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Kate Long is the author of The Bad Mother’s Handbook, Swallowing Grandma, Queen Mum, The Daughter Game, Mothers & Daughters and Before She Was Mine. She was born and raised in Lancashire and lives with her husband and two sons in Shropshire. Visit her website www.katelong.co.uk
ALSO BY KATE LONG
The Bad Mother’s Handbook
Swallowing Grandma
Queen Mum
The Daughter Game
Mothers & Daughters
Before She Was Mine
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Kate Long 2013
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Kate Long to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
TPB ISBN: 978-1-84983-792-7
PB ISBN: 978-1-84983-793-4
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-84983-794-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
For Damian McClelland, Jon Dwyer, Carys Roberts MCSP, Sister Lease and the team on Ward 121 at the University Hospital of North Staffordshire, for Midlands Air Ambulance and everyone involved with saving my husband’s life and limbs in 2010.
All t’world’s queer ’cept for thee and me.
And I’m not so sure about thee.
Spotted this woman walking towards me in BHS, right miserable face on her, thick waist, bad hair. I thought, Eeh, you’ve let yourself go, love. Then I realised it was a mirror.
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
Snapshots from the future
CHAPTER 1
On a day in January, 2000
Some things change, some stay the same.
The day our Charlotte went back to university it was lashing down. I watched her dodge along the front path, twirling her umbrella, while Daniel struggled behind with her bags and cases and coats and poster tubes – all the rubbish she reckons she can’t survive the term without. I’d brought Will up to the window so he could wave to his mum – Bye bye, Mummy, you buzz off and enjoy yourself, don’t bother giving us lot a second thought – but after thirty seconds he’d wriggled out of my arms and gone to sit in front of the TV again. I left him where he was. We don’t make a big deal of these partings in case it upsets him.
When Charlotte reached the car she stood back and let Daniel open the door for her, even though it meant that to do so he had to squash one bag under his arm and balance a holdall between his hip and the rear wing. Then he’d somehow to take the umbrella carefully off her while she climbed in, mustn’t for God’s sake let any moisture get to that swinging mane of straightened hair, and meanwhile there’s water pouring off the umbrella canvas and dripping from the spokes onto his shoulder. That lovely lad. Devoted isn’t the word. I wondered whether he’d noticed she wasn’t herself this holiday.
I saw my daughter rearrange whatever was in the footwell, then pull down the vanity mirror to check her fringe. Daniel began wrestling to close the umbrella. Across the road, two kids in anoraks cycled figure eights round the Working Men’s Club car park. The rain was coming in waves now. And I thought, Well, it’s been raining all my damn life, hasn’t it? How many days has it NOT rained? My first morning at the big school, a passing car splashed mud nearly up to my knickers. My sixteenth birthday, a bunch of us were supposed to be going up the Pike to get drunk, only it drizzled non-stop and we ended up stuck in Rivington Barn tea room, trying to swig cider without the waitress seeing. It was coming down in stair-rods on that third date with Steve, which meant we had to stay in, which meant we started having sex before I was ready, which meant I got caught with Charlotte and ruined my entire future, never even got to take my A levels. There were flood warnings on my wedding day, and the week my decree absolute came through, the Irwell burst its banks. It was pouring the afternoon I moved in here, Mum standing on the doorstep going, ‘We’ll work things out, you’ll see.’ Me going, ‘Twenty bloody one and I can’t believe I’m back home where I started.’
Of course at school we were taught that there was actual science behind all the wet. Clouds sweeping in off the Irish Sea had to rise to get over the Pennines and as they did, they cooled and condensed, dumping their load on the Lancashire side. By the time they got to Yorkshire, they were wrung out. All I can say is, Barnsley must be parched. I can remember the teacher making us sketch diagrams of fat clouds, landscape in cross-section, notes below about how soft water was a crucial component of the textile industry and how without it, our local economy would never have got going. No hills, no mills.
So we’re used to unkind skies in this village. But sometimes it feels more personal. Certain people are born to be rained on.
After Daniel had driven off, after I’d waved and waved, watched till the car reached the end of the street and turned, I had this sudden sag of tiredness. It’s the holding myself together that does it. Trying not to start a row every five minutes. Whatever I’m doing with Will, it’s wrong, she wants it her way. Except she’s not around then to follow anything up. All right for her to decide he’s having an extra story at bedtime, or encourage him to throw his fifty-odd teddies round the room as a fun game. It’s me who’s left to settle him again, mauling up and down, trying to keep the house safe and tidy. Ask her to rein him in and that makes you Mrs Miserypants. ‘Let him have FUN,’ she says. Subtext: Because you never let me have any, did you? This deprived childhood she’s supposed to have had.
So always after she’s gone an emptiness takes over my insides and all I want to do is flop on the sofa with Will. This time was worse, though, because I knew something else was wrong, something new, but I hadn’t dared ask and now I’d lost my chance.
What would you have done with her, Mum? I thought. You always knew how to get round Charlotte.
On the windowpane a cloud of my misty breath shrank away to a smudge.
There was always Steve – I could ring him, talk it over. He was her dad, after all. He might have an idea. But no, not that. Mustn’t call Steve.
I said to Will, ‘Right, work to be done. Grandma’s just going to be in the bathroom,’ and his big eyes rolled briefly in my direction, then back to the screen where the Teletubbies danced. I went through to the kitchen, paused to put away a few plates that had been left out on the drainer, then pushed open the bathroom door. The usual chaos greeted me: towel slung over the bath side instead of hung up on the rail, empty box of eyelash dye stuck between the taps, toilet roll finished but not replaced, Will’s colander of plastic toys knocked over, spilling across the bottom of the sink. For me to pick up, because I’ve nothing else to do. Ruddy students.
‘Where Mummy?’ Will was standing in the doorway, swaying.
‘Mummy’s gone to York,’ I said brightly. I opened my arms to give him a hug but he stepped back into the kitchen again, out of sight.
‘Kit Kat,’ I heard him mutter.
‘Hang on a sec, sweetheart.’
The cupboard door clicked, rattled, then banged as if it was being kicked.
‘Will, stop that.’
I placed the sponge on the side and hauled myself to my feet. Every damn stick of furniture in this house has some sort of child-lock on it, every domestic task’s an obstacle course.
When I came through, he’d given up attacking the cupboard and was laid flat out on the lino, holding his breath and drumming his heels. First time Charlotte saw him do that she thought he was having a proper fit, wanted me to ring for a doctor. I told her, ‘It’s just the Terrible Twos. No need for panic. You were a nightmare at that age. You used to knock your head against the wall if you didn’t get your own way.’ (She used to pee herself on purpose as well, but I didn’t say that.) She went, ‘What should we do, Mum?’ and I said, ‘Leave him to get on with it.’ But she wasn’t having that, so we ended up distracting him with a glove puppet I’d picked up at the Christmas Fair. That brought him round. Except then she started with, ‘How come you’re so much nicer with him than you were with me when I was that age?’ I must admit, at that point I went upstairs and left her to it.
I looked down at where Will lay. ‘Hey, tell you what, how about a nice banana instead?’
‘No narna! No.’ He rolled up onto his feet in one fluid action and ran to tug at the cupboard door again.
‘OK, just one finger of Kit Kat then. And we’ll see Mummy soon, yes?’
He didn’t even turn round.
With a flick of my thumb I undid the child lock and pointed to the biscuit tin. Daft move because there was a stack of bowls at the front, but Will being Will he just dived in and tugged. Out tumbled the bowls, plus a box of Cheerios that Madam must have opened even though there was one already on the go. Finally, as a sort of encore, a tower of ancient canned salmon toppled and fell. The cans rolled across the floor tiles unharmed, but the dishes weren’t so lucky. The first shattered, the second split into two neat halves and the third lost an inch-wide chunk from the rim. Cheerios flowed and settled around the debris. So now I’d a floor covered in smashed crockery and cereal, and a toddler in the middle trying to bite off the lid of the biscuit barrel.
Eeh, keep your hair on, Karen, went Mum’s voice. It’s nowt a dustpan and brush can’t sort.
Sighing, I picked up Will round his waist and carried him to the doorway of the lounge. ‘Stay there,’ I said. I prised the biscuit tin open and plonked it down in front of him, then went back to consider the mess. One of the cans had wedged itself under the gas cooker; I knew without looking that all the salmon would be out of date. There was only ever my mother who ate the stuff.
‘Juice, Grandma?’ said Will, rummaging around inside the barrel as if it was a bran tub.
‘Can it not wait a minute, love?’
‘Juice!’
‘All right. Where’s your cup?’
Shrug.
You never do get to finish a job in this house. I thought perhaps I’d last seen his lidded beaker in the lounge, but a quick hunt turned up nothing except one of Charlotte’s magazines (must be nice to have time to sit and read), plus a stray sock. I pocketed the sock and came back into the kitchen to check the sink and drainer: empty. The unit next to the cooker contained only my mother’s collection of floral mugs. Fridge: fat-free mousse, mayo-lite, Diet Coke, low-cal spread, monster bar of Dairy Milk. On the inside of the big cupboard’s drop-down flap I discovered a trail of golden syrup and a scrawled Post-it from Charlotte saying TROLL. Charming. What had I done to deserve that?
I banged the flap shut. ‘OK, I’m going to have to pop upstairs, see if it got left in your room. Looks as if you might need a clean top too, doesn’t it?’
He glanced down at his crumb-smeared vest.
‘So you go and sit on the sofa, watch TV a minute till I—’
The phone began to ring.
And that must be Charlotte, forgotten something, or wanting to speak to Will which I’ve told her before isn’t helpful, not straight after she’s left. Or Daniel to say she’s upset again. That used to happen a lot. Although not so much lately, thank God. Five terms on, we’re pretty much into a routine.
I ducked into the hall and snatched at the receiver.
‘Hey up, sexy,’ said Steve’s voice. ‘How’s tricks?’
Bloody hell. You try and try to keep out of the way, but trouble still finds you. I slumped down on the bottom step, my back against the stair gate. ‘What do you want?’
‘Our Charlie gone?’
‘About half an hour ago.’
‘All right, were it?’
‘Well, the usual stropping about. But also this vagueness about her. I’d be talking and I could see it wasn’t registering at all. She’d be playing with Will one minute, and the next she’d be frowning and gazing off into the distance, like she’d something on her mind. It’s got me worried. She’s not spoken to you, has she?’
‘To me? You must be kidding. When does she ever confide in me?’
‘Oh no, I’ve just had a thought – dear God, let her not be pregnant again.’
‘Pregnant? Come off it, Karen. If I know Charlie, she won’t be going down that road again in a hurry. Is she not just fretting over her exams?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so.’
‘Aye, I bet that’s all it is. Don’t wind yourself up over nowt. Anyway, I was wondering, are you busy? Can I pop round?’
I knew what that question meant, and what my answer was. This time I was resolved. You don’t sleep with someone just because they pick your grandson up from nursery occasionally, do you? Or once-in-a-blue-moon babysit? Or because they mop your tears when your daughter’s left or you’re missing your mother, or because they tell you you’re looking great when you’re actually feeling like death? Hopping into bed for stuff like that isn’t even gratitude, it’s desperation. If Charlotte ever found out I’d been sleeping with her dad she’d tear a right strip off me.
‘I’m in the middle of tidying the kitchen,’ I said. ‘We had an accident.’
‘A bad ’un?’
‘Only broken dishes.’
‘I can help.’
‘No.’
‘’S’no bother.’
‘No, really.’
‘I can be there in thirty seconds.’
Through the frosted glass panel of the front door I could see the gate swinging. A familiar thin figure, his hand clamped to his ear, was trotting up the path.
‘Steve, I’m fine.’
‘Yeah? I don’t think y’are.’
The doorbell rang and his face appeared against the glass, grinning. ‘Come on, Karen, let me take your mind off housework for half an hour, eh?’
It acts as a kind of decompression, the jo
urney between home and uni. As we drive over the Pennines, mentally I’m swimming up through the depths of one identity to surface as someone else. It’s exhausting, horrible. Each time I think I’ll never manage it.
We were on the M6 before I tuned into what Daniel was saying, and it turned out he was considering the implications of human evolution and how, in a million years or so, women might not be able to give birth naturally because our skulls were getting bigger. ‘Too big to fit through the pelvic girdle,’ he was saying. ‘Reaching a critical diameter. Which wouldn’t necessarily be a problem if society retains or improves its current level of technology, so that medical intervention becomes the norm and babies can routinely be extracted via Caesareans. But in the event of an apocalypse, the collapse of civilisation, that type of thing, we’d be stuffed. We’d pretty much die out within a handful of generations.’
I glanced across at him, at his mad hair and wire-framed glasses, his earnest grip on the steering wheel.
‘Do you mind if we talk about something else?’
‘Oh, OK.’
It was pissing down. The windscreen-wipers were squeaking in a really annoying way and I wanted to wind the window down, lean out and wrench one off.
‘Are there any paracetamol in this car?’ I asked.
‘Possibly. Mum might have left some in the glove compartment. Got a headache?’
‘Yes.’
I opened the flap and gave the contents a half-hearted poke. A load of Glacier mints tumbled out but I didn’t bother to pick them up. Little minty bastards, they’d only done it to spite me. By now there was so much spray coming off the lorry wheels around us it was like sitting inside a carwash. Mum must have told Daniel about twenty times to go carefully, as if he’s ever anything other than careful – he’s Mr Careful – but it’s other drivers you have to watch out for. Despite the rain there were guys in the fast lane dicking about, tailgating and flashing their headlights as if they wanted to cause an accident. I mean, fine, they can go ahead and smash themselves to bits for all I care, but I’m damned if they’re taking me with them.
The Bad Mother's Handbook
Bad Mothers United