Escape From Evil (24 page)

Just by asking the question, I was unwittingly falling deeper into his clutches. Think about it: he was swearing at
me
, calling
me
names, and I was the one wondering if I’d done anything wrong. No rational person would think like that. When you’re in love, you’re not rational. And when you’re pregnant, people might as well be talking a foreign language. Logic goes completely out the window.

Not once did I think,
He needs to look after me now, I’m carrying his child.
The only thoughts passing through my head were things like
He can’t help it. It’s the pressure of his illness. The drugs are making him talk like that. It’s the stress of going under the laser.
I even found myself thinking,
Is this what Scottish men are like? Is it just their way of talking?
You name it, I made an excuse for it.

I could have done with some support early on because those first days of pregnancy were tough. I suffered from chronic morning sickness and struggled to get around for a while. This is the time I should have been resting, being waited on by my partner. Peter, unfortunately, hadn’t read the script. This was the period when he suddenly decided he needed me to work in the bar and clean the building. It was almost as if he didn’t want me clogging up the flat while he was in there during the day.

Then, out of the blue, I was told I’d spent my last night in the flat. The owners announced they wanted to convert Peter’s pad into a paid residence, so he was being relocated to a flat in a little cottage around the back of the building. I thought it sounded nice, although it was weird that I only got a day’s notice. ‘Surely someone would have told you earlier?’ He denied it. What else could I do but get on with packing – alone? Two months pregnant and there I was stuffing crates and shifting boxes around the flat. Criminal, really.

Always willing to look on the bright side, I decided that our new home was just what we needed. We could draw a line under our recent trials and tribulations. This was a fresh beginning.
Another
fresh beginning.

If anything, though, Peter’s behaviour in the cottage was even worse than before. His friend John was a regular visitor, especially on a weekend, when he’d come over for a few beers. Shortly after we’d moved home, John was there and Peter had finished his beer. He could have asked me for another one, he could even have got up and fetched a tin himself, to save my poor legs. But he didn’t. His response to discovering a depleted glass was ‘Empty again? Where’s that fucking useless bitch?’

I was about ten feet away. I heard every word. The sudden viciousness of it was like a kick in the abdomen, an explosion of pure hatred. The way he looked at me sent a shiver down my spine. Worst of all, he didn’t care that I’d heard.

Again, I put it down to fear of losing his testicle, but it did hurt. I would have done anything for that man and he was beginning to treat me like dirt. It was horrible, but, I decided, there was only one way to fix things.
I have to try harder to make him love me.

I’d always got on well with John, but I could barely look him in the eye after that.

While I seemed to be getting more attention from Peter’s harsh tongue, attention of a more intimate nature had pretty much dried up. I didn’t know if that had something to do with the new flat or whether it was because of my growing bump, but my sex life was non-existent from the moment I first stepped into that cottage. I tried to seduce, I flirted and I even begged, but Peter wouldn’t touch me. He made it clear that it wasn’t right to be having sex while carrying a baby. I knew that wasn’t true, but he succeeded in making me feel guilty.

One way to try to please him was to be a better housewife. I was no cook – a lifetime of uncooked roasts and non-rising cakes had taught me that. But I had an enthusiasm to master it which was complemented by my desperation to do anything for my man. I’d passed my home economics O level, but what good was that in the real world? If you needed a pineapple upside-down cake or mince pies, then I was your gal. But anything practical, anything you might actually want to serve for an evening meal, like roast lamb and mashed potato, was completely beyond my ken. But I tried.

One morning I said, ‘What would you like for tea tonight?’

Without hesitation: ‘Pork chops.’

‘No problem. I’ll buy some today.’ So I did. I hopped on the Honda and was at the shops in no time. On the way back I was aware of that silly smile on my face that said,
I’m happy
. Any opportunity I had to do something special for Peter gave me a warm glow. For all my noises about independence, when it came to relationships, I was already a traditionalist. Peter brought home the bacon, such as it was, and I looked after him. I wanted to. Like so many other things in my life, you can trace it directly back to my own parents, can’t you? If Mum had had a man to look after, all her troubles would never have happened. I was convinced of it at seventeen and I still believe it now. So I was excited. I couldn’t wait for the evening.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to cook chops and I’d never seen a recipe book, so I had to wait until Peter came home to ask.

‘Just grill them,’ he said and went off to read his newspaper.

Fine
, I thought, and turned the grill on. I was in my element. This was what my man was used to. This was what his other partners had done. This was how they’d looked after him. I honestly got a real kick out of it. I just hoped I compared to them.

I was about to find out. Five minutes later I called Peter to the table.

‘Hope you like it,’ I said earnestly, serving his large plate of meat and boiled veg. He grunted – his usual reply when he was reading, but then he did have a lot on his mind – and I turned back to the kitchen area to serve myself. Before I’d even reached the oven, the wall in front of me exploded. I screamed and dived for cover.

Is the house falling down?

‘You stupid cow! Are you trying to fucking poison me?’

I stared at the wall, stunned to see the remains of meat, gravy and veg smeared on it. Had he just thrown his plate at the wall?

No. He’d thrown it at me.

It turned out I’d seriously undercooked the pork. Peter had taken umbrage at that. Rather than ask me to put it back under the grill for a few more minutes, the red mist had descended. I really was lucky not to have crockery wounds in the back of my head. As it was, there were flecks of carrot and pork over me. As the full picture of what had just occurred gradually unfurled in my uncomprehending brain, I began to cry.

I did my best. I didn’t mean to do it wrong. Why did he try to hurt me?

Cowering against the door of the still-warm oven, arms wrapped protectively over my head, I sobbed and sobbed. I just couldn’t work it out.
Who throws their dinner just because it’s a bit underdone?

I was down there for just a few seconds, then I knew what I had to do.

‘You shouldn’t have done that!’ I shouted at Peter, who was still sitting at the table. ‘That’s it, I’m leaving.’

I turned and ran towards the bedroom. It would take me about a minute to grab enough emergency things. Before I got to the door, Peter was there. He was amazingly light on his feet for his age. His arm blocked my escape.

‘Don’t hurt me!’ I begged and he looked genuinely shocked at the idea.

‘I would never hurt you, silly,’ he said softly and reached out to take my hand. I flinched. ‘Babe,’ he added, ‘I’m sorry about that. You know how I get about food. I’ve had a hard day. The shit I’ve had to put up with. I’m sorry you were on the end of it.’

Still I didn’t move. ‘You could have hurt me. You could have hurt our baby!’ The last words I virtually spat at him.

‘Cathy, Cathy, Cathy! God, no, how could you think such a thing? I’m appalled. I just threw it at the wall. Look, I’m sorry, so sorry, you have to believe me. It was aimed at the wall, not you.’

He could see me wavering.

‘Come on, babe, we’ll clean it up together. It was just an accident.’

And that was it. A line was drawn under it in his head. For him, the big concession was helping me clear up his mess. I couldn’t understand what had just gone on, but I went along with it. What choice did I have? I was pregnant with his child. I was penniless – and I was proud. I honestly think that was the moment I realized that I didn’t and couldn’t love him. But, more than ever, I was determined:
I’m going to make this relationship work.

For a few days afterwards Peter couldn’t have been nicer. It was as if he’d been shocked by his own destructive behaviour and had resolved to change. He didn’t swear at me, put me down or even so much as joke about his meals. It was bliss. I really thought the future would be just fine. And, in any case, it was finally time for his operation.
He’s got a lot on his mind. Of course he needs to let off steam.

We went down to the Royal Sussex together and Peter was put in a bed to be prepared for his op. Doctors and nurses flitted in and out like waiters bursting through kitchen doors. Several of them smiled at my obvious baby bump and then one commented on it.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I was really worried I wouldn’t be able to conceive before the operation.’

‘Why was that so important?’

‘Because of the side effects. The fact that he won’t be able to have children anymore.’

The doctor stared at me like I was speaking in tongues. ‘What do you mean, this operation will stop him having children? It won’t do anything of the sort.’

Now it was my turn to look confused.

‘Peter said that after you laser his testicle, he’ll be sterile.’

‘No, no, that’s completely wrong.’

‘Well, that’s what he thinks.’

The doctor puffed out his cheeks and scratched his chin. ‘I can assure you, Mr Tobin has had it explained to him half a dozen times. He knows as well as I do that, at worst, he’ll be one or two per cent less fertile. I promise you, he’ll be able to conceive as well tomorrow as he would be able to today. And,’ he nodded again at my tummy, ‘there are obviously no complaints in that department.’

The doctor disappeared again and I was left to mull over his words. He must have been trying to cover his mistake. Peter obviously hadn’t been told what the procedure would entail, otherwise we would never have tried so hard for a baby. Or would we?

Was there a chance that he did fully understand everything? No, of course not. I was angry at myself for even thinking it. What possible reason would he have for tricking me into getting pregnant? We were going to be together forever. There was plenty of time for a family.

The doctors were happy with the operation and, when Peter was finally allowed out, I raised the subject with him. I thought
, I’ll know from the look on his face whether he was conning me or not.
But he responded as I knew he would: with utter incredulity at the doctor’s claims.

‘That’s not true, hen. They told me it was all over for me and kids. Why would I lie about something like that?’

I didn’t know. It was too far-fetched an idea to entertain for a moment longer. But I was still left thinking,
I’m seventeen years old and pregnant when I don’t have to be.

There was no way I could ever reveal that to my grandparents.

I was so confused about Peter, I didn’t know what to think. Whether he’d lied to me or not, I knew my options were vanishing by the day. In particular, I realized, without money, I was trapped. Peter was as fastidious about bill-checking as ever and as I wasn’t allowed to work, I had to think of a new solution. That’s when I hit upon the idea of teddy-bear kits. I was familiar with all the craft shops in Brighton, so I spent an afternoon buying equipment to sew a teddy bear from scratch. By then I’d designed a cute-looking bear, but that was only half the story. I then deconstructed it and made a pattern of the pieces. Once I’d replicated that a dozen times, I had twelve kits containing wadding, eyes, little bow ties – basically everything you needed to make the bear of your dreams. No more going into a sewing shop for two metres of fabric when you only needed one. I’d done it all for you.

I loved doing that. I was a real craft junkie. Once I’d finished, I gave them to Peter and he flogged them to the doss-house residents for their grandchildren. It didn’t bring in a fortune – and Peter kept every penny anyway – but it kept my brain active and it showed me I did have the power to take back some control of my life. Unfortunately, I would need to do that sooner than I’d hoped.

Without the fear of his operation to occupy him, I honestly thought Peter would be a changed man. One day, then two, then three passed without incident. As we neared the week mark, I studied his every move, looking for a sign that he might erupt. But it didn’t come. And then, a fortnight after Peter had been given the all-clear, I burnt his toast. And all hell broke loose.

‘Fucking stupid, useless bitch!’

‘It’s only a bit of toast. I’ll do another one,’ I cried. ‘Calm down.’

A second later, Peter had his nose pressed against mine. ‘Don’t you dare tell me to calm down. Have you got that, bitch? Never!’

I’d got it. I promised I’d never say it again and we moved on. I cried, he cried, I said I was scared, he apologized and promised it would never happen again.

It was maybe a week later when Peter found a smear on the lounge window.