The Bad Mother's Handbook (13 page)

Mr F was still speaking, fortunately, and didn’t notice
the tears of self-pity pricking my eyes.

‘Sorry?’

‘And, of course, your mother’s lucky to have you. Too
many people walk away from their responsibilities these
days.’ He smiled at me approvingly and I thought his face
looked nice, fatherly. He was wearing an Aran sweater,
canvas trousers and hiking boots. It was odd to see him out
of a suit. ‘By the way, I take it you’ve had lunch?’

I glanced down the long table and took in the dirty
plates and screwed up paper napkins. Bloody hell, him and
his rambling mates had already eaten.

‘Oh, yes. I had something before I came out,’ I lied,
praying my stomach wouldn’t rumble.

‘Then I’ll get you another, what was it, vodka and
orange?’

‘Lovely.’ I’d have to scoff some peanuts in the loo soon
or I’d be drunk as a lord. Pace yourself, I thought. On the
other hand, the quicker I drank this round, the sooner I’d
get something to eat.

‘S
O HOW LONG
’
S
your mum been a widow?’ Mr F’s
brow furrowed as he handed me my glass and sat down
again.

‘God, let me . . . nearly twenty years it’ll be. January
1978, my dad died.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, it was pretty grim in the end. Lung cancer. It
seemed to go on forever, him being ill, but then I didn’t
really know all the details. I was only fourteen, and Nan
kept a lot of it to herself.’

‘She sounds like a strong woman.’

‘Oh, she is. They built them tough in those days. Once,
when she was a little girl, she broke her elbow and she
never cried. Her brother did, though, had the screaming
hab-dabs, apparently, and they all thought it was him that
was hurt because he was in such a state he couldn’t get the
words out to explain.’

Mr F smiled. ‘But you’re strong in your own way.’

‘Not really.’ If only he knew the truth. But it was flattering
all the same.
This
date I wasn’t going to spend the
whole time dissecting my own inadequacies, I’d done
enough of that in the past. His niceness, and seeing him in
these unfamiliar surroundings looking like a real person
rather than a boss, made me ridiculously nervous. I
swigged at the vodka like it was going out of fashion and
grinned inanely.

‘Yet to cope with losing your father at that age. It must
have been traumatic.’

The grin fell off my face. ‘Yeah. It was, actually. We
were really, really close, he’d have done anything for me . . .
At least he didn’t live to see . . . But then he’d have loved
Charlotte, he really would. I think it’s what pulled Nan
through in the end, having a baby around. She was, I have
to admit it, brilliant with Charlotte. I used to walk out of
those screaming rows with Steve, go round to Nan’s and
dump the baby in her arms. I don’t know how I’d have
coped otherwise.’

‘And yet you still want to look for your biological
mother?’

I paused, and Mr F looked concerned.

‘I’m sorry, do tell me if I’m stepping out of line—’

‘No, not at all. It’s nice to have the chance to talk it over
with someone. I was just thinking . . .’ I drained my vodka
and stood up. ‘Ahm, while I’m up I’ll get some more drinks
in, you’re on . . . ?’ I glanced at his pint. Mr F had drunk
about two inches. He tried not to look surprised.

‘No, not for me, thanks.’

‘Well, I’ll just—’

I got two packets of dry roasted and headed off to
the ladies’. Actually, peanuts take longer to eat than you
think. I leant against the sink and munched madly like a
demented hamster, then the door opened and I nipped into
a cubicle. Several years later I finished the first packet, tore
open the second, and poured them into my mouth. Next
door the other person pulled the chain, and the shock sent
a peanut nib down the wrong way. I started a choking fit,
scattering bits of mashed-up nut and spit everywhere.
Finally I got my breath back, but by then I’d totally gone
off the whole peanut thing. I threw the plastic packets
in the loo and flushed. They floated back up. I waited till
the cistern filled, the theme tune to
Countdown
running
through my head, then flushed again. When the bubbles
cleared the packets had vanished but two stubborn
peanuts still lurked in the bottom of the pan. Bugger it,
that’d have to do.

I opened the door cautiously and saw my reflection in
the mirror. My cheeks were bright red and my eyeliner had
run. I moved over to the sink and started to repair the damage, trying not to catch the eye of the other woman
who was making a right meal of washing her hands. Sod
off, I told her silently. But she went on standing there,
and, I thought, taking sneaky glances at me every so often.
Then, just as I reckoned she was finished, she sidled over
and murmured, ‘You can get out of it, you know.’

‘You what?’ I hadn’t a clue what she was on about.

‘I used to be like you.’ Since she was about ten years
younger than me and a heck of a sight more glamorous,
I wondered what she meant. She lowered her voice to a
whisper. ‘
I used to have an eating disorder
.’ She laid a comforting
hand on my shoulder. ‘You can break out of it, with
help.’

Light dawned. She thinks I’ve been making myself
sick.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Princess Diana . . .’

‘Thanks, but you’ve got me wrong—’

She smiled and began rooting in her handbag. ‘I
always carry these. When you’re ready, just give them a
ring. Admitting you’ve got a problem is the first step.’
She squeezed my elbow and placed a little card in my
hand, then went out.
The Bulimia Helpline
, I read.
Together
We Can Change Tomorrow
.

What about changing yesterday? Now that really
would be worth ringing up about.

I got myself a spritzer and rejoined Mr F. Across the
room the lady from the toilets gave me the thumbs up.

‘You were saying?’

‘About my mum? Yeah, well . . . It’s difficult to explain,
you probably won’t have the foggiest what I’m warbling
on about.’

He looked worried again. ‘No, please . . .’

‘Well, it’s like – no, you’ll think I’m mental.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well . . . well do you ever think you might be living the
Wrong Life?’

He leant forward, as if getting his forehead closer to
mine might help him understand.

‘I mean, who we are, where we live, the jobs we do –
everything, really – it’s all just down to chance, isn’t it?
The lottery of where we were born, and who to. It’s like, the
same person could be born into two completely different
homes, well not
really
, but imagine it.’ I started shunting
bar mats purposefully round the table. ‘And in one home
he might get loads of encouragement, go to a posh school,
end up all confident and successful in some top job, while
in another he might have awful scummy parents who don’t
care about him, and he might get in with a bad crowd and
go to a rotten school and end up in prison or something . . .
Am I making sense?’

‘The Prince and the Pauper?’

‘Yeah, that’s it, sort of.’ I leaned a pair of bar mats
into a wigwam. ‘And I don’t mean I’ve been living like a
pauper, God knows Nan did her best, but I’ve always
felt like I belonged elsewhere. I mean, I’m nothing like
her. She’s never been that interested in my education, for
one thing. As long as I behaved myself at school, that was
enough for her. The comp was OK and I’d probably have
done really well if, if—’ I had a sudden flash of memory,
Steve in school uniform leaning against the iron gates,
arms folded: that was the afternoon before the First Time.
I shook my head and the image cleared. ‘But she’d never have even thought of the grammar, and I didn’t because of
my friends . . . And she’s got, it’s not her fault, it’s the way
she was brought up, oh, God, I sound like such a snob,
but she’s got terrible taste. In everything. Calendars with
kittens in baskets, plastic flowers in miniature wheelbarrows.
I knew what kitsch was before I ever realized
there was a word for it. And I try and keep the house nice,
you know, improve it, but no one else cares. I’ve got this
vision of my real mother in a lovely drawing room somewhere,
fresh flowers, long white curtains. Like the cover of
a Mary Wesley novel. Because I think she’ll be like me,
she’ll understand me. And then, then . . .’ The wigwam slid
apart and collapsed.

‘What?’

‘Then I can go on looking after Nan without hating her.’

I heard myself say it and I couldn’t believe it.

‘Oh God, I didn’t mean that. I did not mean it, just
pretend I never said it—’

But Mr F was putting his hand over mine.

‘It’s all right,’ he said gently. ‘You forget, I’ve been a
carer too. I know what it’s like. It’s perfectly natural to feel
as if you’re at the end of your tether sometimes. When you
love someone, that’s when the other emotions are at their
strongest. It’s the most difficult job in the world. I know.
But you do a marvellous job, keeping that house running,
and your clever daughter . . .’

I started to fill up. This kindness was outfacing. ‘I must
nip to the loo again,’ I said huskily, and went off to splash
cold water on my face.

When I got back there was another vodka on the table
for me.

‘I got us some peanuts too,’ said Mr F. ‘Dry roasted all
right?’

‘Mmm. Then again,’ I plonked myself down and
carried straight on, unstoppable, ‘it might be a real can
of worms. I mean, she might hate me, my real mother, I
mean. Or Nan. Nan might hate me for finding this other
woman. Not to mention Charlotte. She’s unstable enough
at the moment. But who do you live your life for, in the
end? You’ve got to take some risks, or you might as well be
dead. Don’t I owe it to myself? Don’t I owe it to my birth
mum? What if she sobs herself to sleep on my birthdays, or
kisses my picture every bedtime? There’s more than one
sort of duty.’

By now I was talking quite fast. I made a conscious
effort to stop, took a deep breath and asked; ‘So was it very
hard, caring for both your parents?’

Mr F began to talk in a low, sad voice and I let my eyes
unfocus. I felt very tired and slightly sick. After a while I
realized he’d stopped speaking.

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you all right?’

My eyes smarted from the effort to keep them open.
‘Mm, yeah. Fine. Look, it’s been really nice, it really has,
to talk, but I’ll probably have to make a move soon.’ The
idea of getting up and walking anywhere seemed impossible.
I could have put my head down on the table top
and gone straight to sleep. I let out an enormous yawn.
‘Sorry.’

‘Do you want me to walk you home? If you’re not – if
you’re a bit tired.’

‘I’ll be fine, really.’ I reached round the back of my chair, then remembered I’d left my jacket in the hall; it had
been a perfect spring day when I set out.

‘Haven’t you got a coat?’

‘No. Well, it’s gone so mild. You’d never think it was
only April.’

The pub door swung open and a middle-aged couple
came in, shaking snow out of their hair.

‘Don’t worry. I always carry a spare cagoule,’ said Mr F,
rummaging in his rucksack. He drew out a little package of
bright blue material and began to unfold it. ‘You’ll need
your hood up by the looks of things.’

I struggled into the shiny sleeves and he zipped me up.
The other ramblers looked across and nodded at us.

‘Do you think it’s possible to love somebody and hate
them at the same time?’ I asked, as he pulled the toggles
tight.

‘Oh, yes. Very much so. Now, out into the frozen
wastes.’ He squeezed my hand briefly, then steered me to
the exit.

‘
This is getting serious
,’ sang Celine, quite out of the
blue. Mr F looked puzzled, but politely held the swing
door ajar and ushered me through.

‘I have to say—’ I began, but then with the icy air a
wave of nausea swept over me and I had to stop and press
my hand against the wall.

‘Do you feel faint? Best to put your head—’

I didn’t hear the end of the sentence because I found I
was throwing up peanutty vodka against a half-barrel of
pansies. Mr F’s arms were round me as I bent and heaved,
and when I could right myself he offered me a hanky and turned away while I sorted myself out. ‘It must be something
I’ve eaten,’ I mumbled.

He took my arm and we walked home mutely through
the blizzard, my small circle of exposed face getting redder
and redder and my wet fringe sticking to my forehead. My
feet, in their unsuitable courts, were agony. At my gate he
said briskly: ‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ and I thought, Not
if I go upstairs now and slash my wrists, except I’m too
bloody cold to hold the knife steady and my veins have all
shrunk to nothing anyway. I just smiled weakly. He gave
his half-salute and strode off into the swirling white like
Captain Oates.

Ivy Seddon opened the front door as I trudged up the
path. ‘They’re smashing, them pack-a-macs, aren’t they?’
she shouted. ‘We saw you coming, be quick and get by
t’ fire. And can you check her bag, I think it’s come away
again. I’ll mek a brew.’

*

SHE’D ONLY been at the mill two weeks but I’d had her down
as a hard-faced madam, sixteen or not. Then that Monday
morning she went off for a break and didn’t come back, and I
found her crying out by the bins, nearly hysterical.

‘T ’int fair!’ she sobbed. ‘He only has to hang his trousers
ovver th’ end o’ t’ bed and I catch on. Me mum’ll kill him. She’d
no idea it was still goin’ on. An’ she’ll want me to see that foreign
doctor in Salford again. I can’t go through wi’ it. I thought I
were goin’ t’ die last time. They pull all your insides out, you’re
bleedin’ for weeks and weeks after. I’ll run away first. No one’s
layin’ a finger on me, not this time!’