Escape From Evil

by Wilson, Cathy

  I was enjoying myself. Peter looked like he was about to burst into tears.

  ‘You don’t mean that, pet, I know you don’t. Think of our baby. That little mite needs two parents. We owe it that, you know we do.’

  Bastard!

  He played his joker and I folded. A minute earlier, I’d never wanted to see Peter Tobin again. Then he punched below the belt and I knew I had no choice.

  What sort of mother would I be not to give my baby a chance at a proper family?

  He knew the answer as well as I did. I couldn’t even look at Granny as I packed my bags and climbed once again onto my Honda. For the sake of my baby, I was giving him another chance. The chance my parents had never given me.

  That was one of the last times I rode my bike. At my next check-up at the doctor’s, I complained how hard it was to get about on it. The old boy nearly coughed his false teeth out.

  ‘You shouldn’t be riding a bicycle at your stage!’ he exclaimed, absolutely horrified.

  ‘It’s not a push bike,’ I explained. ‘It’s a motorbike.’

  I thought he was going to hyperventilate. ‘No, no, no, that won’t do! You can’t be risking yourself and your baby on one of those death traps. I absolutely forbid it.’

  So that was that. I could have ignored him, but he was right. What’s more, he fell precisely into the ‘father figure’ category – so, basically, whatever he said, his word was law as far as I was concerned.

  The final trimester of my pregnancy was upon us in no time. Long gone was the morning sickness. In its place were really strong cravings. Bearing in mind that I’m a vegetarian now, and have been for more than twenty years, it’s incredible to think I was addicted to pork pies. Without my bike, I would waddle the mile down to the shops in my hideous, shapeless Mothercare tent of a dress, buy a pack of six and they’d be eaten before I was home. Luckily, my other craving was plums, which hopefully cancelled out the pies.

  Peter could have gone to the shops for me. It would have taken him no time on his bike, but he didn’t offer. I didn’t ask – it was my duty, as I saw it. But as I got bigger, the walk took longer every day. I’d set out after breakfast and barely return in time to do lunch. Then it was time to clean the cottage and do the laundry. The place was a lot smaller than the hotel accommodation, so it only took ten minutes to lick it into shape. The washing was another matter. We didn’t have a machine and Peter wouldn’t waste money on a laundrette. Every day I had my arms in a sink of bubbles and hot water, scrubbing and rubbing. The rounder my tummy got, the further away I needed to stand, until in the end I could only reach the bottom of the sink by standing side-on.

  It was agony on my back, but if Peter said we couldn’t spare the 50p needed to get it done by machine, then so be it. I had no choice. The cleaning was another matter though. I knew I did a bloody good job – the flat was so pokey, it was harder to miss a surface than give it a wipe. But I noticed that whatever I did, Peter wasn’t satisfied. Sometimes he would be around during the day and would see me with a duster and brush. If he went out, though, he was convinced I didn’t bother. The first thing he’d do after coming home was run his finger over the table or window sill. And woe betide me if he found dust.

  Usually it was easier to say I’d been too ill to clean – that seemed to calm him. But one day I thought, Sod it, no. I’ve cleaned this shoe box of a place from top to bottom every day for four months. It’s bloody spotless.

  And I told him so.

  I don’t know how I’d expected Peter to react, but I didn’t see this coming. He leapt at me, screaming, ‘You fucking liar!’ and grabbed hold of my neck. I thought he was going to punch me, I honestly did, but I didn’t dare cover my face. I needed both hands to protect my bump. That was the only thing that mattered.

  It obviously didn’t matter to him though. Gripping my neck as tightly as he could, he rasped into my ear, ‘This is how you fucking clean’ – and he slammed me against the wall, dragging my face along it like some cheap feather duster.

  The whole ordeal probably lasted no longer than ten seconds from start to finish. Afterwards he was contrition personified. He was sorry, he loved me, he prayed the baby was okay. I’d heard it all so many times I could virtually have said it with him, but this time I didn’t respond. I just stood, quivering, crying at the way he’d shoved me with no regard for our baby.

  I have to get away from here.

  Once again, however, my history held me back. My parents should have stayed together. That, I told myself, would have prevented all the bad things happening. That would have been enough to keep my mother alive. By the time I’d calmed down, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. My baby was only three months away. I had to make things work with Peter. Whatever the cost.

  But, I thought, I do need to think about emergencies. If this behaviour continued once the baby was born, I would disappear. I would not put our child at risk. That was a promise. With that single thought, however, my motorbike went suddenly from perfect getaway vehicle to completely inappropriate.

  That’s no good for a baby, I realized. I need a car.

  Before I could get a car, however, I needed to learn to drive. I went straight out and phoned BSM and said, ‘I need to be able to drive in the next two and a half months – and I can only afford about six lessons.’

  That didn’t go down too well. I think they thought I was taking the mickey. But I was dead serious and I explained my reasons. I needed to be qualified when my baby was born. I wouldn’t get a chance to learn after that. I just sensed it. The guy explained that I’d be hard-pressed to pass, but if I wanted, I could take lessons in an automatic and only qualify to drive those kinds of vehicles.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said.

  Like everything else in my life, once I put my mind to my lessons, I knew I would succeed. Because I will always succeed – or die trying. Driving was just another skill to be mastered, like maths or ballroom dancing. Sure enough, two months later, I was the proud owner of a driving licence. Best of all, I already had my own wheels.

  At the same time that I’d started my half a dozen lessons, I’d also looked at buying a car from the local paper. I picked up an old Austin Allegro for £250, but as soon as I got it home, I thought, I bet this would have been worth more if it had been spruced up a bit. That gave me an idea, so I spent the next day polishing it, blacking the tyres and filling in the odd bit of rust with Autosol and then I put it back in the paper for sale at £350. A few days later I accepted £325 for it, which I was more than happy with.

  This is easy money, I realized, so I did it again. And again. And again. All I ever did was pick up grubby-looking vehicles and smarten them up a bit. I didn’t touch the mechanics or make any improvements. I just tidied and cleaned and sprayed and tarted – and I pulled in about £100 for every one. Shifting two or three of those a week gave me a pretty tidy profit. That was the point when Peter became interested. He said I’d better let him look after the money. That was his contribution, while I did all of the work.

  With a driving licence, I felt I’d won back some semblance of control of my own destiny. That was important for me. Even though I’d pledged to work at my relationship with Peter, it was crucial that I claw back some of my old individuality. I was a traditionalist, yes, but I didn’t like being a kept woman. I knew my new arrival would be dependent on me for everything, which wouldn’t work if I depended so much on someone else.

  By the time I was seven months gone, however, there was no way I could drive. That put me in the unenviable position of having to ask Peter to be on standby.

  ‘The baby could come any moment now. We need to be ready.’

  So my bag was packed and I told him to make sure the car was always topped up with petrol. I didn’t want anything left to chance. But it did mean relying on Peter – the very thing I didn’t want to do.

  On 15 October I thought it had all started and I was going into premature labour. I remember the date because it was the night of the Gr
eat Storm in the south of England, when the weatherman Michael Fish told us there was no hurricane coming. There bloody was, Michael – and by the time we reached the Royal Sussex it had already put out the hospital’s power. The whole place was bathed in the eerie glow of lamps running from the emergency generator. When you’ve got life-saving machines to worry about, getting power to lifts isn’t a priority. Unfortunately, since the maternity wing is a thirteen-storey block, that did mean I had to do some uphill walking. On the plus side, I was only seven months down the line and not nine, so it could have been worse.

  I was shown into a consulting room and a doctor came out and reminded me how humiliating having a baby can be for a woman. It’s not a very dignified experience, with all the nurses and students and doctors discussing you like a special offer in a shop window. The consultant strapped this Davy lamp to his head, like a miner, and went down to explore. I was there for ages, but eventually he said, ‘You’re fine, false alarm. You can go home.’

  Thank God for that. I don’t want to have a baby in a power cut.

  The real thing wouldn’t take place for another two months. Knowing it could happen at any time within a five- or six-week window is pretty stressful and it was hard to think about anything else. But for one day in November I did allow myself a bit of time to think about me.

  My eighteenth birthday was a pretty happy day, not least because my grandparents had a special surprise for me. When Mum died, Grandpa had sold the flat and her various belongings and invested £1,000 in a bond for me. It had matured and was now worth £4,500.

  ‘There you go, Cathy. Happy birthday – and spend it wisely!’

  I don’t know if it was the hormones or some other pregnancy-related thing, but as soon as that cash was in my hands I only had one thought. Motorbikes.

  I hadn’t ridden mine for a few weeks, not since the doctor’s orders. But that didn’t mean I hadn’t been thinking about them. Peter had stopped me looking like a biker chick, but that is what I still was at heart. Not only could I identify every model on the road, but I also dreamt about my ideal machine. And now, with Mum’s money in my pocket, I could buy it.

  The Kawasaki LTD 450 was a truly wonderful model and not for the faint-hearted. It had king and queen seats, dropped handlebars and it could go like a bat out of hell. Unfortunately, just at the moment when I was able to afford my dream bike, Kawasaki announced they were ceasing production. As stockists all over the world sold out, I’d be lucky to find one anywhere.

  We didn’t have the internet in those days and phone books were so cumbersome, but there was always word of mouth. The bike shop in Brighton put me in touch with one in Margate, who gave me a number for a guy in Rochester. I was so nervous when I rang him.

  ‘Do you have a Kawasaki LTD 450?’

  ‘You’re in luck. I’ve got the last one imported into the country.’

  ‘You hold on to that. I’ll be there in an hour!’

  I don’t know what I must have looked like, but, doctor’s orders or not, I squeezed into my old bike leathers, climbed onto my Honda and shot off.

  It was love at first sight. A brand new F reg, with a burgundy tank – I could just picture myself haring along the coast on that beauty. The fact that the baby would put a stop to a lot of my freedom didn’t enter my head – or if it did, it was shoved aside. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

  They wanted four grand for the bike, but I knocked them down to £3,750. We both got a good deal though, because I spied an older version of my new baby. Peter would love that, I thought. So after a bit more haggling and by throwing my Honda in as a part exchange, I bought that one as well.

  I gave Peter a call and told him what I’d done. He was really pleased and told me to wait. An hour or so later, we both drove home, pleased as punch, on our new steeds. Easy riders, wind in our hair. For those sixty minutes, life had never been better.

  It’s funny – all I could think about when I bought my bike was sharing my exhilaration with Peter. I still didn’t see him as bad news. He was my partner, my lover and the father of my unborn child. After everything, I still wanted to spoil him. I must have had feelings for him still. And I would move heaven and earth to keep my unborn child’s family together. That’s how Peter ended up with his own bike.

  My crazy bike fever sated, once December began, I had just one thing on my mind. I was ready. Whenever the moment came, I was locked and loaded. The same, sadly, could not be said for Peter.

  It was Sunday 20 December 1987 and Peter had invited his mate John round for an early Christmas roast. John used to come over most Sundays, actually, but this one had a bit of tinsel to it. I got up, dressed and was making my way to the kitchen when it hit me.

  ‘Peter!’ I called out. ‘It’s starting!’

  He appeared in the doorway.

  ‘We need to get going,’ I said, but he didn’t budge.

  ‘Let’s not be too hasty. Remember last time. I think we should hang on an hour or two until you’re really certain.’

  That made sense. In fact, I was relieved to have Peter there. He had been through childbirth before. He knew all about false alarms. He could recognize the signs. I need to trust him.

  Two hours later there was absolutely no doubt. It was happening.

  ‘Peter,’ I said, barely able to contain my excitement, ‘it’s coming. The baby’s coming. Can you drive me up there?’

  He just stared at me like I hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Peter, for God’s sake. We need to go!’

  Now he moved. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘That won’t do. John’s expecting a roast. You’re not going anywhere until you’ve cooked that.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  I could tell from his face he was. There was no way I was leaving that pathetic excuse for a kitchen until I’d served up something resembling a Sunday roast. Not if I wanted to get out in one piece. He didn’t say that, but he didn’t have to. The only way I would be walking out of that front door would be with his blessing. My worst nightmare had come true. I’d allowed someone else to take control of my life – and look where it had got me.

  So there I stood, for two hours, leaning against the side of the counter to try to ease the contraction pains while John and Peter sat and drank beer at the table about ten feet from me. They didn’t even offer to peel the fucking potatoes.

  With every passing minute, the pain got a little bit worse and my sniffing turned to snivelling, which turned to sobbing and full-blown howls. I was in extreme discomfort, wailing and hollering like a tortured banshee, part anguish at the pain and part mortification that I had such an uncaring partner. But I knew that, didn’t I? I’d known that for a while. Now, though, wasn’t the time to think about it.

  Somehow I powered through the pain, the last half an hour spent doubled over, waiting for the chicken to cook. Every so often, John would say something kind about me and Peter would shoot him down.

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s a bloody attention-seeker, that’s what she is.’

  They seemed to take forever to eat their lunches, then I whisked the plates from under their noses and began to wash up. Finally, eight hours after I’d asked to be taken to the hospital, I said, ‘Peter, for God’s sake, we have to go now.’

  I’ll never forget his face for as long as I live. He smiled smugly, like he was about to unveil the greatest joke ever, and said, ‘Fine – but we’ll have to walk. There’s no petrol in the car.’

  If I’d known we weren’t driving anyway, I could have left on my own hours earlier, even if I’d had to climb out a window. Peter must have been aware of that too. That’s why he’d kept quiet. He’d been playing me all along.

  I wish I could say that was the most Peter let me down during my labour, but it wasn’t.

  There were a lot of horror stories in the press at the time about women who’d had epidural injections in their backs and lost the use of their legs. I wasn’t worried about the pain of childbirth at all, b
ut the idea of being paralysed terrified me. So I said to Peter, ‘Whatever else happens, promise me you will not let them put me in for an epidural. Give me a full general anaesthetic and knock me out completely. But don’t let them go anywhere near my spine with a needle.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ he said.

  We reached the Royal Sussex at about seven and eleven hours later I’d exhausted six canisters of gas and air. I was high as a kite and still nothing was happening. Somewhere through the haze, I made out some panicking tones. Lots of people were coming in the room saying, ‘The baby is distressed.’ It turned out that he had got hold of his umbilical cord and had it clutched in his hand. He was cutting off his own oxygen supply. My baby was going to die.

  I remember someone saying that they were going to perform an emergency Caesarean. That’s okay, I giggled to myself. A quick jab in the back of the hand and I’ll be asleep.

  I must have switched off then because the next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing Peter looming over me.

  ‘They’re going to give you an epidural. I’ve signed for it.’

  It took a few seconds for the words’ meaning to sink in. An epidural? Luckily for everyone else, I couldn’t speak. But in my mind I was screaming.

  I’ve only ever asked one thing of you in our entire time together, Peter, and it was to stop them giving me an epidural. And you’re letting them do it. I don’t want to spend my life without any bloody legs. Jesus Christ, how are you allowing it to happen?

  An hour later, however, at 7.05 a.m. on 21 December, I was still in my bed, exhausted but absolutely delirious. I hadn’t had a Caesarean or an epidural. Nature had taken her course. The only thing I’d had was a beautiful baby boy.

  ‘Welcome to your new home, Daniel.’

  FOURTEEN

  Think of Daniel

  The baby changed everything.

  I’d never hated anyone more than I did Peter for betraying my wishes about the epidural. I’d read so many horror stories and the idea of some doctor trying to inject into such a precise spot on the small of my back while I was writhing around in agony had terrified me. After the torture about John’s precious Sunday roast, it was the final straw.