Bad Mothers United (6 page)

Wet playtime in primary school: what joy. Normally Leo herds the kids into the hall and contains them there, but we were having building work done and it was temporarily
off-limits. Glum teachers had been forced to take their afternoon coffee and sit in classrooms to police the mayhem. Which left just me and Sylv the secretary with the staff room to ourselves.

‘Well, it was bound to be a shock for you,’ she was saying as she tipped sugar into her mug. ‘Lying there all dead and that. Eugh. I think I’d have fainted.’

Not known for her finesse, isn’t Sylv. I don’t know why I always end up telling her my private business.

I said, ‘It wasn’t the body; he just looked like a tired old man. What got me churned up was how cool the niece was. She obviously wasn’t fussed at all. And all right, yes, Mr
Cottle wasn’t the most likeable person, but no one deserves to be unmourned like that. Sitting there dying with only Carol Vorderman for company.’

‘And his cat.’

‘Oh, heck – yeah, the cat. I’m so cross about that. The last thing I need right now is to be taking on an ailing pet. Pringle, he’s called. Moth-Eaten would be more like
it.’

Sylv arched her pencilled eyebrows. ‘I thought you used to have a cat? You’ve talked about a cat.’

‘Chalkie. That was ages ago, when I was a kid. But that was then, this is now. I haven’t the time to be homing strays. I’ve enough on, what with looking after Will.’

‘So drop the cat off at the vet’s, have him put to sleep. You said he’s on his last legs. Problem solved.’ When I glanced across she had her handbag mirror out and was
inspecting her lipstick. A hard woman. She’s our designated first-aider, but the kids don’t go near her unless they’re on the verge of collapse.

‘Thanks for that.’

‘No problem. Your trouble, Karen, is you worry too much. It’s putting years on you.’

‘You really speak as you find, don’t you?’

‘I do, yeah. That’s why I’m a good friend to have.’

‘Right-oh.’

On the wall above Sylv’s head a cheery poster spelled out
Have a great day!
in twenty-four different languages.

I said, ‘The thing is, I’ve no choice but to worry. Seems to be one crisis after another at the moment.’

‘Yeah? Such as?’

I blew out a long breath. ‘Well, for one, I think our Charlotte might be mucking about with a boy up in York.’

‘No. Are you sure? I thought her and Daniel were practically engaged. How long’s it been now – three years?’

‘Coming up to that. And they were fine, it was love’s young dream till last autumn. Now, though . . . she’s restless, I can tell. Something’s happened. I’d try and
talk to her about it but she’d only go off in my face.’

Sylv smoothed her skirt and considered. ‘Hmm. There’s probably nothing you can do about that one. I mean, she’s grown-up, she’s got her own life. You can’t
make
things work out between them. Either they will or they won’t; you poking about isn’t going to solve it. Anyway, you might be wrong about the York lad. They might just be
flirty-friends. Loads of people have those. Haven’t you ever had a flirty-friend?’

‘No.’

Why am I not surprised
, said her expression. ‘OK, what’s next on the list?’

‘Just the usual fretting about Will, whether I’m doing a good enough job. Because Charlotte’s very particular, everything has to be her way, even though she’s not here. I
do my best with him but he’s got so much energy it’s exhausting, and then at night when I should be sleeping I’m all strung out. Recently I’ve started forgetting things, and
that causes extra hassle. I forgot where I’d put all those Year Four reading tests the other day, and twice I’ve left my car lights on and drained the battery. What I really want to do
is to go lie in a darkened room for a month, but there isn’t time to flake out, or be ill, anything like that, because I’ve people depending on me. Even the children here, kids like
Lucy Medlock and Felix Burrows who struggle in that big class of Pauline’s need my little group or they’d sink without trace. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my job but
it’s like there’s never any break from the pressure. I feel like Atlas holding up the sky. And some days I can’t cope. Except I have to.’

Through windows running with water I could see young Robbie Talbot being led across the rec by his mum, bound for one of his speech therapy sessions. The tarmac was so wet you could see his
figure reflected below, sole to sole. Rain swept by in sheets. The gutters foamed.

Sylv lowered her compact mirror and dropped it in her bag.

‘You know what the root of it is? You’re missing your mum still. That’s why you’re all over the place. You’re depressed. You want to get yourself to the GP and ask
for some tablets.’

‘I’m not taking tablets.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Nothing wrong with a few happy pills to help you through a rough patch, loads of people take them. At least two members of staff here. Not that I’d name
names.’

‘I wouldn’t ask.’

That made me wonder, though. How many of us were silently struggling, under the surface? It was like the way we covered the tatty school paintwork with cut-out caterpillars and poems and
paintings of poppy fields, and then, at the end of every term, when the work was taken down, you saw the real state of the building. The chips, the flakes, the sinister cracks.

I said, ‘I just find myself stressing over what constitutes normal grieving and what crosses the line.’

‘How do you mean, Karen?’

I hesitated for a second. ‘Well, I know it’s mad but I have this really strong sense Mum’s still around. I mean I
understand
that she isn’t, I’m not
delusional, but at the same time I can’t quite make myself believe it. I often feel like she’s in the house with me. Maybe in the next room, or on the other side of a door. I can smell
her perfume. I think I’m going to hear her calling.’

‘Ooh. As if you’re being haunted?’

‘I don’t know. As if – and this does sound unbalanced – she might have something to tell me.’

Sylv leaned forward in her seat. Now she was properly interested. ‘Like a message? There was this woman on TV a couple of nights ago who reckoned her late husband was making fruit jump out
of the bowl. Apples plopping out and rolling across the floor all on their own. She didn’t know what it meant, though. And I said to Gavin, “You’d think the dead would have
something better to do than shunt fruit around, it’s a bit obscure.” Have you thought about consulting a medium and asking if there are any communications for you from beyond? Your
mother might have a warning for you, something along those lines. And then there are these psychic shows where the audience can shout out requests.’

‘I wouldn’t like that at all.’ No way was Mum being turned into a stage act.

‘But if she did have something she wanted to tell you?’

‘No, forget it. I’m being silly. I should never have said anything. It’s probably just that she’s on my mind a lot what with putting together this family history project.
And because it was her house and she lived in it all her married life, she’s everywhere. I went to dig out Charlotte’s spare phone charger the other day, and I pulled open the cupboard
and there’s one of Nan’s old moustaches from her Mothers’ Union plays.’

‘No wonder you’re upset, all those reminders.’

‘I know. I ought to clear out some of it. I suppose what’s really getting to me is how death leaves things unfinished – ideas go round and round my head. I think, if I could
just, if I could just have ten more minutes with her . . .’

And right there the sequence unravelled in my mind: the night I found Mum on the kitchen floor ill and rambling, and she let slip I was adopted. Not hers, she said. Not who I thought I was. My
struggle over the following weeks, the appointments with counsellors and social workers. Setting out on the sly in search of my birth mother, lying to everyone about where I was going, telling my
own daughter I was having a seaside break. Seaside break! The reality – cold station platforms, cold London streets, cold eyes peering out at me, a door slammed in my face. Cruel words
branded across my memory. A hidden history I’d dragged up that I could never un-know, or share. And the continual battle now to blot it out, the guilt I carried round.
Mum, I’m
sorry, I’m sorry, I wish I’d left well alone.

Sylv was staring at me.

‘. . . I’d tell her that I loved her, I suppose.’

‘Oh, she’ll have known that.’

‘Will she, though?’

‘Don’t be daft. My God, Karen, is that what’s really getting to you?’

I made myself nod. I wanted to say,
What do you think the rules of the afterlife are? If Mum is still about, how much is she able to see? When you pass over, do you find out stuff that
people kept hidden from you while you were on earth? Can the dead look down and see the secrets of our hearts?

Without warning the electric bell went off above our heads, jangling at top volume and making me jump and spill my coffee. Break was over. It was time for Phonics with Year Three.

Sylv snapped her handbag shut and stood to watch me dab my skirt with a hanky.

‘Listen, I can’t begin to untangle your head right now. But here’s an idea. Why don’t you come out with me and Maggie one evening? Or join Pauline’s salsa class?
It’s a giggle. Let your hair down, have a night off? It’d do you the world of good. Stop you brooding so much.’

I blinked at her. ‘Salsa?’

‘Why not?’

‘Me doing Latin dance? Thump thump crash.’

‘It’s not a serious class, it’s not competition standard or anything. Just a bunch of us having a laugh.’

‘Oh? OK. Sounds fun. Maybe I will.’

I think we both knew I was lying.

‘The offer’s there anyway. And you know me, Karen: I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean. Think about it.’

And with a squeak of the fire door she was gone, spiky heels tap-tapping down the lino.

‘DON’T go installing any more animals in the house without consulting me,’ she was yelling down the phone at me. ‘And don’t keep dragging him
round to see corpses either.’

I was that gobsmacked I just said, ‘No.’ Then the phone went dead.

Why does she feel she can speak to me like that? Why do I let her? Who is it looking after her child two-thirds of the year? I sat and stewed for at least an hour afterwards, TV on and no one
watching.

I heard the engine revving outside our house but I didn’t take any notice. Why would I? The curtains were drawn, Will was in bed, the day was practically over as far as I was concerned.
How could I ever get myself to a salsa class feeling as drained as I did? It took me all my time to stagger to the biscuit tin and back.

Then the doorbell rang.

Bad news, I thought, the way I always do now Charlotte’s so far away.

When I opened the door I nearly screamed. Right there on my step was a man in a leather jacket and a motorbike helmet with one of those scary blacked-out visors. I thought he’d come to
burgle the house. We’d had a policeman round two weeks ago warning us about gangs selling counterfeit dusters.

‘What do you want?’ I snapped. ‘I’ve a big pit bull in the back.’

The visor flipped open to reveal Steve’s squashed-up features. ‘Have you heck as like.’

With a monumental effort he prised the helmet off his head and stood grinning at me. His skin was flushed and marked from the straps. Behind him, lit by a pool of streetlight, was parked a blue
and green motorbike with a jumbo chrome exhaust.

‘Oh my God. You bloody well haven’t, have you?’

‘I bloody well have. Smart, int it? One hundred and fifty horses.’

‘And how have you managed to afford it?’

‘Cashed in some assets.’

What assets did my ex-husband own? His house was full of junk, and I mean genuine tat. Flammable sofa, temperamental TV, ring-marked tables, buzzing fridge. All the taps dripped, and you had to
turn the cooker on with a pair of pliers because the knob had come away. Not even a charity would have touched his stuff. ‘You’ve flogged your Linda Lusardi mug?’

‘I’ve sold my Escort.’

‘You’ve what?’

He turned and eyed the bike lovingly. ‘I did a part-exchange. The car weren’t worth a stack, but it was worth more than this. And don’t worry about our Charlie’s driving
lessons. With the bit of cash I got over, I’ll pay for her to have professional ones. Be better than me confusing her. I teach it all wrong.’

‘But you were really suited with that car.’

‘I’m really suited with this Kwacker. It is a belter. You should hear the engine when it starts up. Magic. I thought you’d want to see. Shall I give you a demo?’