrence!’

‘Bye-bye …’

We load him into the car, repack Lydia, and head south.

At the other end, Peter wants to put away his precious 1960s pedal car,
so he carries it through the house to the garden, to take to the shed. But as
he holds it over the back doorstep, he gives a cry and drops to the floor.

‘What?! What is it?!’

‘My back!’

He can’t move. I feed some aspirin into his mouth and pour water
over his face to swallow them with.

‘Ow!’ (Splash.) ‘
Ow!
’

I can do nothing but leave him lying there, with the removal men
stepping over him. Once the table’s unloaded, I attach Lawrence and Lydia
to it in their escape-proof screw-on chairs. Lawrence’s cut, much nearer
his eye than I’d realized, is looking slightly inflamed. Should I be
worried? The men finish and go away, leaving us with our boxes and Peter, like
a draught excluder, along the back door. I leave the children at the table, so
they can occupy themselves gouging out the varnish with their spoons while I
get on the phone to try and find someone to look at Peter’s back.

We ring the vendor, who is an anaesthetist. Apparently one of our new
neighbours is a physio, two doors along. What a useful street we’ve moved
into! She comes round and bends over the prostrate husband. She is cheery in
blue eye-shadow.

‘Ooh, dear! What have you done there?’

‘Nnnhhh.’

‘Stay still, keep taking the anti-inflammatries, and try not to
sit
.’

‘Not much danger of that.’

It’s one way to meet the neighbours. When she’s gone he
turns sideways and says: ‘Can you bring me a saucepan?’

‘Er, why?’

‘I need something to pee into.’

The next day, one side of Lawrence’s forehead is still red, and
looking distinctly bigger than the other. We get a call from Katarina,
who’s been looking after Mira’s children, and might be available
two days a week. She’s been to see us a couple of times at the old house,
and clearly adores kids. I have no idea how to interview people –
‘
Er, are you nice or horrible?
’ – so am hoping my
first impression, that she’s a natural, will be right. Meanwhile,
there’s a surgery within walking distance, so I get out the double buggy
and wheel the kids round. The receptionist is friendly and concerned. She
can’t have been to medical receptionist training school.

‘It’s infected,’ says the doctor. ‘I’m
going to prescribe antibiotics, I’m afraid.’

Afraid?
Ah, yes: she’s anticipating automatic middle-class
resistance.

‘No, no: please. Stuff them in.’

Great service! We haven’t even registered yet.

Back home, Peter is only just beginning to crawl. I suddenly feel less
guilty about getting some help, so ring back Katarina.

‘I can come on Friday,’ she says. ‘But only for the
morning. I have another job in the afternoon.’

‘Whatever! Anything would be great.’

Two days later, the side of Lawrence’s head is even redder, and
bigger. The doctor gazes at him steadily.

‘Ah, yes …’

‘What?’

‘The oral antibiotics don’t seem to have worked.’

‘And therefore …?’

Her hand is on the phone.

‘Paediatric Admissions, please. No, I’ll hold.’ She
suddenly hands me the phone. ‘I’ll be back in a sec. If anyone
answers, you’re holding for Dr Waitt.’

‘Er, OK …’

She returns with a piece of paper.

‘This is what he’s been taking. Just show them this when you
get there. D’you know where King’s is? A&E Department. Just
walk round. They’re expecting you.’

‘Er, OK. What he has got?’

‘Cellulitis.’

‘What’s the worst-case scenario? I promise not to
panic.’

‘When it’s in the head like this …
Meningitis.’

‘Lawrence, back in the buggy.
Now!
’

On the way up the hill, I review the events that have brought us to
this. Let’s see … I had children – probably a mistake, as I
didn’t want to look after them full-time like Proper Mothers. So I took
Lawrence to Maureen’s. And that was mainly so I could have some time to
myself, and do some work – according to research always being quoted in
the newspapers, a Bad Thing. Then, while in the care of Maureen – with
whom I had a financial arrangement, so it’s not like she was my mother or
something which would have been morally justifiable – he fell over and
got a bad cut. Now the cut is infected, his head is blowing up like a tomato,
and he might die. So clearly, this is all my fault.

The A&E Department is populated by those old, drunk men who seem to
do nothing but fall over and go to A&E Departments. The admissions staff, I
am amazed to discover, are more interested in finding Lawrence a bed than
criticizing me. He has to have a line into his hand and be given intravenous
antibiotics every four hours. My little boy! OK,
think
. I queue for the
payphone, with Lawrence all needled up like a dwarf junkie and Lydia squirming
in the buggy. She’s still here with us; Peter can barely lift a
newspaper, let alone her. How am I going to do this?

‘We’re at King’s.’

‘Oh, my God …’

‘He’s going to be all right, but—’

‘I want to go to the playroom.’

‘In a minute. He’s got to have intravenous antibiotics every
four hours and stay at least two nights.’

‘I want to go to the playroom.’

‘Can you ring Katarina? And maybe get her to meet me
here?’

‘Mum-meee!!!’

‘OK. I’ll try and—’

‘Playroom!
PLAYROOM!!!!!
’

‘In a MINUTE! I’m not raising my voice at you. And can you
ring Claire?’

I have no idea if Katarina can rise to the challenge, but Claire will
make everything all right. She has no children, is younger than me and lives in
Kent. But in a crisis, she’s the one. She came to Australia after our car
accident and brought me frozen yogurt.

We go to the playroom. Lawrence gets hold of a toy train and despite the
needle in his hand, plays delightedly. I let Lydia out of the buggy, and wait.
I don’t have nappies, extra milk or a toothbrush. And I forgot to ask
Peter about his back. I’m a bad mother
and
wife. At least Claire
can’t disown me; we’re related. Maybe in this situation I can
redeem myself, be
marvellous
. Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll
sleep on the floor – judging by the look of that ward I’m going to
have to – and not have a shower or anything, and perhaps that will make
up for it. Lawrence isn’t going to die, anyhow.
He is going to be
fine.

The children are running towards the door. Well, Lawrence is. Lydia is
shuffling.

‘Katarina! Katarina!’

She picks them up and hugs them. And she has a carrier bag in one
hand.

‘Hello! I thought you might need some nappies.’

‘!’

She takes Lydia home in the buggy, and Claire arrives. She’s
brought a book for Lawrence, and a toothbrush, flannel and soap for me. Plus
deodorant.

‘In a crisis, it always helps to smell nice.’

‘Oh, Claire …’

‘Hey, it’s all right.’

‘He’s been at Maureen’s for ages, and it’s all
been fine!’

‘Of course it has.’

‘I didn’t know he was going to fall and cut
himself.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’

I slump tearfully into a chair. Lawrence is having a great time. Because
he won’t leave the toy train, the nurse agrees to give him his meds in
the playroom. I sit him on my lap, and she unwraps the end bit of the tape
holding the line in place. Suddenly he cries. The nurse is completely unmoved.
Claire lifts up the end of the line, which is hanging out over Lawrence’s
hand, and therefore pulling on the needle.

She says: ‘Isn’t he crying because this bit should be held
up?’

‘Oh. Yes … Sorry, I’m not very good with
needles.’

I’m having a bad feeling about this. This is not like any hospital
I’ve ever been in. It’s more like a blackmarket version of one. Any
minute now, we’ll see Harry Lime with the drugs trolley. Claire continues
to hold the line up until it’s done, talking to Lawrence soothingly the
while. I tell him how fantastic he’s being, which he is.

‘Can I play now, Mummy?’

‘Yes, darling.’

Four hours later, it’s time for the next dose, but there’s
no sign of the nurse – or anyone. Eventually we find one. She prepares
the medicine and gazes vaguely at her watch.

‘What time did he have the last lot?’

‘Well, about ten past two,’ I say.

Claire says: ‘Shouldn’t she know that? Isn’t there a
chart where they’re supposed to write it down?’

Eventually, we have to put him to bed. But the ward is heaving with
children and parents, and the television is blaring. And hang on – is
that
another
television beside the bed opposite? There’s a teenage
boy lying there, not looking ill at all, and he’s not even watching it.
Two or three grown-ups are watching the main TV. It doesn’t look as
though we can get it switched off, as it’s only eight o’clock, even
if it is a children’s ward. So I start drawing the curtain round
Lawrence’s bed to at least block out some of the light, that special,
ultra-bright dazzling light that hospitals like to keep on so they can see you
while you don’t sleep. A voice calls from the desk.

‘Can you put it back, please?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You’re not allowed to draw the curtains.’

‘We’re just trying to help my child get some sleep. Why
not?’

‘We have to be able to see the girl in the bed behind him, and she
keeps fitting.’

In the narrow space between beds, as if in a Jacques Tati film, Claire
attempts to unfold the chair-bed they provide for parents. She takes that,
while I lie down next to Lawrence.

At 11 p.m., both tellies are still going, loudly, and the teenage boy is
playing cards with a girl. I’ve been to nightclubs quieter than this.

‘Can you
please
switch off the TVs?’

‘All right.’

But they don’t. Eventually, we get a few fragments of sleep before
Lawrence has to be woken anyway for the next dose. None of the nurses are like
nurses, or not like any nurses I’ve ever met. They’re more like
schoolkids doing their least favourite lesson. And there is no sign whatsoever
of a doctor. Later, I go past the desk to see a nurse sitting beside a large
tin of biscuits.

‘Could I possibly have one?’

She gestures sullenly at the tin. She has her feet on the desk.

‘Claire …’

‘Mm.’

‘Are you asleep?’

‘Yes, I always sleep with a poker game and two tellies
on.’

‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Anytime. I like an outing.’

In the morning, Lawrence bounces cheerfully off to the playroom while
Claire staggers off to find the coffee machine.

‘I can’t do another night of
that
,’ I say.

‘Does he have to actually stay in?’

A doctor appears – like normal hospitals, they do actually have
ward rounds – and I turn into Hattie Jacques.

‘We’ve had a
dreadful
night,’ I tell him,
‘with
two
televisions on, which they refused to turn off, and that
boy over there playing cards till God knows when. And they wouldn’t even
let us draw the curtains! How can you expect patients to get better like
this?’

‘Well …’ I wait for the apology, or the explanation,
or
something
. None is forthcoming. He doesn’t care.

‘Right!’ Something unusual is happening. I hear a voice
saying, ‘I’m taking him home. He doesn’t have to actually
stay here, right?’ The voice is
mine
.

‘He has to have the antibiotics every four hours.’

‘So I’ll set the alarm and bring him back. OK?’

The guy is clearly relieved to get rid of us.

Claire is impressed.

‘Ooh, well done!’

I feel weird and very slightly high, as if I’ve just been to a
foreign country and been magically able to speak the language.

Claire and I take Lawrence back at four, eight and midnight and, as he
can now move about, Peter and I do 4 a.m. His head has gone down, and is almost
back to normal. He’s sorry to leave because he misses the playroom. The
needle is finally gone, but he keeps the little plastic bracelet. I don’t
believe in telling children to be brave, but then with him I haven’t
needed to. What other amazing qualities will he reveal to us in the coming
years? I speculate about this, proudly, as I fall asleep in my own bed.

Alone with them all day, I am shattered. Katarina now comes for half a
day on a Tuesday and a Friday, but on the other days, by 3 p.m. I’m often
crashing out for seconds at a time, with the two of them crawling over me.
Trying to get them to have their nap at the same time is like trying to do
those impossible games with the little silver balls; as one goes in, the other
rolls out. And now, at two and a half, Lawrence is giving his up. I complain to
Peter: ‘Having them so close together was your idea.’

‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Really? You want to come home and do this?’

I start looking forward to Katarina’s two half-days like a POW
awaiting the Red Cross. In between we watch a lot of videos, whose volume I
keep turning down to the level where I can tune out and grab a few
minutes’ sleep. And I quickly start ‘losing’ the most
irritating ones, e.g.
Bob the Builder
and the not surprisingly less
famous
Titch
– dramatic theme: he is smaller than his siblings.
Subversive subtext: none. Some armies play music to get them in the killing
mood; well,
Titch
does it for me. I prefer
Thomas the Tank Engine
(& Friends)
, with its explosions, crashes and trains falling off
bridges.
Pingu
’s morose Scandinavian humour appeals, too, along
with the behaviour of his parents: irritable dad and anxious mum, who in one
episode go away for the weekend, leaving Pingu and the baby
alone in the
house
with nothing to eat but popcorn. We’ve got the bumper edition
which has about 500 episodes on it. But for post-modern subtext we like
Fireman Sam
, a Welsh bachelor unable to form bonds with adults who lives
in a village where two sex-starved, post-menopausal women compete for the
attentions of a dyspraxic bus driver. There’s very little action;
Excitable Italian Bella Lasagne has to set fire to her cafe every week so they
can get out the fire engine.