Read Bad Mothers United Online
Authors: Kate Long
Bad Mothers United (30 page)
I held the phone away from me for a second because I didn’t recognise the voice and I couldn’t for the life of me take in what this strange man was saying. The
screen showed Steve’s number.
Will wriggled free and began to tackle the stairs himself. Fortunately Eric ran up to help him. I suppose he must have seen the shock on my face.
‘Sorry, can you repeat that?’
‘I’m a paramedic,’ said the voice. ‘Your husband’s had a road traffic accident and he’s quite badly injured.’
There was a scuffling noise and in the background I could make out Steve shouting, ‘No, I’m not. I’m all right. Tell her.’
The paramedic said, ‘I’m going to put him on, OK?’ And before I could respond, Steve was speaking in my ear.
‘Karen?’ He did sound shaken.
‘What the bloody hell’s happened to you?’
‘I’ve come off my bike.’
‘What have you done to yourself?’
‘I’ve – I’ve broken my arm—’
‘Oh, you noodle. What happened? Were you going too fast?’
There was a scuffling noise and a groan. The paramedic came back on. ‘Mrs Cooper, he’s on Grimstone Lane, do you know it? Two hundred yards before the motorway bridge. The
road’s blocked off but if you speak to the ambulance crew, they’ll let you past.’
I said, ‘We’re not married any more.’ Which was a stupid thing to come out with. I wasn’t thinking straight.
‘No, but you’re his next-of-kin,’ said the paramedic. ‘Could you get to him, please? Quick as you can.’
Next thing I knew, Jen had dragged her hand free and started a coughing fit. I found myself stepping back as she heaved and retched, her eyes watering.
I said, ‘Can I get you anything?’
She shook her head. I supposed it was the shock catching up with her. She was old, after all; older than her years. And she didn’t look in tip-top health and this place felt damp.
When she could get her breath again, she motioned towards the door. ‘Shall I make us that cuppa, sweetheart? You must be gasping after your journey.’
‘OK.’
Jen’s kitchen turned out to be on the poky side and well knackered. Those TV makeover programmes would have had a field day. I mean, our kitchen’s dated, but Mum always keeps it
fairly clean and neat. The units here were shabby and covered in a weird dark blue veneer; one of the doors hung wonky and there was dirt in the grooved edges. At the corner of the ceiling black
mould mottled the wallpaper. The steel sink was stained down the sides, one of the taps bent forward and dripped constantly. The hob was coated in gunk. I was about to ask how long it had been
since she moved in when, without a word, she ducked out of the room and left me to it.
I waited for a minute, then filled the kettle myself and began to hunt for tea bags and cups. A biscuit wouldn’t have gone amiss either. I cast about for a likely-looking tin, but aside
from a sauce-smeared plate, a pair of trainers, a bunch of keys and a pile of newspapers, the work surfaces were clear. Cautiously I hooked my fingers under a cupboard door and pulled it open. No
biscuits here, only a packet of cereal, five or six assorted cans of beans and soup, a jar of lemon tea granules and a handful of pasta screwed up in polythene. The top shelf held the end of a
loaf of bread. I closed the door and tried another: this one housed a few mismatched plates and bowls and half a dozen drinking glasses. The first base unit I tried contained two pans, a
balled-up tea towel and a bucket, and the one next to it an overflowing bin. Last chance was the modest-sized fridge where I hoped there might at least be butter or a lump of cheese. In fact, two
of the racks were empty and the third was occupied by lager, Lucozade and a lone egg.
Where was all the food? Didn’t this woman eat at all? Normal shopping aside, our kitchen at home was stuffed with emergency supplies, tins and packets and plastic containers of
easy-to-prepare food, all the fall-backs of the busy working mum. There was always a stock of rice-meals and dried milk, tinned meat and fruit, cartons of custard, sachets of porridge. In the
event of Armageddon, we Coopers could survive for months.
My stomach whined. I should’ve eaten something on the train but I’d been too stressed. Now my fear had subsided, I was ravenous. As I contemplated nicking a slice of dry bread to
keep me going, I heard the toilet flush. Jen reappeared.
I said, ‘Is there anyone else I could meet? I mean, has Mum any other relatives round here?’
She took two mugs from the cupboard and spooned lemon tea into them. ‘No. There’s no one else. ’Cause my parents are dead and – yeah, that’s it.’
‘Mum’s father?’
‘Him too. Just me, that’s all there is. ’Cept for Dex, he’s my boyfriend and he’s not a blood relation, obviously. He wants to meet you. He’s gonna pop
round in a bit, say hello.’
To be truthful, I wasn’t that fussed about seeing any boyfriend. It seemed ungracious to object, though. I checked my watch. ‘OK. I can’t stay much after three. Will you be
able to give me a lift back to the station?’
‘Course, sweetheart.’ Her thin lips curved upwards. ‘I’d say that’s the least we can do.’
It’s not something I want to witness ever again.
I’d got it into my mind that when I arrived, Steve would be sitting on a verge holding his arm and looking rueful. Instead, once I’d got past the lorry they’d used to block the
road, I could see he was lying across the tarmac with a pool of blood under him.
‘Come through,’ said the paramedic. He had hold of me by the elbow which was just as well because my legs felt like water.
They’d taken off his crash helmet and cut his jeans up to the thigh, and that knee was splinted and strapped. I didn’t like to look at it too much. That’s where the blood was
coming from. I crouched down and called his name. At first his eyes were closed but when he heard my voice he opened them. I’d forgotten his irises were so blue.
I said, ‘Oh, love.’
He gave a weak laugh. ‘Hit a sodding brick in t’road, that’s all it were. A sodding brick. And look at t’state of me. Only just started at t’warehouse, can’t
even claim for sick pay. What am I like?’
When I glanced to the left, I could see a bone showing through his arm and I nearly cried out with horror.
‘Are you in a lot of pain?’ Daft question.
‘It nips a bit. How’s my bike?’
Sod the bike, I nearly said. But he seemed genuinely concerned so I got up again and went to check. The Kawasaki was laid out by a hedgerow, in one piece but with the front forks bent and the
fuel tank dented. The speedometer case was cracked and the front wheel buckled. He’d want to know whether it was salvageable, and I had no idea. As I stumbled back to him, I found a silver
dial lying near the white line which I thought must be the bike’s clock. I waited till the paramedics moved away, then I crouched back down and showed him. I had to hold it in front of his
face because they’d braced his neck.
‘That’s not off the Kwacker, that’s what’s left of my watch,’ he said.
‘Oh, right.’
I made myself keep my eyes on his face, though the temptation was to glance down and see what state his wrist was in.
‘How is she, anyway?’
‘The bike looks fine,’ I said. To be fair, I didn’t know whether it was the kind of damage a lump hammer and a bit of determination could straighten out.
‘She flipped right up and threw me off, caught me as she came down . . . It were all over in seconds.’
A spasm gripped him. His good hand came up and groped about for me. I could hear the ambulance men on their radios and a swell of helplessness came over me. What were they playing at? Why
wasn’t he on his way to hospital right now?
As if he’d read my thoughts, one of the paramedics came over. ‘We’re waiting for a helicopter.’
‘A helicopter?’
‘It’s the best way with accidents like this. Mr Cooper, we need you to keep very still and tell us if there’s any sudden change in sensation or pain levels, OK?’
Steve licked his lips. ‘I’m not going anywhere, mate.’ Then his eyes closed.
‘You’ll be all right,’ I told him. ‘You’re going to be fine.’
‘Yeah.’
I noticed the pool of blood had crept nearly to the edge of my shoe.
‘Will somebody radio that bloody helicopter to hurry up?’ I shouted.
Then, over this tea that tasted of lemon Fairy Liquid, she began to tell me her own history. And what a train of misery it turned out to be: how her mother had persuaded her
to move to London to escape the shame of being a single mum, how she’d changed her name because after all the upset she wanted to start again. Her years with a man who beat her (and held
her arm against a hot stove and burst her eardrum and mashed her foot so badly with his boot she had no big toenail there). How afterwards she’d had a breakdown and spent several years in a
sort of hospital, recovering. When she came out she’d married a nice man but they’d only been together two years when he got knocked down by a drunk driver and died on his way to
hospital. For a bit she worked in a clothes shop, till one of the other assistants took against her and lied to the boss that she was stealing so she got the sack. Then she met another man who
seemed decent and kind, only he turned out to have a drugs problem and stole money out of her purse and pawned her jewellery. In one particularly grim week she lost her job, her flat and her
boyfriend. There were some bleak months hooking up with any bloke who offered so she’d have a bed to sleep in that night, and then by luck she wangled a job in a friend’s café,
which is where she met Dex. ‘He saved me,’ she said. ‘Because he understood. He’s had troubles of his own. Terrible troubles.’
Dear God, please don’t start unpacking those as well, I thought. Now she’d opened up, I found it a bit overwhelming. There seemed almost an element of competition, of boasting.
See my hard-knock life
, she was saying.
Haven’t I suffered?
I hardly knew how to respond. I felt dragged down under the weight of all her past woes, my face was stiff from
sympathy.
I said, ‘Don’t you want to hear about Mum?’
‘You’ve told me, sweetheart.’
‘I mean about her growing up and Nan and everything. There must be a hundred things you want to ask.’
‘Yeah, there are. Course there are. But I want to hear about you, too. Tell me more about this boyfriend who’s giving you gyp.’
Suddenly we heard the key in the lock and the front door banged open. Two seconds later a man burst into the room. He was short, bald, wide, excited. Dex.
‘Has she brought it?’ His eyes glittered as they fell on me.
‘Brought what?’ I said.
‘Shut up,’ said Jen quickly.
Dex’s smile slipped a little.
I said, ‘What am I supposed to have brought?’
‘Nothing. Excuse us.’
I watched in dismay as Jen hustled him out of the room. ‘Idiot!’ I heard her hiss. Whatever was going on, it didn’t feel right. Was she upset because I hadn’t come
equipped with a photo album or some special memento of Mum’s? That didn’t seem likely. So far she hadn’t even seemed that interested in Mum, had reacted really weirdly when I
suggested a meeting. The whole atmosphere was beginning to make me anxious.
Partly to relieve my jittery legs I got up and went to stand in the hall. From there I could hear Dex’s voice quite clearly, even though it was coming from behind a closed door.
‘You were the one reckoned it would work,’ he grumbled. ‘You said she’d cough.’ Then Jen cut in, too quiet to make out words but very angry, I could tell from her
tone. Then Dex again: ‘It’s not my debt, is it? Go back to friggin’ Archie’s, see how happy he is to give you another week.’
There was a strange noise, a kind of strangled groan or yelp.
‘Yeah, but what choice we got?’ said Dex.
And finally I understood. I pushed down the door handle and walked in.
They were standing on either side of a bed, except it was really just a mattress with a duvet on top. Around the room were piles of clothes and assorted odd bits of junk: a computer keyboard
propped against the corner, the parcel shelf off a car, an orange plastic planter split down one side, half a fireguard. One wall had been stripped down to plaster and the curtain was held up
with drawing pins. There was no carpet. I thought, This isn’t the shambles of someone half-moved in. This is actual poverty. This is all they have.
Jen froze when she saw me. ‘Give us a minute—’
‘You thought I was bringing you money.’
‘No!’
‘Course we did,’ said Dex. He sounded defensive, as if the problem here might be mine.
‘So those cards you wrote to my mum were begging letters. When I said I was coming to London, you thought it meant she was sending me with cash.’ No response. My heart swelled with
indignation. ‘For God’s sake, what makes you think we’re rich?’
She hung her head, but Dex stared me out. ‘I bet you’ve more than us, love.’
I opened my mouth to protest, then stopped. He was right. For all we’d had our lean times, I’d never had to live with bare floors and no TV.
I said, ‘What is it you need money for?’
She gave a bitter laugh. ‘What don’t we need money for? They’re bloody queuing up.’
‘What, are we telling her now?’ said Dex.
‘She might as well hear. I owe somebody, Charlotte. Well, I owe a load of people, but there’s this one man. He’s not so patient as the others. He’s—’
‘He’s gonna fuck us over. We’re out of time, basically. Finished.’
‘We’ve moved twice but they always find us. And it’s all right saying, “Ooh, don’t go down that route,” but you get a bit behind with your rent and that,
and then someone offers you notes in your hand. You’d have to be Mother sodding Teresa to turn them down. A month later they’re taking the door off its hinges.’
Loan sharks, then. I’d seen a drama on TV a couple of months ago about one and it had given me nightmares. One woman they’d pushed so she was leaning right out of a window, another
said they’d set fire to her son’s school bag. There’d been children screaming, mothers on their knees. Jesus, if it was pigs like that shouting through the letterbox, no wonder
she was wound up. No wonder she was so keen to see me. A walking cash dispenser, I must have looked like. My conscience hovered between pity and outrage.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I might be able to give you something. Just a small amount. Out of my own money.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Maybe twenty.’
Dex snorted.
I said, ‘It’s all I can manage. I need the rest to get back home.’
‘Waste of time.’
‘Where did you put my bag?’
Jen shot Dex a look. ‘I tell you what, sweetheart, how about you just loan us the cash. I can see you’ve got a few notes in your pocket there. Make it a bit more than twenty and
we’ll pay you back. Promise.’
‘Where’s my bag?’
‘I’ll post the money to you. Soon as I get straight.’
‘Enough.’ I slapped my hand against the thin wall. ‘I’m going to go now, right? Give me my stuff or I’m calling the police.’
That made her laugh. ‘And tell them what, sweetheart? You’ve mislaid your handbag? Your old granny’s asked you nicely for a few quid to see her through the week? Like
they’d even come out.’ She saw me reaching for my mobile. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s in the loo.’
I turned on my heel and ran for the tiny bathroom, locking the door behind me.
This was the rattiest room of the lot. No window, naked light bulb, gouged-up cork tiles under my feet. The bath had a line of grot going right the way round and a load of what looked like
dirty bedding bundled down at the plug end. I didn’t dare check the toilet.
At first glance there didn’t seem anywhere to hide a bag, unless she’d stuffed it in the cistern. But when I used my foot to shift a pile of clothes from the corner, underneath was
my coat and a plastic bin with my bag in it. I grabbed it and held it to my chest, heart thumping. Outside I could hear Jen and Dex still arguing. Dex didn’t look to be in great physical
shape, but he was angry and desperate. He could probably just take my money off me if he wanted. Or worse. A swell of panic sent me giddy and I had to clutch the sink for support. Idiot,
Charlotte! What a total and utter idiot I’d been ever to come here in the first place. Swept in on a tide of arrogance, and now see the state of me. No one knew where I was or who I was
with. God, I’d have given every penny I possessed to be back in Bank Top with Mum and Will, bickering over TV channels. Even to be on the platform at Euston.
I had to get home.
A deep breath, and I undid the lock.
