Bad Mothers United (2 page)

It acts as a kind of decompression, the journey between home and uni. As we drive over the Pennines, mentally I’m swimming up through the depths of one identity to
surface as someone else. It’s exhausting, horrible. Each time I think I’ll never manage it.

We were on the M6 before I tuned into what Daniel was saying, and it turned out he was considering the implications of human evolution and how, in a million years or so, women might not be
able to give birth naturally because our skulls were getting bigger. ‘Too big to fit through the pelvic girdle,’ he was saying. ‘Reaching a critical diameter. Which
wouldn’t necessarily be a problem if society retains or improves its current level of technology, so that medical intervention becomes the norm and babies can routinely be extracted via
Caesareans. But in the event of an apocalypse, the collapse of civilisation, that type of thing, we’d be stuffed. We’d pretty much die out within a handful of generations.’

I glanced across at him, at his mad hair and wire-framed glasses, his earnest grip on the steering wheel.

‘Do you mind if we talk about something else?’

‘Oh, OK.’

It was pissing down. The windscreen-wipers were squeaking in a really annoying way and I wanted to wind the window down, lean out and wrench one off.

‘Are there any paracetamol in this car?’ I asked.

‘Possibly. Mum might have left some in the glove compartment. Got a headache?’

‘Yes.’

I opened the flap and gave the contents a half-hearted poke. A load of Glacier mints tumbled out but I didn’t bother to pick them up. Little minty bastards, they’d only done it to
spite me. By now there was so much spray coming off the lorry wheels around us it was like sitting inside a carwash. Mum must have told Daniel about twenty times to go carefully, as if he’s
ever anything other than careful – he’s Mr Careful – but it’s other drivers you have to watch out for. Despite the rain there were guys in the fast lane dicking about,
tailgating and flashing their headlights as if they
wanted
to cause an accident. I mean, fine, they can go ahead and smash themselves to bits for all I care, but I’m damned if
they’re taking me with them.

‘Well, I can’t find your bloody tablets,’ I said, whacking the glove compartment shut.

‘No? Not to worry. We’ll stop at the next services.’

Somewhere during this last hour or so I’d ripped my own heart out and lobbed it onto the tarmac behind us. Splat, it had gone, a lump of wet offal disappearing under the tyres of some
massive lorry, blood smearing across the greasy surface of the road and mingling with the diesel. I thought, If only I was able to drive, I’d grab that steering wheel and take us straight
home again. Then I could be back with Will, cuddling him. The memory of his small hands made me shiver with longing.

‘Shall I turn the heating up for you, Charlotte? Are you too cold?’

‘I’m FINE.’

Not that I ever would learn to drive, with Dad teaching me. Casual isn’t the word; he thinks an amber light means
Put your foot down
. I’ve said to Mum it’s the blind
leading the blind, but she lets him get on with it because of how much real lessons cost.

‘How about I switch the radio on. Is that OK?’

I shrugged unhelpfully. Now Daniel wasn’t sure what to do. I knew I was being mean but I didn’t care.

He pushed the button anyway. Unluckily we got Westlife singing ‘Seasons In The Sun’.

I said, ‘If I have to listen to another verse of this I’m going to undo the seat belt and hurl myself out.’

‘Seems a bit extreme. Five minutes and we’ll be at Hartshead Moor. If you still want to fling yourself around, they have a nice car park.’

‘How is this song entertainment anyway? Wailing deathbed confession.’

‘So turn it off.’

I think I hate him most when he’s being reasonable.

Inside the motorway services it was warm and bright and they were playing All Saints over the Tannoy, which was a marginal improvement.

‘Great levellers of humanity, service stations,’ said Daniel as I loaded a basket with Panadol, a magazine, jelly snakes, Coke. ‘Everyone comes here and gets ripped off in
equal measure.’

There was a rack of scarves by the till; I spun it, took down a length of black and red chiffon to examine.

‘I’ll buy you that if it’ll cheer you up.’

‘’S’OK,’ I said.

‘Let me.’

I handed him the basket.

After he’d paid, I said, ‘Look, Dan, go and grab a cup of tea or something. And one for me as well. I won’t be long.’ Then I took myself off to the toilets because I
knew I badly needed to sort my head out.

Sounds feeble but the first thing I did was stick some make-up on. At home, what with looking after Will, I barely have time to bother, whereas in my student life it’s kind of essential,
it’s who I am. I pulled out all my cosmetics from my bag and lined them up along the edge of the sink. Pouting, I re-drew my lips in scarlet, blotted them, set the colour with powder. Lined
the rims of my eyes in thick black pencil, neatened the edges, did them again. Pressed my lashes up against my lids to make them stick up, and piled on some high-gloss mascara to lacquer them
into place. Slicked on gold eyeshadow, swept the same brush up each cheekbone. Posed while I considered the effect. I caught the disapproving glance of an old biddy drying her hands at the towel
dispenser and thought, Excellent. Somewhere in the background Lenny Kravitz was singing ‘Fly Away’.

I felt around in the plastic carrier and found the scarf, drew it out, de-tagged it with my teeth, then wound it round my brow, letting the ends trail down over my shoulders.
What a state
to get into
, went my mum’s voice.
You look a right trollop
. To which I might say, ‘Trollop is as trollop does. People in glass houses should keep their middle-aged
mouths shut.’ I know what she gets up to with Dad when I’m not around.

By the time I got to the café my tea was cold but it didn’t matter.

‘Transition accomplished?’ Daniel asked.

‘Pretty much.’

‘How’s the head?’

‘Still attached to my neck.’

‘Always a bonus. Drink up and we’ll get going again, shall we?’

Back in the car I unpeeled the sample bottle of pink varnish from the cover of the magazine I’d bought and attempted to paint my nails. Knew even as I was unscrewing the lid that
I’d never have dared risk this in anyone else’s car.

The rain became blinding and we slowed almost to a crawl. ‘This is all a bit tedious,’ said Daniel. ‘Go on, read me some of your celebrity headlines.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Amaze me.’

The pages flopped apart, revealing a gallery of stars. ‘OK, let’s see.
Entertainment Round-up
: Michael Owen’s been filming an ad for British Airways. Shania
Twain’s been slightly injured by a firework. Adam Rickitt keeps locking himself out of his Manchester flat.’

‘All earth-shattering stuff then.’

‘You asked. In other news, Leonardo DiCaprio was forced to swim in shark-infested waters for his new film, but escaped without injury.’

‘This is why I read science journals.’

‘OK, geek-boy. But I bet you don’t get exciting free gifts stuck to the front cover. Or do you? “New with January’s edition, this attractive pipette”.’

‘We don’t need add-ons. The brilliance of the content’s enough. In fact, my tutor’s got an article in this month’s
Nature
. It’s about the structure
and mechanism of the kinesin motor protein, how it’s able to move along these long filaments called microtubules. It’s actually very cool because what he’s found is, the kinesin
motor protein seems to
walk
along under its own steam.’

‘Astounding. My day is complete.’

‘No, this stuff’s critical. Human life can turn on what you see down a microscope.’ Daniel nodded dismissively at my mag. ‘What’s Britney Spears contributed to
the sum of world knowledge?’

‘Dunno. Hang on. Oh, it says here she recommends dipping your fingernails in pepper to stop yourself biting them.’

A petrol tanker drew up alongside us, gigantic wheels slashing through the surface water. I tried not to picture it skidding, exploding. Instead I turned the radio back on. This time I got
‘Perfect Day’.

And instantly I was back in the weeks after Will was born, when the song was everywhere, and I’d be changing his nappy to it or bathing him or walking him about the house to try and stop
him crying; a song about summer, in the depths of winter. A jolt of hideous longing passed through me. What the hell was I doing, letting myself be driven away from my son? How could that be
right? Less than sixteen hours ago I’d sat and read him his bedtime story, pulled up his covers, made his toy monkey dance – Mum claims it’s the penguin he likes best but
she’s wrong – kissed him night night. Earlier that day we’d gone stamping puddles on the rec. Late afternoon we’d lined his teddies up on the edge of the bed and thrown a
beach ball at them till they were all knocked on the floor. He thought that was so funny. No one else can make him laugh the way I can. Afterwards I’d heated up his spaghetti hoops, run his
bath. Even this actual morning I’d warmed his porridge and sat with him while he ate it, mopping up the flood of milk from his overturned cup – and there was a lot, it had taken the
entire toilet toll. When he’d finished I’d lifted him down and washed his hands and face – tried to replace the toilet roll, couldn’t find a new one, couldn’t ask
Mum because she’d swanned off down the village, had to scribble
T.ROLL
on a Post-it and stick it inside the cupboard door – by which time Will had managed to walk into the
edge of the sideboard and bump his head, entirely not my fault. Mum’s fault for having ancient knobbly furniture. It rips me up when he cries.

And I remembered those first two weekends at York when they brought him to visit, and what total bloody hell it had been. Everyone upset. Will screaming, Daniel pleading, Mum shouting, me
threatening to jack in the degree and come straight back with them. Daniel phoning afterwards to suggest we stop the trips altogether. I’d said, ‘For God’s sake, that’s
just a line Mum’s fed you.’ He’d insisted it wasn’t. He said he just couldn’t bear to see me in such distress. ‘But the plan was to see Will every weekend,
either here or at Mum’s,’ I’d raged. ‘Otherwise he’ll forget me!’ Touch and go it was, for the whole of that first half-term. So they ganged up together, Mum,
Dad and Daniel, to convince me that wouldn’t happen. It was like an assault of positivity. ‘You’re Will’s mum,’ people kept saying. ‘No one’s trying to
take that away from you. This way, you get the best of both worlds. Don’t waste your chances.’ I’d said, ‘I could try and get a college place nearer.’ And Mum went,
‘What – walk away from one of the top courses in the country, lose a year, have to start all over again?’ I said, ‘Nan wouldn’t want me to leave him.’ And Mum
said, ‘Nan’s too poorly to understand. She wants the best for you, we all do.’ In the end they wore me down and I stayed put, and now it kind of works, me coming and going, Mum
standing in for the day-to-day stuff.

Partings are still shit, though. When Will was about eighteen months he became incredibly clingy, and I’d be carrying my suitcases down the path while he shrieked his head off. Once or
twice I did try sneaking away while Mum kept him busy, but apparently when he realised, that made him even worse. Now I tell him I’m going and he’s mostly OK. The hard truth is,
I
have to try and forget
him
while I’m away, or I’d never survive. Selective amnesia’s the key to long-distance motherhood. I don’t ever admit that to
anyone, though, in case it sounds like I don’t love him enough.

Daniel broke into my thoughts with his usual irritating brand of telepathy. ‘You know, I miss him too, Charlotte.’

Oh yeah?
I wanted to shout.
You have NO idea
.
You’re not even his DAD. NO one understands. This is MY pain!
Some moments there’s nothing worse than
sympathy. It falls like a branding iron across your skin.

I reached forward to retune the bastard radio and noticed I’d left a smear of pearly-pink nail varnish on the dial.

What I needed now, where I really needed to be was in the student house on St Paul’s Street, with Gemma and Walsh and Roz and Gareth. Crashed out in front of the TV, drinking and
chatting, with my books lined up in my room and Professor Martin Eavis waiting for me at the English Department. Another twenty-four hours and it would be better – it would. If only Daniel
would stop caring so much. The windows were misting us in, all the air was being sucked out of the car.

‘Just get me to uni,’ I said.