Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [88]
The more Peter dressed it up as this big, fantastic idyll, the more I came round to it. But he was clever. He’d wait until I was virtually dead on my feet, desperate for a nap or to take my shoes off for five minutes. Then he’d start the whispering, the off-hand remarks, the little glimpses of how our future could be.
‘In a council place, you’d be able to sleep.’ That sounded good. ‘You’d have time to play with Daniel.’ That was even better. But it was when he suggested ‘You’d be able to be a proper mother’ that I really sat up.
Wasn’t I being a ‘proper’ mother working every hour God sent to provide a safe home and food for my son? Wasn’t I a proper mother for not letting him out of my sight for a second of the day? For Christ’s sake, for most of it we were tied to each other. Was Peter telling me that wasn’t the behaviour of a proper mother?
It’s only looking back now that I see he was playing me like a violin. There was nothing wrong with my mothering. And it certainly wasn’t his place to criticize. But a new mother is a fragile beast, easily knocked off balance by the slightest suggestion that she could do more. All new mums take everything personally. And so, stupidly, I agreed to his scheme. I put my business up for sale, sold it as a going concern for £10,000 and walked away. I was eighteen years old, a new mother and I’d made and sold a successful business in the space of nine months. That felt really good.
But I’d also just given away my hard-fought independence. The moment we left Portslade, Peter was back in control.
As soon as I clapped eyes on our new home in Windlesham Gardens, I knew it was a mistake. I’d been promised a palace. What I got instead was a studio flat.
‘This can’t be right,’ I said.
Peter went straight on the defensive. ‘We’re at the bottom of the pile, what did you expect?’
‘But it’s not big enough! Where’s Daniel going to sleep?’
He pointed to the wall furthest from the small kitchen area. ‘We’ll put the cot over there. What’s the problem?’
He couldn’t see it. Or wouldn’t. We’d given up a lovely little place for a cramped shoe box of a flat. It was smaller than some of the dives I’d stayed in with my mum. Really horrible and not at all the dream family home I’d been sold.
He’s done it again. When would I ever stop falling for his lies?
It was too late now. As much as I hated myself for being so gullible, all those bridge lessons with Granny had taught me to play the hand you’ve been dealt. But even so, I honestly couldn’t understand what Peter had been thinking. It was as if he didn’t see Daniel at all. Or me for that matter. He wanted a council flat and he got one. He probably hadn’t even filled the form in properly, to say we were a family. That’s how low down in his priorities we were. He didn’t seem to mind that we had to share a bathroom with people from eight other bedsits. I’ve still got a photo of Daniel in our kitchen sink. That’s where he had to have his night-time bath. He seems happy enough in the picture, but I felt so guilty. It’s not the lifestyle I would have chosen for my son.
Given the choice, there were a lot of things I would have done differently for my son. In an ideal world, for example, he would have had grandparents who doted on him. I couldn’t even give him that. Daniel was nine months old when my father and his partner came to see him.
It was just going to be a flying visit. Dad and his girlfriend worked abroad