The World's Worst Mothers (2 page)

They were in trouble. The car chose the middle of a junction to grind to a halt.

Emily leapt out of the car and flew to the bus stop. A bus was just coming. Whew! As it drew up, she caught sight of her mother in the middle of the junction, surrounded by honking drivers and swinging an empty petrol can.

She wasn't going to get this job either.

While Emily's mother was standing at a busy junction in the middle of Berlin, desperately looking for a kind-hearted motorist who might let her have a little petrol, a man entered a factory a few hundred kilometres further north.

He hurried past shelves that were stuffed with cardboard boxes. On the front of every box was a diagram of what was in it. Dolls, soft toys, cranes, fire engines. Toys, in other words. But not ordinary toys. The toys from Wohlfarth's toy factory were technical masterpieces. There were dolls that could not only speak but also cry real tears. Dogs that lay on their backs to have their tummies scratched and even did real poops, only ones that didn't smell. Aeroplanes that not only could fly but landed on the exact spot that you'd programmed them to land on.

Walther Wohlfarth, the founder of Wohlfarth's Toys, had made a fortune out of his crying dolls and his lifelike dogs and cats, but then the whole business went rapidly downhill because people started buying their toys from the Far East, where they could make toys that were at least as smart and looked almost exactly the same but sold at only half the price.

It was Walther Wohlfarth himself who was striding past the remains of his once thriving business without as much as a glance at all the Bellos, Fluffies, Tinas and Ginas who stared out of lifeless glass eyes.

‘Kruschke!' he yelled. ‘Kruschke, where the blazes are you?'

‘Here, boss,' came a muffled voice from behind a shelf. ‘I'm just coming.'

A fat little man with a bald patch appeared. He looked fairly stressed. His braces were hanging down and his shirt had been buttoned up wrongly. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead. His left eye was twitching and his right eye was staring straight ahead. He was not what you'd call a good-looking man.

‘She got away, boss,' he blurted out. ‘Prototype 3131. Just took off.'

‘Kruschke!' thundered Wohlfarth. ‘You are an idiot!'

Kruschke shrank back.

‘Yes, boss.'

Kruschke, however, was far from an idiot. The complicated technical inner workings of all the toys around him were his sole work. No one would have guessed that this red-faced little man with a squint was one of Germany's most important inventors.

‘You are an idiot, Kruschke,' Wohlfarth said again. ‘I told you to reprogram her. How could this have happened?'

‘Just as I was about to install deep-sleep mode she upped and left.' Kruschke chanced a little laugh as he added, kind of proudly, ‘She's pretty smart.'

‘Smart!
Smart!'
hissed Wohlfarth. ‘You made a mess of her. Get her back and then shred her.'

‘You want me to …
murder
her?' stammered Kruschke.

‘We don't need Prototype 3131 any more. We'll write her off as a mistake. Just you find her, and make it snappy!'

‘Yessir. On my way, boss!'

Kruschke ran as fast as his stubby little legs would carry him out of the factory.

‘I'd get rid of that fellow in a flash,' murmured Wohlfarth, ‘if only I didn't need him so badly.'

He plucked a piece of fluff off his sleeve before he also left the factory floor.

Kruschke was standing on a dune, the wind ruffling the few strands of hair that he had left.

‘Sarah!' he called. ‘Sarah!'

If she was within a hundred metres, she'd have to hear him and react to him. That was how he'd programmed her.

Sarah was a nice name. That was what the girl who'd sat in front of him in first class had been called. She'd had thick chestnut-brown hair. He couldn't take his eyes off it. When the sun shone through the classroom window, Sarah's hair gleamed reddish gold. He'd tried to find hair in that same colour for
his
Sarah.

Wohlfarth, of course, said that a prototype didn't need hair, that it was a waste of money, but Kruschke had insisted. ‘That's the only way we can tell if she's convincing. Hair is very important.'

But then Wohlfarth had decided on blonde hair for the next ones. ‘Blonde is just nicer, more trustworthy. Scientific studies have proved that.'

Wohlfarth was right. He was always right. Well, he was the boss. But for how long?

Kruschke ran down the dune to the beach.

‘Sarah!' he called again.

But the beach was empty. Seagulls were screeching. There was a smell of rotten seaweed. It wasn't easy to hide, here on the island. He'd have to find her before her batteries ran out. He had to explain to her what he had in mind for her. He knew she'd understand that she was meant for great things: to be the world's most perfect woman.

She was beautiful and clever, but she was missing something vital. And he, Kruschke, could give her that very thing. Nobody else – only he could do it!

But where
was
she?

A woman walked out of the dunes. Her long brown hair streamed in the wind. Although it was noticeably cool on this April morning, she was wearing only a thin summer dress. She marched quickly over the sand to the water's edge. She kept going till the foam washed over her bare feet. She raised her arms as if to embrace the horizon.

Kruschke had opened his mouth to call her name, but he said nothing. He might startle her and she'd be off again. He couldn't follow her any further, and anyway he was out of breath.

He struggled through the sand to her.

‘Sarah,' he said softly. ‘Sarah, stand still. Don't go into the water, do you hear me?'

Sarah turned around to face him.

‘Water is a chemical combination of the elements hydrogen and oxygen. You can drink water. You can bathe in water,' she said with a smile.

‘That's right,' said Kruschke. ‘But you can't bathe in
this
water, Sarah.'

‘Bathing is fun,' said Sarah and walked on.

An hour later there was a knock on Wohlfarth's office door. His office was a gallery in the former finishing room of the factory, and you could look down through a large glass window at the assembly line where, many years previously, the workers had fixed the dolls' hair and dressed them before they were packed into boxes

Wohlfarth was sitting at a computer, staring at the screen.

The knock came again.

‘Come in, Kruschke.'

Kruschke opened the door carefully and slithered through the crack.

‘Excuse me, boss …but …' he stuttered.

‘Don't tell me she's escaped!' Wohlfarth was getting red in the face.

‘Unfortunately, she has. I nearly had her, but then she just threw herself into the sea. She said she wanted to bathe, and the next thing, there she was in the water.'

‘Is Prototype 3131 salt-waterproof?'

‘No. Her body can only tolerate fresh water between 19 and 38 degrees.'

Wohlfarth typed something into his computer.

‘It's 15 degrees in the North Sea right now. How long do you think she'll last?'

Kruschke swallowed. ‘Less than a day, I'm afraid.'

‘Good. Let's just hope she won't land up here again some day.'

‘Why?' asked Kruschke, confused.

‘Because I don't want anyone on the island to hear of her existence, that's why!' Wohlfarth stood up. ‘And now, would you kindly get back to work. But I'm warning you: one more mistake like that and – '

‘Don't worry, boss, it will never happen again,' said Kruschke quickly. ‘In future, everything will go like clockwork.'

‘I very much hope so. Never forget how much is depending on this!'

When Bruno got home at lunchtime, he got a surprise.

‘I have to talk to you,' said his mother, before he had time even to take his jacket off. ‘I've been talking to Frau Leberknecht.'

‘Oh, right?' said Bruno nervously. Had she made a complaint about how he'd mucked up the keys of her precious piano?

‘I've given her notice.'

Bruno had to sit down. ‘Great – I mean … why?'

‘Because I don't think she's good enough for you. She just doesn't see the great talent she has right under her nose.'

Bruno sighed. The idea that his mother had finally twigged that he would never be a great pianist – it was too much to hope for. There was just going to be a new teacher, that was all. This had happened very often in the last few years. It was pretty miraculous that Leberknecht had lasted as long as she had.

His mother was pacing up and down. Even her back was furious.

‘When I asked her if she had entered you in the piano competition in June, she went so far as to laugh! Apparently you're not good enough and it wouldn't be very nice for you to come last.'

Bruno sighed again, louder this time. His mother drove him nuts.

‘But don't worry, darling. The woman just hasn't a clue. I never liked her. It was just that she came so highly recommended.'

Bruno remembered how delighted with Frau Leberknecht his mother had been at first.

‘She's right for you,' she'd said. ‘Not like that wimp Herr Karl with his wet-fish handshake. She'll bring you up to concert standard, I'm sure of it!'

She'd sung the praises of Herr Karl too, in the beginning, but later she blamed him for the fact that Bruno still didn't play like Clang Clang, the famous Chinese pianist she revered. She'd given Bruno his autograph with a personal message as a birthday present. He'd have preferred an autograph of Muhammad Ali any day.

Bruno's mother put a plate in front of him. ‘I'm sorry I didn't get around to cooking anything today.' She opened the fridge and took out cheese and salami. ‘I spent the whole morning ringing around.'

She put a slice of bread on Bruno's plate and beamed at him. ‘But I've found the best one. The very best. Professor Griebel. It was very difficult because he doesn't really have any free slots, but when I told him that playing the piano is your great passion, that you can hardly wait to do your stuff on a great stage –'

‘Mum!' Bruno tried to interrupt.

‘Of course, he's much more expensive than Leberknecht, but it's worth it. It has to be worth it for the sake of your –'

‘Mum!' said Bruno more loudly. ‘I can't play the piano.' He pushed the plate away. He'd lost his appetite. ‘Do you remember the first recital we had at Frau Leberknecht's? The girl who went before me?'

‘The little Chinese girl?'

‘Korean. Boy, could she play! And she was only seven. Now,
she
is talented. That's what Frau Leberknecht thinks too.'

His mother waved dismissively.

‘That's Asians for you. They work ridiculously hard. You'll find she practises for six hours a day.'

‘Mum! Your Clang Clang is Asian too,' Bruno said.

‘He's completely different – a genius. But this girl … she had no soul, Bruno. It's all about soul. You were just too nervous that day; you weren't used to having an audience – that's why you played badly.'

‘I play badly at home too. I don't need an audience to do it. I'm just no good!'

Bruno's mother took his hands and kissed them. A tear fell on the back of one of his hands. ‘Don't say that. I know that's not true. I know I'm right. I'm your mother, after all.'

I really have the worst mother in the world,
Sophie typed into her computer.

She was in a chat room with a boy who called himself Dragon Monster. His photo showed a pale boy with hair gelled up who tried hard to look menacing. He was supposed to be sixteen. Sophie could see that this lad was fourteen, tops. But she was so furious with her mother that she'd have complained to a model in a shop window.

And the worst brother. Not that he's even my real brother. He collects dead animals. What a weirdo!

She was so annoyed, she totally forgot that she'd described herself as an only child in her profile. She scratched her forehead. Rats – another bloody pimple.

And my stepfather is the
… Sophie stopped.
The worst,
she was going to write, but that wasn't fair. George was actually very nice. At least he didn't always take Nicholas's side. But that could just be because he was fed up with the constant squabbling.

Sophie deleted the last few words and wrote:
And my stepfather hardly ever takes any notice of anything.

So what does the old man do?
wrote Dragon Monster.

He's a sales rep,
answered Sophie.

Ugh! A door-to-door salesman? Revolting.

You said it.

But that didn't sound right either. George was a rep, but not the kind that goes from door to door. He worked for a pharmaceutical company that produced remedies for constipation and baldness, and his job was to inform doctors about new medication. He was always travelling. Sometimes he brought her back something really nice from Paris or the Maldives or wherever. She had a whole collection of T-shirts from all over the world. The one from Stockholm with the moose on it was her favourite.

Hey, are you still there?
Dragon Monster wrote.

‘Sophie! Are you coming? Dinner is ready,' called her mother from the kitchen.

‘What are we having?' Sophie shouted back.

‘Fish fingers with rice and salad.'

Sophie stuck her fingers down her throat. ‘Puke, yuck,' she said under her breath.

Have to go and shovel some kind of muck into myself. Talk later,
she typed.

I'll mail you something you might find interesting,
came the reply.
Something funny.

Sophie shook her head and turned the computer off. She knew all about Dragon Monster's idea of a joke. It was always some kind of questionnaire that told you if you were a green alien or were addicted to biros or were just plain mad. Sometimes they were a bit of fun, but mostly they were just stupid

She went into the kitchen and sat at the table. The whole flat stank of fried fish – again. If Nicholas had his way, they'd eat nothing else. Why couldn't he have a passion for chips or pizza?

Sophie pushed her fish fingers around in disgust and then gave a screech.

‘What's wrong now?' asked her mother crossly.

‘It was Nicholas!' yelled Sophie, pointing at a fat, half-squashed fly that had been lying under one of the fish fingers. ‘Again! Remember the dead mouse he left on my bed?'

Sophie's mother took her plate and threw what was on it into the bin.

‘Nonsense! The fly came from the salad, for sure, and as for the mouse, that was Lulu.'

‘I wasn't even allowed to keep it,' said Nicholas.

Sophie's mother gave her a new plate.

‘Will you please stop blaming Nicholas for everything.'

He nodded in agreement. ‘I didn't do anything.'

‘I know, my angel. Another couple of fish fingers? These ones here are nice and crispy.'

Nicholas already had a mountain of fish fingers on his plate and was chewing with his mouth open.

‘Close your mouth. It's most unappetising,' said Sophie, taking a spoon of rice and two lettuce leaves.

‘You're
most unappetising,' said Nicholas, grinning cheekily.

‘Did you hear that, Mum?' cried Sophie. ‘Did you hear what he said?'

Her mother ruffled Nicholas's hair. ‘Do you know what unappetising means, Nicky?'

‘It means you are not hungry,' said Nicholas, looking at his mother as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. ‘And Sofa isn't hungry, right?'

‘See?' said his mother. ‘He has no idea what it means.'

Sophie was convinced that Nicholas knew perfectly well. He was appalling, but he was smart. And she knew by the way he looked at her with his head on one side, letting half-chewed fish fall out of his mouth, that she was right.

Emily looked at the clock. Where the hell was her mother? She was supposed to have just slipped out to buy milk and butter. That didn't take an hour. Maybe she'd had to take shelter somewhere. It was pouring rain and, as usual, she had no umbrella with her. But suppose something had happened to her?

Emily nearly fainted when the phone rang, but then she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the display identified Dad as the caller.

‘Hello, chicken, how are you?' her father asked.

‘Fine,' said Emily, trying to sound as cheery as possible. ‘I got a B in maths!'

‘You're joking! Really?'

‘I came second in the class!'

‘So all that work we did paid off.'

‘Absolutely! Next week we have an English test. We can do a bit of work on that at the weekend.'

‘Oh, what a pity! We were planning to go cycling at the weekend, and I was hoping you might come along.'

We
were planning to go cycling! That ‘we' made Emily sick. That was all she needed – to go cycling all over the countryside with her father and his girlfriend. It would look as if they were a family.

‘I really don't have the time,' she said quickly. ‘We have a biology test too.'

‘Can you manage all that on your own?'

‘No problem, there's always Mum.'

‘And how is she?' her father asked. He asked that every time he rang, and every time Emily lied.

‘Great.' And before he could ask if she'd finally found a job, Emily added, ‘There's a ring at the door. She's probably forgotten her keys again.'

‘Typical,' said her father with a laugh.

Emily put the phone down. Her parents had separated two years before. Emily had never asked why. She knew anyway. Her father had fallen in love with a woman who was totally different from her mother. A woman who did not suddenly remember two minutes before departure that she had left the tickets at home or that the iron was still turned on.

‘You should be glad,' Emily's friend Charlotte had said. ‘There's never a dull moment with your mother. Crazy things never happen to mine.'

The phone was ringing again. A mobile number that Emily didn't recognise.

‘Hello?' she said tentatively.

‘Emmykins!' came her mother's excited voice. ‘Is my purse on the little cupboard in the hall?'

‘No, Mum, there's nothing there.'

‘Oh, God, then it must have been stolen. What on earth shall I do?'

‘Where are you?' Emily could hear voices in the background. Angry voices, it seemed to her.

‘Here in the supermarket. I just noticed at the checkout that my purse was gone. And I don't have my mobile either and –'

‘Well, just leave the things there,' said Emily.

‘Can't do that. I –'

Her mother's voice broke off and now some man was shouting in Emily's ear.

‘Your mother has eaten an apple. An apple that she did not pay for. That's theft! Please come at once and bring the money. And you'll have to pay for the phone call too. Otherwise, I'll call the police!'

Emily hung up with a sigh. She went to get some money from her room. Then she pulled her jacket out of the wardrobe, grabbed an umbrella and set off to rescue her mother – again.