The Bad Mother's Handbook (19 page)

By the Cock Inn I turned right and started down the
public footpath to Ambley, past the golf course and
Hayfield House behind its screen of trees. I didn’t know
where I was going, didn’t care. Rooks cawed overhead
and sparrows flirted in the dust on the rutted track. Elderflower
and dog roses were still thick among the hedgerows;
you could smell the fertility in the warm air.

I turned off the track, scrambled down the canal bank
and began to make my way along the towpath. A barge
chugged past, castles and roses round the door, Jack
Russell perched on the roof. The middle-aged woman
steering smiled and nodded. Now there was an idea; I
could always go and live on a boat, sail off up the Manchester
Ship Canal and start a new life. A blackbird ran
across my path chuck-chucking, and the baby fluttered.
You daft tart, I told myself. That’s exactly why you’re in
this mess now, starting a New Life.

As I drew level with the Fly and Tackle I realized I was
thirsty. I fished in my pocket to see if I had any money and
extracted
£
3.30 in loose change. I climbed up the worn
stone steps onto road level, checked for traffic and crossed
over.

After the brightness outside, the interior of the pub
was dark and I had to blink a few times before I could
get my bearings. I’d passed the place enough times on the
bus, but I’d not been in before; it was a bit of an old
gimmers’ place, popular for Sunday lunches and real ale.
Squinting, I made out movement behind the bar. A fat
bald man was drying glasses and singing ‘Born in the
USA’ over the jukebox. There were sweat stains under
the armpits of his shirt.

‘Have you got a telephone?’ I asked, hovering by the
door.

He pointed to an annexe by the ladies’ and carried on
being Bruce.

Inside the booth I checked my watch and dialled
Daniel’s mobile number. ‘Please have it switched on,’ I
prayed. There was a click.

‘
Hell
-o.’

‘Daniel! It’s me! Hey! – What’s that moaning sound?’

‘Hey. Just a minute, I’ll move somewhere a bit quieter.
That’s better. They’re doing some sort of charity karaoke
at one end of the common room. Just what you need
after a hard morning’s physics, some boil-ridden Year 10
apeing Noel Gallagher at top volume. Are you all right?
I saw you weren’t in registration this morning—’

‘Yeah, I’m fine, just not feeling very schooly today.
Look, have you got any frees this afternoon?’

‘Surely you mean
Study Periods
? Actually I have one
genuine, and one by default because Mr Chisnall’s away
at a conference so he’s set us work to do in the library.
I do hope you’re not going to suggest bunking off.’

‘Too right I am. Can you get away at all?’

‘What, now?’

‘Yes, please. It’s a bit of a crisis. Another one. Sorry.’

‘No problem, I’m on my way. Are you at home?’

‘God, no. Do you know the Fly and Tackle?’

‘At Ambley? We went there two Sundays ago for my
mum’s birthday. Nice line in pies, dire jukebox. OK, I’ll
be with you in . . . twenty minutes. Don’t do anything
foolish.’

He rang off. I got two halves of cider and went outside
to wait.

I sat at one of the wooden tables and watched the
glinting cars hunching over the little stone bridge, and
the water sliding under it. The banks were lush and the
trees bent low with green fruits. Two swans glided past
sending a V of ripples behind them that broke the reflection
of a perfect sky. If only I’d had a camera. The scene
was idyllic, something like the picture on the front of
Nan’s old toffee tin she uses for storing buttons. I’d come
back here, I promised myself, and take a picture of this
place; maybe even do a painting, and give it to Nan. She’d
like that.

At last Daniel’s shiny red Ka, last term’s present for
passing his driving test, bobbed over the bridge and disappeared
into the car park. Thirty seconds later he
emerged through the back door into the beer garden,
blinking. If only he’d do something about his hair, I
thought meanly.

‘There’s a man in there auditioning for
Stars in their
Eyes
,’ he said lifting his long legs over the bench and
laying his jacket down carefully.

‘I know.
Nuts in their Head
, more like. They’d have to
strap him into some corset to get him to look like Bruce
Springsteen. And put a paper bag over his face. Here.’ I
slid his glass over.

‘Cheers.’ He took a long drink. ‘Now, this crisis.
You’ve not changed your mind again?’

‘God, no. I still want the baby.’

‘Thank Christ for that. I cancelled the clinic when you
phoned, and anyway, being realistic, you’re probably too
late.’

‘I know. I’ve done it now, haven’t I?’

‘Yep. So, I brought you this.’ He reached into his
jacket pocket and pulled out a banana.

‘What is it with you and fruit? I’ve had two apples
today already. You’re turning into a food fascist.’

‘No, it’s not to eat, well you can if you want, I
suppose. This is your baby.’

We both looked at it, lying on the table. It was
mottled brown and there was a fingernail scar at the stalk
end.

‘I hope to God it’s not.’

‘I don’t mean it’s banana
shaped
, I mean it’s about
that size. I looked it up on the Internet.’

‘Oh, my God, really?’ I put out a hand and stroked the
clammy skin, then picked it up and held it against my
stomach. ‘Wow, weird.’

‘You still don’t look particularly pregnant, you know,’
said Daniel peering at my bump. ‘A bit fat, maybe. I
wouldn’t guess, just seeing you.’

‘Yes, well, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I want
to, now I’ve decided, there’s no point in hiding any more,
I want to tell them at school. And I’m terrified, and I
don’t know how to go about it. I mean, I could just walk
in wearing my T-shirt, that’d be a dead giveaway, you
know, no fleece or anything to cover it. They all think I’m
mental still wearing winter stuff anyway, I’m nearly passing
out with heat exhaustion in some lessons and I have
to keep saying I’m cold. Or I could take Julia aside and
ask her to tell everyone, she’d love that, all the drama.
Then I’d be waiting for the summons, Mrs Lever poking
her head round the classroom door, lips pursed, asking
ever so politely if I could pop along to the Head’s office,
while everyone looks at each other and whispers.
Or
I
could go straight to the Head, or some other teacher
maybe, and ask them to handle things. They could
have, you know, a special assembly on it and I could be
shuffling about outside the hall listening. Oh, God, either
way is going to be completely awful.’ I put my head in my
hands. ‘What am I going to
do
, Daniel? How,
how
am I
going to cope with all the fallout?’

‘You will. You’re that sort,’ he said confidently.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked through my fingers.

‘Well, ahm . . .’ His hands fluttered. ‘Hmm . . . OK,
have you ever smoked?’

‘No. Never even tried a cigarette.’

‘Why?’

I took my hands away from my face and considered.
‘Well, I weighed up the pros and cons. Stinky breath,
needless expense, appalling health risks, grief from adults,
looking like a slag, versus maybe losing two pounds and
joining in with everyone. I decided it wasn’t worth it. Why
d’you ask?’

He grinned and slapped the table top. ‘Have you any
idea how few people think that way? You are so unusual.’

‘I am?’

‘You know you are. Most people want to fit in at any
cost, whatever the risks; you, you don’t give a monkey’s.’

I was staring at him.

‘Can I be totally honest with you?’ He looked straight
into my eyes.

‘Be my guest.’ I wondered what the hell was coming.

‘I think you’re driven by bloody-mindedness.’

A vision of my mum flashed up, and for a second I
thought I was furious. Then I started to laugh. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, you’re incredibly self-contained, aren’t you?’

‘I – oh, I wouldn’t say . . . In some respects maybe.’

‘Oh, come off it, you know you are. You’ve got friends,
yeah, but you don’t care whether you sit with a group in
the common room or on your own.’

‘That’s not true! You make me sound like some kind
of freak-girl. Honestly, Daniel, I’m just a normal teenager
– apart from being up the duff, obviously.’

‘No, that’s not it. What I mean is you’re not afraid
to swim against the tide. You’re an
individual
. That’s
why—’ He broke off and studied the canal for a while.
‘Anyway, I’m not saying you’re in for a picnic, but if
anyone can cope with it, it’s you.’

He really did know how to make you feel better.

‘Damn you for being right.’

‘My pleasure. Can I get you another drink?’

‘Lemonade, I suppose. Have to think of the banana’s
welfare. Don’t want the little thing pickled.’

When he came back I said, ‘Don’t suppose I’ll have
much time to be self-contained after the baby’s born.’

‘I don’t suppose you will. Have you thought of any
names yet? You could start talking to it, you know, it can
hear you in there.’

‘Honestly? God, that’s so spooky.’ I looked down at
my stomach and spoke to the bump. ‘Chiquita if it’s a girl,
Fyffes if it’s a boy. What do you think of that, then?’ No
response. ‘Too disgusted to reply. Oh, Daniel, it’s so nice
to be able to
talk
to someone about all this. Mum can’t
even bear to look at me; half-term was hell. Mind you, I
did get a lot of revision done . . . Do you think I should
tell a teacher, then?’

‘If you can find one you like. Mrs Stokes?’

‘Oh, ha ha. No, I was thinking of Mrs Carlisle, she
was my form tutor in Year 10 and 11. She’s a bit of an old
hippy so she won’t be too shocked. She always gave me
nice pastoral reports.’

‘She could even have a word with your mother,’
suggested Daniel, under the impression that Mum was in
a rational enough state to be spoken to.

‘Well. Let’s not get too carried away. One step at a
time. Eh, Chiquita?’

‘So you’ll be in Tuesday?’

‘I’ve an appointment at the hospital tomorrow, so it’ll
be Wednesday. God forbid I should miss the exams.’

‘I’ll have chocolate and Kleenex ready.’

He really got me
thinking. Was I not normal?

I remember seeing Charlotte Church on telly last
Sunday, hair shining with cleanliness. ‘I’m just an ordinary
teenager,’ she kept saying. Yeah, right. So what’s
an Ordinary Teenager? I can’t see she has a right lot in
common with, for instance, Gary Whittle who I went to
primary school with and who I remember once tied a
firework to a cat’s tail. He’s in a Young Offenders’ Institution
now. And she’s certainly nothing like me and my
ever-expanding bulge of shame. The only thing I can see
teenagers have in common is that they’ve waved twelve
goodbye and they haven’t reached twenty yet.

Imagine:

General Studies Paper 1: Section 1, Arts and Society

Q 1: How normal are you?

Intro: need for both individuals & society (esp
media) to stereotype across age range, class, ethnic
group, occupation etc; usually collection of negative
characteristics; allows person to feel superior and in
possession of all significant facts on basis of
flimsiest evidence.

Para 1: teenagers pigeonholed by jealous middle-aged
& elderly. Threatened not by teenagers
themselves but by reminder of their own mortality
& wasted chances. Unflattering characteristics
projected onto young include:

Para 2: moodiness. Unfair accusation; not confined
to any specific age group. My Mother = Queen of
the moods. If sulking an Olympic sport, she’d get
row of perfect 10s. A grown woman who can
out-strop any adolescent.

Para 3: materialism. Unfair again. Rife throughout
society – Ikea on a Sunday! No point
my
being
materialistic anyway as we have no money.

Para 4: vanity. Unfair. Self-obsession an insecurity
thing, not age-related. In fact, older you get, more
you focus on looks eg Grecian 2000, Playtex
corsets, super-strength Dentu-fix etc. Teenagers
aren’t the ones spending
£
70 a pot on La Prairie
face cream.

Para 5: habitual drunkenness. Inaccurate! 1/4 of
our 6th form = Muslim for a start. Also Dave
Harman = Jehovah’s Witness & Alison Gill teetotal
mother killed by drunk driver last yr. To judge
by what staggers out of Working Men’s every Sat
night, worst offenders are 50+.

Para 6: spottiness. Even this boring old chestnut
wrong. Supply teacher in Science labs this term has
spots
and
wrinkles, must be at least 40 poor cow.
I only get them on my back & shoulders, so doesn’t
count.

Conc: can’t stereotype teenagers way you can old
people. No such thing as typical teenager.
if no
such creature, I can’t be judged as either normal or
abnormal. QED.