Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading! Page 13

  Had a lot of other questions, but Pam kept checking her watch.

  In the end, I was glad she left early.

  Callum had just spelled out ‘COCK’ with the Junior Scrabble set.

  Saturday 7th April

  It was supposed to be Nick’s weekend with Daisy, but I’m refusing visitation until the Sadie issue is resolved. That ugly, paranoid rumour she spread was the last straw – I’m not having my daughter around a jealous maniac who makes unfounded accusations.

  I know it’s sort of illegal, but I have to protect my child. If Sadie is paranoid enough to think Nick knocked me up again AND go round telling people, what else is she capable of?

  Mum has suggested we all go to the seaside tomorrow, since I’ll have Daisy first thing and the pub is closed for maintenance.

  Have agreed to come on the proviso that Mum wears her swimming costume on the beach ONLY, and not strolling along the promenade.

  Afternoon

  Alex called.

  Didn’t answer.

  Then Alex called again and again and again, until I finally picked up and shouted, ‘What?’

  After a long, awkward silence, Alex said, ‘I just wanted you to know. The girl you saw outside the church. Her name is Bethany and she’s a family friend. She also works in my marketing department.’

  Felt sick, hearing her name.

  ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ I said. Then I changed my mind, and proceeded to tell Alex, at length, how much pain he’d caused me and how disgusting it was that he’d believed that rumour.

  ‘I don’t believe it now,’ said Alex. ‘Does that help? Your sister was good enough to tell me how the rumour started.’

  ‘But you believed it originally,’ I said. ‘How could you? As if I’d do something like that.’

  ‘Jealousy,’ said Alex. ‘I was blinded by it. I want you to know I’m seeing a cognitive behavioural therapist. Bethany suggested it. A lot of things have come up – some betrayals from childhood that are colouring my perceptions. The therapist thinks I’ve buried a lot of trauma.’

  ‘This isn’t about projection,’ I said. ‘It’s about respect.’

  ‘I respect you, Juliette,’ said Alex. ‘But trauma and logic don’t always co-exist. I’m working on it. I don’t know what else to say. It probably is for the best that we’re not in a relationship while I deal with all this.’

  I laughed. ‘You call what we had a relationship? A few car trips to London and sporadic sexual intercourse? We didn’t even share a suite on the cruise.’

  ‘I was trying to be respectful. We’d not long lost our baby.’ Alex’s voice broke then. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I believed the rumour. But you haven’t helped things. Letting Nick Spencer come over whenever he feels like it.’

  ‘Don’t start blaming me for this,’ I said. ‘Nick is Daisy’s father. I can’t keep him away.’

  ‘You were letting him come around whenever he wanted. No planned visits. It was disrespectful. He knew that. Look – what are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘Mum has arranged a trip to the seaside,’ I said. ‘I don’t really want to go, but she’s insisting on a family day out.’

  ‘The seaside?’ said Alex. ‘Christ – is that what the great British public do at the weekend these days?’

  ‘What’s wrong with the seaside?’ I asked.

  ‘Insufferable seaside art and tatty beach toys that fall apart in seconds. I’ll never forget Jemima, in floods of tears over a snapped spade.’

  ‘Don’t you have any hotels by the seaside?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Alex replied. ‘Not the British seaside. My hotels are high end. Listen – Juliette. I’ve made a terrible mess of things. I understand that. You may never forgive me, but can I at least see Daisy? I don’t want her thinking I’ve forgotten her, just because you and I aren’t getting along. Can I join you on this trip tomorrow? We’re both grown-ups, aren’t we?’

  ‘You just said you hated the seaside,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I can have my PA source some decent spades. Make the best of it.’

  In the end, I relented – for Daisy’s sake.

  Alex and I have no future, but I know Daisy misses him. She often pretends to be a driver and takes her teddies to London in a fancy black car. And she won’t shut up about all those ‘yummy scrummy’ meals Alex made her.

  It’s annoying, because there’s no way I’m making my own pesto.

  Evening

  Shift at the pub tonight.

  Daisy and I had tea with Mum and Dad.

  We spent the whole meal guessing what Alex will wear to the beach.

  ‘He can’t wear leather shoes,’ said Mum. ‘But I can’t imagine him in anything else.’

  We are all perplexed.

  Sunday 8th April

  Alex wore a polo shirt, long white shorts and deck shoes. Leather ones. He met us at the train station, hands in pockets, swinging a bag of spades.

  ‘Hello, Juliette,’ said Alex, putting a delighted Daisy on his shoulders and shaking hands with my parents. ‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Duffy.’

  Mum said, ‘Don’t expect a bloody fanfare from me after you believed that shit about my daughter.’

  Alex replied tactfully, ‘Let me help you get those things on the train. I’ve upgraded you to first-class.’ He manoeuvred the pram and Mum’s giant beach bag into the first-class carriage, then lowered Daisy onto a comfy leather chair.

  Mum was delighted with the luxurious accommodation and extra-large seats.

  ‘You get a proper amount of bum room here,’ she enthused. ‘And look. Free biscuits.’

  Dad was treacherous to his egalitarian ‘one class for all’ ideals, enjoying tea in a china cup and ‘none of this polystyrene nonsense’.

  When we dismounted the train, Dad took big lungfuls of ‘clean, sea air’ and told us, yet again, about his boyhood visits to Scottish beaches, and the ‘bracing frost’ on the sand at this time of year.

  Mum moaned about the five-minute walk to the promenade.

  As we looked for a good sandy spot to rest our things, Dad tutted about all the shops selling plastic rubbish and colourful sugared rock and lollies.

  ‘We never had any of this in my day,’ said Dad. ‘Look at all this toot. Inflatable unicorns! It’s consumerism gone mad.’

  Mum said, ‘Oh don’t be such a bloody killjoy, Bob’, then proceeded to buy an inflatable unicorn, four cans of Vanilla coke and two giant swirly lollies.

  When we finally found a good spot, Dad hammered in the windbreaker, set up chairs and laid out a tartan picnic cloth. He informed Mum, in his sternest voice, that she was not to open the picnic box until he’d got everything laid out.

  ‘He’s always been like this,’ Mum informed Alex. ‘You can’t have so much as a sticky bun until he’s got everything just so. I don’t pay any attention.’ Then she opened the picnic box.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ said Mum, a panicked note in her voice. ‘The sausage rolls are gone. There’s no sausage rolls. Bob, there are no sausage rolls!’

  We all looked inside the picnic box and found Mum was right. The sausage rolls and other picnic items had been replaced with Curry the rabbit, plastic gem stones, some hardback books, a bible and several large rocks. The only food item left was a single bag of Walker’s prawn cocktail crisps.

  I immediately suspected Daisy.

  ‘Daisy,’ I asked. ‘Where’s all the food?’

  Daisy explained she’d put the picnic food in Mum and Dad’s bed to keep warm.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Daisy off. She meant well.

  Luckily the chip shop was open, so we brought five polystyrene trays of chips and Mum finally calmed down.

  After lunch, Mum gave Daisy a giant swirly lollipop (very possibly grown in the merry old land of Oz). This was against my advice and resulted in a huge sugar-induced tantrum.

  Daisy because irrationally furious with a little boy in a yellow t-shirt.

  ‘NO, boy. DON�
��T like yellow. Take it OFF.’

  Daisy screamed and screamed at the impertinence of the yellow t-shirt, making angry gouges in the sand with her chubby little fingers.

  I tried to cuddle her, but she thrashed and wiggled and scratched my face, shouting obscurely, ‘WANT Cuddle! CUDDLE!’

  ‘Daisy,’ I said. ‘I’m already giving you a cuddle.’

  This triggered a meltdown of mega proportions. Red-faced rage, hitting, scratching, biting, helpless crying.

  ‘Juliette, can I be useful?’ Alex asked.

  ‘No, I’m fine!’ I lied, feeling the burn of vibrant red scratches.

  ‘Shove some crisps in her face,’ said Mum. ‘That always did the trick when you were little.’

  The crisps worked, but the scratches on my face needed first aid.

  Luckily, Dad had brought his St John’s Ambulance kit, and was able to administer TCP.

  Nice day in the end.

  Everyone was pleased Alex bought those extra spades, because all the ones Mum bought snapped.

  While we were sitting on the sand, drinking cans of Vanilla Coke and eating crisps, Alex said: ‘We never did things like this in our family.’

  ‘You lived in the Bahamas,’ I said. ‘You’ve had your fair share of beaches.’

  ‘Not with my parents,’ said Alex. ‘And my grandparents lived in Hungary and West Virginia. We hardly ever saw them.’ He threw a stone at the water. ‘But I can’t change who I am or where I came from. Any more than I can fix those broken spades.’

  Daisy came running up then. She’d dug a hole she was especially proud of and wanted to show it off.

  Unfortunately, the yellow t-shirt boy had dug a rival hole beside Daisy’s.

  It was twice as big, with a perimeter of pretty shells around it.

  I don’t think the boy meant to be competitive – he was just an artistic little fellow, humming quietly to himself as he made slight alterations to the shell design.

  Daisy gritted her little teeth, clenched her fists and shook with rage. Then she pushed the boy into his hole.

  The little boy started crying.

  I shouted at Daisy, then apologised profusely to the little boy.

  The little boy’s dad came running over, looking furious. I thought he was going to tell Daisy off, but instead he shouted at his son, calling him ‘a pathetic little cry baby’.

  It was horrible.

  ‘He’s not pathetic,’ I said. ‘My little girl pushed him.’

  ‘You’re a skinny weed,’ the man sneered at his son. ‘Get a hold of yourself, or I’ll give you something to cry about.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ I said. ‘He didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Who asked you, you silly cow?’ the man replied.

  Mum leapt to her feet, but Alex was already beside me. He put an arm around my shoulder, pointed a threatening finger at the man and said, ‘Apologise immediately.’

  The man gave a reluctant sorry.

  Alex talked in a low, authoritarian voice about bullying children and the long-term impact of verbal abuse.

  The dad broke, talking about his own chaotic upbringing.

  ‘I know I’m not doing things the right way,’ he sobbed. ‘But I’ve never seen the right way.’ In the end, he agreed to phone a free counselling service that Alex recommended.

  On the train home, I told Alex how impressed I was that he told the man off.

  ‘You found that impressive?’ Alex asked. ‘My company turns over millions of pounds every year.’

  ‘Yes, but it takes courage to stand up to people like that.’

  ‘It wasn’t courageous,’ said Alex. ‘There was nothing to be afraid of. Trying to win you back – now that would be courageous.’

  Monday 9th April

  Phoned Laura to talk about the beach trip.

  It feels nice that Alex still cares about me and Daisy.

  ‘But he won’t change,’ I lamented. ‘He said so himself. And now he’s seeing this other girl. How can I get over him dating someone else?’

  When Laura didn’t take the bait, I said, ‘Have you heard anything about this girl he’s seeing?’

  Laura said no.

  ‘But she met his mother,’ I said. ‘Things must be pretty serious.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Laura. ‘The Daltons aren’t like a normal family. It’s all lunch dates and power games. Harold Dalton has rewritten his will at least twenty times.’

  Tuesday 10th April

  Visited Nana Joan today.

  She’s at war with a fellow care-home resident – a busty Nigerian lady called Carmen Akawolo.

  Nana is furious because Carmen has been given special permission to make banana puff puffs in the care home kitchen.

  Nana is especially annoyed, because a new resident she has her eye on (a man called Tony Champion, who keeps horses and has two new metal knees) is a fan of the banana puff puffs and gets up early to enjoy the first batch.

  ‘I’m telling you, she can only push me so far,’ said Nana. ‘Any more disrespect, and I’ll smash in those perfect white teeth of hers.’

  I made Nana some calming camomile tea, and we got chatting about Game of Thrones.

  ‘That Sansa Stark,’ Nana tutted, shaking her head. ‘What that girl’s been through. It’s a crime.’

  Nana has reached the age where she talks about fictional people like they’re real.

  After I’d made Nana some toast on her portable gas stove, we looked at mobility scooter websites.

  Nana doesn’t really need a mobility scooter – she could just as easily catch the bus. But there’s a real ‘keeping up with the Jones’ at her old people’s home. When one old person gets a fancy reclining chair with massage function, suddenly they all ‘need’ one.

  The scooter Nana wants is called Easy Rider and comes in a choice of over fifty cushion fabrics.

  Nana wanted smiley emoji fabric, but we agreed that wipe-clean faux leather was more practical, although a little ‘sex dungeon’ with the gleaming silver wheel rims Nana favours.

  Asked Nana why she liked the Easy Rider model, with its heavy motor and huge wheels. Wouldn’t she prefer the small, compact design of the ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ scooter?

  Nana replied ominously that she wanted power to ram if necessary.

  Bumped into Carmen Akowolo on the way out. She was smiling her lovely smile and offering banana puff puffs around the communal lounge.

  Carmen patted Daisy on the head, called her ‘a little darling’ and pressed two buns into Daisy’s fingers – one for now, one for the journey home.

  Daisy shared one of the banana puff puffs with me.

  It was delicious.

  I didn’t tell Nana.

  Wednesday 11th April

  John Boy is helping out in the pub kitchen while the chef is away.

  Wasn’t sure if this was sensible, having seen John Boy’s reliance on packet noodles, but it turns out he made breakfast in the army.

  The pub menu has been changed temporarily. It now only offers one meal: sausage, fried eggs, baked beans and bacon. John Boy may extend his range tomorrow and offer toast as a side order. He’s enjoying being in the kitchen and considering getting a hygiene certificate/basic catering qualification.

  It seems like a positive step.

  John Boy didn’t do well in his GCSEs. He wasn’t entered for Maths or English, but was allowed to sit subjects that schools don’t really respect, like Woodwork and Art. He got a C in Art, but failed everything else.

  As John Boy puts it, ‘You could spell FUC with my results.’

  Thursday 12th April

  Am considering local nurseries for Daisy.

  She’ll get free funding when she’s three-years old – which isn’t so far away – and it will be good for her to be around other children.

  Daisy loves Callum and Wolfgang to bits, but I’d like to broaden her horizons. Perhaps find some friends who don’t swear as much or tease her for enjoying Disney movies.

&nb
sp; Wolfgang has already started nursery, so phoned Althea for advice.

  Althea likes nurseries as a concept (a surprise – I thought she’d find it all too establishment), but doesn’t like Wolfgang’s current childcare set-up.

  Reading between the lines, Wolfgang is the problem, not the nursery. Staff are struggling to handle him, and he’s responded to discipline by doing dirty protests in the cosy corner.

  Friday 13th April

  Nick’s day with Daisy tomorrow.

  Texted to say he is welcome to see her at our house.

  Nick hasn’t replied yet.

  Typical.

  Afternoon

  Nick rang, demanding to see Daisy at his house, even though Sadie is home.

  ‘Well we’re at an empath,’ I said. ‘Because I’m not leaving Daisy in a house with a mental case.’

  ‘Do you mean an impasse?’ Nick said.

  Grudgingly admitted that yes, I did mean an impasse.

  ‘Why can’t you see Daisy at my house?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ said Nick. ‘Sadie will go mental. I like my testicles where they are.’

  ‘Well Daisy can’t come round to yours,’ I said.

  ‘This is illegal,’ said Nick.

  ‘So was not paying maintenance,’ I countered.

  ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right,’ Nick replied. ‘Look, I know Sadie’s mental, but she wouldn’t hurt a child.’

  ‘She’s insane,’ I said. ‘She said all that crazy stuff about me being pregnant with your baby.’

  ‘So that’s what this is about,’ said Nick, in an infuriating Columbo voice. ‘You’re trying to get your own back because I talked about your miscarriage.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I snapped. ‘Daisy had nightmares last time she was round at yours. There’s no way I’m putting her through the stress of you and Sadie shouting and arguing.’

  ‘Daisy thought that was an argument?’ said Nick. ‘That was Sadie mildly irritated. When Sadie argues, things get broken.’

  As if that was supposed to make me feel any better.