The Bad Mother's Handbook (26 page)

I retraced my steps into the station, bought a street map off a stall and went down the escalator to the Underground.
I stood in front of the Tube map for ages, trying to
work it out while people barged into me and sighed with
impatience over the top of my head. I reached forward and
tried to trace the route with my finger, like a slow reader.
Northern line, change at King’s Cross to the Piccadilly.
That was OK. But which
zone
was I in and how much
would that make the ticket? There was a massive queue at
the ticket office so I spent ages studying one of the machines
to a background of irritated tuttings from the woman
behind me. At last I pressed the right button and a bit of
card dropped into my palm. Now, which escalator? I stood
like a rock in the middle of a swirling river. An oriental
man with a briefcase stood on my foot. ‘Sorry,’ I said. He
disappeared into the crowds without looking back.

I made my decision, glided down past the adverts for
theatres and museums, and found myself in a windy
tunnel that smelt of burning rubber. Did I want platform 1
or 2? How should I bloody know? A quick check of my
pocket diary and down the tiled walkway, then finally out
onto a platform with a lot of bored-looking people. Almost
instantly there was a terrific noise and the train shot out
and slowed to a halt in front of us. The doors hissed open.
I stood back politely and was nearly knocked over in the
rush to get on.

The last time I was in London was a school trip to coincide
with the Silver Jubilee. We’d worn school uniform and
our commemorative badges because, our form mistress
had said, that’s what the Queen would want, not jeans and
Kickers. We’d gone to stand outside Buckingham Palace
and someone had said the Queen was definitely in because of the way the flag was flying, so she might have looked
out of the window and seen us.

The train came into King’s Cross, where there was a
teenage girl begging with a baby on her hip. I thought of
Charlotte and pulled out my purse. The girl’s top lip was
covered in sores, but her eyes were pretty. Where was
her
mum, I wondered.

‘What’s his name?’ I asked smiling at the round-eyed
snotty baby.

‘Ellie,’ she said and pocketed the note neatly.

I thought about her all the way to Arnos Grove.

At last I came up the steps into the sunlight, feeling
bruised. I pulled out my street map and started walking. I
was looking for Hemmington Grove and Mrs Mary Beattie.

*

Actually it’s
no big deal, changing Nan (after all, I’ll be
doing nappies soon). It used to freak me out at first, but
now it just makes me sad. Nan lies meekly on the bed
with a towel under her, her dress pulled up and her
knickers and tights round her thighs. There are poor little
white hairs between her legs and the skin is loose round
her belly. You peel off the old micropore tape and the used
bag and put them in something like a nappy sack. Then
you wipe round the weird, amazingly clean hole in Nan’s
flesh with a sterile tissue. You take the backing strip off
the new bag, stick it down with the opening against Nan’s
stomach, and Mum likes to make extra sure with some
tape on top. Sometimes, if the skin’s red, we use Nivea
but you have to be careful not to get it under the tape or
nothing sticks and it’s a disaster. Nan remains glassy-eyed throughout, then switches back into life the minute you
pull her dress back down. So there you are. Nothing to it.

I was heading towards the bin after the lunchtime
change when the doorbell rang. Dad was right, it was like
Paddy’s market. I thought it was another of Ivy’s volunteers,
but it turned out to be Daniel clutching a Moses
basket.

‘One of my father’s patients asked if he could find a
home for it. It needs a new mattress but it’s got a stand
and some frilly gubbins to go round the sides.’

‘Brilliant.’ I took it off him and laid it on the sofa
while he went to get the rest from the car. Maud and Nan
crowded round to see.

‘Eeh, in’t it lovely?’ said Nan.

‘Better than a drawer,’ said Maud, peering inside.
‘That’s where me mother put me when I were born.’

‘Well, they did in them days,’ said Nan. ‘In’t it lovely,
though.’

‘Where’s it going to go?’ asked Maud.

Nan shrugged.

‘It can come in my room,’ I said. ‘It’ll have to. Be
easier, anyway, if I’m getting up at night.’ I glanced out
of the window and saw Daniel struggling with a stack of
books and a froth of broderie anglaise. ‘Hang on.’

I waddled down the path and opened the gate for him.

‘Come here, you daft ’aporth. Let me have some of the
books, at least.’

‘They’re from Mrs Carlise. She thought you could be
doing some reading before term starts. Don’t take too
many now, just these from the top.’

‘Oh, God, I must phone her. I’ve been meaning—’ I broke off with a cry and the paperbacks fell on the pavement.

‘What’s the matter?’ Daniel threw his stuff back on the
seat and put his arm round me.

‘Get me in. Get me in, Dan.’

We staggered inside and I sat down breathlessly.

‘What is it, Charlotte? Have you got a pain?’

Nan and Maud were hovering anxiously.

‘Shall I make her a cup of tea?’ asked Maud.

‘Yes, that would be excellent. Thank you.’ Daniel
came and sat next to me and fluttered his hands. ‘What is
it, Charlotte?’

I groaned. ‘It was Paul. Across the road, you didn’t
see him. He was walking past with a Spar bag. He saw
me—’ Oh Christ, the humiliation. He’d seen me and
stared, then deliberately looked the other way till he was
round the corner. He’d have run if he could. Bastard.

‘Paul.’

‘Yes.’

‘Dirty bugger,’ said Nan miming a spit. ‘He’ll come to
his cake and milk.’

‘I’m not terrifically good at that sort of thing, but I’ll
go after him and hit him if it would make you feel better,’
said Daniel. ‘All you have to do is tell me where he lives.’

Even in the midst of my personal hell I couldn’t help
but smile at the image. ‘Excuse me,’ Daniel would probably
say first, ‘do you mind if I punch you in the mouth?’
Then Paul would knock seven bells out of him.

‘No, it’s OK. My dad’s tried that one. Silly sod.’

Daniel let out a sigh of relief and Maud came in with
the tea.

‘Look, are you definitely all right? Do I need to get
you to a doctor?’

‘No, really, I’m fine. Just mortified, that’s all.’ I took
a sip of tea. ‘Thanks, Mrs Eckersley. I could do with a
lie-down, though.’

‘Good idea. Get your feet up.’ Daniel rose to his feet.
‘I must be going, anyway.’

‘Please stay,’ I said. ‘Come up to my room so we can
talk.’

Maud gave me a funny look and I nearly said to her,
‘For God’s sake, I can’t get any
more
pregnant, can I?’

‘
I’m sorry
the room’s so small,’ I said as Daniel folded
himself into the beanbag chair.

‘What are you smiling at?’

‘Nothing. It seems strange you being here, that’s all.’
I was reclining on the bed with Nan’s V-shaped pillow
behind my head, trying to find the right way to lie. ‘The
trouble with being this size is you can never get comfortable.’

‘I suspect you’re going to get even bigger before
you’ve finished.’

‘It’s all right for you, Slim-Jim.’ I lay back.

‘Shall I put some music on?’

‘Yeah, will you? The tapes are on that shelf by your
head. Pick what you like, so long as it’s chilled. Actually,
that one on the top is good, it’s what Julia did for
me. Supposed to be my labour tape. Soundtrack to my
agony.’

‘Everything’s very . . . to hand in this room.’ Daniel
switched on the cassette player by leaning to one side and stretching across the shelf. The music started and we
listened for a few minutes without speaking.

What sense does love make?
Your brain’s turned inside out
A chemical illusion
That makes you want to shout

It was me who began. ‘The thing about Paul is, I
hate him but in a way I still love him. No, not
him
, but
the person I thought he was. He seemed great at first
because he was so happy-go-lucky and I’m so serious; I
actually thought he was
good for me
. Mad. Even now
I can’t totally shake off the promise of those initial few
weeks. My brain still hasn’t caught up with recent events.
I
know
he’s a shit but he’s the baby’s father too.’

‘Not if he doesn’t want to be. You can’t force him to
have anything to do with the child if he doesn’t want
to. You might be able to extract a few quid out of him
after the birth, but that’s about all.’

‘I know. But biologically . . .’

‘Biology’s nothing. Inserting your knob at an opportune
moment.’

We both blushed. The song finished and another one
began.

You are the star–sun–moon that guides me
My lightship in the storm
You keep me safe from harm
Safe and warm
Through the storm

‘The other problem is he’s practically on the doorstep, as demonstrated today. We’ll always be bumping into
each other, it’ll be awful.’

Daniel chewed his fingernail. ‘All the more reason to
get your university place sorted, you can always defer it.
Put that wanker behind you and get on with your life.’

‘I know, I know. You are right.’ I heaved myself up
slightly and grinned feebly at him. ‘Actually, now I think
about it, he was a wanker at primary school. He was one
of those lads who used to set up trouble and then walk
away. It was never him who got shouted at. But he was
funny and good at football so he had a lot of mates. He
knew all these rude songs.’

‘ “My Uncle Billy had a three foot willy”, that sort of
thing?’

I smirked. ‘It was four foot round here. You were
obviously suffering from shrinkage down south.’

‘Huh,’ said Daniel.

‘Then there was the classic: “Ooh, aah, I lost my bra,
I left my knickers in my boyfriend’s car”, and “Jesus
Christ superstar, wears plastic knickers and a Playtex
bra”, “All the girls in Spain wash their knickers in the
rain”. It was all underwear.’

‘The knickers-knackers-knockers school of comedy.’

‘If you say so. He had this joke too; he’d go up to
you and he’d say, “Are you a PLP?” If you said no,
he’d say, “Are you not a Proper Living Person, then?”
If you said yes he’d go, “You’re a Public Leaning Post,
then,” and barge into you.’

‘Sounds like a genius.’

‘And once we had this student teacher in, a really nice
bloke, actually. He was always changing in and out of his tracksuit like Superman or something, and one time when
he left his shoes in the classroom Paul wrote WAN KER
on the bottoms with Tipp-Ex. Or at least, that’s what he
meant to write. But he got the shoes mixed up, so when
this teacher sat on the floor with us at storytime with his
legs out in front of him and his feet together, it actually
said KERWAN on his soles. Everyone still thought it was
dead funny, though.’

‘I suspect there’s a lot of inbreeding in this village,’
said Daniel.

*

N
UMBER
80
WAS
a neat Edwardian semi with white-painted
sills, a black front door and two giant terracotta
pots on either side of the step. I could see swagged
Sanderson curtains at the bay window and a fern in a
Wedgwood planter. I must have stood for ten minutes just
staring; I suppose I was hoping someone would come out,
but no one did. Eventually I picked up my case and carried
on down the road, swinging my head from right to left as
I searched for B & B signs. I turned right at the bottom of
the road into a street where the houses were smaller and
terraced and found a bed and breakfast place at once.

The hall smelt of elderly dog and the wallpaper was
grubby but I wasn’t too fussed. It was only a base. The
wheezing old lady who led me up to my room asked lots
of questions but then didn’t give me any time to answer,
which suited me. I shut the door on her and took off my
shoes; it was time to phone Mrs Beattie. Where was my
mobile?

I psyched myself up to press the on button, but this time the battery really was flat. Now that was Fate. I threw
the phone down on the bed in relief. Then I had second
thoughts and put it on to charge while I unpacked and had
a wash in the poky little sink. Looking at myself in the
mirror I wondered what my mother would make of me
after all this time. I wanted her to be impressed, to think I’d
grown up to be a stylish, together sort of woman. I wasn’t
in bad nick, on the whole. My skin was quite good for
my age – a few lines round the mouth, that was all –
and my hair was in between cuts which is when it looks
its best. I’d wear my suit and courts, and paint my nails if
I had time. I lay back down on the bed and caught my
breath with the enormity of it all.

My mother.

After an hour I tried the phone again. The screen lit up;
it was time.

A posh woman answered.

‘Am I speaking to Mrs Mary Beattie?’

‘Yes, you are. Can I help you?’ She sounded cool and
professional, like a consultant’s receptionist: I’m sorry I
can’t give you your test results over the phone.

‘Er, my name’s Karen Cooper. Mrs Fitton from Bolton
Social Services might have rung about me. I think – she
said you might be able to – can you help me find my birth
mother? Her name was Jessie Pilkington. She stayed with
you once, a long time ago.’

‘Yes, yes . . . Joyce Fitton did ring.’ She paused and I
could hear my own breathing in the receiver. ‘Yes, well,
what we thought you could do was come down and see me
sometime and I’d talk you through—’

‘I’m here.’

‘Are you actually in London?’

‘Yeah. I’m staying with a friend. I’d like to, if it’s not too
much trouble, I’d like to come and see you.’

‘Let me check my diary,’ she said.