Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [79]
‘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.
‘Come here,’ he roared.
What now? I thought. But over I went, the dutiful woman.
‘This was here yesterday,’ he spat, literally shaking with fury. ‘What the fuck do you do all day?’
‘I didn’t do the windows yesterday,’ I explained, desperately trying to remain calm. ‘l’ll do them today.’
‘You’ll do them now.’
‘I can’t, I’m doing—’
But I never finished that sentence. He grabbed my dress so violently I nearly fell over. Then, dragging me furiously forwards, he began to rub away at the smear. I thought my dress was going to rip to shreds. But, I thought a few minutes later, when he was sobbing and pleading for my forgiveness, at least he didn’t use my face.
Two weeks and two really unpleasant episodes. Still I persevered in my role as the accommodating spouse. I was like a woman possessed. Whatever Peter did, I was determined to rise above. I would prove myself the better person – and I would give our unborn child the security of a happy family life. But then he threw a screwdriver at my proud baby bump – and the rules changed.
I can’t even remember what had provoked it. He’d been doing odd jobs, which is why he had his tools to hand. One minute we were talking, the next he’d flung his flat-head screwdriver like a circus performer throwing knives – and it was aimed straight at my tummy.
I screamed, dived out of the way and cowered as the tool ricocheted off a cupboard and landed on the floor by my feet. I leapt up, more angry than I’d ever been in my life. It was one thing to attack me, hurl abuse in my face, call me every name under the sun. It was another to put my child at risk.
‘That was your last chance!’ I screamed, but Peter didn’t hear. He was halfway out the front door by the time I’d opened my mouth. There would be no tears from him this time, no grand apology as his tender hands cupped my cheeks. It was just as well. As far as I was concerned, he’d tried to hurt me for the last time. I threw a few things into half a dozen carrier bags and fled downstairs to my bike.
I didn’t know where to go, but I knew I couldn’t go back to Granny’s. She’d been so good when I’d broken the news about the baby – ‘Whatever you do, we’ll always be here for you’ – but it would just be embarrassing to go there now. I couldn’t. That really had to be the very last resort.
Instead, I ran into a newsagent and grabbed a copy of the Brighton Argus. I ringed all the places with bedsits to rent and drove to an out-of-the-way phone box, where I hoped I wouldn’t be interrupted for half an hour or so. Then I got out a handful of 5ps I’d been squirreling over weeks from my shopping change and started dialling.
I didn’t know how long it would take or how many coins I would need. All I could think about was getting as far away from that tyrant as possible. I tried to hold it all together to make the calls, but I don’t know how convincing I sounded. But that wasn’t the reason landlady after landlady turned me down. The second I admitted I was pregnant – and they all asked – that was it, end of transaction, on to the next number. It was the same story every single time.
‘I’m sorry, dear, I don’t think young babies would fit in here. It’s not that sort of place.’
I can’t remember what ran out first: my money, my ringed numbers or my patience. By the end, though, I was in floods.
I’m ruined. Nobody wants me. What the hell am I going to do?
Half an hour later,