Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [90]
God knows how long we were at that place. It felt like a lifetime, but was probably only a couple of weeks. Peter might not have been too fussed about our requirements, but the council seemed to be. Someone noticed that there were three of us and we received the keys to a new place in Chadbourne Close. On the plus side, it was a one-bedroom. On the downside, it was largely unfurnished.
Actually, there was another positive. All this moving around had given Peter a new lease of life. The more desperate our situation appeared to me, the easier he found it to adapt and to keep himself busy. Sometimes this meant him coming home with things like a large cockatiel in a brass cage, which just added to the mess. Other times, though, like when I pointed out that we needed a sofa and a cooker that worked, he said, ‘No problem. The church will give us that.’
I didn’t know when he’d done it, but he’d been down to the local Catholic church – he claimed that was his religion – and signed up for their charity scheme. Within a couple of days of moving in, they’d found us the things we needed.
When I pointed out that the place still looked like it was from another century, Peter had a solution for that as well. ‘The council will give us £400 to tart it up,’ he said, genuinely happy at the idea of something for nothing. I don’t know where he got his information from, but it was spot on.
So down we went to Homebase, or whichever shop the vouchers were for, chose some paint and wallpaper, took it all home and started to decorate. I shouldn’t need to say that I did it all – while Daniel played in his cot or crawled around. Peter had a knack for disappearing whenever there was work to be done. I didn’t care though. As much as I wanted him in Daniel’s life, I was always happier when he wasn’t around.
Once again, though, I enjoyed the work. Even the muscle-ache and stench of paint couldn’t stop me looking at the end result with a whole bunch of pride. I’d never hung wallpaper before, but now I could. Another skill I’d mastered by default, another reason never to rely on a man in the future. Especially that man.
Then a funny thing happened. ‘That man’ said we should get married.
Peter’s Glaswegian accent was so heavy that I struggled to understand everything he said. In fact, I used to joke that the reason I married him was because I didn’t understand the question.
But I understood it perfectly well and everything it meant. And still I said, ‘I do.’
Can you imagine the turmoil? On the one hand, I hated to think further ahead than tomorrow if it meant Peter was still in my life. If only he behaved with me with the same effortless charm that had wowed my father, then it might have been different. But he seemed to keep the charming side of his personality under lock and key. I knew it was there, though, and the fact that he couldn’t be bothered to get it out made me resent him more and more. I could have put up with the insults, the tantrums and the aggression much more easily if only he’d made an effort.
On the other hand, a world in which Daniel was denied access to his father – as I had been – was inconceivable to me. That was my driving force. My fondness for Peter may have seen better days – sometimes it was all I could do to remain civil to him – but I still wanted the dream that every girl has. I wanted my white dress, I wanted my husband, I wanted the father of my child in his life. And, more than anything,