Read Bad Mothers United Online
Authors: Kate Long
Bad Mothers United (36 page)
A knock on Walshy’s bedroom door made me jump.
‘Hey, lovebirds,’ Gemma’s voice boomed. ‘Wakey, wakey. Laine and I are off to a tutorial now, but someone needs to be up to let the glazier in. So put some clothes on,
yeah? You don’t want him to find you running around in the nude, do you?’
The window was my fault. Walshy and I had been playing catch in the hallway with a soapstone turtle.
‘We OK for lunch?’ I called back.
‘Yup,’ she said, and then I heard her thumping off down the stairs, Laine’s excited American greeting.
I reached for my jeans.
‘Don’t go,’ said Walshy. ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘You want I should greet the glazier naked?’
‘We might get a discount.’
‘Pimp. Get some pants on, stir your stumps.’
‘In a minute. You’re really great, you know. I love to watch you.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Just moving about. You’ve got such an excellent arse, I can’t help myself.’
‘Oh, move it, Walshman.’
He stayed exactly where he was. ‘Will the glazier be taking the boards down?’
‘Er, yeah, or we wouldn’t be able to see out, would we?’
‘Shame. I’m going to miss Lisa Simpson.’
Gemma’s girlfriend Laine had decorated the boarded-up window for us with some liquid chalk pens we’d found in the kitchen drawer. She proved to be an excellent cartoonist.
‘Me too. Farewell Spongebob Squarepants. And Cartman. We should take a photo before it goes.’
‘Come back to bed, Chaz.’
‘I can’t. Some of us have work to do.’ I pulled on my sweater and scanned around for my boots.
‘Like what?’
‘Well,
Daisy Miller
to finish reading, an essay to start. I’ve to go into town later and check out pop-up tents for Will, for Christmas. Do you want to tag along? I
thought, you know, with your vast yurt experience.’
‘Don’t mention the yurt. That was all a bit tragic.’
While I’d been away seeing to Dad, a group of students had climbed on the canvas and bust the wooden frame. I was sorry. The garden looked bare without it now. ‘Yeah, but your
dad’ll buy you a new one next summer. I’ll help you put it up.’
‘You won’t be here next summer. None of us will.’
‘No.’ I kept forgetting. ‘Anyway, are you going to come and keep me company or what?’
‘Trawling round the Early Learning Centre? I think not. Do I look like ELC material?’
‘Don’t make me answer that.’ I swung his wardrobe door open to check myself in the mirror. My hairbrush, I realised, was next door, in my room; really I should buy two and
have one on each windowsill. Or was that too much of a commitment at this stage? I said, ‘Seriously, if you’re going to date me you’re going to have to embrace the world of
pre-school equipment.’
There was no smart come-back this time. When I turned round he’d squirmed down the bed and pulled the duvet over his head.
‘Walshy?’
He only grunted.
I closed the wardrobe door and left him to it.
The first thing I did was snap the light on and bellow Pringle’s name down the hallway. Immediately I heard a noise from upstairs.
I ran to the bottom of the banister and shouted again. I couldn’t see any blood trail here, but then the carpet pattern was black and brown swirls, a relic of Mr Cottle. You could have
emptied a bottle of red wine over it and it would hardly have shown. It was odd Eric hadn’t replaced it, odd anyway that he’d started redecorating the upstairs and left the downstairs
as it was because most of us begin with the rooms that are on show. Me, I’d have been gagging to scrape off this embossed bamboo stalk wallpaper and chuck out the ruched lightshades. But then
old Mr Cottle had slept downstairs for years, so who knew what state the bedrooms had been in when he died. They might have needed gutting.
‘Pringle!’ I called again, and once more a faint sound answered me, like something hard rolling across a bare floor. He must have knocked a vase or a tin off a shelf.
I raced up to the landing and checked the bathroom first. This was a place I’d already been in, so it didn’t feel as much of an intrusion. The shower was dripping and a towel had
fallen off the rail onto the lino, but no cat. Nothing odd in the sink this time, either.
The next door I tried was the airing cupboard which I checked anyway because it had been slightly ajar and I remembered Chalkie going to ground among Nan’s sheets, all those years ago.
There were only piles of bedding and towels here, though, plus a cordless vac and a boxed fan-heater. Eric did keep the place neat.
I had a swift hunt round Kenzie’s room, lifting his football duvet to peer under the bed, sweeping the curtain to one side, prising open the mini-wardrobe door. His toys were mostly tucked
away in plastic storage crates and his small clothes hung or folded; the under-bed space was taken up by zipped suitcases. There was barely space for even a hamster to hide, let alone anything
bigger.
Which left Eric’s room. Fretting as I was about Pringle, I did hesitate at this point. It’s not nice to go poking round a bedroom without permission. Who knows what private things
you’ll uncover? But then I heard another thump and a kind of scrabble coming from inside.
I flung the door open and went in.
Double bed with black and white duvet and black headboard, one wall decorated in black and white block wallpaper. New-looking grey carpet, paintwork all fresh, top quality lined grey curtains.
Walk-in wardrobe with mirrored doors stretching the entire length of the far wall. However much the downstairs might be in need of updating, this place had certainly had a makeover. Laid across the
unmade bed was Eric’s navy dressing-gown, and below the window his slippers, a Thomas Harris paperback on the bedside table.
I got down on my knees so I was mattress-height. ‘Pringle?’
Mew
.
My pulse started to race. ‘Pringle, love, where are you?’ Hauling myself up again, I strained to listen.
Miaow. Meringue.
He was in the wardrobe. This time I had it.
I dragged at the handle, sliding away the giant mirror along with my own harassed reflection. Inside, it was dark and half-empty, only a dozen or so shirts and jeans on hangers, work boots and
trainers lined up on the floor. In the corner were some video tapes, a stack of magazines, a robotic puppy in its box, an artificial Christmas tree base.
Meringue.
I could hear him, so close now, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell where he was. I climbed right inside the wardrobe and blundered about, trying to watch where I put
my feet. ‘Pringle?’ Had he got himself under the floorboards somehow? Inside the wall? I raised my hand and tapped experimentally.
Mew.
‘Pringle! Pringle, love, I’m here!’
Then, ‘Fuck it,’ said a woman’s voice, muffled but close.
I staggered out against the bed in surprise as the back panel of the wardrobe started to open, sliding aside with the same action as the mirrored front. Behind was a space roughly the width of a
toilet cubicle, fitted with shelves and hooks. I saw bottles of cosmetics lined up, stylers and tongs, racks of women’s shoes and, suspended against the wall like a market stall, several sets
of clothing. Mainly, though, I saw a youngish woman in fleece pyjamas, standing squinting in the light. She had curly red hair, a pouty, angry mouth. I watched as she stepped towards me, first into
the wardrobe proper, then out onto the bedroom carpet.
‘You’ll be wanting your cat,’ she said bitterly. ‘He ran inside, he wouldn’t go. He’s all . . . eugh. I couldn’t bring myself to touch him.’
I took a deep breath – because there’d be time for accusation and shouting later – then pushed past her to claim my pet. God, but it felt weird to walk into somebody’s
wardrobe. Narnia this was not: stumbling into gloom over Eric’s footwear and ducking under his shirts, breathing in dust and the smell of plaster and new paint. The cupboard space behind, now
I saw it clearly, was a work of art. He’d created a place to store everything, even down to her toothbrush. There were labelled plastic drawers and wall pockets, a hanging shoe tree,
swing-out rails. On the wardrobe side of the door he’d nailed a bracket which he’d draped with his own belts, presumably so no one would guess it for a handle. Bloody hell. You had to
appreciate the ingenuity.
Pringle was underneath one of the shelves, lying on a pale blue cardigan or coat, with his mashed back leg out at an angle. I could hardly bear to look but I made myself. Someone had to take
charge. I knelt down to him and, bizarrely, he started purring. I said, ‘Hey up, lad,’ and he laid his head in my palm as if it was too much for him to keep it raised himself.
‘Right.’ I stood, assessed my route out and kicked a few shoes aside to clear a path. Then I bent and picked him up, cardigan and all, and I thought, Just let her say something, just
let her. She didn’t, though. She’d sank down on the bed and was holding her face in her hands.
I looked down at my pathetic bundle. ‘Can you at least go ahead and open doors for me?’
And she did.
Roz linked my arm as we came out of Boots. ‘How you getting on with Laine, then?’ she asked.
‘Oh. Laine. She’s OK. She’s got a lot of energy. Quite a piercing laugh. Put it this way, you know when she’s in the house.’
‘Gareth said that. He calls her Foghorn Leghorn.’
‘Your charming boyfriend.’
Roz giggled. ‘He only ever means it in fun.’
We crossed the precinct and went into Top Shop. Gemma had texted to say she couldn’t make it so the afternoon’s shopping and tent-hunting was mine and Roz’s alone.
‘Crap about her parents, though, isn’t it?’ Roz held up a lace dress to herself doubtfully, then replaced it on the rail.
‘She’s gutted, you can tell. More than anything because she was so sure they’d accept it. But they’re still being horrible with her. She’s not allowed to mention
Laine at all.’
‘That’s awful. Poor Gemma. I said to her, “At least you’ve got us, we’ll be your family till your mum comes round.” I think that made her feel
better.’
‘So we’re Gemma’s family now. What a thought. I suppose Walshy would enjoy playing wicked uncle.’
A complicated set of emotions seemed to cross Roz’s face. At last she said, ‘Yeah, Walshy. It was a surprise, you two getting together.’
‘Was it?’ I remembered the secret tin of Charlotte-mementoes, hidden under his bed. I’d never mentioned it to anyone, not even him.
‘I thought he annoyed you.’
‘He does, a bit. It’s just, sometimes I want to muck about and be young. I get sick of serious. He’s fun, and there’s basically a decent guy in there.’
‘You don’t have to convince me. I’ve always thought he was nice. He was brilliant with me over, you know.’ Roz lowered her eyes. ‘Only he gets through lots of
girlfriends. That’s all. And you’re bound to be feeling a bit vulnerable after Daniel. That was so rough, on top of your dad and everything. Gemma and I don’t want you getting
hurt again.’
‘Oh, you’ve talked it over, have you?’
‘We’re just concerned for you.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
To be hurt, you have to love someone
, I could have said.
I don’t know what I’m doing with Walshy, but it isn’t that. It’s not love.
We wandered through racks of party clothes, maxi-coats, fur gilets. Roz seemed generally brighter than she’d been for ages, girly and jokey, and I was glad for her. At one point she
found me a fur hat and plonked it on my head, so I pulled a bobbly scarf off its hanger and wrapped it round her neck. It made her look very young and sweet. ‘I miss you,’ I said.
‘Laine can cook a mean corned-beef hash, but the house doesn’t feel the same. I wish we could go back to how we were at the start of the year. Or how we were in the summer – the
day we put the yurt up. That was good, that. Before all the change.’ Before I lost Daniel, before my dad’s accident. When the end of uni seemed an age away.
‘Aw. I miss you too, Chaz.’
‘Is it all right at Gareth’s?’
‘It is, yeah. He’s been dead nice to me. Not that he wasn’t before, only it’s different now, we’re kind of more honest with each other. It’s hard to
explain. I know he can be a bit rough and ready but he’s a decent bloke. That’s the thing, when bad stuff happens, you find out how you really feel about someone.’
You never said a truer word, I thought.
‘And how’s your mum, Roz? Walshy told me she’d been finding it tough.’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ She unwound the scarf sadly. ‘The problem is, Mum’s trying to deal with it on her own. We decided early on we were never going to tell Dad about the –
about me going to the clinic. And it’s not the kind of news she’ll be wanting to share with friends or neighbours – that was her main fear at first, anyone finding out. So, on
the outside I’d say she looks like she’s coping with it, but I’m not sure. I catch her sometimes giving me these stares. She’s thinking she doesn’t know me any more.
It’s like I’ve opened up a world she knew nothing about, and never wanted to.’
‘Mums always come round. They just need time.’
‘I don’t blame her. Sometimes I think about what happened and I hardly know myself. Like, it was the right thing to do, definitely. I wasn’t grown-up enough to be a mother, I
know that. But it doesn’t make the aftermath any less tough.’
A woman squeezed past our rail with a double buggy. Inside were twin boys, about a year old, blond and beautiful. Some days there are babies everywhere.
I said, ‘God, I’m really sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘I can’t
stand
the idea of you ever thinking I’d be cross with you for what you did. I’d have helped you if I’d known. Like a shot. I could have left
Will at home and gone to the clinic with you.’
‘There’s no need to keep apologising, Chaz. I told you, I wasn’t rational. My hormones were up and down. I had my mum going on at me—’
‘Because I would
never
judge you.’
‘Yes, I know. I get that.’
She took my arm again and we wandered out into the precinct. Already there were Christmas displays in some of the shop windows, posters urging you to panic-buy. I remembered an argument Daniel
and I once had about artificial Christmas trees versus real (which was the more middle class), and a Boxing Day where Nan mistook a lavender sachet for a tea bag.
Roz said, ‘I think it was because you’re such a good mother.’
I laughed out loud. ‘You are joking, right?’
‘No. My God, Charlotte, we don’t know how you do it. We really don’t. You’re so . . . so balanced. We’re all whingeing on about essay deadlines and the prices at
the union, but it’s nothing compared with the hassles you have. The travelling backwards and forwards, fitting in your work, those weekend gigs you miss and the parties and stuff. You never
complain about it. And we know you’re crazy about Will but you don’t bang on about him the way some mums do about their kids. You don’t tell those long, rambling anecdotes about
the littlest things he’s done, or constantly shove baby photos at us. You’re never boring.’
I thought, Blimey. Well, Roz, I could unpack for you right now my shoddy brand of motherhood – the clashes with Mum, the miserable goodbyes, the way I’ve taught myself to switch
Will off when I’m not with him – so
not
-normal. But did Roz want to hear that? Did it help to know others were floundering, or was it more reassuring to believe that someone,
somewhere was in control?
I said, ‘To be honest, I’m not sure anyone gets the Mum Thing completely right. I used to think the reason I found bringing up Will difficult was because I was a single teenager,
but actually anyone can make a hash of it, doesn’t matter what age you are or your marital status or what’s in your bank account. Look at Daniel’s mum, drunk half the time;
Gemma’s telling her she isn’t normal. Walshy’s mum ran off when he was only about twelve, how crap is that?’
‘Did she? God. I knew his parents had split but he never talks about it.’
‘No. There’s quite a bit of damage there, underneath all the couldn’t-give-a-stuff. And it makes me wonder, where
are
these mothers who always get it right? Do they
even exist?’
Roz shook her head. ‘Only on TV. Actually, that reminds me of something: when I was little I used to look at kids’ presenters and imagine what they’d be like to have as a
mum. Did you ever do that?’
‘No.’
‘I did. I always fancied Yvette Fielding. Or Isla St Clair.’
‘Isla St Clair?’
‘Or Lorraine Kelly. Or Marti Caine. Marti Caine doing my hair for me. How smart would that have been?’
‘And Isla St Clair singing you a bedtime story?’ My phone beeped with a text message.
‘Yeah, see, it would’ve been cool. Although a mum who baked a lot would also be handy,’ Roz was saying as I brought the screen up. ‘Someone like Delia Smith. I mean, I
loved my actual mum, but she was always a bit boring, the way real life is.’
I pressed
Open
and stared.
‘. . . Oh, and Johnny Ball for my dad. He could’ve helped with my maths homework.’
‘Wait,’ I said, holding up my hand.
‘What is it? Oh my God, what is it, Chaz? You look awful.’
I said, ‘Daniel’s here. In York. And he says he needs to see me right now.’
