Read Bad Mothers United Online
Authors: Kate Long
‘And does Eric babysit for
you
?’ Steve fixed me with a beady stare.
‘Not yet. But he will. Anyway, you can’t talk. How much babysitting have you done lately?’
‘I had Will last month, when you went for that tooth out. You’re not being fair, Karen. It’s you who dunt want to leave him with me.’
‘Blame Charlotte for that. She bothers because you’ve no stair-gate, and no cupboard locks, and you live in a tip.’
‘Aw, geroff. I’ll have him if you want me to. While I’m off work, anyroad. You know, we never had any of these safety gadgets when I was a kid. My mother just used to plonk a
chair on t’landing at night to stop me wandering. I never came to any harm. You were trusted not to go sticking your head down t’toilet or your hand in t’fire. And guess what? We
didn’t, and we lived to tell t’tale. Funny, that, int it?’
But I’d stopped listening. I was staring at the card and envelope in my hands. A cheap thing, embossed beige-flowers on the front, one corner bent over. When I opened it, words that made
me almost stop breathing.
LOVE FROM YOR MUM
. The writing was nothing like Mum’s had been, that loopy, quavery style so many old ladies use. This was heavy-handed, laborious. It
reminded me of the way some of our Special Needs kid write. I checked the postmark again, my whole body trembling.
‘What’s up, Karen?’ I heard Steve say. ‘You look a bit peculiar.’
‘Why don’t you give him a ring, apologise?’ said Gemma, rinsing her hands under the tap. ‘Better than stewing all night.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’
Walshy was back outside, playing Frisbee with himself. The radio was playing ‘Too Many Broken Hearts’.
I said, ‘He’ll come round. He always does.’
‘If you say so.’
I looked at the clock.
‘I’ll give my mum a call. She’ll appreciate it today and I need to hear a friendly voice.’
I turned on my heel and ran to the back door. I flung it open, jumped down the step, wrenched the lid of the wheeliebin open and stuffed the card under a slop of spaghetti
hoops rejected the previous day by Will. I closed the bin and counted to ten. Then I counted another ten. I felt so sick and angry I barely knew what to do with myself. Finally, my legs still
shaking, I went back inside.
‘Is it a migraine or summat? Have I to get you an aspirin?’ said Steve. I stared at him, hearing the words but not able to take them in. At the edge of my vision, Will strained and
scrambled after the plate of biscuits on the table.
My mobile began to ring.
Steve picked up and went, ‘Oh, hiya, love – yeah, yeah, all right – well, up and down, you know – I don’t think so. Look, I’ll pass you over. Charlie,’
he mouthed at me. He held out the phone and I took it automatically.
At the exact same moment I put the phone to my ear, Will dropped with a thump between the table-edge and the arm of the chair. He landed face forwards, banging his chin and nose on the carpet.
The screaming started immediately.
I threw the phone onto the sofa and ran to pick him up. His jaws were wide open in a yell; I could see there was blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his lip, but no other obvious damage.
With one hand I felt over his skull for bumps, then I ran my fingers up and down his limbs the way Sylv’s shown us at school. At last I gathered him into a cuddle and sat on the floor,
rocking him.
‘Hurts, Mummy,’ he said. ‘Hurt my mouth, Mummy.’ His little body shuddered and heaved against me.
‘Ssh, no,’ I told him. ‘Grandma’s here. Shush. Shush.’
Take your eye off the ball for one single second, I was thinking, and you invite disaster. That is literally all it takes.
And I could hear Will howling in the background for bloody ages before Dad picked up again. I had no idea what was happening, I was frantic.
‘Aw, he took a tumble off the chair, that’s all. He’ll be right as rain in a minute. No need to worry.’
‘He’s not damaged himself?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t think it’s worth taking him up to the Health Centre for a check-up? He might have concussion.’
‘Nah. He didn’t hit his head. Banged his nose, give hisself a fright. Aside from that he’s champion. Honest, love. Don’t fret.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
My heart was hammering against my ribcage.
I said, ‘Tell me one thing, Dad. Who did he just call “Mummy”?’
KAREN: What can you tell me about Grandma Fenton?
NAN: Lily Fenton?
KAREN: That’s right. Your dad’s mum.
NAN: Oh, well, she were in service. It’s her as brought back that ladle.
KAREN: What ladle?
NAN: You know. That bonny ladle wi’ a shell bowl.
KAREN: No, I don’t know.
NAN: It has a bit of brass round th’ handle. Like a brass collar.
KAREN: Honestly, Mum, I don’t.
NAN: You do. Like a big serving spoon, a shell-shaped bowl.
KAREN: Hmm . . . I think I dimly remember it.
NAN: I used to serve peas up wi’ it, and mash. It’s in t’drawer.
KAREN: Which drawer?
NAN: Under t’big cupboard. In t’kitchen.
KAREN: Is it? Perhaps it’s dropped down the back. I’ll have a look tonight. So, what – did she pinch the ladle or was she given it?
NAN: Given it, I think. Mind, that weren’t all she got, neither.
KAREN: How do you mean?
NAN: Well, we never knew who Harold’s dad was, but we think it was her employer. After she left, he sent her money, regular. She never went short.
KAREN: Oh, I see.
NAN: But nobody ever said it outright . . . That might have been why Harold was such a monkey, because he didn’t have a father around to knock him into shape.
KAREN: You mean the way he messed your mum about, and having other women?
NAN: Aye. We met one of ’em once, at t’bus stop. My mother just went, ‘Get on this bus, quick,’ even though it were t’wrong one, she were in that
much of a state. He broke her heart, did Harold Fenton. And then one day he were run over outside t’Corn Exchange in Manchester, and that were that.
KAREN: Awful.
NAN: Aye.
KAREN: But he was good with you?
NAN: Oh aye. When he was around. He brought us brandy snaps and bags of currants, sometimes toys he’d made. He thought the sun shone out of our Billy.
(Long pause.)
KAREN: Tell me more about Grandma Fenton.
NAN: Oh, well, she were a nice woman, a bit of a folk healer. You know, if you couldn’t afford t’doctor, you’d go to her. She had this pantry full of jars and
bottles, knitbone and Friar’s Balsam, goose grease, brimstone and treacle. Laudanum.
KAREN: Laudanum? That’s poison!
NAN: Aye. They took it in cough mixture. I don’t think as she killed anyone. I remember one time a neighbour come running in with a big hornet sting on t’top of his
head – he were bald, like – and she put a vinegar poultice on for him. Only, it were vinegar out o’ t’beetroot jar, and he went round all day wi’ a bright purple
crown. We were two-double laughing.
KAREN: But you said she was frightened of electricity?
NAN: She didn’t understand it. She’d allus had gas-lamps, you see. Just after she moved in wi’ us, we caught her standing on th’ eiderdown, trying to
blow out t’light bulb. She used to say, ‘I see you’ve one of them lights in a bottle.’ (Pause.) Now I look back, I think she had trouble keeping up wi’ life after
she lost her son. It was like, she couldn’t be bothered wi’ it. Do you know what I mean?
CHAPTER 6
‘Tell me, who do I have to see to withdraw from the course?’
I plonked myself down across from Martin and pushed my bag out of the way under his antique desk.
He closed the book he’d been reading. ‘One of those weeks, is it, Charlotte?’
‘This time I’m not joking. I’ve had enough. I want to leave.’
That made him sit up.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let me pour you a coffee and then you can tell me all about it.’
I waited while he took the jug off its stand, filled two cups, turned down the Baroque music he’d had playing in the background. Telemann again. Nowadays it was one of my favourites. I
knew if I lived to be a hundred, Telemann’s Allegros would always transport me back to Martin’s office.
‘All righty,’ he said, placing a cup of evil-smelling Java in front of me. Then he settled back to listen.
So I told him about Will calling my mother ‘Mummy’. ‘It was horrible,’ I said, ‘like someone slicing my chest right open. I couldn’t believe it. To call
her
his mother. Her! What does that make
me
? I
knew
it wouldn’t work, me being away so much! It’s all gone wrong the way I said it would, and
nobody
listened.’
Martin considered.
‘Are you certain that’s what you heard? You might have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. What you heard might have been him calling for you. In effect, “I want my
mummy.”’
I shook my head. ‘Yeah, I bet Mum would have tried to argue that if she’d got the chance. But Dad blew it for her. He went, “Oh aye, Charlie, he’s done it a couple of
times now. We’ve tried telling him.”’
‘Ah.’
‘And then Mum came on the phone and spun me this line about language development and how it was natural for toddlers to confuse names, and how once he’d called a man in a shop
“Granddad” just because the guy had a moustache. She went, “Anyway, you used to mix up parrots and pirates. You could never remember which one sat on the other one’s
shoulder.” As if that had anything to do with it. She said to me, “It’s just words, it doesn’t mean anything.”’
Martin frowned, tapping his forefingers together while he marshalled his thoughts.
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, Charlotte, my four-year-old godson calls his parents Xander and Rowan; no one’s ever used the handles “Mummy” or
“Daddy” in that house, but he has no doubt who they are and what they mean to him. So while I can certainly appreciate why you’re upset, I agree with your mother on this one.
Terminology’s not that important. Will’s feelings for you won’t have changed.’
‘You honestly think? God, I was so angry I could barely speak.’ In fact, I’d put the phone down on her in the end. It was easier than trying to explain the riot of misery
charging through my veins.
‘Are you still angry?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know! It’s so complicated. I mean, I wanted her to look after him properly, to love him, it would have been awful if she hadn’t. So of
course he sees her as a mum-type figure. In practical terms that’s what she is, most days. It’s not like she set out to steal him from me or anything.’
‘And some women in her position might be tempted to do that.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘So you’re not blaming her.’
‘No. Although I’m jealous of the time she gets to spend with him. I can’t help myself.’
‘Have you told her that?’
‘There’s no point. It wouldn’t change anything, plus I know I’m being irrational. This is the most practical set-up, we agreed. Meanwhile she gets to tuck him in at
nights, give him his baths, set his daily rules and routine. The result is, I feel like I haven’t forged that crucial bond with my own child. Or maybe I did and I’ve let it come
apart. It’s my fault. I meant to be the best parent, and I’ve turned out to be rubbish. And do you know why?’
Martin waited, knowing I was about to answer my own question.
‘Because I think part of me’s holding back from him. He might only be two and a half but he already senses that. It’s not just the being away from home – although
that’s obviously a major deal – it’s that inside, I’m sort of at war. I love him, I love him utterly. Utterly. There’s no question of that. I’d die for him.
But I can’t help resenting the way I have to arrange my life now. It’s exhausting. I’m forever in the wrong place. There’s never a moment’s mental peace, I
can’t be the person I want to be because half my mind’s always somewhere else. And I don’t want that kind of relationship with Will. I want him to grow up knowing his mum loves
him, full stop, without other stuff leaking in.’ I leaned forward and rested my elbows miserably on the desk. ‘The most awful part is, I suddenly GET my mother. I can see it now. I
understand why
she
was so resentful of
me
. Which makes me the same as her. I wanted so much to be better.’
The music had slowed to an Adagio. Martin took a pen and began to doodle little cages on his notepad.
‘She wasn’t such a bad mother, was she?’
I hesitated. ‘Well – she constantly used to blame me for cutting short her opportunities. I mean openly, say it straight out in front of me. “Oh, Charlotte, what I could have
been, what I sacrificed for you.” How’s that supposed to make a kid feel? Then, as I was growing up, it was all the pressure to achieve the targets she missed. Compensating for her
so-called failure. She isn’t a failure at all, actually, she teaches children to read. I’d say that’s a pretty worthwhile job.’
‘She encouraged you to do well.’
‘That’s true. But it didn’t feel like encouragement. It wasn’t how your middle-class parents do it, you know – “You go for it, Charlotte, we believe in you,
yay.” It was more like continual jabbing with a sharpened stick. And I don’t know whether the success she was after was for me or for her. And when I got pregnant, God. She went
spare. Threw stuff, broke ornaments, threatened me and Nan. She was like a woman possessed. Then of course afterwards there was this complete weird turn-about. She’d been away on a break
having some meltdown on her own by the seaside, and by the time she came back I was in labour. Suddenly she’s full of maternal remorse, can’t do enough for me. Cries her eyes out at
the birth. Instantly dotes on Will, when months before she was cursing him.’
‘Babies have been known to trigger Damascene conversions. I think it’s to do with witnessing a new life. It makes people take stock.’
‘Or something happened while she was away, some mental crisis got resolved. Who knows. What matters is, the resolution didn’t last. Since my grandma died – well, I’d
say we’re currently at a pretty low point.’
I noticed that Martin’s cages were forming into stacking patterns, and that some of them looked to have branches or hands sticking out of them. To be honest, they looked a bit sinister.
I was about to make some comment on them when he pushed the pad away and stood up. I glanced at the clock: it was coming up to noon. Had my time run out? Was I about to be dismissed? This was a
busy man with lectures and tutorials to give, departmental meetings to attend.
But he didn’t go for his briefcase or tap his watch. Instead he wandered over to the sash window and wiped his jacket cuff across the glass. He said, ‘Have you been to the Railway
Museum lately, Charlotte?’
Strange question, I thought.
‘No. Not since Freshers’ Week.’ Walshy had visited at the start of term, but only to make mischief. He’d had this idea of planting a rude figure in one of the
model-train layouts – a tiny plastic flasher he’d carved out of a Dungeons and Dragons druid – but when the day of installation came it turned out he’d made him the wrong
gauge. What he’d actually created was a flashing giant. A shame, really, because he’d spent hours with a heated craft knife, carving and tweaking his miniature pervert.
‘Well, if you’re around that way, it’s worth having a look at one of their engines,’ said Martin. ‘I don’t mean the trains, I mean the actual engine
mechanism. They have one in a glass case so you can study the component parts.’
‘Yeah?’ I still didn’t get where this was leading.
‘If you watch an engine in motion, you’ll see that for some sections to rise, others have to fall. There’s a harmony even to a simple piston. You have to have the up and down
movement, the cyclic, the forward and backward, for energy to be produced. So if you’ll allow me the analogy, this is dynamically how a relationship works. How could it be entirely
positive, entirely on one note? It would be unproductive. It would stall. And that applies across the board, to you, to your mother, to me, everyone. We all experience our low points and our
high, times we’re close and times the momentum of living carries us further apart. That’s normal.’
‘Is it?’
‘What I’m saying is, things will come round again. You just have to keep the lines of communication open. Really, try and talk to your mother, bring her nearer. Explain to her
about this “Mummy” business, that it’s made you feel vulnerable. Stress that you’re not blaming her. Ask for reassurance.’
I thought of the days after Will was born, how it seemed as though we’d finally reached a new understanding. How even the way we spoke was different, mum to mum. And in some ways they
were dark times: I’d struggled like mad to cope with a newborn, and she was busy beating herself up at having to put Nan into a home. But we supported each other. We confided, we listened.
I remember joking with her about her boss Leo Fairbrother always hanging round, and about Dad being his usual shifty-charming self. In that tough year Mum and I grew closer than we’d ever
been. Was it possible to get back to that level of tolerance? Right now it seemed unlikely. Mum was just too far away, and weary. Sometimes it felt as though she was living at the bottom of a
deep, deep well and the rest of us were shouting down to her.
‘I could try, I suppose. I still think I need to pack in the course, though, Martin. The bottom line is, you just can’t be a decent parent at a distance.’
He turned back from the window and his expression was grave. ‘Can’t you?’ Our eyes fell at the same moment on the photo of his daughter. ‘Well, if that’s the
case, then a great swathe of us are doomed.’