Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [80]
‘There’s a bed here for as long as you need it,’ she said.
I’d never loved her more.
That should have been the end of it. That should have been the point at which Peter Tobin exited my life. That should have been the point where this book stopped.
But there was another chapter to come. Many chapters, in fact. When I came down to breakfast the next morning, after the most relaxing night’s sleep in ages, I stopped, miserable with shock. There at the kitchen table with Granny and Grandpa was Peter. He looked like butter wouldn’t melt, but as soon as he saw me, his face changed. If he’d mastered the emotional apology at home, in public it was a genuine tour de force.
‘I’ve been an idiot, pet,’ he said.
I didn’t say anything.
‘I don’t deserve you, I know I don’t.’
Still I said nothing. Peter didn’t seem fazed. He just ploughed on.
‘You’ve got to come back, baby. I need you. You know I do. I can’t cope without you.’
‘You’ll cope just fine,’ I said, surprising myself with how confident I sounded.
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