Bad Mothers United (27 page)
Read Bad Mothers United Online
Authors: Kate Long
Bless Eric, oh, bless him. I didn’t care how often he babysat, any of it. He’d more than paid me back. Because Charlotte was wrong. That photo wasn’t an
accident. This was the message Mum had been trying to send me: that she wasn’t troubled by anything I’d done, she was just happy now to be with Dad. Why would my mother ever have wanted
me to be miserable? I could stop beating myself up. I could let it rest.
This was the forgiveness Eric had told me would come. This was what happened when you let yourself trust someone.
CHARLOTTE: I’ve got a question.
KAREN: Go on.
CHARLOTTE: What do you remember about Mum as a baby?
KAREN: (Whispers.) Careful, Charlotte.
NAN: Oh, she were a little love, everyone at church said. I put her in a great big pram – I had that off Connie Settle and your dad fixed it up and mended t’wheel
– and we used to walk up and down t’village, people stopping and saying how bonny you were. We’d tried for years t’have a baby, you see. I thought as I were too old . .
.
KAREN: It’s OK, Mum, if you don’t want to talk about it.
NAN: And you had a yellow crocheted hat wi’ ribbons, ’cause you had no hair till you were nearly two, and I were worried you’d catch cold. Little yellow
mittens. Whenever I went into t’butcher’s he’d say, ‘Well, Mrs Hesketh, I’ve never seen a finer baby in all my life.’
CHARLOTTE: And was she good?
NAN: Like a lamb. She loved to hang over t’pram side and laugh and laugh at people’s feet.
CHARLOTTE: Yeah?
NAN: Enjoyed her food, allus cleared her plate.
CHARLOTTE: No change there, then.
KAREN: I can remember that bucket you made into a chair so I could sit at the table.
CHARLOTTE: What, you sat on a bucket?
KAREN: Not on one. In one. My dad cut the front low and made a couple of holes for my legs to fit through. The bucket was tied to a dining chair to stop it falling off. And it
worked fine, didn’t it, Mum?
CHARLOTTE: I can’t imagine you so tiny.
NAN: And do you remember that time a mouse ran up your bedroom curtains and you came to tell me and I thought as you were codding me?
KAREN: I don’t, no.
NAN: You came into my bed one night and said, ‘There’s a mouse climbing t’curtains,’ and I told you you’d dreamed it.
KAREN: I really don’t remember. Was there a mouse, in the end?
NAN: Oh aye. About a dozen of ’em. My dad were trapping ’em for weeks.
KAREN:
Your
dad? We had mice a few years back, that bad winter when Charlotte was—’
NAN: And what about that time as you fell into t’farmer’s midden? And we had to hose you down in t’yard.
KAREN: I don’t think that was me.
NAN: Florrie were furious.
CHARLOTTE: Who’s she talking about, Mum?
KAREN: I’m not sure.
NAN: And t’farmer had a mare as’d break wind if you threw a stone at it. I said to Jimmy, ‘Don’t hurt it.’ But he only ever chose little stones
– pebbles, really. It used kick its back legs up and do a great trump. We thought it were t’funniest thing ever. Do you remember?
KAREN: No, but it doesn’t matter. We like to hear you talk.
NAN: Aye. They were grand times. You were a grand baby. You were a blessing, you were. Honest, I’ve never been as happy.
CHAPTER 9
I knew it was a risk. But oh, if it paid off. After a year of getting everything wrong, from velvet jackets to ghostly photos, I’d suddenly be the hero of the hour.
Even finding out about the Daniel business wouldn’t matter in the face of all the comfort and joy I was going to deliver to Mum’s door.
What I’d thought was, I’ll get the train down to London and phone from there. That way, if Jessie’s up for seeing me, I can nip straight round before I lose my nerve. If she
isn’t, I’ll take myself across to Oxford Street and do the shops instead.
Mum I’d fobbed off with a tale about needing to get back to York for a few hours so I could reserve some books for my dissertation. She wasn’t pleased – maybe she’d had
plans for the day, I don’t know – but I just went, ‘Look, do you
want
me to pass my degree or what?’ That always shuts her up.
Not that I liked going behind her back.
If we were the sort of mother and daughter who were able to talk, I’d have already said to her,
You can’t go on like this, Mum. I miss Nan loads, of course I do, but life goes
on. It has to. You can’t let the absence-of-someone swallow up the people who are still here. It’s not healthy and it’s not fair. Look at me, look at Will. This is your
life.
And I might have been able to say,
There’s more family to find, if you want. There’s another mum out there. Do you not think it might be useful to go see her? Give her
a chance? I know she’s not Nan – who could ever replace Nan – but you ought to meet this woman, just touch base with her. Then you could have a good chat, she could see how
you’d grown up and you could tell her about me and Will and teaching and all the rest of the stuff you’ve done with yourself over the years. It might be nice to hear a bit about where
our genes came from. And I bet she’d love to hear. I mean, she gave birth to you. OK, yeah, she did give you away, but they were different times and anyway people change. Having a baby
completely mashes up your head. I should know. So she might have really regretted it straight after and not been able to do anything. She might have been pining for years. Crying on your
birthday. Imagine that. You could help her and she could help you. It could be exactly the boost you need.
When I went over it like that, to myself, it made total sense.
I had tried on a few occasions to discuss the adoption: never got very far. Once, when Will was only a baby, I’d asked if she ever wanted contact with her real mum. First off she’d
got in a strop because I’d said ‘real’, when Nan was ‘every bit her real mum, always was and always would be’. But then she said it ‘all happened too long
ago’ and that she ‘didn’t have the time or energy to cope with the disruption’. Mainly, though, her argument was: what did she want with another mother when she had Nan?
She was happy, she said. Nan had kept the adoption a secret because she didn’t think it was important. Well then, if Nan felt that way, then so did she. Let sleeping dogs lie.
I said, ‘Perhaps when Nan did tell you, it wasn’t a mistake. She meant it to come out. A Freudian slip.’ Mum’s eyes had filled up and she’d said, ‘No,
Charlotte, she was ill, she didn’t know what she was saying.’
I hadn’t dared push any more.
And now the train was already past Milton Keynes, and less than an hour away from Euston.
How can you be sure she hasn’t already spoken to this woman?
went Daniel, always the annoying voice of reason even though he was only in my mind. One blink and there he was on
the seat opposite me, his wild hair squashed against the velour head-rest.
Because, I said to Imaginary Daniel, I asked her straight out last week, with Jessie Pilkington’s secret card burning a hole in my pocket, and she told me she hadn’t. I said again,
‘Did you ever try to contact your birth mother?’ and she said, ‘No. Don’t you think I’ve enough on my plate right now?’ She was having to shout over the din of
the washing machine and Will hitting his potty with the TV remote.
I could see Daniel’s eyes narrowing.
She threw Jessie’s card away. What does that suggest?
Only that she’s stubborn as hell. The way Mum works is, she makes a decision and then, bang. Done. No budging, ever. She’s been that way as long as I’ve known her. She
believes changing her mind is a weakness. As a kid I learned pretty fast that if I wanted a certain toy and I got a no, there was damn-all point asking again. Once a no, always a no. So, when Nan
was alive, Mum made the decision not to go looking for Jessie, and even though Nan’s out of the picture, Mum won’t shift from that position because she’s decided and
that’s the end of it. Plus, even if she
did
reconsider, she hasn’t got the drive or the confidence now to pursue it. She’s really low. I think she’d be worried
she’s too vulnerable at the moment and wouldn’t be able to cope with the emotional upheaval. Even if meeting her birth mother might be her saving grace.
Yet you’re prepared to risk that on her behalf? Dangerous, Charlotte, dangerous.
It wasn’t, though, not really. The risk was all mine. I’d be the one to sound Jessie out, and if I thought she’d be good for Mum, I’d get them together, a heart-warming
reunion. Like Cilla on
Surprise Surprise.
And obviously if things weren’t looking too promising, if I didn’t think Mum’d take to her, I’d just come home again. End of story. Jessie knew where we lived: if she
was going to cause trouble, she’d already have caused it. I didn’t see there was anything to lose.
I’m not stupid, whatever Charlotte thinks. This holiday we’d had one excuse after another as to why Daniel hadn’t been round. His term finished later than
hers; he had to stay on to help set up a charity concert; he’d promised to take his mother away because she’d not been well. I swallowed it at first, but by the time we got to
‘his flight home was delayed’, I knew I’d been had. Which meant one thing only – she must have given him the boot. Wild horses wouldn’t keep that boy away
otherwise.
When I finally accepted the state of play I found myself so angry I couldn’t actually confront her. Have you ever been like that? Scared to start in case you can’t stop. I
didn’t know what words might fly out of my mouth. That lovely lad, like a father to Will, and her passport to something better if she was smart enough to see it. Yet she messes up again. How
many times! How
many
times?
I could imagine how the conversation had gone. She’d have told him it was time to move on, that she needed someone more exciting. No tact, my daughter. I should know. I’ve had years
of her cutting comments. She probably had a new boyfriend lined up already, and given her history it could be any brand of rubbish. God help us all if it was another Paul Bentham. Throw out the
doctor’s son, the boy who stood by you all through your pregnancy, who runs you about like an unpaid taxi service and plays with your child, even changes his nappy sometimes. That’s
right, you chuck him and see what happens. You dozy girl! It’s as if you sabotage your chances deliberately. I despair. And who is it’s left to pick up the pieces, eh? Who can it be?
I’ll give you three guesses.
Anyway, she’d swanned off to York after some textbooks, so she claimed. Gone after a boy up there, more like. I was sure it was that, she was shifty as anything when she went to catch the
train.
Which left me, Will, and an uninterrupted morning. I’m not one to interfere, I’m really not, but something had to be done.
Tweenies were running frenzied circuits round the TV studio. I laid a Kit Kat on the arm of the sofa; I knew that would buy me at least fifteen pester-free minutes.
I was going to pick up that phone, dial Daniel’s number and see if I couldn’t sort things out.
Soon as I alighted at Euston, I tried ringing her. It was noisy, what with the crowds shoving past and the station announcements coming over the Tannoy, but it seemed noisier
still at her end.
‘Jessie?’ I shouted over the babble. It sounded as if she might be in a pub.
‘This is Jen,’ said a woman’s voice, sharp, unfriendly. ‘Who’s this speaking?’
I tried to stifle my panic. What had I done? Copied down the wrong number?
‘It’s Charlotte. Karen’s daughter. Your granddaughter? From Bolton.’
There was a pause and then the line went muffled, as if she was covering the phone with something. I strained to hear.
After a few seconds she came back on. ‘’S all right. You took me by surprise,’ she said.
‘Is it Jessie?’
‘I call myself Jen now.’
‘Oh, right. Sorry. Jen, then. I’m so excited to be talking to you. Long-lost family! I mean, wow. It’s just brilliant. Are you, do you know who I—’
‘Let me go outside,’ she said. ‘I can’t hear nothing in this place.’
Her accent was a funny mix of flat northern vowels and Estuary. I tried to picture how she might look, but in my stressed state could only call up Pauline Fowler off
EastEnders
.
‘There,’ she said. ‘I can hear meself think.’
‘I need to come and see you.’
‘That’s right, course you can, love. When?’
‘Now. I’m in London.’
‘You’re here?’
‘Yeah.’
There was a long pause.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Here already. OK. D’you know which tube you want?’
‘I’m – I’ll get a cab.’
I’d thought it through in advance: because I didn’t want the hassle of trying to work out maps and lines and stations on top of all the other anxiety, I’d sneaked some cash
from our special savings account. An unforgivable act. If Mum found out before I could top it up again, she’d go ballistic. Some of the banknotes were tucked into my jeans pocket where I
could get at them straight away, and another lot were stashed in a zipped compartment inside my purse. I thought it might be safer that way. Around me people hurried by, checked watches, hugged,
swore at suitcases across their path, craned to see the departure boards. I laid my hand against the doorway of Sock Shop to steady myself. It was vital not to panic.
‘Come right over, then, sweetheart,’ said Jessie, Jen, whatever her name was. ‘I’m dying to see you.’
‘Really? Are you really?’
‘Oh, yeah. Get yourself here as quick as you can. We’ve a lot to catch up on, you and me.’
I tried Daniel’s mobile number first because, for all I thought Charlotte was lying, I couldn’t be completely sure he wasn’t on holiday somewhere. The phone
rang for a while then cut out.
Next I tried the landline. I wasn’t interfering, I only wanted to find out where I stood so I could act in Charlotte’s best interests.
The phone rang and rang again, and I was about to end the call when the receiver was picked up.
‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice, posh, a bit slurry.