Free The Bad Mother's Handbook by Kate Long

the first to borrow it?
    Paul: Ha bloody ha. It’s better than a video on, I
dunno, make-up or summat, girly stuff.
    Me: Sod off. Look, did you want to meet up for a
drink some time? Only . . .
    Paul: Oh, yeah, right, that would be great. Em, yeah.
I’ll give you a ring . . . we’ll get summat sorted. Maybe
next week. If it’s not too busy. All right?
    Me: Yeah. All right. Well . . .
    Paul: I’ll call you.
    Me: Paul?
    Paul: What?
    Me: Who’s Chrissy?
    Pause, click, dialling tone.
    The door to the lounge opened and Nan wandered
out. There were crumbs all down her front.
    ‘Phyllis Heaton’s had a hysterectomy,’ she said sadly,
and sat down on the step next to me.
    I unwound the scarf and draped it round us both. I
wanted to cry.
    ‘There’s some things as can’t be mended,’ she whispered.

    *

    ‘W ELL , YOU WOULDN ’ T catch me even thinking about it,’
said Sylv, swinging her knees to and fro on her swivel chair
like she does; she’ll come a cropper one of these days and
unswivel herself completely. I was sitting in the office to
cut out my thirty daffodil shapes because Year 6 were
watching a science programme on TV and the classroom
was too dark to see what I was doing, not that it was
exactly taxing stuff. Sylv, however, had been delighted to
see me. ‘I mean , what if they want your bone marrow?’
    ‘You what?’
    Sylv looked at me as if I was stupid. ‘Don’t you watch
the news? When these long-lost relatives meet up there’s
always someone wanting your bone marrow, or your
kidneys or what have you, and then if you don’t give it to
them you’re the villain. It’s not on. I was reading about a
case in Woman’s Own last week. This woman didn’t even
know she had a twin brother until he turned up on the
doorstep wanting her organs. It’s a hell of a risk. No, Karen,
I wouldn’t touch it in your shoes.’
    Thanks, Sylv, I thought, these heart-to-hearts we have
are invaluable. You’ve helped me make up my mind. I’m
going to find my birth mother if it kills me.
    Just then the Head came into the office with a letter for
typing. Sylv quivered like a pointer.
    ‘What do you think, Mr Fairbrother?’ She ignored my desperate expression and plunged on. ‘Do you think Karen
should try to find her natural parents?’
    Give him his due, Mr F didn’t bat an eyelid. I suppose
he’s used to it, he sees Sylv all the time whereas the rest of
us only consort with her at break times.
    ‘I really couldn’t give an opinion,’ he said and put the
letter down on the desk. ‘Can you get this out to Gavin
Crossley’s parents by the end of the day? We’ll have to
have them in, it’s no good. Daryl Makinson’s had to have
stitches.’ Then he turned to me. ‘A difficult decision for
you. Not one I should like to be faced with.’ He gave me a
nice smile and left us to it.
    ‘Such a shame,’ said Sylv as soon as the door was shut.
She means because he’s past forty, possibly fifty, and still
single, and used to live with his parents till they both died
and now he lives on his own in that big house up Castleton
Road, he must rattle around in it, why he doesn’t buy a
little bungalow, and maybe he’s homosexual but doesn’t
realize it, not that it matters in this day and age. And
he’s losing his hair, poor chap. I’ve heard Sylv’s musings on
the subject more times than I can count. But he’s actually
a pleasant man and really quite OK as a boss, especially
when you think the staff are all women: you’d think we’d
drive him mad. He’s great when I need to take time off for
Nan, and he buys us all Christmas presents; just bits and
pieces, but it’s the thought. This year it was cacti. Sylv got
a squat, spiky number. Mine was tall and sort of hairy, as
if a gang of spiders had run amok over it. I don’t like
them as plants, I tend to think they’re a bit common. You
never see cacti on ‘Inspector Morse’. So I put Mr F’s effort
on