Bad Mothers United (35 page)

It was one of those mornings where the phone never stops. Sylv rang first for a general update, then it was Leo asking if he could bring my hours back up at school, to which I
had to say no because I was finding it hard to manage anyway. Then I had the hospital with an urgent request from Steve to bring in another tub of prunes. Last it was Social Services letting me
know that no, they didn’t hold any motorised wheelchairs, only self-propelled ones, but I could put in an application to central stock and I’d hear back within a few months. I said,
‘Never mind a few months, he’s going to need one as soon as he comes out, which will be in about three weeks.’

The lady sounded sorry. ‘The way it works is, he has to go through his GP. Get his GP to fill in a form and then your husband’ll get a letter calling him in for an assessment and
then they’ll take his measurements. In the meantime, there’s the manual chairs.’

I said, ‘He doesn’t need a GP’s assessment. A quick glance will tell you he’s only got one functioning limb out of four. Therefore a manual wheelchair’s no use, is
it? Look, don’t take my word for it. Ring the hospital and they’ll confirm the state he’s in. And bloody hell, if he wants measuring, I’ve a ruler here.’

She said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s the procedure.’

This kind of shenanigan I’d been through whilst I was caring for Mum, so I wasn’t surprised. Just incredibly disappointed, weary, frustrated. Normally you’re dropped into these
Social Services systems at exactly the time in your life when you’re least able to cope with them. Hard enough to find the time to phone once, never mind ring back because the office hours
have been so pared down the place is only open half the week, or call round four different organisations because everyone you speak to is convinced whatever it is you’re pursuing is someone
else’s responsibility. I felt barely able to write my name, but here I was filling out forms left, right and centre, every one of which required at least one piece of completely obscure
information which meant I’d have to take time out to go rooting through Steve’s house after his private papers, and we’re talking about a man whose filing system consisted mainly
of sticking important letters between the pages of random magazines. It would be all too easy simply to give up, lay my head on the table and weep.

‘Mrs Cooper? Are you there?’ went the wheelchair lady.

I suppose it can’t be nice for them on the other end, either. ‘OK, send me the papers and I’ll get the ball rolling.’

‘I have to send them direct to your husband’s GP.’

‘
Ex-
husband. Oh, God, I’m not sure who his GP is. The surgery’s somewhere in Harrop. Round the back of the library, I think. Big pillars either side of the door. You
must know it.’

‘Have you a street name?’

‘No.’

‘We do need a full postal address. Oh, and your ex-husband’s NHS number while you’re at it.’

I made a huge effort not to swear. ‘I’ll call you back.’

Spread across the table was a mountain of papers, scribbled phone numbers, care brochures, benefits information. Somewhere amongst this jumble might well have been Steve’s doctor’s
address, but I couldn’t be certain. On top of it all was the Disability Living Allowance form I’d been attempting to begin on behalf of Steve, thirty-eight pages of such baffling
complexity it required its own separate help-booklet. I’d only been able to fill in half of it because we still didn’t know how much Steve would be able to do for himself when he came
out of hospital (or how we’d work it, or whether I could pack my bags and flee the country in time).

Help with your care needs during the day (continued)

Do you usually have difficulty or do you need help with dressing or undressing?

Please tell us what help you need, how often and how long each time you need this help:

I have difficulty or need help with:

I moved a few sheets of paper half-heartedly and uncovered two Get Well cards I’d failed to take in for him, plus the contact details of the police Accident Investigation
Officer. I could feel my energy draining away.

Help with your care needs during the night. By night we mean when the household has closed down at the end of the day.

Do you usually have difficulty or need help during the night?

This means things like settling, getting into position to sleep, being propped up or getting your bedclothes back on the bed if they fall off, getting to the toilet, using the toilet, using
a commode, bedpan or bottle, getting to and taking the tablets or medicines prescribed for you and any treatments or therapy.

Please tell us what help you need, how often and how long each time you need this help:

I have difficulty or need help with:

Sighing, I flipped the DLA form over, picked up a pen and went out to the hall to retrieve our
Yellow Pages
. Then I remembered I’d last Sunday shoved them under
Will’s cushion so he could reach the big table while he did a bit of painting. At least he was at nursery this morning, that was one blessing.

I hauled the book out, lugged it over to the settee and started flipping backwards and forwards through the thin pages. There it was – S – no, gone past it – hell, bloody
thing’s shut itself. Come here, you bastard. Sliding off the bloody table now. Were telephone directories deliberately designed to be as awkward as possible?
Storage Services
,
Supermarkets
,
Surveyors
– nope, no surgeries there. Should I look under GPs? Someone knocked at the door. I ignored them.
Gates
,
Gearboxes
,
General
Practitioners see Doctors.
OK.
Distribution Centres
,
Driving Schools
,
Do It Yourself Shops
,
Doctors.
That was more like it.
Ashfields
,
Broome
,
Clayton
,
Coleman.
What was the surgery called? See, I didn’t even know the name of the road. Had I an old
A-Z
knocking about anywhere, anything
helpful like that? Course not. It was hopeless. I was going to have to wait until I saw Steve again. The doorbell rang. ‘Hang on!’ I shouted. I’d do one last scan through the
addresses in case something jogged my memory. I put my finger on the page and ran it down:
Park Lane
,
Littleacre
,
Millbank Cottages
,
Cheshire Street
,
Manchester Road
,
Bradwell Crescent
—

Someone was banging on my front door, or kicking it. The directory slid off the cushion and thudded to the floor, losing my page. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said under my breath.
‘Whoever this is interrupting me, you’d better have something important to say.’

When I flung the door open, to my surprise it was little Leanne Waring and her younger sister, Courtney. I liked Leanne. I used to do worksheets with her when she was in Year Two because
she’d had problems with her hearing and missed learning a lot of consonant sounds. Nice girl, very willing, and she’d caught up within two terms. She was in Year Six now, a Playground
Buddy and a library monitor. Not the kind of child who’d batter my door for devilment.

‘Hello, you two,’ I said. ‘This is a surprise.’

But Leanne’s face was mournful, and Courtney looked to be on the verge of tears. ‘Oh, Mrs Cooper.’

‘Whatever is it?’

‘Your cat, Mrs Cooper.’

‘Pringle? What’s he done now?’

‘There was this van. It came round the corner while he was crossing the road. It hit him.’

Courtney started to cry. Leanne took her hand.

‘Where?’ I said, trying to see past them onto the street. ‘Where is he?’

‘He ran off,’ said Leanne.

Ran? So he was alive. Thank God. ‘Which direction did he go? Was he limping?’

‘He was dragging his leg . . .’

They took me to the front gate and pointed to where they’d last seen him, apparently disappearing down the ginnel that leads round the back of our row. Then they showed me where the van
had clipped him. There was blood on the tarmac. I wanted to cry out with horror.

I said, ‘OK, look, girls, you’ve been very sensible coming to tell me, but I have to find Pringle now, so you take yourselves home and let me search. And for goodness’ sake, be
careful crossing the road.’

Leanne hesitated. I could tell she wanted to come with me, and perhaps if she hadn’t had her weeping sister in tow I’d have let her. I was a bag of nerves, I could have done with the
support. All I could think of was that memory of Steve lying mashed in the road, his mangled bike nearby.

I watched them safely across till they reached the Working Men’s Club car park, then I hurried to the ginnel to see if he was there. No sign of Pringle himself, but there was a spattering
of dark red drops on the stone flags. I craned my neck to see past the wheeliebins and a fat curtain of Russian vine. The grass verges had died back in the cold weather, leaving the path pretty
clear so at least the cat’s progress was easy to see: a sad row of bloodstains and, every so often, a heart-rending smear where the damaged leg had trailed. I felt sick at the thought of
finding him, sicker at the thought of not.

At the end of the path I stopped and looked right, in the direction of our back garden. Where might Pringle have gone to ground? I wondered if he’d taken himself into one of the bushes, or
maybe the small gap between the shed and the fence, anywhere confined and safe. When Chalkie was poorly he’d always gone and hidden in the airing cupboard.

I reached the gate and called Pringle’s name, got no answer. Had he gone back inside the house? I walked halfway to the bins, but there was no blood to be seen anywhere. Nothing by the
shed or under the flowering currants either. For half a minute I just stood and shouted, letting my panic flare up. Then I dropped to the ground to see if he might somehow have squeezed himself
underneath the shed base. That’s when I noticed more blood smeared across the sagging fence panel and crossing into Eric’s jungle of a garden. Plenty of places to hide in there.

I stepped gingerly over the larch lap panel and listened. What state would Pringle be in when I found him? What would I have to do? Pick him up? Try and get him in the car? And all the time
knowing he was in agony. There might be bones sticking out, like there were with Steve. I didn’t think I could do it. I remembered Mum dealing calmly with Chalkie’s half-kills, snapping
the neck of a mangled starling so it went limp straight away. Me, I’m hopeless. Even handling turkey giblets gives me the willies.

Ahead of me through the grass was a cat-trodden path leading to the house. Of course, Eric still had his cat-flap, and Pringle in his hour of need had simply headed for his old familiar home.
The dark staining on some of the grass blades confirmed it. I said a quick prayer, marched up to the kitchen door and knocked. There was Pringle-blood on the step between my feet, and smudged
across the plastic frame of the cat-flap.

The seconds ticked by and no one came. Shading my eyes with my hand I peered through the glass and saw only empty rooms. Damn. DAMN. I patted my pockets optimistically for my phone but really I
knew it was in my bag, hanging in the hall. I’d have to run home, try and call Eric and hope he wasn’t working too far away.

By which time Pringle could have bled to death. Scabby old mog that he was, I couldn’t bear it. Not coming on top of everything else. If he was still able to shift himself, there was a
chance I could call him and get him to come out to me. After all, he’d got himself through the cat-flap once. I knelt on the chilly paving slabs and pushed open the plastic square with my
hand. ‘Pringle,’ I called in a voice bright with false optimism. ‘Din-dins. Dinny-dins. Come on. Come and have your dinner.’

I don’t know how long I stayed in that position, face squashed up against the UPVC, knee bones grinding the concrete. Pringle was inside but he clearly wasn’t for exiting. Nothing
for it now but to take myself home and phone for help. I struggled to stand again, grabbing the handle to pull myself upright – and to my amazement, it gave and I heard the latch unclick.
This door was open. Eric had gone out and left the place unlocked.

I could have run back to phone him, check it was OK. But this was an emergency – a life was at stake. There was no one to ask. The house was empty. So God forgive me, I opened the door and
walked right in.