The Bad Mother's Handbook (21 page)

*

Laid neatly across
the bed were three blouses, a pair of
jeans and a long floaty skirt. I went over and had a closer
look.
MUM-2B
said all the labels. It was maternity wear!
My first set of decent clothes for six months. I tore off
the saggy size-16 leggings I’d bought off Wigan market
and pulled on the jeans. They were really clever, sort of
stretchy round the top and then skinny on the legs like
real jeans. It was brilliant to have something that felt
comfortable again. I struggled out of the T-shirt and put on
the nicest blouse, a floral job, and all right, I looked a bit
mumsy, but what could you expect in the circumstances?
The point was everything fitted in the right places and
didn’t feel like it was going to fall down or cut me in half.
Next I tried the skirt, also brilliant, with the same blouse
then another, then the third, then I took off the skirt and
put the jeans back on and it was then that the front door
went and I heard Mum’s voice in the hall.

‘Mum!’ I shouted down.

‘Just a minute,’ she called back. I heard her talking
to Mrs Crowther, then the door going again. Finally her
footsteps on the stairs, and she was in my room.

‘Well?’ She sounded sharp and I faltered.

‘All these clothes . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you buy them?’

‘How else do you think they got there?’

‘Oh, Mum, thanks so much—’

She cut me short. ‘I ordered them from the catalogue.
If you don’t like them, don’t pull the labels out and I’ll
return them. You can pay me back in instalments, we’ll
have to work it out.’

Even the news that they weren’t a gift didn’t dampen
my gratitude.

‘It’s so nice of you . . .’

‘Well, let’s be honest, you were beginning to look a
complete sight in that other stuff.’ She turned to go and
I stepped forward and grabbed her arm.

‘Oh, Mum, I’ve got to show you something—’ I
picked up the scan photo from the pillow and held it out
shyly.

She took one glance and then her eyes flicked away.
She wrenched her arm free and walked out, slamming the
door.

*

SOMETIMES it’s hard to see what a woman sees in a feller.
I loved my dad ’cause he were my dad; we didn’t see him so
often, but when we did he were grand wi’ us. He made Jimmy
a boat out of wood wi’ a mousetrap inside it, so’s when you
pressed a button at t’ side it flew apart. We used play wi’ it for
hours out on t’ flags at t’ back. For me he made a little chair – I
have it now – wi’ spindles an’ turned legs. When I got too big for
it, it did for my dolls. An’ although he could be sharp-tongued,
he only twice laid a finger on me an’ that was for sayin’ ‘Good
shuttons’ to the milkman – I didn’t know it was rude – and for
mouthin’ ‘What a face our cat’s got’ at my mother; she saw me
in the mirror. He would never have touched our Jimmy, he
thought the sun shone out of him; we all did. He had his father’s
charm wi’ none of the arrogance.

But when I grew up, an’ especially when I got married, I
began to see what a terrible time he’d given my mother.
Grandma Florrie hated him; hated the way he’d turn up at
the house an’ expect to stop the night, but she never said no
because Polly’d be beside herself wantin’ him to stay and so
would we. Sometimes his mother, Grandma Fenton, would
come round an’ the two owd women would sit on the horsehair
sofa and moan about his behaviour.

We felt sorry for Grandma Fenton. Fancy havin’ produced a
son who hated women. She’d been in service when she got
caught and she’d never say who the father was, although it was
pretty obvious it was the chap who employed her; he wouldn’t
have owt to do wi’ it, I suppose. So when Harold was young she
had a poor time of it, no benefits in them days, of course. She
used have a stall again’ the Victoria where she sold nettle beer,
brandy snaps and treacle toffee. An’ she were a nice woman, it
was a shame. She’d have done anything for Polly. She never got
much love from her son.

I know I’ve been lucky. Bill were a wonderful husband and
father. And the more I see of the world, the more I think there
aren’t so many on ’em about.

*

I’
D BEEN
putting it off – frankly I’d rather have driven
six-inch nails into my kneecaps – but it had to be done.
Steve had got to be told about the situation.

I wouldn’t say we were on bad terms; he’s too bone-idle
to harbour a grudge. For him the past is the past, he’s
not fussed about the way our marriage turned out. He
always seems quite pleased to see me (which is about once
a year) and quite pleased when I leave.

He lives in Harrop, at the bottom of the Brow; you
could walk it, but it’d be a heck of a climb back up. I took
the Metro and parked it up the entry at the end of the
terrace.

‘Hey up.’

He’d seen the car and was standing at the door in his
stocking feet. He’d grown a moustache since I’d last seen
him and it made him look older. Still as lean as a whippet,
though, still that sharp-featured face and the cheeky grin.

I walked up the overgrown path and went through
the dark hall, picking my way past cardboard boxes, to the
back sitting room.

‘Have a seat. Kettle’s just boiled.’

There were more boxes and some bundles of newspaper
on the floor, lots of used crockery dotted about, a
pair of jeans folded over a wire maiden by the unlit gas
fire. When we’d first split up I’d been appalled at the way
he lived, but now I just left him to it. A bit of peeling wallpaper
border never hurt anyone, I suppose. As long as it
wasn’t in my house, obviously.

‘So what’s this all about? You sounded a bit rattled on
the phone. Is it summat to do with Charlotte?’ He handed
me a mug with a picture of Linda Lusardi on it and sat
down opposite.

‘Yeah. God, there’s no easy way to say it. She’s got
herself into trouble.’

‘Wha’, at school? I thought she were a gold-star pupil.’

‘No, you great lummox,
into trouble
. She’s pregnant.’

‘Oh, bleedin’ ’ell.’ Steve put his cup down on the carpet
and shot me a twisted grin. ‘Not our Charlie. I thought she
had more sense.’

‘Apparently not.’

Steve shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it. Not our
Charlie. She’s such a clever girl. Cleverer than us, anyroad,
I thought. What did she think she were doin’?’

I shrugged and lay back against the sofa wearily. ‘It’s
not like I haven’t warned her a thousand times. But you
know what she’s like, so deep. So difficult to talk to. I
wasn’t even absolutely sure she had a boyfriend for ages,
she’s so secretive. And she’s well on, it’s too late for an
abortion. She hid it from everyone.’ It wasn’t my fault, I
wanted to add, but then Steve would never have thought
like that anyway. I was justifying to myself, not him.

‘An’ this lad, what’s he got to say about it all?’
Unconsciously he drew himself up and squared his jaw.

There was a pause.

‘I’ve not really pursued that line,’ I said awkwardly.

‘What do you mean? Haven’t you been round to his
house, had a talk with his parents? Because it seems to
me he’s got some explaining to do.’

I couldn’t tell him I’d been too wrapped up in blaming
Charlotte and my own inadequacies to dream of doing
anything other than getting rid of the pregnancy. When this
plan had failed I was so drunk with fury I couldn’t think
straight. I couldn’t even bring myself to say good morning
to Charlotte, let alone have a rational discussion about the
role of the baby’s father. In any case, I secretly didn’t blame
him, I blamed her, because whatever they say, there’ll
never be equality of the sexes till men can get pregnant; she
was bright enough to know she’d be the one to get caught,
so she ought to have sorted it. Men’ll just try for what they
can get where sex is concerned, they don’t think it through;
that’s for us women to do. So as far as I was concerned it
was her fault.

But Steve had scented a villain and his blue eyes were
bright.

‘What’s this little bugger’s name and where’s he live?’

‘Paul. Paul Bentham. He lives round the corner, off
Barrow Road, apparently. He used to go to school with
Charlotte when she was in the juniors. Cocky so and so.
He dumped her about three months ago, and that’s why
I thought she was so moody, still pining for him. I never
dreamt . . .’

‘Well, I’m going to pay this Paul Bentham a visit and
tell him exactly what the state of play is. He can’t just walk
away; I didn’t, did I? You’ve got to face up to your responsibilities
even at that age. Little shit.’ He thumped the arm
of the chair. ‘Upsetting our Charlie like that and then doing
a runner. Poor lass. Is she all right?’

What about me? I wanted to shout. I’m not all right!
I want to jump on the next bus to Manchester airport and
flee the country, except the whole house would collapse
without me. Christ, I can’t even pop down the shops
without checking Nan’s bag or Charlotte’s sanity; I feel
like that Greek bloke who had to hold the world up on
his shoulders.

But I hadn’t come round to moan. There’s no point with
Steve, he blocks it out, which is partly why we used to have
such God-awful rows. He never understood that women
like to complain for the sake of it, to get things off their
chest, and they don’t
want
to be fobbed off with practical
solutions and courses of action. They just want sympathetic
attention, and lots of it.

So I said, ‘She’s fine. I’m not worried about her at the
moment, she’s – ’ a bitter laugh escaped – ‘really into
the pregnancy now and pretty up-beat. Though I think
it’ll all go pear-shaped when the baby’s born.’

‘Well, it does, dun’t it?’

‘Exactly.’

There was a silence while we both remembered the
unholy fuck-up we’d made of the post-natal months.

‘Well, she’s got you to look after her,’ said Steve and a
big spear of guilt ran through me. ‘So what d’you want me
to do? I’m no good at talking to her . . . She scares me a bit,
if you want to know.’ He laughed sheepishly. ‘She’s so
bloody clever, and she’s taller than me an’ all . . .’ He ran
his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know her well enough.’

I could have made a nasty remark here but I was too
conscious that the feelings Steve was trying to articulate
were basically my own. In any case, I needed more aggro
like I needed a hole in the head.

‘I could probably find some extra cash,’ he continued.
He gestured vaguely at the cardboard boxes. ‘I’m looking
after some stuff for a chap at work, and there’ll be a
few quid in it at the end for me. I don’t mind passing it
Charlotte’s way.’

‘I can’t pretend it wouldn’t be welcome. Money doesn’t
buy you happiness—’

‘But at least you can be miserable in comfort,’ he
finished and we grinned briefly together. ‘Right-oh. ’S not
a problem.’

‘I didn’t come round here to scrounge, though.’

‘I know you didn’t.’

‘I thought you needed putting in the picture. She might
– she might still want to come round and talk it over with
you.’

A look of panic crossed Steve’s face. ‘Oh, bloody hell.
Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go round to see this lad
and I’ll see if I can sort summat out. I mean, I can’t make
things any worse, can I?’

I gazed at my cup and considered. Linda Lusardi
simpered out at me from under a film of tannin.

‘Probably not. Just make sure you don’t lose your
temper,’ I said.

*

I bottled it,
the big school revelation. At four o’clock
Scan Tuesday I phoned Mrs Carlisle and told her the
whole sorry story. She said to give her half an hour to
have a think, then she rang back and said what they’d do
was let me sit my exams up in Mrs Duke’s office, out of
the way, and I could come and go during lesson time so
nobody would see me. So that’s what I did, sloping in and
out of the building like a bulky shadow. For the external
papers I had to have a teacher sit in with me, but for the
internal ones I was just left alone to get on with it; me,
a bottle of Evian, a packet of Polos and my little curly
photo. I’ve never felt so focused.

At the end of the last exam Mrs Carlisle came and had
a long chat with me. She’d brought me a syrupy mug of
real coffee, unaware that even the smell of instant made
me heave. Still, it was something to do with my hands
while she went on about deferred university places and
childcare options for next year. She’d done a lot of
research. ‘You mustn’t let go of your dreams,’ she said,
twice. I didn’t even know what my dreams were any
more.

On the last day of term she gathered the lower sixth
girls together and told them the score. I’d had every intention
of going in and saying goodbye; Daniel thought I
should. But when it came to it I couldn’t face the glare of
publicity and spent the morning down the canal bank at
Ambley again, throwing leaves in the water and watching
them float off to freedom.

That was on the Wednesday; on Thursday I had a
phone call from Julia asking me to meet her in town for
lunch and I thought I owed it to her, so I went.

The thing about Julia is that she’s brimming with
social aplomb. She must get it from her mother, a girlish
woman with a bright, lipsticked smile who can talk to
anyone. I remember last Open Day there was a woman
with no hair, I think she must have had cancer, and Julia’s
mum just breezed up to her and started chatting away.
I was on the refreshment stall and I’d been dreading this
woman coming over in case I said something like, ‘Do you
need a wig?’ instead of ‘Do you need a tray?’ So, I have to
admit, if the boot had been on the other foot and it was
Julia who’d been pregnant, I’d have been struck dumb
with embarrassment.

No such problems for Julia. She came rushing over to
my table and gave me an enormous hug round my neck
and then said, ‘Look at
you
! You look
amazing
! Your
hair’s really glossy and your skin’s absolutely
glowing
!
Fantastic!’