The Bad Mother's Handbook Read online

  I was trying to see if my breasts had got any bigger. I had to contort a bit because of the old Take That stickers which refused to peel off the glass properly. Robbie Williams leered at me unhelpfully but Gary Barlow looked sympathetic, even though the top of his head was missing. I turned side-on to check out my stomach. I grabbed some flesh and pinched. Impossible to tell. Then I let out my breath. That did look pregnant. I sucked in my muscles again quickly.

  I heard Mum pounding up the stairs; thank God I’d locked the door. She was shouting down to Nan to stay where she was or she’d get it all over her clothes. There was the sound of drawers slamming, then footsteps on the stairs again. I blanked it out and continued gazing.

  I wasn’t sure where the idea had come from. I hadn’t felt sick in the mornings, but my bra had definitely got tighter. If only I had X-ray vision. What would I see? A little fishy tadpole thing, wriggling its limbs and nodding its outsize head? Probably the length of a baked bean, if I was right about the dates. Oh, please let me not be right. Would it have implanted itself in me yet? Burrowed in? God.

  It was paranoia. I looked exactly the same. There was no baby. I started to put my clothes back on and checked my knickers once more for blood. Virgin white, alas. Still, I’d been late before, that meant nothing. My jeans still fitted, so it was probably all right.

  Suddenly there was a clattering noise from the hall. I pulled my fleece on, unlocked the door and ran across the landing to see. Mum was bending down to pick up the pile of CDs that had been posted hastily through the letter box. I saw her open the front door in puzzlement, and beyond her, Paul’s retreating figure hurrying across the road.

  Without a second thought I dashed down the stairs, whipped a pistol out the pocket of Nan’s Welsh wool coat which was hanging in the hall, and fired. In the distance Paul crumpled into a denim heap.

  ‘Nice shot,’ said Mum admiringly.

  No, not really. What actually happened was that together we craned to watch him disappear round the corner then I turned and ran back into my room, banging the door shut.

  Chapter Four

  I stayed put for two hours and would ideally have spent the rest of my life there only the need to pee drove me downstairs.

  The table was laid and tea was in progress, the TV blaring. Next to the pepper mill sat a neat tower of CDs.

  ‘They catch seagulls off the rubbish tip and pass them off as chicken,’ Nan was saying.

  ‘Charles Darwin!’ shouted my mother, oblivious to everything except University Challenge. ‘The Magic Flute!’

  I hurried through and gained the bathroom. Nan had taken all the guest soaps out of their little pot and lined them up along the cistern, as she always does. Usually I put them back, it avoids another row, but this time the lavender perfume pushed right up my nostrils and made me feel queasy. I leaned forward and laid my forehead on the rim of the cold sink. There was still no blood.

  At last I got myself together and went to face the inquisition.

  ‘You tell me,’ Nan was poking a drumstick round her plate and shivering theatrically. ‘You tell me what chicken has four legs. It’s never right, that. Four legs.’

  ‘They came out of a bag of chicken pieces off the market.’ Mum was busy eyeing up Jeremy Paxman. ‘There were three wings as well.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Yours is in the fridge, Charlotte, under some cling-film.’ Mum tore herself away from the screen. ‘Oh! What’s happened to your head?’

  In the mirror over the fire I could see the red furrow left by the edge of the sink. Christ.

  ‘Nothing!’ I said venomously and plonked myself down in the armchair.

  And waited.

  Bleak House. A. A. Milne. The Dissolution of the Monasteries.

  ‘Was that the boy you were seeing before Christmas?’ she hazarded finally.

  Hah, Mother! You know nothing! You have no idea how long it’s been going on! You miss what’s right under your nose. You’d have a blue fit if you even knew the half of it. I never tell you anything because you’d always construct the worst (and all right, in this case you’d be right, but that’s not the point). It’s none of your business, I’m an adult. Get yourself a life then you can stop interfering with mine!

  I said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I take it . . . it’s finished?’

  I wanted to wrestle her to the ground and bang her skull repeatedly on her precious white marble hearth.

  ‘What do you think?’ I hunched my knees up under my fleece and pulled in my arms so that the sleeves hung empty. I waited for her to say, ‘Take your feet off the chair,’ but she didn’t. I hated her so much I could hardly breathe.

  ‘They eat frogs’ legs in France,’ said Nan jabbing a fork in the direction of the TV. ‘The dirty buggers.’

  ‘He’s not French, Nan, I’ve told you before. He does Newsnight.’

  ‘Of course he is. Look at his nose.’

  How long would I have to live in this madhouse, I wondered, before my head caved in.

  *

  I WAS IN the bedroom trying on clothes again when the telephone rang.

  I’d just been thinking, maybe I don’t look so bad for my age, actually, you see a lot worse on reality TV. I haven’t got those road-map veins you see some women with, and my teeth are all my own. You’ve got to be realistic. Anyway, I reckon we could all look like Jennifer Aniston if we had a few million in the bank and a personal trainer. I wasn’t fat, not fat fat. Size 14 isn’t fat. I pulled my stomach in and turned sideways on to the mirror. Now that didn’t look bad at all. If I could stand in this pose for the rest of my life people might think I was quite slim. I did a film-star smile at myself and arched my eyebrows. Then I tilted my head and tried a wistful gaze; nice. If I ever released an album, this would be the covershot.

  I fluffed my hair up – currently mid-length, lightened, Brauned to within an inch of its life – and slicked some shimmery lipstick on my pout. You see, I told myself, if you had the time you could look half-decent. But it’s so hard with Charlotte and Mum. Sometimes it’s like a conspiracy, I only have to get the can of shaving foam out of the cupboard and there’s some domestic crisis, so back it goes on the shelf, and I get hairier. Thank God for opaque tights.

  Charlotte would have had a blue fit if she knew how much I’d just spent on the catalogues; thank God you get to pay by instalment. So What If I’ll Never See Thirty Again, I’ve Got Legs, favourite outfit of the new batch, lay on the bed slinkily; I’d have to get the razor on my shins for that. You should have seen Charlotte’s face when she saw me in it. Bit of a shock for her, seeing her mum look like a proper woman for a change. Serves her right for barging in.

  She’s a sly devil, though! Some daughters talk to their mothers, I’ve seen it on Trisha, but Charlotte’s like a clam. I never know what’s going on in her mind. Then again, if I’m being absolutely honest, I don’t want to. It’s not worth the row to ask, anyway. She’ll snap your head off if you ask her what she wants on her toast, never mind how her love life’s going.

  You walk on eggshells in this house.

  And this boy, nice-looking but cocky with it; I can’t say I particularly liked him. I think he was called Paul, she used to go to St Mary’s with him, years ago. I’d only met him twice and even then she whisked him away before I could say much to him. What would you say, though? Paws off my daughter till she’s finished her education? She wouldn’t thank me for that.

  I wish I could have told her ‘It doesn’t matter, you’re better off without him,’ but that would have sounded pretty hollow coming from me. We might be about to enter a third millennium but a woman’s still a non-person without a man in tow. At least that’s been my experience.

  Anyway the phone rang while I was still wearing Semi-Casual Sunday Luncheon In A Pub With Mr Fairbrother. No chance of Charlotte stirring her stumps at the moment, she’s far too traumatized, and Nan can’t hear through the receiver properly so she won’t touch it: probably just as well.
The ringing continued as I wrestled with the top button. ‘Buggeration!’ I yelled at my reflection. Album cover girl had vanished. My face was hard and cross and my hair had gone all staticky.

  ‘Telephone!’ Nan shrieked up the stairs.

  I gave in, shoved my slippers on and nipped down to the hall. It was a woman from Bolton Social Services.

  ‘We just need you to give us a couple more details. I think you missed a page out on the form. Have you got your National Insurance number at all?’

  I ferreted it out of the Useful Drawer in front of Nan’s glassy stare, then returned to the phone.

  ‘I thought you were ringing to tell me you’d found my birth mother,’ I said, knowing it was stupid. They’d only had the forms a week.

  The woman gave a short laugh. ‘We have to process the information first. Then you get assigned a social worker, and have an interview. It’s the procedure.’

  ‘Will it take long?’

  ‘You should hear back from us in two to three months’ time. Give us a call if you haven’t heard anything by then.’

  Two to three months?’

  ‘It’s the procedure.’

  ‘No sooner?’

  ‘We’re very overstretched at the moment.’

  Aren’t we all, love, I felt like saying.

  Nan opened the door as I was hanging up. She was focusing again and gave me the once-over. ‘Ooh, swanky. Turn round. You’re a bonny woman when you want to be. I never see you in a dress.’ She stroked the sleeve thoughtfully. ‘You want a nice pair of courts with that. Did you know you’ve a button loose?’

  ‘You’re one to talk,’ I said. ‘If anyone’s got a button loose, it’s you. Now look, I’m off upstairs to reinvent myself. Stick the telly on and don’t touch the kettle till I come down again.’

  *

  A miracle! A bloody miracle! Well, two actually, although one’s quite small-scale. And Fate can go stuff itself. Start the clocks again, open the champagne, exhale.

  We were in the hall for the last assembly of term. We’d had the sermon, some gubbins about how all the people in hell have to eat with six-foot-long chopsticks, where do they get this bilge from? Then it was the hockey and football results, then some Year 7 kids got a road safety award then, finally, it was the dismissal prayer. The Head put his fingertips together in that way that always makes me want to give him a good kicking, bowed his oily head and began.

  ‘Lord, thou knowest how busy I must be this day . . .’

  I prayed: Oh, God, please make me not be pregnant, please please, I’ll make such an effort with Mum and Nan and I’ll revise really hard and never have sex again until I’m at least twenty-five, and then only with the pill, a condom and a cap as well, please, God. Amen.

  Someone was digging me in the ribs.

  ‘Get a move on, cloth ears,’ Julia hissed, and I looked up and saw the line of upper sixth nearly out of the door and a big gap where I should have been following. I lurched forward and scuttled after them, aware that all the Year 11s behind were watching and sniggering. ‘What’s up?’ asked Julia when we got outside.

  ‘Nothing. Just . . . I’ve got to go somewhere.’

  ‘Not coming into town with Anya and the twins?’

  ‘Gotta go straight home, sorry. Thanks.’

  I knew the bus was waiting, but first I had to go check the state of my knickers.

  The cubicle was narrow and the lock put up a fight. I closed my eyes, pushed my underwear down quickly and stared. Blood. BLOOD. Thank Christ. My knees buckled and I sat down on the toilet rim, still staring. Not much blood, but that didn’t matter. It was OK, everything was going to be OK. Outside girls came and went, cisterns flushed, then it all went quiet. I’d missed the bus but I didn’t care. Catch another one. I could fly home, if it came to that.

  Oh, the other little miracle, hardly worth mentioning really but one less thing to worry about. I’d been dreading seeing Daniel Gale and having to invent some lie about why I stood him up. Then, when he wasn’t in on the Monday I began to wonder if he’d chucked himself off a motorway bridge or something, that’d be just my luck. Any minute now, I thought, the head of sixth is going to walk into the classroom with a stony face and ask us if we knew of any reason why he might have been feeling depressed. Then he was in registration on Tuesday, a tad paler than usual perhaps, but definitely not dead. He kept trying to catch my eye, and I kept staring at the floor. I tried for a quick getaway out of the common room but he beat me to the door and put his hand on my shoulder, all breathless and earnest. Here we go, I thought, clenching my teeth.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he began, making my mouth drop open.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About Saturday. God! I hope you didn’t wait for long. I know you must be really angry with me, I mean it’s the most awful manners, you must think I’m unbelievably rude—’

  ‘No! No, not at all—’

  We were hustled through the door in the general scrum. Someone pushed between us with a large art folder then the bell went above our heads. We grimaced at each other until the din stopped.

  ‘Look, I’ll be quick.’ He pushed his hair out of his eyes and blinked. ‘I did try to contact you. I went through the directory but there were stacks of Coopers and my mum was on the phone most of the night anyway. The thing is, we heard on Friday night that my grandfather in Guildford had died. Mum wanted to go down straight away but Dad persuaded her to wait till Saturday morning—’

  ‘Oh, God, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Thanks. These things happen. He was a nice guy but pretty old. Mum’s all over the place, though, and so is my grandmother. So you can imagine, it was all a bit hectic over the weekend, travelling down there and back. But I really am sorry about leaving you in the lurch like that.’

  I tried not to seem joyful. ‘Forget it. Honestly. It must have been awful for you.’ I laid a hand on his arm and he looked down at it in surprise. I took it off again hastily.

  ‘The thing is, I was really looking forward to it.’

  ‘No bother. Some other time.’

  ‘We’re down there again this weekend. It’s the funeral on Friday.’

  ‘We’ll catch up at some point. I’m in town most Saturdays.’

  The corridor had gone worryingly quiet.

  ‘So, what, the Saturday after?’

  ‘Whatever, yeah. Look, we’d better get a move on, it’s nearly twenty-five past. Last day or not, Stokesy’s a complete git if you’re late for any of her lessons, she keeps records, you know, and then makes sarky comments on your report.’

  ‘And I should be in physics, which is right over the other side, which means it’ll be half-past by the time I make an entrance. Hardly worth going, in fact.’ He furrowed his brow. ‘Do you fancy bunking off, just for this session?’

  ‘You what?’ Daniel was even more law-abiding than me.

  ‘I don’t mean leave the building or anything rash like that. We could just go back into the common room and have a coffee. Quite a minor crime. I’ll be OK, I can say I was overcome with sudden grief, and I’ll put on an innocent expression and swear to Mrs Stokes that I compelled you to stay and counsel me. You’d get away with it because you’re normally so good. And they think I’m so weird they wouldn’t like to pursue it for fear of sending me into a mad fit.’

  I began a laugh, then looked away in embarrassment.

  ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be so flippant about the grandfather situation. I’m not, honestly. He was a great guy and I’ll miss him. Only it’s so bloody serious at home, awful actually. Scary seeing your parents show their feelings.’

  I thought of our house, where Feelings flowed like hot and icy water, constantly. I realized my mouth was open again, and shut it.

  ‘So, what do you say?’ He cocked his head and looked at me over his glasses.

  ‘You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?’

  ‘I like to think so.’ He turned to go back through the door. ‘Coming?’

&n
bsp; ‘Nope. You might be a genius but I have to work my tail off to get a half-decent grade. She’s going over past papers today and I need to be there. That’s the trouble with me; I’m just so bloody conscientious.’ I smiled and he smiled back. ‘Enjoy the coffee, though. And I will use you as an alibi, if that’s still OK.’

  ‘I’ll be ready to prostrate myself with misery at break time.’

  And he did. And then I bled. Happy Easter.

  *

  IT DIDN’T GET OFF to a particularly auspicious start, that Sunday. I’d downed a couple of gins for luck, and put the new dress on. Then I stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, trying to decide on earrings, studs or danglies. Downstairs Nan was belting out ‘Tell Me the Old, Old Story’, presumably they’d had it at church that morning. From behind her bedroom door Charlotte was moaning like a cat in pain, which meant she must have her headphones on. And me? Well, tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be . . . I breathed on the glass and waited till the mist cleared: Celine Dion! (Sound of cheering, clapping, murmurs of amazement etc.) Pouting at my reflection I took a deep breath. I had to admit, the new highlights did look good.

  ‘Baby think twice, for the sake—’

  The smoke alarm began to go off in the kitchen.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ I said to Celine in the mirror, and legged it down the stairs. Nan met me at the bottom.

  ‘Karen! The toaster’s set afire. What do I do?’

  I shouldered her aside and barged into the kitchen. Black smoke was rolling from the toaster slot. Nan appeared at my shoulder, wringing her hands.

  ‘I were just mekkin’ a bit o’ dinner—’

  ‘I was going to do it, if you’d just waited for two minutes!’ I yelled and she shrank back into the lounge.

  I wrenched the plug out of its socket and flung a dishcloth over the toaster. The smoke stopped. I opened the back door, put on oven gloves and carried the thing to the step, then stood looking at it. Thirty seconds later Charlotte came in, sniffing.