Read Bad Mothers United Online
Authors: Kate Long
The morning began with body parts in the garden and ended with a dead neighbour.
It was Will who spotted the debris. There were tiny plastic limbs strewn across our back lawn, a 9-inch propeller lodged in the flowering currant. He came running to me with a fistful of pieces
he’d gathered. ‘Little man broken,’ he said, which was a pretty accurate assessment.
Together we hunted down the rest and brought them inside to reassemble. It helped that I knew what I was making. Old Mr Cottle’s lumberjack windmill has been poking up over the top of our
back fence for at least two years. The structure sits on a pole, like a bird-table, and with every passing breeze the blades rotate and the miniature man bends forward and mimes a chopping action.
Pointless as well as ugly, not to mention way too light and flimsy for the job. Three times now the lumberjack’s ended up on our side, blown from his moorings
Wizard of Oz
-style.
Sometimes he arrives intact, sometimes he’s been blasted apart. My impulse today was just to bin the bloody thing, put him out of his windy misery.
I didn’t owe Tommy Cottle anything, either. He wasn’t a nice man. Never one of these grandfatherly types who handed out sweets and smiles and liked to pass the time of day. If he
spoke at all it would usually be to moan about Will being noisy. In the last eighteen months he’d tipped grass clippings down the gap behind our currant bushes, phoned the council to say we
were breeding rats under the shed, and prised a fence panel apart to help his bag-of-bones cat use our flowerbed as a toilet. Not so much a character as an old git. Once he even made the front page
of the local paper for trying to nick crocus bulbs from round the War Memorial.
So basically he’s been a crap neighbour from the moment he arrived, and no court in the land would have convicted me if one night I’d set his lumberjack on fire and danced round the
flames cheering. But I knew he’d been in hospital again recently and that nobody had visited him – he told me that himself, as if he’d been expecting me to trot up there with a
bag of fruit and a copy of the
Racing Times
– and overall my feeling’s been I’ve enough on my plate without encouraging a war in my own back yard.
For this reason Will and I took the trouble to snap the plastic lumberjack into working order, spent a fun time testing him out, then put on our coats and trooped round the corner to Mr
Cottle’s front door.
There was no reply to our ringing or knocking, but the car was in the drive and I could see his mobility scooter parked in the hall behind the bevelled glass. Given he can’t walk to the
end of the street these days unaided, I guessed he must be inside. I opened the letterbox and shouted his name.
‘Watch, Grandma,’ said Will, running down the metal disability ramp with thumping, clanging strides.
‘Shh,’ I told him.
All I could hear from inside was the muffled sound of the TV.
‘Let’s try round the back,’ I said, laying the lumberjack on the gravel next to the ramp and taking my grandson’s hand. I had a sudden prickle about what we might find,
and though I’d rather Will had stayed outside, he was just too young to be left unsupervised.
At the rear of the house the garden was neat, wheeliebins labelled, planters and tubs emptied ready for spring. Will poked at the cat-flap and I tried the door handle. It gave, and we were in.
The kitchen smelled of toast overlaid with menthol and chemical toilet; in the sink sat a milk pan half-f of water, but aside from that the room was fairly tidy. A clutch of money-saving coupons
was bulldog-clipped to a
Bonnie Scotland
wall calendar, pots of Brylcreem were stacked into a tower, his mugs hung symmetrically from a wooden rack. Even his pan scourer was tucked into
the mouth of a china frog sitting on the windowsill.
‘Here, play with this,’ I said, picking up the frog and handing it to Will. Needs must as the devil drives.
I could see across the hall into the lounge. On the TV screen, a blonde presenter was helping a middle-aged woman step onto some weighing scales. The top of Mr C’s head showed over the
back of an armchair. I led Will into the hall, closed the kitchen door behind us, set him to feed his frog on the floor. Then I made myself walk into the room.
Tommy Cottle was sitting upright with his eyes open, and for a split second I thought he was OK. I’d been a fool crashing in, over-dramatic. Words of apology formed on my lips. But the
next second I knew.
‘Mr Cottle?’ I said hopelessly. A quick glance at Will to check he was occupied, then I leaned forward and pressed the old man’s shoulder. ‘Mr Cottle? Tommy?’ There
was no response. His face was perfectly peaceful.
‘OK, Grandma has to make a phone call, we need to go,’ I said. I stepped backwards and, though I was trying to be careful, my leg caught against a small table with a mug of coffee on
top. The mug slid off and bounced onto the floor, sloshing beige liquid across the beige carpet.
Will looked up, only mildly interested. ‘Frog’s hungry. Yum yum.’
I knew it wasn’t the time to be worrying about stains, but I couldn’t stop myself picking up the mug and placing it back on the table. The action made me shiver and almost drop the
mug again: the china was still very slightly warm. However Mr Cottle had died, it had been both recent and quick.
I stood in Gemma’s doorway and scanned her room. Huge black and white poster of Jean Harlow over her bed, tumble of shoes under the window, clutch of Aldi carrier bags
dumped on her dressing-table. The wardrobe was open a crack and I could see clothes spilling out from the bottom. I had this sudden picture of her scooping her belongings together and making trip
after trip up and down the stairs while Walsh sat by and watched. Gemma staggering in here, dropping things, rooting through them, throwing armfuls into the cupboard, not bothering with hangers
or folded piles and then trying to jam the door closed, swearing, leaving it. My mum’s like that. She believes inanimate objects are in league against her.
I made my way between the piles of Gemma’s history books and poked around the dressing-table. One of the plastic bags I could see straight away was full of make-up, so I had a rummage
and brought up two bottles of nail polish. The second bag was all hair products, and the next, Ventolin inhalers, painkillers, eczema cream, tampons. Finally, at the bottom of the fourth bag, a
pot of varnish-remover pads.
There was no time to waste. I’d run to the kitchen now, scrub the paint-marks, then put the pot back before she came home from lectures.
And yet I stayed a few moments, staring at Jean Harlow and trying to work out what I felt. Gemma gay and Walshy free. Us all together, in the same house.
Just thinking about it made my head spin.
After the ambulance men had been and gone, the niece turned up. She was what Mum would have called hard-faced. Older than me, bone-thin, dyed black hair. ‘You’re
the one who found him?’ she asked.
‘I’d fetched his little chopper.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Eh?’
‘He has this . . . thing, plastic, windmill. A man.’ I seemed to have lost the power to construct a sentence. ‘A garden ornament. It blew over. Our fence.’
She was only half-listening, her gaze roving round the room, and I thought, She’s doing an inventory. She’s thinking, What did he leave me in his will? I felt like saying,
‘Sorry, am I in your way?’
‘And he was in this chair?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s this mark here?’ She pointed to the carpet. ‘Did he wet himself?’
‘That was me,’ I said.
‘Eh?’
‘I mean, I knocked over a drink. He’d made a drink. Before he died. I don’t mean I made a drink while I was here.’
I haven’t
filched anything, you
grasping cow.
‘You live over the back?’
‘Yes. With my grandson.’ Will was at the table, good as gold, scribbling over a colouring book. ‘We didn’t see a lot of Mr Cottle. I know he’d had a spell in
hospital a while ago.’
‘Creaking gate. It was a shock, though, I thought he’d go on forever.’
‘Well, you do. When my mother died, we knew she was ill, but even so—’
‘Can you take the cat?’
She took me completely off-guard. ‘Cat?’
‘He has a cat.’
‘Oh, yes, I know, but I don’t think—’
‘Otherwise we’ll have to get it put down. Which would be a shame.’
‘Can’t you have it?’
‘Not allowed. I’m allergic.’
Bet you aren’t, I thought.
‘It can’t have that much longer to live. Six months tops, I’d say. It’d be nice for your little lad there, to have a nice pet. You’d like a cat, wouldn’t you,
love?’ she called across to Will.
Straight away I should have said,
Sorry, I can’t manage that, but shall I look up the vet’s number for you?
There was this small window of opportunity where I could have
turned my back and not left the house seething at myself, a tatty basket under my arm. ‘What about the RSPCA?’
‘I don’t think it would survive. On its last legs, that one. It’d be cruel to stick it in a pen at this stage.’
‘And Mr Cottle’s got no other family?’ Because who were all these framed photos of? I’d barely registered them till now, but suddenly they were everywhere, the same
dark-haired woman over and over. She looked familiar, too. Then the penny dropped. It was Carol Vorderman.
‘No, he had no one. Just me.’
Poor beggar
, I heard Mum say.
Take his cat. It’s t’least you can do. Don’t you remember our Chalkie? You loved him. He was never any bother.
‘I suppose we could look after it till you find a proper home,’ I heard myself saying.
The deal was done. She relaxed visibly, even allowed herself a slight smile.
I said, ‘I’m sorry about your uncle. My mum died last year and it’s hard, incredibly hard. Adjusting, coming to terms with the fact they’ve finally gone, that
you’ll never speak to them again. All the things you meant to say . . .’
The room was hushed. Somewhere a tiny clock was ticking. I searched her face for some flicker of sympathy.
She said, ‘Yeah. Anyway, there’s some tins of Whiskas in the kitchen if you want them. Daft to let them go to waste, isn’t it?’
Walshy wandered into the kitchen just as I clicked the washing-machine door shut. He was wearing a black kimono that barely reached mid-thigh.
I said, ‘I hope you’ve at least put some knickers on under that.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m safe inside my boxers.’ He twitched the kimono aside to demonstrate.
‘Lovely. And the reason you’re still trouserless is . . .’
‘Thought I’d take a shower.’
‘Go take one, then.’
‘In a minute. Don’t rush me.’ With infuriating slowness he opened the fridge, extracted a bottle of Yazoo milkshake and began picking at the silver-foil cap.
‘Is that even yours?’
‘It’s Gemma’s. She won’t mind. You’re using her nail-polish remover, so you can’t say too much.’
‘It’s not the same. God, you’re annoying.’
I watched him puncture the foil with his thumbnail, hold the bottle to his lips and drink. Then he stuck the bottle back in the fridge, wiped his mouth with the hem of his kimono –
another nice flash of his pants – and hoisted himself up onto the unit where he sat with his bare legs dangling.
‘Why
do
I annoy you so much, Chazbo? What is it about me that squeaks your inner polystyrene?’
Because I fancy you, you git, I thought. I fancy you beyond reason and I hate myself for it.
‘Well, see the state of you. At least tie your belt. What would Gemma say if she walked in? What would it look like?’
‘It doesn’t matter now.’
‘It matters to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, fuck off, Walsh.’
The machine choked and spat and juddered. Walshy picked up a jam-smeared knife that someone had left out and began to lick it. I shunted together a few dirty plates and lowered them into the
sink.
‘So when’s Dan the Man making his next appearance?’
I ignored him. Scummy water was backing up from the plughole, which meant the u-bend was blocked again. Possibly a wiggle with a spoon handle might do it, but more likely it would need
chemicals and a blast with a plunger.
‘Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,’ sang Walshy.
‘Act useful for once and find the Mr Muscle.’
‘Aren’t I muscly enough for you?’
‘Only if you can unblock the sink with your bare hands.’
The appeal to his manliness worked. He oozed off the counter in a slither of silk and began to roll up his sleeves. I knelt to open the cupboard where the plunger lived.
I said, ‘Did you honestly have no idea about Gemma?’
‘About her being gay? Nope. Did you?’
‘Why would I?’
‘I dunno. Girly sixth-sense or something?’
‘Sorry, passed me right by.’ I lifted the plates out of the way and passed him the plunger. ‘Right, you know what to do with this.’
But he shook his head. ‘My sleeves won’t stay up. They’re too floppy. I need to take my robe off.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t.’
In the drawer by the back door we kept a handful of clothes pegs. I fished out two, snapped them in Walshy’s face like miniature crocodiles. ‘Hold out your arms.’ I gathered
his cuffs up concertina-style and clipped them above his elbows. ‘There. Now off to work you go.’
‘I bet I look a right knob.’
‘No change there, then.’
While he assaulted the plughole I went and sat at the table. Suddenly a memory of bathtime Will swept over me: Will sitting behind a wobbling mountain of bubbles, shrieking and blowing foam up
the tiles. What would he be up to right now? It was too early for his nap. Had Mum taken him up the shops or to the library? Was she clicking him into his toddler reins, wiggling his weeny hands
into stripy mittens, persuading his boots over his socks?
But it should be me! I should be doing that!
For a moment I felt stricken, wanted to run out of the front door there and then
and jump on the nearest train – but I breathed calmly and made myself sit.
There was a drainsy sound like a troll clearing its throat, then some sputtering, followed by a huge burp from the plughole.
‘Aha,’ Walshy said.
‘Have you done it?’
‘I have.’ He peered one last time over the sink then laid the plunger on the worktop, where it began to drip filth into the cutlery tray.
‘Bloody hell, Walshy, watch it.’
‘What now? Oh.’
I came over and pushed him out of the way. There was a bottle of Parazone somewhere in the cupboard. ‘The whole area needs bleaching now. Unless you want to contract galloping
salmonella. Remind me again why we moved in with you?’
‘For daily glimpses of my excellent pecs, of course. And because I’m the only one here who doesn’t have a complete sparky fit if I see a spider. Because of my even
temperament, my ability to knock up cocktails from limited means, my—’
‘Because you don’t mind if we’re late with the rent and you let us use drawing pins on the walls.’
As I wiped bleach round the worktop and drainer I remembered the night Gemma had first mentioned him to us. ‘There’s this guy on my course with a house looking for people to share.
He doesn’t mind boys or girls, but we’ve got to move quick. Are we interested?’ And Walshy had been charming at that initial meeting, shy and hesitant. A total act.
I said, ‘You promise it won’t be a problem, you and Gemma now?’
‘It’s fine at this end. I can’t speak for her. Although she seemed all right last night. Honest, she did.’
‘As far as you could tell.’
‘I’m just a man, what would I know? You’ll claw it out of her, over one of your girly chats.’
That was going to be an interesting conversation, I thought.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘enough of my love-life. What about yours? How’s it really going with Desperate Dan? I haven’t seen him for weeks. Nothing wrong, is
there?’
Nothing wrong that wasn’t wrong before, no.
‘It’s fine, thanks for asking. He’s coming up this weekend.’
‘Ah. That’ll be nice for you.’
‘Yeah, it will, actually.’
‘Cool. Hey, fancy sharing brunch? I’ve a malt loaf and tin of fruit pie filling somewhere.’
Walsh pulled off his clothes pegs, snapping one onto the kettle flex and the other onto the rim of Gemma’s Churchill mug.
‘I’m afraid I have to go see my tutor now,’ I said crisply.
‘Oh, deep joy. Mmmmartin. Mmmm. I
heart
Martin Eavis.’ He drew the shape in the air.
‘Take the washing out as soon as it finishes and hang it up,’ I told him. ‘And if those pegs aren’t back in the drawer when I get in, there’ll be
trouble.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
I gave him the finger, and left.