The World's Worst Mothers (4 page)

‘So I see,' said their mother in disgust. ‘I hope it's not for me.'

‘I thought, since tomorrow is mother's day …'

‘Forget it! I'm on a diet for the next two weeks!'

‘She's been trying on bikinis,' said George, rolling his eyes.

‘I don't know what they've done with the sizes,' said Sophie's mother. ‘Last year, a 38 fitted me comfortably.'

Sophie looked at her mother. She wished she were half as slim.

‘So you don't want any of the lemon Swiss roll?'

‘For heaven's sake, after that I'd look like –' She broke off.

‘Like me, you were going to say, weren't you?'

Sophie took the baking tray and threw the contents into the bin.

In her room, she turned on her PC and logged in to Allfriends. Dragon Monster had written,
I think this might interest you. Check out
www.worldsworstmothers.eek
.

Kruschke was standing on the pier, waiting for the ferry, which had just appeared on the horizon. The sun was shining and the waves were peaked with white foam. Kruschke was sweating in his thick jacket, but no sooner had he taken it off than the breeze picked up and he had to put it back on.

He'd been stuck for thirty years now on this odious island. And for all these years, he'd been putting his abilities to work in the service of others. He'd been exploited, first by Wohlfarth Senior, then by his son. Neither of them had ever appreciated his worth, but that was going to change very soon.

Kruschke touched his reddened eyelid, which was oozing unpleasantly again. That was the fault of the ceaseless wind. When Wohlfarth's mission had come to an end, and in a way that Wohlfarth couldn't even dream of, then Kruschke would move back to the mainland. But he would not go alone. He smiled at the thought.

The ferry was approaching. It wasn't bringing tourists. Who would want to holiday on this boring island? The Dune View guesthouse did have two or three guest rooms but, at best, they were occupied now and again by the staff of the ferry when they got stranded on the island because of stormy weather.

When Wohlfarth's factory had been in full swing, there was more activity. Dealers from all over Germany used to come to Nordfall to see Kruschke's creations for themselves. There'd even been a Chinese man among them once, who'd said he wanted to buy woolly dogs for a big store in Peking. Nothing had come of that, and Kruschke was quite sure this person had only come to spy.

The ship's horn tooted loudly, and now Kruschke could see the delivery van that brought the post along with boxes of food. And it was because of the post that he'd come. Normally, the post was delivered to Dune View and was given out by Herr Lührsen, who ran not only the guesthouse but also the island's post office. But Wohlfarth did not want the letters that he was waiting so impatiently for to fall into the wrong hands.

The ferry berthed. The post van was the first off the boat. The postman stopped in front of Kruschke and rolled down his window, saying, ‘Mornin'. I have a whole sack of letters for your boss. He didn't advertise for a wife, did he?' He laughed out loud.

‘Something like that,' said Kruschke. ‘I'm supposed to pick them up. It's urgent.'

The driver got out and hauled a sack out of the back of the van.

Kruschke grabbed it, threw it onto the flatbed of a little pick-up and drove off.

‘That fellow gets weirder and weirder,' murmured the postman and drove the few yards to Dune View, where a nice portion of pickled herring with black bread was waiting for him.

‘Here you go, boss,' said Kruschke, shaking the contents of the postbag onto Wohlfarth's desk.

‘Is that all?' asked Wohlfarth, disappointed.

‘There are at least a hundred letters there,' said Kruschke. ‘We can't accommodate that many here.'

‘Of course not, you dunderhead,' said Wohlfarth, tearing open a letter. ‘But I'm only counting on a fifty per cent success rate. Here! Here's one now!' He was unfolding a sheet. ‘“My mother is the worst of all because she didn't give me a horse for my birthday,”' he read out. ‘This is what one Annalena from Buxtehude writes. This mother is not dreadful. She's just sensible. This is no good to us.' Wohlfarth fingered an ink-blotched page. ‘This is a Kevin from Potsdam, whose mother is supposed to be the worst because she took his Playstation away. Judging by this fellow's spelling, that was the right thing to do.'

Wohlfarth kept tearing open letters. ‘Some of them don't even give a return address,' he ranted. ‘And Munich is no good anyway, far too far away. Same with Frankfurt.' He threw two letters unread into the waste-paper basket and slit the next one open.

‘What on earth are we supposed to do with a photo like that?' Angrily, he tore up a photograph that showed a woman holding her arm defensively up to her face.

Kruschke said nothing, just stood in front of Wohlfarth's desk till his boss had calmed down.

At last, Wohlfarth sorted the letters into three piles and said, ‘I'll make a selection later. Tell the others that I want to see them here at seven sharp.'

‘Yessir!'

Kruschke walked across the factory floor, opened an iron door and went down a long passageway to the so-called north wing. The materials store and the washrooms for the workers used to be here. Now half a dozen rooms were empty. Sven-Ole was just dipping a paint roller into a bucket.

‘How far have you got?' asked Kruschke.

‘I still have to do this room and the two behind,' said Sven-Ole, rolling white paint over the wall. ‘Could we not go for something a bit more colourful? It all looks so cold.'

‘It's not supposed to be a rest home,' said Kruschke shortly.

‘I know, I know,' said Sven-Ole. ‘Thinking about colours, I have a good joke. If you strangle a smurf, what colour does he go?'

Kruschke snorted contemptuously. ‘Seven sharp in the boss's office, and that's no joke,' he said, leaving the room.

In one of the rooms that had already been painted, Vibke Paulsen was just putting sheets on the beds.

Ramona Bottle was standing beside her, reading out of a book: ‘When you are speaking to your child, hunker down to him and look him in the eye.' She knelt down. Then she looked at the book again. ‘You should always be on the same level as your child.'

Ramona closed the book and took another from the big pile that she'd stacked up beside her.

‘Here it says exactly the opposite. It says you should never be on the same level as your child.' She stood up, her bones creaking. ‘I can't make head nor tail of it.'

Vibke Paulsen tapped her forehead knowingly. ‘I brought up five children. Common sense is better than any book, no matter how clever it is. That's my opinion.'

‘You could teach cooking and sewing,' said Ramona Bottle. ‘Then you wouldn't have to bother with any of this stupid theory.'

‘How far have you got?' asked Kruschke.

Ramona pointed to the heap of books on child-rearing. On one book, a toothless baby grinned; on another, there was a teenager with braces on their teeth.

‘I don't know if I can remember all this stuff. I'm a secretary, not a teacher.'

‘I think six beds to a room is too much too ask,' said Vibke Paulsen. ‘It looks like a youth hostel in here.'

‘It'll be fine,' said Kruschke, moving on.

He wasn't at all sure how fine it was going to be. If he was honest, he was a little anxious. If the whole thing took off and it all went differently from the way Wohlfarth imagined it, what then? They'd all end up in jail, that's what. And that couldn't be allowed to happen. Because then Kruschke wouldn't be able to put
his
plan into action.

He gave a bitter laugh. A school for mother improvement! Only Wohlfarth, with his mother fixation, could think up something like that. Mothers were human and humans were flawed creatures, born to die. A discontinued line, so to speak. How different were his creations! They were not only beautiful, but intelligent – two characteristics that were seldom found together in a person made of flesh and blood.

Kruschke went back into the warehouse area and slipped through a semi-transparent plastic sheet that curtained off a section of the warehouse. There they were – his Annas! Whenever he was troubled by doubts, he went and took a look at them. Each one. From Anna 01 to Anna 25. To an outsider, they all looked exactly the same. But he could tell them apart. Anna 12 had a little dimple in her chin. Anna 07 a tiny mole under her left eye. Anna 25's ears stuck out a little. But they were all very beautiful, with their smooth faces, long blonde hair and slim figures. Each one was wearing a flowery skirt, a white blouse and a light blue cardigan. Ramona Bottle had chosen the clothes, and Kruschke thought they were absolutely spot on: not too old-fashioned and not too modern.

Kruschke patted one of them on the arm, stroked the hair of another. He pulled a seam straight here, buttoned up a cardigan there. He could hardly wait to bring them to life, to give them speech and movement.

None of them could hold a candle to Sarah, of course. His Sarah. Kruschke sighed.

At seven o'clock, the workers gathered in Wohlfarth's office. Sven-Ole was still wearing his paint-spattered overalls and seemed to be the only one who was in good form. Any work was better than transporting bleating sheep to the slaughter.

Wohlfarth drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘Has anyone seen Kruschke?'

‘He has to fix something,' said Vibke Paulsen.

‘I've just thought of a great joke, boss. Kruschke puts me in mind of it,' said Sven-Ole. ‘A blonde says to her admirer, “How come you're looking at me so strangely?” The admirer says, “I have an artificial eye.” The blonde says, “What's it made of?” “Glass,” says the admirer, and the blonde nods. “Oh, yes, of course. After all, you have to be able to see through it.”' Sven-Ole slapped himself on the thigh with laughter. ‘Isn't that a good one?'

When he saw Kruschke, who had just come in, he said quickly, ‘I didn't mean to be offensive.'

‘I don't know why blondes are supposed to be so funny,' said Ramona Bottle, twirling a lock of hair.

Wohlfarth didn't seem to have been listening. ‘Everything under control, Kruschke?'

‘Of course, boss,' said Kruschke, sitting on a little chair and giving Sven-Ole a look that would have killed anyone else.

Wohlfarth's waste-paper basket was overflowing, and on his desk was a pretty small pile of questionnaires.

‘OK, well, I've checked them all and there are just seventeen that are at all suitable.'

‘That's terrific, boss,' said Sven-Ole.

Ramona Bottle said, ‘It's definitely better to start small, don't you think?'

Wohlfarth turned to Kruschke. ‘How many Annas have we got?'

‘If we include Prototype 3131 –'

‘Which is probably lying on some sandbank, frightening the seals,' Wohlfarth interrupted.

‘Well, then, it's twenty-five,' said Kruschke as calmly as possible. Only his red face betrayed that he was anything but calm.

‘That's good. That means we have a reliable reserve of eight. You never know what might go wrong.'

Wohlfarth pressed the questionnaires into Kruschke's hand. ‘You have exactly a week to prepare.'

‘A week!' cried Kruschke, horrified. ‘It takes at least two days to program each one.'

‘One week and not a day longer,' said Wohlfarth. ‘If we take any more time, we run the risk that the information in the questionnaires is no longer valid. I want the Annas to be ready for work within ten days at the latest.'

‘But … will everyone not notice that these … eh … Annas … are dolls?' asked Vibke Paulsen.

‘No way!' Kruschke contradicted her. ‘They can do everything that a mother can, only better: cleaning, putting the washing machine on, sticking a ready meal in the microwave …'

‘They can't cook?'

‘They can boil water, but a proper meal that must be carefully prepared and tasted – well, I'm still working on those sensors. In future, every Anna will be programmed so that they can cook everything from good plain food to five-star cuisine.'

‘Cooking is not important,' Wohlfarth interrupted. ‘It's enough if the children get their favourite food served up to them, and in most cases that's just pizza or chips. What's much more important is whether your Annas can help the children with their homework.'

‘Certainly,' said Kruschke, slightly irritated. ‘They know the whole curriculum from first to tenth class. They can even make Christmas decorations and crochet pot holders.'

‘And can they read aloud?' asked Vibke Paulsen.

‘All my Annas have a built-in character-recognition program. A speech module processes everything and the Annas read in a pleasant voice.'

‘Aha,' said Ramona Bottle, though she hadn't understood a word of what he'd said.

‘And how do we get these wonderful creatures off the island?' asked Sven-Ole.

‘On the
Margarethe,
of course,' said Wohlfarth.

‘But then everyone will see!' said Vibke Paulsen. ‘What can we tell people?'

‘What will people think if they see so many blondes all at once?' asked Wohlfarth. ‘They will think they are models. You should just tell everyone that I've set up a school for models. These ladies are the first ones, leaving us after successful training.'

He turned to Ramona Bottle. ‘Is the company sign I ordered ready?'

‘It should be here by tomorrow at the latest,' replied Ramona eagerly. ‘The letters WIMI in green neon, as requested.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?' asked Sven-Ole, slow on the uptake.

‘Wohlfarth's Institute for Mother Improvement,' replied Wohlfarth shortly. ‘But officially the letters stand for Wohlfart's Institute for Model Instruction.'