Escape From Evil (26 page)

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, but 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

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.

And then Daniel had popped out, naturally in the end, and I was in love with everyone. Especially Peter. In fact, looking at him as he held our little boy, I didn’t have a negative thought in my brain. I didn’t see the man who’d sworn at me, hurled things at me, slammed me against walls and turned me from leather queen into dowdy frump. I didn’t see anything other than the man who had given me my child.
Without him, I wouldn’t have my bundle of joy.
We were a family. Together we could take on the world.

Peter and I struck a deal before the baby was born.

‘If it’s a girl,’ I said, ‘I want to call her Jennifer – after my mother.’

‘And if it’s a boy?’ Peter said.

‘If it’s a boy you can choose the name.’

So that’s how our son came to be called Daniel. I don’t know if Peter was aware of it at the time, but the meaning of the name is ‘God is my judge’. Years later that would seem particularly prescient.

Being born so close to Christmas, Daniel was virtually whisked straight from the hospital to my grandparents’ house on 25 December, to share the big day with them plus my mum’s sister Anne, her husband Geoff and their children, Theresa and Jonathan. After a pretty harrowing few months, it was such a relief to relax among family. Even though I was acutely aware of not being married, I still felt proud at bringing a bundle of joy into Tremola Avenue. After all the harsh words that had been exchanged during the last days of my life there, it was good to spread some joy for once. There’s nothing like a baby at Christmas. It was the best present ever.

Welcoming Daniel into our little cottage, however, I saw it with fresh eyes – a mother’s eyes.

This won’t do. It’s not big enough.

Peter agreed, although for different reasons.

‘I don’t want to be hearing crying all day and night,’ he informed me coldly.

‘How are we going to stop it?’ I asked innocently, as though my more mature partner had the secret to child-rearing.

‘
We’re
not going to stop it. You are. It’s not my job.’

It was as though Peter’s contribution ended with choosing the name. He wouldn’t feed Daniel, he wouldn’t bathe or burp him. He would barely hold Daniel, unless I genuinely couldn’t physically do it at that moment. I had to have both hands full before Peter would help, and only then if it suited him, like if I was trying to carry his dinner and mug of tea. He was happy to go for walks with us, as long as I pushed the pram, but really that’s about as close as he liked to get.

It sounds awful, but I actually had nothing to judge Peter against. There’d been no male role model when I was growing up. For all I knew, this was exactly how dads were expected to behave. My own grandfather, after all, deferred to Granny on virtually all matters of child-rearing. So, as unhappy as I was at bearing the full brunt of responsibility, I didn’t immediately think Peter was being a particularly bad dad.

He’s done it before,
I thought.
This must be normal.

I, on the other hand, was eager to learn. But where could I look? These days new mums can go to classes and there are books and DVDs you can buy. The majority of women, though, still draw most of their childcare information from their own mums. Obviously I couldn’t do that. I knew nothing and I was reminded of it again and again. I hated that. I’ve always been able to master anything. Give me a puzzle and I’ll complete it, a school topic and I’ll memorize it, a game like pool and I’ll master it in no time. This baby lark, though, was unknown territory for me. It seemed like every second of the day I was confronted by another situation that terrified me, another reminder that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.