Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [75]
Christ, I was much too young for children. My mother’s problems had begun, it pained me to admit, when she’d accidentally fallen pregnant with me. Yes, she and Dad had got married. Yes, I suppose they were in love for a while. But they had been too young, too immature, too out of their depth to make it work. If their pregnancy hadn’t exactly ruined their lives, it had certainly shaped them. And Mum’s life, of course, had been ruled by the hold her blackmailers had over her while I was around. I was the knife they’d held at her throat, the sharp stick that made her do everything they demanded.
No, I told myself. Mum had been unlucky. She wasn’t in control. Not of her body, not of her life. Not like me.
A few days later I told Peter I wanted to have his children.
‘Really? But you’re so young. It will change your life forever.’
‘I know. But I want to do it.’ I kissed him. ‘For you.’
He hugged me tighter than he’d ever done before and we both cried.
And then, in March 1987, I announced I was pregnant and Peter couldn’t have been happier. It wouldn’t take me long to discover why . . .
THIRTEEN
I’ll Try Harder
From the moment I became pregnant, everything altered. And not for the better.
Even before my little bump began to show and then grow and grow, it was all I could think about. My child had my full attention, my entire focus. Suddenly Peter wasn’t the most important person in my life. My unborn baby was. And he didn’t like it one bit.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked when he saw me getting ready to go out one morning.
‘To the doctor’s,’ I replied. ‘It’s only a routine check-up. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Well, if it’s nothing to worry about, it can wait till after you’ve done some cleaning.’
I stared at him, searching his face for a sign that he was joking. Nothing.
‘Are you serious?’ I asked eventually.
‘Well, this flat’s not going to clean itself, is it?’
Too tired to argue, I took my coat off again and got out a brush to sweep the floor. Then, as soon as Peter had gone out, I shoved the broom back in the cupboard and rushed out. If I hurried, I might still make the appointment.
It was only on the way back that I thought about Peter’s behaviour. He was obviously anxious about the baby, I decided. I needed to remember that I wasn’t the only one my pregnancy was affecting. I needed to be more sympathetic to him.
That was easier said than done. A few days later, during dinner, I brought up the subject of where our baby was going to sleep. I’d been thinking about it for ages and hoped that would be the cue for Peter to say we could go out shopping for bassinets and babygrows. I couldn’t have been more wrong. He threw his cutlery down and looked like I’d insulted his mother.
‘Shut the fuck up, woman!’ he exploded. ‘You’re obsessed.’ Then he pushed his chair back and stormed out of the flat. He’s just nervous about the baby, I reassured myself. But that didn’t stop me crying myself to sleep that night.
I truly hoped Peter would snap out of whatever was troubling him, but if anything he just got more and more angry. I couldn’t do anything right. If there was a newspaper out of place, it was my fucking fault. If he couldn’t find his watch, I must have fucking moved it. Everything was ‘fuck’ this or ‘fuck’ that, which I absolutely hated. Even worse, it was usually followed by some insult directed at me. ‘What the fuck have you done with my keys, you stupid bitch?’
I’d gone from his ‘princess’ or ‘beauty’ or ‘pet’ or ‘hen’ to any number of vile insults. I didn’t know where the anger was coming from. It was so shocking, so violent, I could only think of one explanation: had I done something wrong?
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.