Read Bad Mothers United Online
Authors: Kate Long
‘That’s too bad,’ said Eric. ‘She should be on her knees thanking you for what you do.’
‘Ha! Dream on. Anyway, next on the horizon it’s potty training. Charlotte’s read up on the topic, reckons if you stay firm then it’s a doddle. But I remember what a demon
she was at that stage, and how many pairs of knickers we’d get through in a day.’
‘Our Kenzie still wets the bed.’
Now that doesn’t surprise me, I thought. Nervous little scrap. I wondered if it had started when his mum left.
Our dinner arrived and I found I was very hungry. Eric watched me tucking into steak and ale pie. ‘I like a woman who enjoys her food,’ he said. I suspected he might be eyeing up my
cleavage, but I was well into my second glass of wine by then so my judgement maybe wasn’t pin sharp. I did notice that when he got up to go to the Gents, several women clocked him cross the
room, clocked the neat bum in faded jeans, the slight swagger of a man happy with himself. Yes, ladies, he’s with me, I thought. Get over it
.
I remembered Sylv, suddenly, and felt
mean: maybe I should go out with her sometime. A spot of salsa might get the blood pumping again.
You need to loosen up
, she’d said. At the same moment I realised I had sky-blue
poster paint all round the nail-bed of my little finger. How had I missed that? I put my finger in my mouth to see if I could suck it clean. I didn’t want Eric to think I was growing
mould.
And as I nibbled, a different memory popped into my head, of Steve licking my fingers after we’d eaten Chinese ribs one night: that was in the months after I became a grandma and I’d
almost had him back. I was glad now I’d held out. Even at the time I knew I was just feeling sorry for myself. I half-closed my eyes and tried to imagine that it was Steve who’d any
minute be walking across the saloon towards me, how I’d feel, how those women sitting at other tables might react. I doubted he’d provoke much interest from any quarter. He wasn’t
an ugly man, my ex, but he was skinny, slouched his shoulders as though he was permanently battling through hail, and then there was that damn moustache.
There was a time in my early thirties when it seemed a terrible embarrassment that I’d ended up divorced and single. So I’d run around dating various gits and losers, while Charlotte
sniggered from the sidelines. The year Will was born there’d been that funny half-flirtation with my boss, Leo, only in the end I’d walked away because however kind someone is, if you
don’t fancy them then the relationship’s going nowhere. Last year there’d been a bit of excitement when I was asked out by one of the dads at school. Twice we went for a drink and
once he took me to Rufford Old Hall Gardens for afternoon tea. And he was OK in himself but his son was a little sod, loathed by everyone in the staff room. I couldn’t bring myself to hook up
with a man whose child liked to smear his own face with Pritt Stick and then press his chin into pencil shavings.
Since then there’d been naff-all in the way of romantic activity, unless you counted a dozen or so fumbles with Steve. Which I didn’t.
And now here was Eric, dropping into my life out the blue, landing practically on my doorstep, with his easy manner and interested face. I couldn’t help being stirred. He just had that way
with him.
I sneaked a glance across at Maroon-Streak and Brown-Roots.
They
were out on the pull, they obviously felt entitled to a sex-life. The trouble was, ordinary routine swallowed you up,
made you dull and mumsy. Grandmumsy, in my case. There didn’t seem much left over for erotic adventure. Or was I being defeatist? Was I all washed up, or only in my prime?
By the time he came back I was on my third glass of wine and I’d unbuttoned my blouse a notch.
‘How old are you, Eric, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Thirty-two. Why?’
Thirty-two! Thirty-two was OK. ‘No reason, really.’
‘Aye. I’m as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth, as my granny used to say. Have to keep checking I’ve no bald patch coming.’ He patted the top of his scalp
cheerfully. ‘So far so good. Although if Kenzie keeps on misbehaving I might start losing a few hairs.’
I said, ‘Not every man could have coped in your situation. You do better than you think. You do, I’ve seen you with him.’
‘He’s not a bad kid. I wish he was tougher, though. Like your Will, y’ ken? Nothing fazes him.’
That was true. You wouldn’t have caught Kenzie poking an Alsatian with a stick, or taking off on his own across Menses Park after a stranger’s football. ‘No, but he’s
two. He’s fearless because he’s immature. A bit like Steve and his ruddy bike.’
Eric sipped his pint, studying me.
‘Do you see much of your ex, Karen?’
‘Not a lot. Not since he turned into Easy Rider.’
‘You get on OK, though?’
‘He’s all right.’ I thought about it. ‘Yeah, he is.’
‘When did you split up?’
‘Oh, ages ago. When Charlotte was tiny. It was me, really, Steve would have stayed the course. But we were too young and we had no money and I suppose I blamed him. Not that I’d call
myself materialistic, but it grinds you down when you haven’t enough to cover the basics. He kept walking out of jobs, mucking about. It was just a grim start to a marriage and it spoiled
things between us. I hadn’t even wanted to get hitched in the first place, it was my mother who persuaded me. “Make a stable home for the baby,” she said.’ I pictured Mum
standing on the doorstep that day I’d come home, her hands clasped against her bosom. ‘Not that I blame her. She meant well. After the split it was Mum who took us in and looked after
us. And it did come right eventually. Because no matter how bad a break-up is, you get through it in the end.’
It must have been the wine talking because I suddenly heard myself say, ‘Can you ever see yourself dating again?’
Eric put down his glass thoughtfully. Even through the veil of drink I could see I’d been less than subtle.
‘Well, there’s a question,’ he said. ‘Put it this way: I hope one day I’ll find someone I can trust again, who won’t let me down, who talks to me if
she’s unhappy instead of bottling it up. Someone who’ll be nice to Kenzie, who he likes. It’s the thought of that keeps me going.’ He gave me a lovely conspiratorial smile,
one single parent to another. ‘But that’s for the future. Let’s say for now, I’m not quite on the market yet.’
And there we were. Wherever that was.
Across the room, Brown-Roots raised her eyebrows at me. I just looked away.
After I’d seen Martin, I went back to the house and did two hours’ straight revision. Then I took Roz into town for a spot of window shopping. I thought that was
better for both of us than sitting in our rooms and brooding. Lately she’d been either clingy with me or miserably aloof – I never knew which I was going to get when we met each
morning over the toaster. Meanwhile Gemma and Walshy were wild to know what was up with her, and I kept having to pretend I didn’t know. It was a crap place to be.
‘So what
is
the plan?’ I’d asked her two days ago. She knew straight away I meant about the baby. ‘I’m keeping it,’ she’d said.
‘I’m telling Gareth next week.’ I’d given her a hug and she’d had a little cry. Since then she’d been like my shadow.
Now we were cruising down the baby aisle in Boots, and Roz was goggling at all the shelves of gear stretching along both sides. In the milk section alone there was Cow & Gate, Aptamil, SMA
and HiPP, in cartons, bottles, tins, travel sachets; there were sterilisers and warmers and breast pumps, teats and spouts and cleaning brushes and trainer cups, pouches and pots of baby food,
soft plastic spoons and grip-base bowls. Bibs came in rigid plastic or floppy cloth, singly or in multipacks, alongside wipes featuring mice, rabbits, hippos, chicks and crocodiles. There were
banks of nappies in all sizes, and cotton-wool pads and scented plastic sacks and self-seal bins; shampoo and lotion and bubble bath in Gentle, Calming, Sensitive and Regular. Roz paused in front
of the Baby Safety display. She reached past a rack of thermometers and picked out a socket cover.
‘It looks bloody complicated, having a baby,’ she said, her voice wobbling a little.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘there’s a lot to do at first, when they’re newborns. But you get loads of support. It’s not like you’re dropped and left. I mean,
with me, the baby’s dad wasn’t great . . .’ Understatement of the century, that was.
‘I’ve no idea how Gareth’s going to be.’
‘No, but what I’m saying is, other people always step in. In the first weeks I had Will, my mum changed more nappies than I did . . .’
I trailed off because of the look of horror crossing her face. Obviously she hadn’t broken the news to her folks yet, either. ‘Plus there are professionals queuing up to help,
midwives and health visitors and your GP. Someone pops round every few days, and they’ll answer any questions or worries you have. You won’t be on your own, I promise you.’
Roz nodded bravely, but I could see the terror in her eyes. For a distraction I pointed at a photo of a model pasted on the wall near the tills. ‘Hey, have you seen? Doesn’t she
look like Gemma?’
Roz squinted. ‘Prettier than Gemma.’
‘She’s got the same-shaped jaw, though, and her haircut’s similar.’ It was somewhere near the truth.
‘I still reckon she might fancy you, Chaz. When you were watching TV last night, she kept looking over. She did.’
I gave Roz a mild shove. ‘Get off.’
‘No, I’m serious. Just when you aren’t expecting it, she’ll pounce.’
That made me laugh. ‘You make her sound like a Bengal tiger. For God’s sake, being a lesbian doesn’t turn you into a raging sex maniac, casting about for anything in a skirt.
You like men, yeah? But you don’t fancy every bloke you meet, do you? You don’t fancy Old Dogbreath in the corner shop, or that postman with all the nostril hair. You don’t
fancy John Prescott.’
‘You’re not the equivalent of John Prescott, though. You’re more . . .’ She paused to flick through a few likely candidates. ‘I dunno. Walshy.’
‘I bloody am not.’
Roz pursed her lips.
‘I’m not like Walshy! Not in any way. And Gemma isn’t on my case. Sheesh, I’ve enough on my plate with the exams next week, I don’t need any extra
distraction.’
‘OK, OK. Chill out.’
And how about you, Roz?
I wanted to say.
How’s YOUR revision going?
That would have brought her up short. Not a lot of note-making and open textbooks to be found in her
room, as far as I could see. But she was on Planet Motherhood right now. I remembered that feeling of being behind a glass wall and watching others, at the same time fascinated by the smallness
of their concerns and irritated to death. She couldn’t help it. And maybe once the pregnancy became common knowledge, her tutor would step in and offer support, salvage something out of the
degree.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘How about we go seek out a bit of mindless distraction? Do you fancy playing tourists for an hour?’ I took Roz’s hand and pulled her towards the
exit.
Eric gave me a lift back in his van. I had some fun climbing up into the seat, what with my heels and my trailing skirt, and the footwell being full of papers and empty Coke
tins. When it was time to get out, though, he came round my side and opened my door for me like a gentleman. Then he offered a hand down. I couldn’t ever recall anyone doing that for me, and
it made me blush. Tragic, isn’t it? My whole life I’ve been starved of gallantry.
‘Will’s booked into nursery till three,’ I said. ‘Do you want to come in for a coffee?’
Eric slammed the passenger door shut. ‘Can’t. I’ve to be back at work.’
‘What have you done with Kenzie?’
He nodded vaguely in the direction of the bypass. ‘He’s at Little Beavers nursery, over in Radcliffe.’
‘Radcliffe? Blimey, that’s a fair hike for you.’
‘I know. Useless in an emergency. But it’s where he was before we came here and I daren’t move him. It took Maria months to settle him as it was. That’s why it’s so
good he likes coming round to yours. What would we do without friendly neighbours, eh?’
‘That’s right. And, likewise, I know I can always leave Will at yours if I need to.’
He jangled the keys of his van at me. ‘Course you can, Karen,’ he said easily. ‘Any time.’
‘This may be your idea of fun,’ said Roz out of the semi-darkness, ‘but it’s making me feel sick.’ An assistant had helped us into one of the
little open carriages, there was a whirring sound, people giggling in the car behind us, and then we’d been jerked backwards into the past: the Jorvik Time Travel Experience. Down through
Victorian York, Georgian, Stuart, Tudor, Norman. At the end the car did a three-point turn to face forwards and there we were, surrounded by Vikings.
If you’re in need of entertainment, York isn’t short of attractions. Roz and I could equally have taken ourselves to the Minster with its Great East Window and inspiring Gothic
lines, raised a prayer to the vaulting and bought a fridge magnet from the gift shop. But that place was off-limits because of Walshy last autumn, hurtling like a man on fire out of the Lady
Chapel and shouting into the crowds, ‘A miracle! A miracle! I was blind and now I can see!’ I had no idea holy people could get so cross.
We could have gone and cheered ourselves up at the Dungeon, but memories of that place were tainted also, this time by Gareth who’d been caught flicking nuggets of chewed-up paper at the
model of Dick Turpin to see if he could get them to stick like warts. We all got chucked out of the building that time, even though I’d just been a spectator.
But you didn’t fool with the Vikings. Jorvik was a weird enough experience without the need for any mucking about. Here was the Viking village with a thatched hut, creepy mannequin
children playing outside, a mannequin crone inside and what looked like a real stuffed rabbit hanging from the doorpost. The charcoal fire flickered electrically and a smell of soot wafted over.
Viking voices muttered in the background. A cockerel crowed.
‘Your little boy would like this,’ said Roz.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure. He’d more likely find it nightmarish, what with the subdued lighting and strange, dungy smell. Some of the figures seemed to be watching us
back.
The narrator over the Tannoy told us this was Lothin the wood turner, and we craned our necks to see.
‘Have you ever brought Daniel to this place?’
Lothin was indeed turning his wood. In the cars we were treated to a whiff that reminded me of pencil sharpenings and fresh sawdust. I thought about Daniel waiting for me to say sorry. Closing
the front door behind him, his face sadder than sad.
‘No. Never got round to it.’
‘You could drop in next time he’s here.’
Before I could reply, the narrator started to speak again, telling us about the importance of fishing to Viking communities. We moved into a tableau of men hauling nets, silver herring
glistening under varnish, buckets of oyster shells at their feet. One of the fishermen had wiry hair like Daniel’s.
Next time he’s here.
A whole week he’d kept me hanging before he’d phoned – God, I was so keyed up I nearly broke first. A week! We’d never left it so long without talking. There’d
been texts, of course, tight-lipped, polite enquiries passed between us.
How is ur mum? – Ok. Hows revsn gng?
I still hadn’t managed to apologise. I was saving it till after
the exams, I told myself. Till I could see him face to face.
We trundled past Thorfast the bone carver and Snarri the jeweller. In one of the huts a baby cried and its mother sang to calm it. ‘Sweet,’ I said to Roz.
Svein the leather worker smelled of ammonia. ‘Piss,’ Roz said, clamping her hand to her face in disgust. ‘And worse. Oh, gross, is that someone on the toilet?’
Above the top edge of a wicker wall, a man’s face strained.
‘I suppose even Vikings used the loo.’
‘I don’t want to see it. Seriously, Chaz, I think I might be sick.’
‘If you’re going to hurl, wait till we get to the midden at least, then no one’ll notice. In fact, it’ll add authenticity to the exhibit.’
‘Thanks for the sympathy.’
You’re going to have to deal with a lot of toilet-stuff when the baby comes
, I felt like saying.
Someone in the seats behind us went,
Eew, do you think they come to life at night?
and it gave me the jitters because I’d been playing with that idea myself. It was hard not to
when the flickering half-light made some of them look as if they were moving. Svein’s eyes glittered back at us from under his rat-tail hair, the brazier cast a glow across the muscles of
his arms. What would they think of us, these Vikings, if they could see us trailing past, gawping? If they could somehow spy on our glossy modern paraphernalia, our mobile phones, computers, TVs,
our motorways and air travel? Our shining high-tech hospitals. The vast fields we have these days with their agricultural machinery scooping up industrial-scale crops; the container ships
crossing the oceans with their satnav. Our space rockets, our weapons. How far we’d come. And yet, behind the hut, hardly visible unless you squinted, two ninth-century lovers embraced
against a tree. Her face seemed tilted to his and he was smiling down wolfishly, one hand pressing against the bark above her head. Was it a secret tryst? Was he honourable? Was she safe? Perhaps
if I came back here after closing time and waited long enough, I’d see them argue and one of them walk away.
Over the stench of ammonia now came hay, roasting meat and cloves. Roz was making gagging noises beside me.
‘Don’t you think,’ I said, ‘that really we’re all alike? I mean, for all these guys are less advanced than we are, they’re just human beings with the same
worries and stresses and triumphs and grief. A few hundred years makes no difference. That’s what the exhibition’s telling us: it’s as if we’re them and they’re us.
Only they pooed in pits and we have flushing toilets.’
Roz made a show of pinching her nose. ‘You must be kidding. We’ve come a bit further than that.’
But when I looked down, her hand was resting on her belly, the unconscious pose of a mum to be. Mum-alone, mum in trouble. Her dilemma was the oldest one in the book.