Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [82]
With a driving licence, I felt I’d won back some semblance of control of my own destiny. That was important for me. Even though I’d pledged to work at my relationship with Peter, it was crucial that I claw back some of my old individuality. I was a traditionalist, yes, but I didn’t like being a kept woman. I knew my new arrival would be dependent on me for everything, which wouldn’t work if I depended so much on someone else.
By the time I was seven months gone, however, there was no way I could drive. That put me in the unenviable position of having to ask Peter to be on standby.
‘The baby could come any moment now. We need to be ready.’
So my bag was packed and I told him to make sure the car was always topped up with petrol. I didn’t want anything left to chance. But it did mean relying on Peter – the very thing I didn’t want to do.
On 15 October I thought it had all started and I was going into premature labour. I remember the date because it was the night of the Great Storm in the south of England, when the weatherman Michael Fish told us there was no hurricane coming. There bloody was, Michael – and by the time we reached the Royal Sussex it had already put out the hospital’s power. The whole place was bathed in the eerie glow of lamps running from the emergency generator. When you’ve got life-saving machines to worry about, getting power to lifts isn’t a priority. Unfortunately, since the maternity wing is a thirteen-storey block, that did mean I had to do some uphill walking. On the plus side, I was only seven months down the line and not nine, so it could have been worse.
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