Bad Mothers United Read online

  ‘Well, I can’t find your bloody tablets,’ I said, whacking the glove compartment shut.

  ‘No? Not to worry. We’ll stop at the next services.’

  Somewhere during this last hour or so I’d ripped my own heart out and lobbed it onto the tarmac behind us. Splat, it had gone, a lump of wet offal disappearing under the tyres of some massive lorry, blood smearing across the greasy surface of the road and mingling with the diesel. I thought, If only I was able to drive, I’d grab that steering wheel and take us straight home again. Then I could be back with Will, cuddling him. The memory of his small hands made me shiver with longing.

  ‘Shall I turn the heating up for you, Charlotte? Are you too cold?’

  ‘I’m FINE.’

  Not that I ever would learn to drive, with Dad teaching me. Casual isn’t the word; he thinks an amber light means Put your foot down. I’ve said to Mum it’s the blind leading the blind, but she lets him get on with it because of how much real lessons cost.

  ‘How about I switch the radio on. Is that OK?’

  I shrugged unhelpfully. Now Daniel wasn’t sure what to do. I knew I was being mean but I didn’t care.

  He pushed the button anyway. Unluckily we got Westlife singing ‘Seasons In The Sun’.

  I said, ‘If I have to listen to another verse of this I’m going to undo the seat belt and hurl myself out.’

  ‘Seems a bit extreme. Five minutes and we’ll be at Hartshead Moor. If you still want to fling yourself around, they have a nice car park.’

  ‘How is this song entertainment anyway? Wailing deathbed confession.’

  ‘So turn it off.’

  I think I hate him most when he’s being reasonable.

  Inside the motorway services it was warm and bright and they were playing All Saints over the Tannoy, which was a marginal improvement.

  ‘Great levellers of humanity, service stations,’ said Daniel as I loaded a basket with Panadol, a magazine, jelly snakes, Coke. ‘Everyone comes here and gets ripped off in equal measure.’

  There was a rack of scarves by the till; I spun it, took down a length of black and red chiffon to examine.

  ‘I’ll buy you that if it’ll cheer you up.’

  ‘’S’OK,’ I said.

  ‘Let me.’

  I handed him the basket.

  After he’d paid, I said, ‘Look, Dan, go and grab a cup of tea or something. And one for me as well. I won’t be long.’ Then I took myself off to the toilets because I knew I badly needed to sort my head out.

  Sounds feeble but the first thing I did was stick some make-up on. At home, what with looking after Will, I barely have time to bother, whereas in my student life it’s kind of essential, it’s who I am. I pulled out all my cosmetics from my bag and lined them up along the edge of the sink. Pouting, I re-drew my lips in scarlet, blotted them, set the colour with powder. Lined the rims of my eyes in thick black pencil, neatened the edges, did them again. Pressed my lashes up against my lids to make them stick up, and piled on some high-gloss mascara to lacquer them into place. Slicked on gold eyeshadow, swept the same brush up each cheekbone. Posed while I considered the effect. I caught the disapproving glance of an old biddy drying her hands at the towel dispenser and thought, Excellent. Somewhere in the background Lenny Kravitz was singing ‘Fly Away’.

  I felt around in the plastic carrier and found the scarf, drew it out, de-tagged it with my teeth, then wound it round my brow, letting the ends trail down over my shoulders. What a state to get into, went my mum’s voice. You look a right trollop. To which I might say, ‘Trollop is as trollop does. People in glass houses should keep their middle-aged mouths shut.’ I know what she gets up to with Dad when I’m not around.

  By the time I got to the café my tea was cold but it didn’t matter.

  ‘Transition accomplished?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Still attached to my neck.’

  ‘Always a bonus. Drink up and we’ll get going again, shall we?’

  Back in the car I unpeeled the sample bottle of pink varnish from the cover of the magazine I’d bought and attempted to paint my nails. Knew even as I was unscrewing the lid that I’d never have dared risk this in anyone else’s car.

  The rain became blinding and we slowed almost to a crawl. ‘This is all a bit tedious,’ said Daniel. ‘Go on, read me some of your celebrity headlines.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Amaze me.’

  The pages flopped apart, revealing a gallery of stars. ‘OK, let’s see. Entertainment Round-up: Michael Owen’s been filming an ad for British Airways. Shania Twain’s been slightly injured by a firework. Adam Rickitt keeps locking himself out of his Manchester flat.’

  ‘All earth-shattering stuff then.’

  ‘You asked. In other news, Leonardo DiCaprio was forced to swim in shark-infested waters for his new film, but escaped without injury.’

  ‘This is why I read science journals.’

  ‘OK, geek-boy. But I bet you don’t get exciting free gifts stuck to the front cover. Or do you? “New with January’s edition, this attractive pipette”.’

  ‘We don’t need add-ons. The brilliance of the content’s enough. In fact, my tutor’s got an article in this month’s Nature. It’s about the structure and mechanism of the kinesin motor protein, how it’s able to move along these long filaments called microtubules. It’s actually very cool because what he’s found is, the kinesin motor protein seems to walk along under its own steam.’

  ‘Astounding. My day is complete.’

  ‘No, this stuff’s critical. Human life can turn on what you see down a microscope.’ Daniel nodded dismissively at my mag. ‘What’s Britney Spears contributed to the sum of world knowledge?’

  ‘Dunno. Hang on. Oh, it says here she recommends dipping your fingernails in pepper to stop yourself biting them.’

  A petrol tanker drew up alongside us, gigantic wheels slashing through the surface water. I tried not to picture it skidding, exploding. Instead I turned the radio back on. This time I got ‘Perfect Day’.

  And instantly I was back in the weeks after Will was born, when the song was everywhere, and I’d be changing his nappy to it or bathing him or walking him about the house to try and stop him crying; a song about summer, in the depths of winter. A jolt of hideous longing passed through me. What the hell was I doing, letting myself be driven away from my son? How could that be right? Less than sixteen hours ago I’d sat and read him his bedtime story, pulled up his covers, made his toy monkey dance – Mum claims it’s the penguin he likes best but she’s wrong – kissed him night night. Earlier that day we’d gone stamping puddles on the rec. Late afternoon we’d lined his teddies up on the edge of the bed and thrown a beach ball at them till they were all knocked on the floor. He thought that was so funny. No one else can make him laugh the way I can. Afterwards I’d heated up his spaghetti hoops, run his bath. Even this actual morning I’d warmed his porridge and sat with him while he ate it, mopping up the flood of milk from his overturned cup – and there was a lot, it had taken the entire toilet toll. When he’d finished I’d lifted him down and washed his hands and face – tried to replace the toilet roll, couldn’t find a new one, couldn’t ask Mum because she’d swanned off down the village, had to scribble T.ROLL on a Post-it and stick it inside the cupboard door – by which time Will had managed to walk into the edge of the sideboard and bump his head, entirely not my fault. Mum’s fault for having ancient knobbly furniture. It rips me up when he cries.

  And I remembered those first two weekends at York when they brought him to visit, and what total bloody hell it had been. Everyone upset. Will screaming, Daniel pleading, Mum shouting, me threatening to jack in the degree and come straight back with them. Daniel phoning afterwards to suggest we stop the trips altogether. I’d said, ‘For God’s sake, that’s just a line Mum’s fed you.’ He’d insisted it wasn’t. He said he just couldn’t bear to see me
in such distress. ‘But the plan was to see Will every weekend, either here or at Mum’s,’ I’d raged. ‘Otherwise he’ll forget me!’ Touch and go it was, for the whole of that first half-term. So they ganged up together, Mum, Dad and Daniel, to convince me that wouldn’t happen. It was like an assault of positivity. ‘You’re Will’s mum,’ people kept saying. ‘No one’s trying to take that away from you. This way, you get the best of both worlds. Don’t waste your chances.’ I’d said, ‘I could try and get a college place nearer.’ And Mum went, ‘What – walk away from one of the top courses in the country, lose a year, have to start all over again?’ I said, ‘Nan wouldn’t want me to leave him.’ And Mum said, ‘Nan’s too poorly to understand. She wants the best for you, we all do.’ In the end they wore me down and I stayed put, and now it kind of works, me coming and going, Mum standing in for the day-to-day stuff.

  Partings are still shit, though. When Will was about eighteen months he became incredibly clingy, and I’d be carrying my suitcases down the path while he shrieked his head off. Once or twice I did try sneaking away while Mum kept him busy, but apparently when he realised, that made him even worse. Now I tell him I’m going and he’s mostly OK. The hard truth is, I have to try and forget him while I’m away, or I’d never survive. Selective amnesia’s the key to long-distance motherhood. I don’t ever admit that to anyone, though, in case it sounds like I don’t love him enough.

  Daniel broke into my thoughts with his usual irritating brand of telepathy. ‘You know, I miss him too, Charlotte.’

  Oh yeah? I wanted to shout. You have NO idea. You’re not even his DAD. NO one understands. This is MY pain! Some moments there’s nothing worse than sympathy. It falls like a branding iron across your skin.

  I reached forward to retune the bastard radio and noticed I’d left a smear of pearly-pink nail varnish on the dial.

  What I needed now, where I really needed to be was in the student house on St Paul’s Street, with Gemma and Walsh and Roz and Gareth. Crashed out in front of the TV, drinking and chatting, with my books lined up in my room and Professor Martin Eavis waiting for me at the English Department. Another twenty-four hours and it would be better – it would. If only Daniel would stop caring so much. The windows were misting us in, all the air was being sucked out of the car.

  ‘Just get me to uni,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’ Steve flopped down on the sofa next to Will and flashed me one of his winning smiles – not that it’s ever won much off me. If only he could see himself. That damn moustache needs to go, for a start.

  ‘Exhausting for you.’

  ‘No, hear me out, Karen. I need you to give me some cash.’

  ‘That’s why you came round?’

  ‘Well, to see you and Billy-boy here.’ He gave Will a manly nudge.

  ‘I haven’t time for this. Some of us have work to do.’

  I left them watching Story Makers and ran upstairs. Will’s cup I eventually located on Charlotte’s pillow so I grabbed it, unhooked one of his hooded tops which was hanging off the back of her chair, and was about to whizz back down to Steve when I caught sight of Charlotte’s mobile phone propped on the windowsill next to the landing mirror. How in God’s name had she managed to leave that? Distracted by last-minute fussing, no doubt. That meant something else for me to sort out, hunting down a Jiffy bag, paying for Special Delivery.

  My own reflection was disastrous. I looked like one of those ‘before’ women in a makeover programme. My cheeks were flushed, my hair frizzy and unstyled, and the more I tried to smooth it down, the wilder it got. If Charlotte had been about I could have asked her for help, she knows about these straightening sprays and tongs and what have you, although she’d definitely have taken the opportunity to have a laugh first. That’s how she is: unsympathetic. I gave up on the hair and instead went back into my bedroom, wiped some powder across my face then slicked a bit of gloss over my lips. That was better. Then I thought, Bloody hell, it’s only Steve, why are you bothering?

  I stuffed the phone in my pocket alongside the sock and stomped back downstairs. ‘Right, then, what do you want this money for?’

  ‘Just a sec,’ Steve said, waving his hand for me to be quiet. On the TV screen, Bob the Builder lectured a blue digger. ‘We’re seeing whether they get the bunkhouse built in time for the Scout camp sing-along.’

  I swept past and left him to it. There was the kitchen floor yet to deal with, never mind the immediate danger that if I hung around I might try and stove his skull in with Nan’s biscuit barrel.

  By the time he did come through I was almost finished. ‘Do you need a hand with owt?’ he said, surveying the dustbin bags and kitchen roll and bowl of soapy water.

  ‘Perfect timing, as ever. It’s done now.’

  He stooped to pick up an escaped Cheerio. ‘You should have shouted me.’

  I said, ‘This money.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Yeah. Well. It is mine, Karen.’

  ‘I know that. But you asked me to look after it for you. You told me to hang on to it like grim death and not let you blow it on some spree.’

  ‘Yeah. Only, I’ve got it into my head I wanna buy a bike.’

  ‘A bike?’ True he was on the skinny side, but there were the beginnings of a middle-age paunch under that T-shirt. Not surprising when you considered the amount of beer he put away at weekends. ‘I suppose it’ll keep you fit.’

  ‘Nah, norra pushbike. A motorbike.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’ve seen this Kwacker up in Chorley—’

  ‘Talk English.’

  ‘This Kawasaki ZXR 750. The guy’s keen to get rid before his bank has it off him.’

  ‘You want to buy a motorbike. You.’

  ‘I had one before.’

  ‘When? I know when you left school you had that scooter, used to conk out if you went up a hill. You’re not counting that, are you?’

  His moustache bristled. ‘Course not. I had an RD 250 LC. It was after we split up, you never saw it. I did my test and I bought it straight after.’

  ‘Oh? News to me. However did you afford that?’

  ‘Aw, well, it weren’t a right lot. I got it for cash and it was pretty old. And what it was, I’d done a spot of extra work for a mate. Nothing illegal, it were just holding on to a few bits and pieces, summat he’d come across unexpectedly, till he—’

  I waved my hand at him. ‘Stop there.’

  ‘I’m only saying. I needed that bike, it were special. It got me through a grim time.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about grim times.’

  Will appeared in the doorway. ‘Juice, Grandma.’

  I handed the beaker to Steve. ‘There you go, that’s something you can do to help.’

  Meanwhile I wiped down the sink and bleached it, pushed swollen Cheerios through the plughole. Outside, the bare hedge next to the coal shed shivered with sparrows. Will’s yellow wheelbarrow lay and mouldered on the scruffy lawn.

  Steve came to lean against the unit next to me.

  ‘So can I have that money, or what?’

  ‘No. It’s your redundancy package. It’s supposed to last you. Don’t make that face at me.’

  ‘What face?’

  I dried my hands and looked at him. ‘The payment was a one-off, and you’ve already had a car out of it. You’re not going to get another lump sum next week, are you? I mean, not that I wish to be picky, but you’d actually have to be employed for that.’

  ‘Well, I wanted you to use the cash for your teacher training, if you remember. Only that particular plan seems to have gone off the boil.’

  ‘Not my fault, is it? Two years to do A levels, three to get a degree, one more for my teaching certificate, I’d be about ninety by the time I’d finished. And I’m lucky to have that classroom assistant post as it is; there’s any number of mums waiting to jump into my shoes if I give it up and slope off to college.’

  Steve scratched his head. ‘It sounds daft to me, having to pass all t
hem extra exams when you already know what you’re doing. Can’t that headmaster of yours swing summat for you?’

  ‘Leo? Don’t talk soft. It’s not up to him. He can’t magic me up a teaching qualification.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. It’s his school.’

  ‘Have you any idea, Steve, how the actual real world works? Anyway, how could I start a college course when I’ve Will to look after?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’ll have him. I’ll help.’

  ‘Then how would you have the time to look for another job?’

  He reached out to put his arms round me and, damn it, I didn’t step away.

  ‘Eeh, we’re a pair, aren’t we, Karen?’

  ‘No. We very much aren’t.’

  ‘Aw, come on.’ He tightened his grip around me. I laid my head on his chest, wearily.

  I said, ‘You’re having a mid-life crisis, aren’t you? Middle-aged men and motorbikes. I’ve read about it. Trying to claw back the past.’

  ‘Nowt wrong with that. Everyone wants to hold onto a bit of their youth. What about you and your family history project, all your tapes and family trees and old photos?’

  ‘That’s to do with the future. It’s for Will, so he’ll know where he came from.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’ Steve’s hand on my back, roaming. ‘What’s so bad about taking the best from what you had and bringing it into the present?’

  ‘I’m not sleeping with you again. I always hate myself after.’

  ‘Shh. We’re having a little cuddle, that’s all.’

  ‘As long as you know.’

  ‘Course.’

  He moved in for a kiss. A ringing started up in my ears.

  ‘That’s Charlotte’s mobile,’ I said.

  By the time we reached the ring road, I’d pretty much shed the mother-gloom. Funny, it’s like taking off a massive old coat, all heavy and comforting and stifling, and you’re ages fighting with the sleeves and you think you’ll never get out from under it and yet once it starts to go, it slips off fast.

  Then came a rush of light-headedness and excitement. I started thinking about my plans for the term and my reading list, essay topics to cover the Augustans through to the Romantics, and what I was going to talk about with Martin Eavis. What I was going to talk about with the others, the holiday gossip and news. This term it would all be comparing millenniums, who’d been having the craziest time the moment Big Ben chimed. Gareth and Roz I knew had been headed for Cardiff to see the Manics gig. Gemma had a rave planned in Glastonbury. Walsh’s dad was supposedly flying him to Prague for some bash there.