Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [89]
I’d seen my father a handful of times since that first awkward meeting in 1984. I couldn’t say we’d really made progress. We’d never discussed Mum. I couldn’t honestly see the point in continuing the relationship, but, once again, I put Daniel’s needs first. Some parents make better grandparents. Maybe my dad would be one of those. I owed it to my son to find out.
Having guests at our pokey Windlesham Gardens flat was stressful enough and the idea of cooking them a roast was doubly so. Realizing that it would also be the first time Dad met Peter just added to the pressure. What if he swore at me in front of my father? What if he criticized me or rejected my dinner or launched it at the wall? I’d die of shame.
Please let him behave.
But Peter was on his best behaviour. My meetings with Dad had usually been stilted, awkward affairs. Not this time. Peter took full control. I realized I hadn’t seen him be so effortlessly charming since those early days in the Hungry Years. The anecdotes, war yarns and good-natured humour tripped off his tongue once more, and our guests lapped it up. I was happy. He hadn’t let me down. I wish I could say the same for my dad.
Once Peter took over the hosting duties, I fled to the tiny kitchen area. It was too small to prepare the simplest of meals, really, so why I thought it would be up to the task of a roast for four I don’t know. The Belling oven was so tiny that I had to roast the chicken upside down. And as there were only two rings, vegetables were kept to a minimum. Dad came over to make small talk with me and watched as I struggled and failed to fit half the things I’d prepared into the limited space. I tried to be pleasant, to not carry any lingering resentment, to give him a chance. But I couldn’t.
I just thought, How can you stand there and watch your worn-out daughter sweat herself stupid trying to fit a quart into a pint pot? Surely he could have said, ‘Forget it, I’m taking you out.’
But he didn’t. He’d come for a roast and he was going to get it.
The food was fine, in the end, and we got on okay. Dad and his girlfriend made an effort to play with Daniel, but I couldn’t help feeling it was too little, too late. Dad had had a chance to rescue me from the misery of cooking and he’d blown it. Just like he’d blown every other chance with me. They left singing Peter’s praises – and vice versa – but I was in no hurry to see them again.
That episode over, I tried to get to the bottom of Peter’s obsession with the council house. It didn’t take long to crack it. Maggie Thatcher’s government had passed legislation entitling council-house dwellers to purchase their properties for a fraction of their value after a certain period of time. This was Peter’s dream. But to buy the place, you needed to be in the scheme to start with.
It was so ridiculous. I said to him, ‘If we’d kept the tea shop we could have bought our own place in a couple of years.’ He shook his head, not even listening.
‘This is the best way. Trust me.’
He’s mad. But, again, I owed it to Daniel to try to make it work.
I found that by moving a wardrobe next to the sofa bed, I could hive off a piece of the open-plan room and give Daniel the illusion of his own space. He could still hear everything and the light would still reach him, but psychologically it felt like a different room. The problem was, though, that at nearly a year old, he still wasn’t sleeping through the night. My GP was less than helpful. When I told him the crying was making me pull my hair out, he said, ‘I can give you some Valium for that.’
Valium? I wanted to help my boy sleep, not sleep through it myself!
Then he recommended a book by a woman called Gina Ford, which taught you how to train your child to sleep – using tough love. This would involve letting Daniel cry himself out, leaving him alone for just long enough to work out: There’s no one coming so I’d be better off sleeping.
There were two problems with this. One, Peter