Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [83]
‘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