Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [87]
I just needed Peter to look after Daniel while I made it all happen – and he refused. He had no job, nothing to do, no plans and no real disability. But he absolutely dismissed out of hand any notion that he should be involved in caring for his own son.
Fine, I thought. I don’t need you. I don’t need a man in my life. The less he wanted to do with Daniel’s life, the better. That meant no interference in my decisions and more time for me. It was fighting talk and I meant every word. I was eighteen years old and I really didn’t need a bloke in my life, especially that one.
But Daniel did.
Again, the haunting parallels with my own life loomed large. However much I barely tolerated or disliked or even hated Peter at times, those feelings paled into insignificance next to my determination to keep my son’s family together at any cost. I may not have loved Peter, but I did love being in a mature relationship and I was hellbent on making it work, whatever the cost to me. My son was not going to grow up without a father, as I had done. That was the priority. That was what I had to ensure never happened. And that, ultimately, would be our downfall.
If I’d thought I’d been exhausted before, opening my tea shop taught me the true meaning of the word.
My alarm was set for six in the morning, but most days I was still up from one of Daniel’s night-time feeds. Then I would wash the cot blankets and sheets and his nappies – still no washing machine, all by hand – and have it out on the line by half six. Then I would make breakfast for me and Daniel, then it was time to clean the flat – that chore didn’t disappear just because I was working and Peter was at home – and finally I was able to think about work. Before I could open the shop I needed sup plies, so, with Daniel strapped to my front, I would walk down to the local supermarket to buy gateaux and other treats I could slice up and sell. Then, at nine o’clock, I was finally ready to open.
Luckily, business was good from the start. People complimented me on my Chinese rice-pattern crockery and the lovely atmosphere I’d created while having a slice of cake with tea served in a pot and made from tea leaves not bags. And, of course, most of them couldn’t help but admire the sleeping baby strapped to my chest. Even when Daniel wasn’t sleeping, when he was hungry or restless and noisy, I had no choice other than keep him there. It killed me, knowing his dad was so close and yet so unwilling to lift a finger for his boy.
It didn’t take Peter long to find an excuse not to help. The flat had a cellar, which he said he would use as a workshop. He was going to convert part of it to house a Scalextric track for Daniel, he claimed. At one point he even suggested installing a little kitchen, so I could prepare food for the café there rather than use our flat’s kitchen, which, the first Health & Safety inspector informed me, was illegal. But I didn’t care what he did down there. He could have been masturbating to pictures of the Queen for all I knew. I was just happy knowing where he was – and that he was out of my way.
I cried myself to sleep some nights through sheer tiredness. But I’d got into a nice rhythm. I was with my son all day, I was making money and I was doing it all by myself. I was independent and I was in control.
Then, out of the blue, Peter said we had to move out, we had to give up the flat, the business and the profit. And why? To put our names down on the council house list. It was unbelievable. I honestly thought he’d gone mad.
‘Look, we’ve got a baby – we’ll get a nice council house, no problem,’ he said.
‘But we’ve got a nice place now.’
‘This is a shithole. We’ve got a kid. They’ll give us a fucking palace.’
‘But why do we have to give up the tea shop?’
‘Because you’re earning too much. Council won’t give us a penny if you’re earning. You’ve got to stop it now.’
I’d love to pretend that conversation never took place, but it did. Most embarrassing of all is how