The Bad Mother's Handbook Read online

  And the third had a pancake stuck to its bum.’

  ‘Don’t put that in the bin!’ I shouted as he scooped up the condom and neatly tied a knot in it. ‘Hell’s bells, if my mother finds that in with the tissues . . .’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do with it? Do you not want to keep it forever?’

  He dangled it from his finger then made as if to throw it at me. I screamed and flinched. He lunged and we rolled about on the bed, then somehow it became a pillow fight. I bet that never happens in my mother’s Aga Sagas. His ribs moved under his pale skin and his blue eyes shone, and I thought, He’s still just a boy really. He was panting and smiling, and I knew then I’d done the right thing.

  At last we rolled into the bedhead. He banged his chin and I knocked a picture off the wall which fell down the back.

  ‘Aw, shit, sorry. I’ll get it.’

  He dived under the bed, all sharp shoulder bone, and brought out the photograph; two hand-tinted ginger kittens in a basket above the legend Happy Hours!.

  Hoping always for a meeting

  With a friend I love so true

  Dear I send this simple greeting

  May the world deal well with you

  ‘The frame’s a bit jiggered.’

  He handed it over. The thin black wood was split at the corner and the glass was cracked.

  ‘I can get a new one. Best not let my mother see, though.’ I opened the bedside cupboard and slid the picture in under some magazines. ‘I know it’s naff but it’s got sentimental value. It’s one of Nan’s birthday cards from when she was little, she used to have it in her room and I always wanted it. I nabbed it when her mind began to go. Sort of a way of preserving a piece of my childhood, do you know what I mean? Against all the change . . . She’s never noticed.’

  ‘Very nice. Do you want to come round on Saturday? Everyone’s out so, only I’ve got to get back to let Darren in now. Sooner he gets his own key the better.’

  He was pulling on his sweater as he spoke.

  ‘Can you not stay just a bit longer?’

  ‘Sorry. Little brothers and all that. Have you seen my sock?’

  I scrambled to put something on, we found the sock and then he went home. I lay on the bed wishing he’d kissed me goodbye instead of ruffling my hair. Should’ve asked. Or maybe that’s not cool. What are the rules, anyway? Perhaps some men just aren’t all that demonstrative; it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, it’s the way they are.

  So there it is, the great seduction. I suppose I’ve made the whole thing sound pretty gross. Some of it was. But the point is, the point is, I’m a woman now, an adult. Perhaps people will be able to tell just by looking at me (God, I hope not! The girls at school used to say you walked funny afterwards). But the point is I have a life that is not my mother’s and it is the beginning of some big changes round here.

  I know things are going to be different from now on.

  *

  I’D MET Billy when he ran across the street to help me carry a basket of washing. It was blowing about, a great white sheet on the top, and I knew if it hit the ground and got dirty my mother would chow. It happened once before when I was little and Jimmy had hold of one handle and I had the other. We were staggering down the street to Dr Liptrot’s with his week’s wash when a big gust of wind took two or three shirts right off and they fell in t’ road. We were two-double laughing as we picked ’em up, but when we got home and showed my mother she laid her head on the table and wept.

  Billy had been courting a girl he’d met in the TB sanatorium, a bonny woman but it made no difference. We had ten for the wedding tea, then caught the train to Blackpool. At Chorley some lads got in and saw all t’ confetti in my hair so they started singing, ‘We have been married today, We are on our honeymoon all the way.’ When we got to the bed and breakfast I gave a fish to the landlady so she could cook it for our supper. The next evening she said, ‘Mrs Hesketh, are you ready for your fish now?’ And I never took her on because I wasn’t used to the name.

  When I got back to the mill I had such a colour all the girls said I must be pregnant.

  *

  WHERE’S CHARLOTTE? Gone to Wigan for the afternoon, no doubt to spend money she hasn’t got on crap she doesn’t need. Nan? Asleep in the chair, legs apart, mouth slightly open. God, if I ever get like that. And why are there never any pens in this house? You put them down and they walk. Useful Drawer; what a flamin’ mess, I don’t know why we keep half this rubbish. Sandpaper, candles, napkin rings – like we’re ever going to use those – Stain Devil’s leaked all over the clothes brush now. Had a big row with the hoover and a table leg today; broke one of the attachments, so that’ll be something else to sort out. Bingo! Black biro, bit fluffy round the nib, still, be all right. Here goes nothing.

  Love’n’ stuff

  Finding You a Partner for Life’s Adventure

  Outline Questionnaire

  Please try to answer as honestly as possible

  Name Karen Cooper

  Status Very low actually. Divorced.

  Address 21, Brown Moss Road, Bank Top, Nr Wigan, Lancs WI24 5LS. Moving in with my mother was supposed to be a fresh start.

  Age 33. Feel about 60 sometimes.

  Children One. 17-year-old madam.

  Occupation Teacher. Part time classroom assistant. At my old primary school! My life’s just gone round in a big loop.

  Educational Qualifications 10 ‘O’ levels. Yes, 10. I could have had a degree if I’d wanted. What the hell does it matter anyway? I’ve been to the University of Life (though I had originally set my sights on Leeds).

  Salary (approx) Crap. Funded this caper out of Nan’s present (I just withdraw it from her savings account, Merry Xmas Happy Birthday etc, even buy my own damn card).

  Do you consider yourself to be

  working class middle class

  upper class not sure

  Political Persuasion If push came to shove I suppose I’d say Conservative. I mean, they’re going to be in forever, aren’t they? Anyway, if it wasn’t for Maggie Thatcher we couldn’t have bought this house (although I can’t say I rate John Major much). Truth is, nothing ever changes for people like us, whoever’s swanning about in Number 10.

  Religion None. Mum’ll put in a good word for us all when she gets to heaven.

  Physical appearance

  Height 5’9”. That’s going to put a lot of men off for a start.

  Weight/dress size 12/14. Depends how bloody Nan’s being. Some days I can eat a whole packet of gypsy creams at one sitting.

  Hair colour Brown. Currently. I’m always looking for the perfect hairstyle, the one that’ll solve my life for me. Growing out a perm in the meantime.

  Eyes Sort of grey. Charlotte’s got her dad’s blue eyes. Nan’s are brown. None of us bloody match in this house.

  Special Interests Reading, drinking, watching tv. Doesn’t sound too clever, does it? But believe me, when the alternatives are changing your mother’s colostomy bag or arguing with your daughter, there’s no contest. Always meant to take up something worthy, but there you go. Actually I do read quite a lot. Joanna Trollope, Rosamunde Pilcher, that kind of thing. It helps.

  Personality

  Do you consider yourself to be any of the following? (It may be useful to ask a friend or relative.) You must be kidding. Charlotte would wet herself laughing if she saw this.

  extrovert generous organised

  shy patient creative

  optimistic thoughtful spontaneous

  loyal down-to-earth understanding

  To be honest, none of these seems quite right.

  Please feel free to add your own ideas below:

  Knackered, bitter, unfulfilled, self-sabotaging.

  Hence this questionnaire.

  What kind of relationship are you hoping might develop out of our introductions?

  Christ. Just forget it.

  MY LAST DATE was a classic. We’d met in the Working Men’s. It’s a bit
common, but I go there occasionally because it’s cheap and local, and if Nan gets up to anything really mad Charlotte can nip across the road and let me know. Sometimes I need to get out of the house in a hurry.

  Anyway I was sitting at the bar cradling a Bacardi Breezer and feeling bleak when he came over. Greyish – well, grey, but not balding; normal shape; about my height. He was wearing a check shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and jeans, which gave no clues. I clocked hairy forearms, no wedding ring, clean fingernails as he proffered his money to the bar man.

  ‘Can I get you a drink while I’m here?’

  That gave me licence to have a better look at his face. He just seemed ordinary, pleasant, not weird or anything.

  ‘Thanks. I’ve not seen you in here.’ It was true; it’s always the same faces in the Working Men’s.

  ‘No. I used to live up Bolton way, I’m revisiting old haunts. What about you? Is this your regular?’

  ‘Not really.’ God, what a thought. ‘I just drop in from time to time. When it all gets too much.’ I laughed loudly but really I felt like banging my forehead against the bar. Stupid thing to say.

  He only smiled, which made his face crinkle up. I wondered how old he was, not that it mattered. I get like that sometimes; desperate.

  See, I know you shouldn’t look for a man to solve your life for you, but it’s easier said than done when you’re out in the throng on your own. Sometimes it would be so nice for somebody else to take the flak for once, never mind have some decent sex. A hundred million sex acts a day worldwide, there are supposed to be; you’d think one of them might waft its way over in my direction. Nobody in our house understands that I have Needs as well, it’s like Montel Williams says. He was on Channel 4 yesterday afternoon, a show called ‘I Hate My Mom’s New Boyfriend’. ‘Doesn’t Mom have a right to some happiness too?’ he kept asking these sulky teenagers. The audience were all clapping. I nearly called Charlotte down but she was revising for her modules.

  Six Breezers later and for all his grey hair I was out in the car park kissing him long and full, putting off the moment when I had to go home and change Nan and face Charlotte’s scowls. Even light rain and sweeping headlights weren’t putting me off my stroke. It was so nice to be held, even for a few minutes. Then a car nearly reversed into us, which broke the mood slightly. I disentangled.

  ‘I’d invite you back but my daughter’s around . . . It’s a bit difficult . . .’

  ‘Can I see you again?’

  Jackpot.

  He fished in his back pocket and gave me His Card, very swish, and said there was no pressure but to give him a call. ‘Soon.’ I liked that, it seemed gentlemanly; also it meant I didn’t have to sit around waiting for him to ring me. I should have known it was all looking too good.

  The next day at school I was telling Sylv, the secretary.

  ‘He wasn’t sex on a stick but he was all right. I’d see him again.’

  ‘What was his name?’ she asked with a funny look on her face.

  I gave her the card.

  She studied it and pursed her lips. ‘You do know this is Vicky’s ex, don’t you?’ She handed it back smugly. I don’t like Sylv any more, I never really liked her. She draws her eyebrows on and wears skirts that are too tight.

  ‘Vicky? Deputy Head Vicky? Vicky Roberts?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘The one she divorced just before I started here?’

  ‘The one who couldn’t get it up unless he wore special rubber knickers.’ Sylv dropped her voice and mouthed exaggeratedly.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Wanted her to wear some kind of mask, too. That’s when she asked him to leave.’ Sylv smacked her lips with satisfaction. She’d be dining out on this for months, I could tell. I am never going to tell her anything personal again. I wanted to sink to my knees and beg her not to pass it on but I knew it would be a waste of time; Rubber Man would be all round the staff room by lunchtime. For once I was glad I was on playground duty. So instead I said:

  ‘Well, he was too old, anyway.’

  ‘So you won’t be seeing him again, then?’ she called after me as I swept out of the office.

  It’s just as well Sylv didn’t catch me photocopying my practice run at ‘Love ’n’ Stuff’ in school. I reckon perhaps I’m ready to do the questionnaire properly now.

  NEVER LET IT be said that when things are looking their grimmest, they can’t get worse.

  I was sound asleep when I heard the crash. I struggled with the bedsheets, tangled from some overheated dream, threw on a dressing gown in case it was an intruder, although I knew it wasn’t, and hurried downstairs.

  It was completely dark in the lounge but there were muffled sounds coming from the kitchen. I opened the door and blinked in the light.

  ‘What are you doing, Nan?’

  Actually I could see what she was doing. She was pulling out drawers and emptying Tupperware boxes onto the floor. Six tins of salmon were stacked at her feet.

  ‘Are you looking for something to eat?’

  ‘I’ve lost my key.’

  ‘Which key?’

  ‘To t’ back door. Bloody hell fire.’ She wrestled with a plastic lid and flung it across the tiles. Then she sat down wearily.

  ‘You don’t need a back door key. What would you want to go outside for? It’s the middle of the night. And it’s freezing.’

  ‘I need to check the bins.’

  ‘No, no you don’t. You did them this morning. Don’t you remember? Charlotte helped you.’

  What it is, she worries if we put envelopes with our name and address into the wheeliebin, in case someone roots through and takes them. ‘Then what, Nan? What would they do with the envelopes?’ ‘Ooh, all sorts,’ says Nan mysteriously. ‘There’s some wicked people about.’ It clearly worries her, so we let her rip them up into tiny pieces. It’s one of our routines which has become normal. This nocturnal activity was something new, though.

  ‘Come on, Nan, come to bed, you’ll catch your death. I’ll clear up in the morning.’

  ‘The bins!’

  ‘We did them. Tiny pieces. And the bin men come tomorrow.’ And I’m bloody cold and Christ it’s twenty past three in the morning and I’ve got to go to work in five hours and nobody cares that my life is a complete fuck-up.

  ‘I’ll just put this salmon back.’

  ‘LEAVE IT! Just COME to BED and LEAVE this mess. Please.’ I used to cry before the divorce but I don’t seem able to any more. I get angry instead. She didn’t move, so I lunged over and pulled her up roughly. She’s only small and pretty light. We staggered together and I fell into the edge of the unit and banged my arm.

  ‘Hell.’

  Nan looked up with watery eyes.

  ‘You’ll want some knit-bone for that.’

  ‘Shut up.’ I was trying not to swear at her.

  ‘Or Dr Cassell’s Miracle Cure-All Tablets. They cured Uncle Jack and he had malaria. Caught it in Mesopotamia during the Great War. He always had to have the doors shut and a big fire. When he emigrated he sent us a lamb. My mother took it to t’ butchers to be jointed up but she never got back what she should have done.’

  ‘WILL YOU COME TO BED!’

  She turned and stared at me, trying to focus. Then she put her face close to mine.

  ‘I don’t have to do what you tell me,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re not my daughter. Your mother was called Jessie. Didn’t you know? You’re not mine.’

  *

  ‘Did you have an orgasm? I want to give you an orgasm, Charlotte.’ Behind him David Beckham grinned confidently; no sexual hang-ups for him. We were lying under a Manchester United duvet and it was four weeks since we’d first done it. Outside children were screaming and an Alsatian barked from behind wire netting in next door’s garden. His house is no quieter than ours. I glanced up at the window (Man U curtains).

  ‘Is it snowing yet? It’s cold enough. Snow’s about the only thing that makes our estate look any better.’
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br />   ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Sorry. Yeah. Well, no. It doesn’t matter. It was nice.’

  ‘Nice? Is that it?’ Paul rolled away onto his back and gazed at the ceiling, hands behind his head. He had little tufts of hair under his arms that I loved to stroke. ‘I want it to be fantastic for you, fireworks going off, that kind of stuff. I don’t feel you’re always . . .’

  ‘What?’ I leant up on an elbow and watched his face struggle.

  ‘Sort of, I dunno, with me. Oh, I can’t explain. It’s not like it is on the telly, is it?’

  ‘Nothing is. This is Life.’ I lay back down and put my face close to his. ‘It’s loads better than it was, though.’ This was true. It wasn’t painful any more, for a start, especially now I’d sorted out the cystitis. And when we did it at his house it felt more relaxed; no leaping up and legging it afterwards, no fear of interruptions. Paul’s mum left two years ago, and his dad was so laid back about his son’s sex life I got the impression we could be having it off on the living-room carpet and he’d only complain if we got in the way of the TV screen.

  ‘Yeah, well. Practice makes perfect, eh?’ He reached over and ran his hand over my breasts. ‘These are great.’ He circled a nipple with his finger and watched it firm to a peak. ‘Brilliant.’ Then he moved sideways and put both palms flat over my chest. He sighed happily. ‘You’ll get me goin’ again.’

  It was thrilling, this power I never knew I had. I pushed the duvet back and watched his cock grow and twitch against his pale thigh; it wasn’t scary any more. I felt like the goddess of sex. I wriggled against him and he groaned.