The Bad Mother's Handbook (10 page)

‘My big sister always swore by chocolate. Contains
iron and antioxidants, boosts your immune system,
relaxes your arterial walls making strokes less likely.
Really. It ought to live in the medicine cabinet. And,
most importantly, it lifts your mood through the mystic
power of everyone’s favourite chemical neurotransmitter,
ta-daah, serotonin.’

The Year 11s were hunching their shoulders suspiciously
and nudging each other. Girls that age are so
immature.

‘Right. Do I look like a miserable bugger, then?’

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I overheard
Julia telling Anya that you’d split with your boyfriend.
Although, and I know I’m almost certainly going to regret
saying this, he was somewhat lacking in sartorial discretion.’
Daniel sat down opposite me and leaned forward
across the desk. ‘He dressed like a tosser.’

I was genuinely confused. He didn’t even know Paul.

‘Spooky leather trousers. Give you crotch-rot. Apparently.
Not that I’ve ever worn them.’

‘Oh, I get you. He – it wasn’t—’ I stopped. If I started
to explain he’d think I was a right tart. Bloody hell. Why
did I attract these weirdos? What bloody business was it
of his anyway? ‘It’s not really your place to comment,’ I
snapped and stuffed the rest of the KitKat into my mouth.

For a moment he seemed crushed. ‘No, fair enough.
Scrub that bit. Foot in bloody mouth again. The Aztecs
used cocoa beans as a simple form of currency, you know.’
He snatched up the hot chocolate and took a deep swig.
Then he put the plastic cup back down on my spider
diagram and grinned hopefully. I scowled back. He took
the scrap of silver foil and scrunched it deftly into a four-pointed
star shape, which he stuck on the end of his finger
and waved around. The star dropped off and skittered
away, leaving a red dent in his skin. Finally he picked
up my retractable biro and began clicking it on and off
rapidly.

‘Right, well, having fucked up big time I might as
well go the whole hog.’ He fixed his gaze on me. ‘Would
you –
go out
with me?’

And it seemed to me he shouted those words and they went echoing round the ceiling, because the hum of chat
suddenly dropped, like it always does exactly when you
don’t want it to.

I was completely amazed. It wasn’t only that he
looked a bit odd and talked posh bollocks, but it had
been popularly assumed since he arrived at the school that
he wasn’t interested in girls. Electrical gadgets, maybe;
human relationships, no. He’d been here a term and a half
and never asked anyone out, never got off with anyone
at a party, never even seemed to notice the opposite sex
in any way. Julia had reckoned he might be one of these
God-botherers. There was an intensity about him that
made you feel fidgety. He certainly wasn’t like anyone else
in the year.

‘Shit, shit, shit. I’ve done it wrong, haven’t I? I ought
to have said, “I’ve got two tickets for a gig,” or “Do you
fancy coming for a drink sometime.” ’ He threw down the
biro and scrumpled up the KitKat paper in anguish. ‘And
then you’d say, “No, sorry, I’m bathing the dog that
night,” and I’d crawl off and die quietly in a corner somewhere.
Much as I’m going to do now.’ He flushed and rose
to his feet, scraping the chair loudly on the parquet so that
the Year 11s put their pens down and turned right round
to watch the show. ‘Don’t know what I was thinking of.
Sorry. Catch you later,’ he muttered. Then he slunk off,
banging the double swing doors behind him.

I slumped forward and bowed my head till my brow
touched the wooden desk. Absolutely fucking marvellous.
Just what I needed at the moment, to be responsible for
someone else’s misery.

That lunchtime I watched him in the common room. He was sitting, as usual, with The Two Nerds (subjects:
Maths, Further Maths, Maths With Knobs On, Complete
Bastard Maths). One’s tall, the other’s short but they both
have bad haircuts, crap clothes and look about forty.
Daniel looked almost elegant beside them, with his good
suit and expensive shoes (I don’t think they’re short of a
bob or two in his house).

The Nerds were playing chess and Daniel was making
a show of reading an Asterix book. There was this
aura
of unhappiness around him. I edged my chair closer
to Julia and laughed loudly at something Anya said.
The realization made the hairs on my neck prickle: he
reminded me of myself.

*

I DIDN’T MIND school, on the whole. Now our Jimmy hated
it. As soon as it were time to go, he’d want the toilet. He’d stay
in, and when the factory whistle went at nine he’d come out. Of
course it were no good then, ’cause you got the stick across
your hand if you were five minutes late. He were worst on
Monday mornings when his class had to go through the books
of the Old Testament.
Gen
-esis,
Ex
-odus, Le
vit
-icus,
Num
-bers.
He had a block, he said; he could do them at home.
First
and
Second
Sam
-uels,
First
and Second
Kings
. You could hear him
chanting it through the toilet wall. But the minute he got his
bum on t’ long wooden form with th’ others, it went straight out
of his head. So he’d get t’ stick again.

One day there were a bit of excitement. The big lads in the
top class – some of them were fourteen, and tall – turned on
the headmaster, Mr Avis. He were a vicious man, he had it
coming. He used to cane pupils for nowt, humiliate them, just to show who was boss. Nobody ever learned anything in his
class, you were too frightened. Six of ’em carried him to the
window, opened it up, pushed him out and held him over the sill
by his ankles. It was his good luck that there were some workmen
in the hall below who heard his shouts and came running.
The pupils pulled him back in sharpish and sat down meek as
you like at their desks, so by the time the workmen arrived the
only evidence that summat had been going on was Mr Avis’s
red face and his broken suspender. He was far too embarrassed
to admit the truth in front of them, it would have finished him
in the village, and we weren’t going t’ say owt, so he picked up
his cane, laid it across his desk and said he was going home
because he felt unwell. He resigned t’ same day. I think he went
to teach at Lytham in the finish.

Startin’ work wasn’t much of an improvement. You still got
the stick – well, you did at our place anyroad, and across your
legs too. At thirteen I started in the cotton mill; it was that, or
the bleachworks or pickin’ coal at Pit Brow. You hadn’t a right
lot of choice in the matter. I had to clean under four looms
before they started up, and you got sixpence extra for that, what
they called your ‘spender’. But it meant gettin’ there early, and
y’ ad to walk it in all weathers. You got put wi’ a woman as ’d
learn you how to piece ends, that were called tentin’, but if
you were slow she’d rap your legs. They got paid by how much
cloth they wove, you see, an’ they didn’t want to waste time
on sortin’ out such as me. And every mornin’ the boss’d be
waitin’ outside, ready to knock money off if you were late, which
was worse than any stick.

They say ‘The Good Old Days’, but they weren’t nice times,
not really.

*

I think worries
are like Russian dolls; almost anything
can be eclipsed by something worse. You think a terrible
emergency is, say, a monster spot or a bad grade, but that
would be nothing if your house burnt down, which would
still not be as bad as if you found out you had incurable
cancer. (I suppose the only calamity that could top that
would be full-on nuclear war.) So it’s a matter of scale.

I wondered, as I searched desperately for my completed
Keats essay that Thursday night, why on earth I’d
ever been concerned about a loon like Daniel Gale. I’d left
the essay on my desk, in a blue Slimpick wallet, ready to
hand in next day, which would leave the weekend free
to do some last-minute revising for the exam. But it had
vanished. I looked in all the pockets of my school bag, my
course books, my Oxford pad; I got down on my hands
and knees and peered under the bed, moved magazines,
shoes, clothes; school bag course books Oxford pad under
the bed again, then downstairs: house magazines, table
drawer, letter rack, under the sofa, under the chairs, in
the sideboard, kitchen surfaces, kitchen cupboards, bread
crock, bin inside, bin outside (quickly, because it was dark
and smelly), airing cupboard, bathroom cabinet, top of
the cistern. There aren’t that many places in a house the
size of ours. Then I really started to panic.

‘Mum. Mum!
Mum!
’ I bounded back up the stairs and
burst into her bedroom.

‘God, Charlotte. Is there no privacy in this house?’ she
snapped, shutting the wardrobe mirror quickly. I vaguely
took in the fact that she was wearing a black miniskirt
and a shiny white blouse, like a waitress, and she’d been
blow-drying her hair in a sad attempt at a Rachel. ‘Do you think you might knock before you come barging into
my room?’ Crossly she pulled on her old grey sweater
over the blouse; it was nearly as long as the skirt. She saw
me staring. ‘I’m only thirty-three. Look at Madonna.’

‘Thirty-four tomorrow. What’s Madonna got to do
with it? Look, Mum, I’m desperate. Have you moved a
blue folder from off my desk?’

She clocked the state I was in. ‘Give me a minute,’ she
said reaching for her leggings.

We both knew it was Nan. ‘Let me talk to her, you’re
too hyper.’ She went into Nan’s room and I heard low
voices. Please God, let her remember where she’s put it,
I prayed as I hung outside the door biting my thumbnail.
But Mum’s face was glum as she came out.

‘Oh, God, Mum! I spent
hours
on that essay! I haven’t
even got my notes any more! Can’t you have another go
at her?’

We could hear Nan singing, so I knew it was hopeless.

‘Oh the moon shines bright on Charlie Chaplin
His boots are crackin’
For want of blackin’
And his owd fustian coat is wantin’ mendin’
Before they send ’im
To the Dardanelles.’

‘I know where we’ll find it.’ Mum’s expression was
suddenly bright and I noticed then she’d got lip gloss on.

‘Go on.’

‘The Tin.’

She slipped back into Nan’s room and I heard the
wardrobe door go, a scuffle as Mum shifted footwear aside, then the lid of the large biscuit tin Nan keeps full of
Spam and canned baked beans in case of war. I twisted
impatiently and peeped round the jamb. Nan was flat out
on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

At last Mum stood up. ‘Sorry, nothing. We’ll try
downstairs again.’

‘Jesus! Why do I have to live in this bloody hole!’ I
exploded at her. ‘You can’t put
anything
down without
someone interfering with it. I’m completely
sick
of this
house! When I get my ‘A” levels, which I probably won’t
do at this rate, you’ll not see me for dust. God Almighty!
What am I going to tell them at school? My nan ate my
homework?’ I was close to tears. ‘I
can’t
do all that work
again. I’m so tired, and what about my revision? I haven’t
time
to do both, I’m just going to fail. I don’t know why
I
bother
.’

‘You’re hyperventilating. Calm down. We’ll have
another look and I’ll write you a note.’ She squeezed past
me and began to go downstairs.

‘A
note
?’ I shouted over the banisters at the top of her
head. ‘Do you know how old I am? It’s not like I need to
be excused games! A
note
won’t do any good.’

She turned her face up to me. ‘Do you want me to help
you or not?’

‘Christ!’ I turned on my heel and threw myself into
my bedroom, slamming the door. Papers fluttered off the
desk, but not the right ones. I sank onto the bed in a
welter of self-pity. No one else had to put up with this
continual family sabotage. Why hadn’t I been born into a
different life?

Except, I nearly was, wasn’t I?

I’d been trying not to think about it, because the
implications were too big and too scary. Only you can’t
not
think of something, it’s impossible. By making a
conscious effort to blot it out, you give it life. Try
not
thinking of a blue elephant. See?

Later on, it must have been about 2 a.m., I crept in to
see Nan. She looked awful without her teeth, her head
lolling, little snores coming from the back of her throat.
Close to you could see the pink scalp through her thin
hair. One day she’ll be dead, I thought, she’ll be lying like
this but there’ll be no breathing and her skin will be cold.
I took her small hand, loving and hating her at the same
time. I’m here, in this house, in this life, because of you,
I told her. She didn’t stir.

Just before I went to sleep I remembered Mum’s birthday
present.
The Stately Semi: How To Achieve The
Neo-Classical Look In The Suburban Home
. She’s forever
decorating, trying to paint out the council house, rag-roll
away her roots. I supposed I ought to wrap it, so I tiptoed
downstairs for some Sellotape and there, as I clicked on
the light, sitting on the table were some narrow-ruled
sheets covered with my handwriting. My heart leapt.
But it wasn’t the essay, it was only my notes. There was
orange spaghetti bolognaise sauce on the top page which
my mum had tried to wipe off. She must have trawled
through the wheeliebin after I’d gone to bed. I wrapped
the present quickly and left it for the morning.

*

W
HAT IS IT
about kids? I’d lie down in front of a tram for
Charlotte without a second thought, but most of the time I want to beat her about the head with a blunt instrument.
Do all mothers feel this way?

*

WHEN THEY laid her in my arms I thought I was going to die
with happiness. I used to wheel her up the street in that big
pram and old Mrs Moss used to be leaning on her gate, and
she’d say every time, ‘Whose babby’s that? Wheer’s tha getten’
it?’ And I’d say, ‘She’s mine.’ Mrs Moss would suck her teeth.
‘She never is.’ I’d look down at the little fingers poking out over
the top of the crocheted blanket. ‘Oh, yes she is. She’s mine.
She’s mine.’