The Bad Mother's Handbook (17 page)

‘His twin brother’s on a kidney machine, you have to
make allowances,’ said Pauline the next day.

I gave her a hard stare. ‘Why? Why should I? No one
does for me.’

She just turned away and started counting Tesco’s
computer vouchers. Cow.

*

‘My God,
you’re here!’

Daniel was sitting in the window of Tiggy’s, looking
anxious.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t be?’ he asked.

‘Well, under the circumstances . . . I’d have stood me
up, without a doubt.’ I slumped down beside him. My
bulge nearly came up to the edge of the table. ‘I don’t
know what to say. I’ve been such a bitch.’

‘No, no, well yes, actually.’

We laughed nervously.

‘Sorry.’

‘Hormones under the bridge. This thing’s too important
to fall out over.’ Fingers through hair, worried frown.
‘So, you really have decided, then?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ I kept my voice low. ‘It’s not practical.
I could no more look after a baby than fly to the moon.
Think about it. Mum’s life would be in tatters, I’d have to
throw in my university place and stay, God, stay at home
for
years
, it doesn’t bear thinking about. And I know
I’d make a terrible mother, I’m just not the sort. I’ve been
really stupid, I should just have got on with sorting things
out. I mean, the father . . .’

My voice began to quaver and my eyes pricked.

‘Say no more.’

An enormously fat chef carrying a tray of dirty cups
squeezed past our table, his apron straining over his
stomach. ‘Keep your hair on, we’re short-staffed,’ he
barked at an old biddy in the corner. Everyone turned
to see. The biddy stuck two fingers up at his back, then
swept all the sachets of salt and pepper into her handbag.

‘Now
he
looks pregnant. You’re a positive sylph compared to him. Look, I’ll get you a milkshake while
you cast your eye over these.’ Daniel began pulling some
folded sheets of paper out of the pocket of his jeans.

While he was at the counter I looked through the pages
he’d printed off the Internet.
An abortion is legal until
the 24th week of pregnancy
, I read.
There is an initial
consultation with a doctor, but the woman can also see a
counsellor if she wishes
. Hmm. Now there was an idea.
I didn’t want my head screwed up any more than it was
already. On the other hand, they might try to persuade me
to change my mind, and now I’d made the decision there
was no way I was going back on it. Toes or not.

‘Banana,’ said Daniel putting the tall glass down on
the table. ‘They’re all out of chocolate. Drink up, anyway,
you need your calcium or your teeth will fall out. And you
don’t want to be toothless on top of everything else, do
you?’

I tried to smile.

In order to qualify for a same-day procedure, the
woman must be under 19 weeks pregnant. If she is more
than 19 weeks, she must stay overnight at the hospital or
health care centre.

Same-day procedure!

It is generally accepted that there is very little risk
associated with abortion.

Toes.

‘How far are you on?’ asked Daniel gently.

I thought back and counted. ‘I’m fairly sure. Eighteen
weeks, I think. So I might be just in time. I could go to the
clinic in the morning and be back by teatime, tell my mum
I’d been to Manchester shopping.’

Buy some extra-large pads, pretend I had flu and rest
up for a day or so. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Daniel looked uncomfortable. ‘Yeah, you might just
about be OK. Only, they have this funny way of calculating.’

‘What do you mean?’ My heart began to thump.

‘It’s something I’ve heard my dad mention. They don’t
calculate from the actual date of, er, conception.’ He
dropped his gaze. ‘They take it from the start of your last
period. So—’

‘You
what
?’

‘So, well, that means you’re not actually pregnant for
the first two weeks or so of your pregnancy. As it were.’

‘You’ve got to be wrong about that. That’s ridiculous,
it doesn’t even make sense. I’ve never heard that one
before.’

‘Forget it. I’m probably wrong.’

As soon as he said it I knew he was probably right.
‘So what you’re saying is, that would make me nearer
twenty.’ I put my hands over my face and dragged them
down over the skin. What a fucking mess.

Fat chef came out from behind the counter again and
began shouting at two boys for breathing on the window
and drawing pictures of willies. ‘If yours looks like that
you need to see a doctor,’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll be phoning
your headmaster. Which school d’you go to, when you’re
not playin’ truant?’ ‘Best go before he sits on us!’ one of
them shouted, and they slid out of their seats and barged
past us, colliding with the table and sending the sauce
bottle spinning on its axis. We watched it lurch and fall.
Tomato ketchup blobbed out slowly, mesmerizingly.

Stupid I may be, but I’m not daft. I knew that
nineteen-week cut-off point must be there for a good
reason, that a later operation was going to be a lot more
traumatic than an early procedure. I’d been really ill
having a wisdom tooth out once, vomiting everywhere
and swollen up like a hamster. My insides still scrunched
up when I thought about it.

Did they use a general anaesthetic? It would be best
if they just put you under so you didn’t know what was
going on, but what if they didn’t? What if it really, really
hurt and you
saw what came out
and it lived in your head
for ever and ever?

‘Do you know what they do, exactly?’ I made myself
ask.

‘No. The website didn’t go into details. Just what’s on
those pages.’

I couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. We looked at each
other for a long time but he held his gaze steady. Panic
rose suddenly up my throat like nausea, catching me
off-guard.
Not me! This can’t be happening to me! I can’t
cope, there has to be another way!

I struggled to get a grip. My mum has these breathing
exercises, they use them on anger-management courses;
she does them if we have a big row. She doesn’t know I
use them too. In through the nose, count five, out through
the mouth. I had – breathe – to stop the scary thoughts
– breathe – and face up to – breathe – the practicalities –
breathe. There was no other way. Breathe. It was going to
be all right if I kept my head.

‘What you could do,’ Daniel was saying, ‘is tell your mum you’re staying over at a friend’s, a girlfriend’s
obviously . . .’

‘Which is something I never do.’

‘Work with me, Charlotte. You could tell her it was a
special occasion, an eighteenth or something . . .’

‘I’d have to bunk off school, they’d want a note.’

‘It’s half-term the week after next.’

‘What if she rung up my friend’s house to check?’

‘Take your mobile.’

‘I haven’t got one!’

‘Take mine, for God’s sake!’ Daniel sounded exasperated.
‘You could tell her your friend lent it you so you’d
always be contactable, even if you got in from clubbing
very late. And give her a false number for the home
telephone, then when you get back say, if she’s tried it,
that you must have made a mistake.’

Once again I looked at him with respect. ‘God, you’re
a good liar.’

‘Sign of intelligence.’ He cocked his head, eyebrows
raised. ‘So, are we sorted?’

I closed my eyes and took another long deep breath.
‘You are so . . . God, I don’t know what to say.’

‘It’s no big deal. Just providing information.’ He
drained his cappuccino and leaned back.

‘Well, yeah, then, I think I am, er,
sorted
. Bloody
funny word for it, though.’ I scanned the papers again
while I waited for my insides to settle down. It looked
as though everything might work out OK. Outside the
two rude boys had returned and were busy writing FAT
BASTA
D on the steamed-up glass.

Then something on the papers caught my eye.

For details of our tariff please click on our homepage
.

‘Hey, Daniel, is this a private clinic?’

He nodded.

‘Well, I can’t afford it, how much is it going to be?’

‘About five or six hundred pounds.’

The milkshake straw pinged out from under my
fingers. ‘You’re joking.’

‘It’s no big deal—’

‘Pardon me, it bloody is!’

‘If you’d
listen
for a minute. I was going to say, my
grandfather left me a few thou, it’s sitting in a savings
account doing nothing.’

‘Oh, God! No way. I am
not
taking your money for
this. No way. That’s final.’

He put his hand out to me across the table but I
didn’t touch him. ‘Charlotte, what choice do you have?
You can pay me back when you get your student loan,
whatever, if it’ll make you feel better.’

‘NHS?’

‘If you want to start from scratch and find out all
about that route, it’s up to you. But to be honest, you’re
leaving it all a bit late.’

I wanted someone just to sort it out for me, take it all
out of my hands. I felt utterly weary.

‘Can you book me in, then?’

‘I’ll telephone as soon as I get home.’

Like he said, what choice did I have?

*

T
HIS IS THE WAY
my world collapsed.

I’d gone on a mug-hunt. Opened the kitchen cupboard and there was only Nan’s china cup with roses, and an eggcup
with Blackpool Tower on it. Ridiculous, as we have
about twenty mugs in this house.

I knew where they’d all be so I steamed upstairs and
rapped on Charlotte’s door. No answer. I didn’t seem to
have seen her properly for weeks, she kept disappearing
off to her room with sandwiches and endless bloody
yoghurts. She reckoned to be revising but I’d thought
she might be brooding over that boy, so I’d left well alone.

I stood and listened: nothing. I hadn’t heard her go out
but she obviously wasn’t in her bedroom. (Can I just say
I don’t normally go barging in; for one thing, I’m always
frightened of what I might find – justifiably, as it’s turned
out. Oh WHY did I have to be RIGHT?)

I opened the door slowly, sniffing the fuggy teenage air,
and looked round. Mugs, yes, several, dirty, dotted about;
her fleece on the floor in a heap; Charlotte,
Charlotte
on
the bed, half-sitting up against the headboard with her
Walkman on and a book on her lap.

Her lap.

Through the thin T-shirt I saw, for the first time, the
outline of her belly rising in an unmistakable swell. The
paperback was perched on top and it looked like she was
using one of those beanbag trays for the elderly. Her head
whipped up and she stared. And the look in her eyes was
mine, eighteen years ago.

*

Out of the corner
of my eye something moved and my
whole body jolted with shock. I was
sure
I’d locked the
door, but there she was, like Nosferatu only with permed hair, pointing a sharp fingernail at my belly. OhGodohgodohgod,
worstnightmarescenario, major panic for
about five seconds, then, weirdly, something else. Something
else taking over.

The guitar solo on my Walkman faded out and a voice
in my head spoke over it,
Don’t panic. This is the worst
it gets. What can she do to you, other than shout? And
you’re well used to that, it’s water off a duck’s back, isn’t
it? And, listen, you’re her equal now, in this situation.
You’re one woman talking to another. She can’t accuse
you of anything she hasn’t done herself. Keep calm and
say what comes into your mind.

*

E
IGHTEEN YEARS AGO
, sitting at the table in tears and
Nan kneeling at my side trying to hold my hand, except I
kept pulling it away. Nan saying over and over again,
‘Tha’ll be awreet, we’ll sort it out.’ Me saying, shouting,
‘How CAN it be, for God’s sake?’ She was frightened – I
think I bullied her a bit after Dad died – but very sure.
Very sure.

*

Then I was ready,
and from then on it wasn’t like me
speaking at all.

*

‘You STUPID—’

Charlotte wrenched her earphones off. Her face was
twisted with some emotion, but it didn’t look like shame.

‘Oh, Christ, don’t start—’

‘What do you mean,
don’t start
? I cannot
believe
what
I’m seeing – ’ I pointed in fury at her stomach – ‘that my
own daughter could have been so bloody bloody stupid –
and, and
loose
!’

She put the book down deliberately on the duvet and
shuffled herself more upright.

‘What, like you, you mean? Exactly like you, Mum, or
had you forgotten?’

She was too cool by half. I wanted to strangle her with
my bare hands.

‘Oh, no. How could I
possibly
forget? That’s the point.
All that sacrifice and now this slap in the face.’ I clenched
my fists so hard my nails dug into the palms. ‘You should
have taken notice of me, of my mistake! I thought, Jesus
wept, if there was one thing I’d taught you, it was not to
throw your life away—’