Bad Mothers United (10 page)
Read Bad Mothers United Online
Authors: Kate Long
I stood by the fence and felt the rain run over me. I thought, Will being born was supposed to be a fresh start. I was going to put the past behind me, everything. All the
moaning about my job or because I had no love-life, push-push-pushing at Charlotte to pass her exams because I’d mucked up mine. Being furious with her for getting pregnant. Then, even worse,
the other business, the horrible secret nightmare of tracing my birth mother and finding out what she was really like – most especially that. The darkest time. I’d been so grateful to
come back to this house and have them all around me, our normal life. I told myself I was going to be a better mother. I was going to be the best grandma in the world.
For a while I think I almost was. I’d really made an effort to be sunnier and more tolerant, and to listen, and to count to ten before I spoke. And although Mum was ill and in a nursing
home, in some ways it was a happy time because a lot of visits she was like herself and could chat and laugh and we were doing these tape recordings and she did love playing with Will. I suppose it
was a bit of a golden period.
But over the past months, my best intentions had drained away. Every day I woke feeling bleak and raw. I’d hear my own voice, the snappish downbeat tone, and I’d cringe. Worse, I
heard my voice in Charlotte’s. What was I passing on to my daughter? You assume you can pick and choose your children’s inheritance, only the reality is it doesn’t work like
that.
I sat on my bed and stewed. Complete fucking over-reaction, or what? Treating me like a naughty kid when
I
was the parent:
me
. It wasn’t like I
thumped Will or anything. Bloody hell, one smack. And so what if he’d cried a bit? He’d have cried a hell of a lot more if he’d managed to pour boiling water over himself. Two
minutes later and he’d have forgotten all about it. In fact – I twitched the curtain to one side – there he was with Ivy on the car park below, running after a pigeon and
laughing. See, Mum? See?
Since Will was born she’d suddenly become hypersensitive to stories of child cruelty, I knew that. But the big irony was, she used to slap my legs all the time. Once she did it in front
of my friends in the playground, just because I’d lost my lunchbox twice in a row. The hypocrisy was dizzying. I couldn’t be doing with it.
The voice behind me made me jump.
‘Hullo.’
His accent was Scottish, low and warm. I spun round to see a man about my age looking over the fence at me, bold as anything. He was dressed against the rain in a hooded top so I couldn’t
see his hair, but he had a good jaw, brown eyes.
‘Who are you?’ I asked ungraciously.
‘Eric,’ he said.
I let out a squeaky laugh because in our school ERIC means Everyone Reading In Class. I thought about saying that, but realised in time how stupid it would sound. ‘Karen, I’m Karen
Cooper. You know that’s somebody’s garden you’re standing in?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Mine. I’m renting.’
‘Mr Cottle’s house?’
‘It’s a woman who’s letting it.’
The niece. ‘I see.’
He said, ‘Look, Karen, sorry to sound like a bad TV advert, but if you can spare a tea bag you might just about save my life.’
‘A tea bag? I think I should be able to manage that.’
‘And a splash of milk. And a mug.’
I squinted past him and saw the removals van parked in the drive. ‘You want me to make you a brew?’
‘That would be fantastic.’ I liked the way he dragged out the vowels:
fantaastek
. The rain was letting up, and he reached in front of his face and pulled back his hood. Now
I could see he was younger than me. His hair was close-cut, brown and crinkly, his eyelashes glossy and long and lush. ‘I’ll pay you back. It’s just that I haven’t managed
to hunt down the kitchenware yet. You know what it’s like when you’re unpacking.’
‘OK, then, Eric. Cup of tea it is. Oh, do you take sugar?’
He smiled. ‘Naw. I’m sweet enough.’
Something small inside me went skip-skip.
Above our redundant chimney one break of blue showed in the cloud: just enough to make a pair of trousers for a sailor, as my mother would have said. Finally the rain was easing off. I felt his
eyes on my back all the way up to the house.
KAREN: So what I was hoping we could do today, Mum, was fill in some of the family tree. I know we’ve got the big Bible and the records in there, but it’s not
always clear who’s who. There are three Alfred Marshes, for a start.
NAN: My mother’s brothers.
KAREN: What, all of them?
NAN: Aye. Florrie had five childer, but three of ’em died straight away. She passed t’name down each time.
KAREN: Really? It seems a bit morbid.
NAN: It’s what folk did i’ them days.
KAREN: Oh, I see. That poor woman. How dreadful. And her husband wasn’t nice with her, was he?
NAN: He was a drunkard, Peter Marsh. I never knew him, he died more or less as I was born, but my mother used to say if he spilled his ale he’d put his head down and lap
it up off t’table. Honest. And when he had no money left, he’d sit outside t’pub and beg.
KAREN: What, he’d spent all his wages on drink?
NAN: Oh, often on his way home from t’pit. What they used to do, landlords, was put hot pies and such out on t’window-ledges, tempt the men in as they walked past,
then some of ’em would stay and blow their pay packet. It were wicked, really. And t’women waiting at home. But he’d be having a rare old time, treating everybody. He were
everyone’s pal when his pockets were full. One time t’Sally Army band came round playing hymns and preaching temperance, and he was there blind drunk. No shame. He went up to
t’captain and said, ‘Don’t you worry about me, I’m so full of Christ I could jump through that bloody drum.’ And his mates were all laughing, you know. At his
funeral, t’other colliers were saying what a grand lad he’d been, but I don’t think Florrie were shedding many tears.
KAREN: And he died in 1917, I’ve got down?
NAN: That’s right. So Peter and Florrie, they had two childer as lived – my mother Polly, and Uncle Jack who emigrated. But my mother lived wi’ Florrie
because she never married. That’s where I was brought up, at my grandma’s.
KAREN: And your dad was Harold Fenton?
NAN: Aye. But like I said, he’d never marry her.
KAREN: Was that not a big scandal?
NAN: It were very shaming for us. But what choice did we have? He made us take his surname for a Christian name—
KAREN: Yes. Why did he do that?
NAN: To show he claimed us, to show we were his. I’m Nancy Fenton Hesketh on my birth certificate. Brrr.
KAREN: It bothers you, doesn’t it?
NAN: Jimmy felt it more than me. I think that’s why he used to go wandering off. It were like he were searching for summat, I don’t know. Then one day he skipped
school, didn’t say owt to anyone. Just took off. It got teatime and he hadn’t come back . . . and he weren’t one for stopping out, not when there was food to be etten. Harry
Poxon come round t’next morning and towd us he’d seen Jimmy down by t’canal, playing wi’ a stick. I think we knew then . . .
(Pause.)
KAREN: Mum? Oh, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.
NAN: Aye (voice wobbling). Funny thing is, I were only twelve meself, but it dunt seem that long ago. It still feels fresh, do you know? Like he’s only just gone. Time
goes to pot when you get to my age.
KAREN: Oh, Mum. Hell. I’m so sorry. Let me switch this damn machine—
CHAPTER 4
‘By the way, I should warn you, I’m officially a Terrible Mother,’ I told Martin Eavis as he poured me another cup of his tarry coffee. The tutorial was
over, my Austen essay pulled apart, and I knew I had ten or fifteen minutes where he’d let me chat about general events. Other students didn’t get this kind of time with him; none of
my other tutors had offered it to me. But Martin was different. We had an understanding.
‘I assume you’re joking?’
‘I am but I’m not.’
‘How so? I’d have said you were an excellent parent, from the way you talk about your son.’
‘Not really.’ I hesitated before the confession. ‘Last time I was home I smacked him.’
‘And?’
‘That’s terrible, though, isn’t it? That’s what scuzzy mothers do.’
‘You mean the ones who feed their newborns Kentucky Fried Chicken and give them cigarette-lighters to play with? I didn’t have you down as a snob, Charlotte.’
That made me blush. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘I’m only teasing. Was there a reason for the smack?’
‘Yeah, he was about to tip a tea pot full of boiling water down his front.’
‘Ah.’
‘It was a reflex. I didn’t enjoy hurting him. I’ve never smacked him before. Mum went berserk, though, it was like she was going to phone Social Services and report me there
and then. I know she’s out of order but I still feel like the worst mother in the world.’
He leaned back in his chair and I heard the leather settle under him. There were piles of paper and box-files and cardboard wallets and books on every surface. On the wall behind him was a
print of Ophelia drowning, and an engraving of some Gothic façade, a cathedral maybe. A row of arty postcards was propped along the mantel.
‘OK. So let me ask you this: do you think he’ll remember the incident when he’s grown up? Does he even remember it now?’
‘Knowing Mum, she’ll probably coach him so he doesn’t forget. Build up a nice head of resentment just in time for his adolescence.’
‘She’s on your side, isn’t she?’
‘Huh. That depends which way the wind’s blowing. Have you ever smacked Isabella?’
The photo of his dumpy daughter sat on the desk between us.
‘No, I haven’t. The occasional wallop might have done her good.’
We laughed finally, and I felt better. I loved the way he spoke, direct and considered. Whatever we discussed, I always felt we’d cut to the heart of it.
He was built, I’d secretly thought, almost along the lines of Daniel. Wiry and tall but without the glasses or the mad hair. Martin’s hair was sleek and grey-brown, and he had
lovely elegant hands. Once I asked him if he played an instrument and he joked that he could ‘saw out a tune on the ’cello’. And as soon as he said that, I was picturing him in
his Georgian flat, sitting in front of an open sash window, some sad Elgar tune floating out into the street. I wondered what must it have been like for little Isabella growing up with Martin for
a dad. How lucky was she? A house filled with classical CDs and poetry books. Had she appreciated him? I hoped so.
‘So as far as you’re concerned, smacking a child doesn’t automatically make you a bad mother?’
‘Not in isolation. How could it? Otherwise we’d have had virtually nothing but ruinous parenting since humans first stood on two feet. It’s only within the last twenty,
thirty years that corporal punishment’s even been questioned. For almost our entire history children have been physically chastised for doing wrong. Think of our brightest and best over the
previous millennium, Charlotte, the scientists and explorers and artists and tacticians who’ve shaped the progress of civilisation. Every one of them would have been smacked, or worse, as
infants. Did it prevent them from functioning as balanced and loving adults, and as parents in their turn? Well, did it?’
‘No.’
‘Yet humankind’s continued to progress, to nurture and create and produce great works of art which touch the sympathies of generation after generation and ennoble our spirits. How
could that possibly have happened if every smacked youngster had been destroyed by the experience? It couldn’t have.’
‘Yeah, but you’re not
advocating
smacking, are you? You’re sort of joking?’
He spread his hands. ‘I am and I’m not. So to speak.’
Once again he’d nailed me.
‘Seriously, Charlotte, within the benign environment of good parenting there are too many other positive qualifying forces at work. You can relax. A single incident is unlikely to
scar.’
‘You think?’
‘I do.’
‘Thanks. You’ve made me feel a whole lot better.’
‘Good. And aside from the smacking business . . .’ he pursed his lips and blew on his coffee ‘. . . how are things at home?’
I considered. ‘Still not great. We’re all – it’s hard to express – kind of coming loose somehow. It’s since my grandma died. Mum’s not really coping
and it’s as if she’s angry with everyone. It’s as if the grief is just hers. But I’m sad about Nan too.’
‘Have you told her that?’
‘I don’t want to make things worse.’
Nowadays I never talked to Mum about how much I missed Nan, partly because I didn’t want to stir up any extra household misery, but also because I was frightened she’d come out
with something like, ‘Well, you never saw her much towards the end. You were never around.’ Yet Nan had been so important in my life. She’d been my best childhood friend,
she’d been the bridge between me and my mum during those difficult early teens. Most of all, she’d been my champion when Mum was on at me to terminate the pregnancy. Dithery and
ancient she may have been, but Nan had stuck up for me like a lion in the face of my mother’s anger. Where Mum had pushed my scan photo away as if it was something horrid, Nan had pored
over it and marvelled alongside me. She’d dangled a needle over my belly to test whether I was having a boy or a girl. She laid her hand on my skin and the baby had kicked her. She saved me
from believing I’d made the wrong decision.
And I
had
been around for her, as much as I could. We’d even brought her up to York in my First Year, shown her the Department and the city walls and the union, none of which
she was very interested in. Then we’d taken her to a tea shop and she’d perked right up. Kept stage-whispering about the waitress’s chin, about how she ‘favoured Bruce
Forsyth’. When the girl came to take our order, Nan went, ‘
Nice to see you
,’ and winked. The girl had no idea what was going on, luckily, but Mum knocked the salt pot
on the floor in embarrassment and I had to bite my knuckles to stop myself laughing. Afterwards, on the drive home, Mum had asked her if she knew where she’d been. ‘No, but it were
lovely,’ Nan said. ‘Is it where our Charlotte works?’ Mum said yes, and ever after Nan had me down as waiting on tables. It didn’t matter. It had been a nice visit.
‘The problem is, Martin, whatever I do, it’ll be wrong. That’s the way it is in our house right now. I’m a failed mother
and
a failed daughter, two for the
price of one.’
‘I’m quite sure you’re neither.’
The leather chair squeaked again as he stood up. For one awful moment I thought he was coming to peer into my face or put his arm round me. But what he did was go over to the clock, open the
glass and adjust the minute hand. He said, ‘Bear with your mother; she obviously has some issues to work out on her own. Meanwhile your job is to love your son and enjoy him. That’s
what he’ll remember.’
‘Is it enough, though?’
His eyes travelled to the photo on his desk, the plain and treasured Isabella.
‘I think we have to believe it is,’ he said.