The Bad Mother's Handbook (11 page)

*

‘Not enough sex.
That’s what causes aggression in
middle age.’ Daniel Gale was twittering at me as I blew
my nose into his enormous handkerchief. ‘It’s true. Those
ones who write in to
Points of View
to complain about
the pronunciation of “controversy”, or constantly moan
on to the council about their neighbour’s Leyland hedges,
those maniacs shouting their mouths off in restaurants
and reducing the waitresses to tears, those are the types
you know just don’t get laid enough. You’ve got to feel
sorry for them, really. I mean, Mrs Stokes must weigh
about fifteen stone, and she’s got that moustache. We
know there’s a Mr Stokes, but I don’t suppose he’s panting
to exercise his conjugal rights of an evening. That’s
why she was such an A1 bitch. Nothing to do with you at
all.’ He hovered at my chair, not touching it, not sitting
down. We were in the library; he’d followed after seeing
me storm out of cow-bag Stokesy’s office.

‘But I’ve never been late with a piece of work for
her,
ever
.’ I was still crying with temper. ‘She said, “Oh,
I’m sorry, Charlotte, you’re the fifth person today with
an excuse. I can’t make an exception for you. Monday,
9 a.m.” So
I
get penalized because of someone else’s
laziness.’ I put my head down on my arms. ‘And I’m so
tired. I want to sleep all the time.’ I’d been too angry to
be embarrassed with him at first so he got it all, blow by
blow, from Nan downwards. Now I’d finished, though, I
wanted him to go away. ‘Here.’ I lifted my head up and
gave him back his handkerchief. I knew my mascara must
have run, so it was imperative I get to a mirror as soon as
possible.

‘You can keep it, if you like.’

‘No, really.’

‘You’ve got a bit of . . .’ He gestured to his own cheek.
‘Do you want me to . . . ?’ He was wrapping the hanky
round his finger, the way mums do with mucky toddlers.

‘No! Sorry, no, it’s OK. I need to wash my face anyway.’

‘Right.’

‘I’m fine now. Nothing a hatpin and a voodoo doll
won’t cure.’ I smiled feebly.

‘Right.’

He hesitated.

‘See you.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And thanks,’ I called after him faintly. He didn’t
acknowledge me.

But on Monday, after I’d handed in my essay and
before the exam started, he found me again.

‘You been here all weekend? Sorry, stupid joke. I
won’t hold you up.’ He nodded at my open textbook.
‘I just wondered if this was any use.’ He plonked a plastic
bag down on the table. I peered in, and nearly swallowed
my biro in shock.

‘My God, Daniel, it’s a laptop! You can’t give me
this!’

His hands went fluttery and he swept his hair back
several times. ‘No, no, it’s simply a glorified typewriter.
We’ve had it for ages. My dad was literally throwing it
out, well, he was going to put it in the loft, anyway. He
doesn’t bother with it now he’s got the PC. It’s yours to
borrow – indefinitely – if you think it’ll help.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You can save your essays on disk as you type them.
That way it wouldn’t matter if you lost a copy, you’d
always have a backup. It’s an absolute doddle to use. The
instruction booklet’s in there, and I’ve formatted a couple
of disks for you so it’s all ready to go. Just be careful
not to pull the lead out while you’re in the middle of
something, that deletes it all. Best to save your text as
you go along.’ He was gabbling now. ‘Oh, there’s this
as well.’ He fished out a small cardboard box and flashed
it at me before dropping it back into the bag. ‘Iron tablets.
You’re probably a bit anaemic, that’s why you’re so tired.
My sister used to take them, before she ran off to join
the circus, well, read medicine at Birmingham. Not these
actual tablets, obviously. I’m not trying to palm you off
with drugs that are past their sell-by date.’ He gave a
high-pitched laugh. ‘Anyway, give them a try – or not – as
you like.’

He let go of the back of the chair he’d been gripping,
and stalked off towards the doors.

Well, bugger me, I thought. You’ve got to give the lad
credit for trying.

I picked up the bag and ran after him, squeak squeak
across the parquet. Everyone looked.

I bundled him outside and held up the typewriter.

‘I understand. You can’t accept it. Say no more.’ He
sighed and made to take the handles of the bag off me.

‘No, no, it’s fab. I’m really grateful. Tell your dad
thanks. And – if you want, if you’re not doing anything
on Saturday afternoon, I usually go to Tiggy’s for a coffee
about three. Do you know where I mean? So . . .’

‘I’ll see you there.’ He grinned manically and all but
ran off down the corridor.

Straight away I wished I hadn’t done it. He was bound
to get the wrong idea.

In the event
it didn’t matter. Not at all. That Saturday,
at about three, Daniel, the essay, the exam were a million
years ago. I was in my bedroom, amongst the posters and
the pictures of impossibly beautiful women, staring at my
naked body in the full-length mirror. Downstairs Mum
was lecturing Nan at top volume, and through the chink
of curtain I could see the light of a keen, bright spring
afternoon.

I was trying to see if my breasts had got any bigger.
I had to contort a bit because of the old Take That
stickers which refused to peel off the glass properly. Robbie
Williams leered at me unhelpfully but Gary Barlow
looked sympathetic, even though the top of his head was missing. I turned side-on to check out my stomach. I
grabbed some flesh and pinched. Impossible to tell. Then
I let out my breath. That did look pregnant. I sucked in
my muscles again quickly.

I heard Mum pounding up the stairs; thank God I’d
locked the door. She was shouting down to Nan to stay
where she was or she’d get it all over her clothes. There
was the sound of drawers slamming, then footsteps on the
stairs again. I blanked it out and continued gazing.

I wasn’t sure where the idea had come from. I hadn’t
felt sick in the mornings, but my bra had definitely got
tighter. If only I had X-ray vision. What would I see? A
little fishy tadpole thing, wriggling its limbs and nodding
its outsize head? Probably the length of a baked bean, if I
was right about the dates. Oh, please let me not be right.
Would it have
implanted
itself in me yet? Burrowed in?
God.

It was paranoia. I looked exactly the same. There
was no baby. I started to put my clothes back on and
checked my knickers once more for blood. Virgin white,
alas. Still, I’d been late before, that meant nothing. My
jeans still fitted, so it was probably all right.

Suddenly there was a clattering noise from the hall.
I pulled my fleece on, unlocked the door and ran across
the landing to see. Mum was bending down to pick up
the pile of CDs that had been posted hastily through the
letter box. I saw her open the front door in puzzlement,
and beyond her, Paul’s retreating figure hurrying across
the road.

Without a second thought I dashed down the stairs,
whipped a pistol out the pocket of Nan’s Welsh wool coat which was hanging in the hall, and fired. In the distance
Paul crumpled into a denim heap.

‘Nice shot,’ said Mum admiringly.

No, not really. What actually happened was that
together we craned to watch him disappear round the
corner then I turned and ran back into my room, banging
the door shut.

I stayed put
for two hours and would ideally have spent
the rest of my life there only the need to pee drove me
downstairs.

The table was laid and tea was in progress, the TV
blaring. Next to the pepper mill sat a neat tower of CDs.

‘They catch seagulls off the rubbish tip and pass them
off as chicken,’ Nan was saying.

‘Charles Darwin!’ shouted my mother, oblivious to
everything except
University Challenge
. ‘
The Magic Flute
!’

I hurried through and gained the bathroom. Nan had
taken all the guest soaps out of their little pot and lined
them up along the cistern, as she always does. Usually I
put them back, it avoids another row, but this time the
lavender perfume pushed right up my nostrils and made
me feel queasy. I leaned forward and laid my forehead on
the rim of the cold sink. There was still no blood.

At last I got myself together and went to face the
inquisition.

‘You tell me,’ Nan was poking a drumstick round her
plate and shivering theatrically. ‘You tell me what chicken
has four legs. It’s never right, that. Four legs.’

‘They came out of a bag of chicken pieces off the market.’ Mum was busy eyeing up Jeremy Paxman. ‘There
were three wings as well.’

‘Good God.’

‘Yours is in the fridge, Charlotte, under some cling-film.’ Mum tore herself away from the screen. ‘Oh! What’s
happened to your head?’

In the mirror over the fire I could see the red furrow
left by the edge of the sink. Christ.

‘Nothing!’ I said venomously and plonked myself
down in the armchair.

And waited.

Bleak House
. A. A. Milne. The Dissolution of the
Monasteries.

‘Was that the boy you were seeing before Christmas?’
she hazarded finally.

Hah, Mother! You know
nothing
! You have no idea
how long it’s been going on! You miss what’s
right under
your nose
. You’d have a
blue fit
if you even knew the half
of it. I
never
tell you anything because you’d always construct
the worst (and all right, in this case you’d be right,
but that’s
not the point
). It’s none of your business, I’m an
adult. Get yourself a life then you can stop interfering
with mine!

I said, ‘Yeah.’

‘I take it . . . it’s finished?’

I wanted to wrestle her to the ground and bang her
skull repeatedly on her precious white marble hearth.

‘What do
you
think?’ I hunched my knees up under
my fleece and pulled in my arms so that the sleeves hung
empty. I waited for her to say, ‘Take your feet off the chair,’ but she didn’t. I hated her so much I could hardly
breathe.

‘They eat frogs’ legs in France,’ said Nan jabbing a
fork in the direction of the TV. ‘The dirty buggers.’

‘He’s not French, Nan, I’ve told you before. He does
Newsnight
.’

‘Of course he is. Look at his nose.’

How long would I have to live in this madhouse, I
wondered, before my head caved in.

*

I
WAS IN
the bedroom trying on clothes again when the
telephone rang.

I’d just been thinking, maybe I don’t look so bad for my
age, actually, you see a lot worse on reality TV. I haven’t got
those road-map veins you see some women with, and my
teeth are all my own. You’ve got to be realistic. Anyway, I
reckon we could all look like Jennifer Aniston if we had a
few million in the bank and a personal trainer. I wasn’t fat,
not
fat
fat. Size 14 isn’t fat. I pulled my stomach in and
turned sideways on to the mirror. Now that didn’t look bad
at all. If I could stand in this pose for the rest of my life
people might think I was quite slim. I did a film-star smile
at myself and arched my eyebrows. Then I tilted my head
and tried a wistful gaze; nice. If I ever released an album,
this would be the covershot.

I fluffed my hair up – currently mid-length, lightened,
Brauned to within an inch of its life – and slicked some
shimmery lipstick on my pout. You see, I told myself, if you
had the
time
you could look half-decent. But it’s so hard
with Charlotte and Mum. Sometimes it’s like a conspiracy, I only have to get the can of shaving foam out of the cupboard
and there’s some domestic crisis, so back it goes on
the shelf, and I get hairier. Thank God for opaque tights.

Charlotte would have had a blue fit if she knew how
much I’d just spent on the catalogues; thank God you get
to pay by instalment.
So What If I’ll Never See Thirty Again,
I’ve Got Legs
, favourite outfit of the new batch, lay on the
bed slinkily; I’d have to get the razor on my shins for that.
You should have seen Charlotte’s face when she saw me in
it. Bit of a shock for her, seeing her mum look like a proper
woman for a change. Serves her right for barging in.

She’s a sly devil, though! Some daughters talk to their
mothers, I’ve seen it on
Trisha
, but Charlotte’s like a clam. I
never know what’s going on in her mind. Then again, if I’m
being absolutely honest, I don’t want to. It’s not worth the
row to ask, anyway. She’ll snap your head off if you ask her
what she wants on her toast, never mind how her love life’s
going.

You walk on eggshells in this house.

And this boy, nice-looking but cocky with it; I can’t
say I particularly liked him. I think he was called Paul,
she used to go to St Mary’s with him, years ago. I’d only
met him twice and even then she whisked him away before
I could say much to him. What would you say, though?
Paws off my daughter till she’s finished her education? She
wouldn’t thank me for that.

I wish I could have told her ‘It doesn’t matter, you’re
better off without him,’ but that would have sounded
pretty hollow coming from me. We might be about to
enter a third millennium but a woman’s still a non-person
without a man in tow. At least that’s been my experience.

Anyway the phone rang while I was still wearing
Semi-Casual Sunday Luncheon In A Pub With Mr Fairbrother
.
No chance of Charlotte stirring her stumps at the moment,
she’s far too traumatized, and Nan can’t hear through the
receiver properly so she won’t touch it: probably just as
well. The ringing continued as I wrestled with the top
button. ‘Buggeration!’ I yelled at my reflection. Album
cover girl had vanished. My face was hard and cross and
my hair had gone all staticky.