Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [91]
For the next few Sundays I found myself enduring hideously long and pious sermons, just to be seen as good practising Catholics. Then, when he was happy we’d put enough hours in, Peter went off to arrange the wedding. A short while later, he returned, swearing and cursing.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘That fucking priest.’
‘What about him?’
‘He won’t marry us.’
He refused to tell me why. I got the feeling it was my fault somehow. They’d seen through my fake Catholic credentials. For a moment I felt guilty that I’d ruined Peter’s dream, even if it was a dream I’d only become aware of recently. He was happy to let me beat myself up over it. Eventually, though, the truth emerged. The priest had said it was against his beliefs to marry a divorcé. It was Peter’s fault for being married before. He was the reason we couldn’t get married there – and he’d let me take the blame.
I thought that might have been the end of it, but Peter defiantly found a Methodist minister who said yes. ‘They’ll marry anyone,’ he said.
As underwhelmed as I was by the whole spectacle, it was still my wedding day. It was still every girl’s dream occasion. I had to be seen to be making an effort. Then I realized it was an opportunity to rekindle old relationships and I perked up.
We had a joint hen and stag night, with everyone congregating at Chadbourne Close. My grandparents came, along with my aunt Anne, her husband Geoff and their children. I was also delighted to see my old vodka-drinking buddy, Peter, plus my other school friends Debbie and Sally. I suppose it was down to Peter Tobin that I’d drifted out of touch with all of them, but this was a day of reunion. Sally lent me her husband and his Daimler for my wedding car. I felt like a princess in there. When they all returned the following day everyone was on my side of the church apart from John, Peter’s old friend. For the first time in a couple of years, I didn’t feel alone.
I had £500 from Granny to organize everything – the party, Peter’s Moss Bros suit, the rings. My wedding dress, a knee-length, lacy cream dress which Granny also paid for, came from Debenhams. It was the first time in ages that I actually felt like a woman – and it felt amazing, even though I was in flat heels as usual, so as not to tower over my groom.
It was a nice day, I have to say. We got a few gifts, including, pride of place, a sewing machine from Granny. Grateful as I was, I made a mental promise not to dress my own son as far out of date as Granny had dressed me.
There was no honeymoon and, thankfully, Peter didn’t come near me. But at least Daniel was no longer what my grandfather would call a ‘bastard’. Just like Mum and Dad, Peter and I had done the right thing eventually. And I was determined our marriage would last longer than theirs.
I wonder now if the marriage had proved a wake-up call for Peter. If he’d thought he’d cut me off from my past, then the wedding, small as it was, showed he’d failed. There were my closest family – my father excepted – and three old school friends. It was a reminder to me that they were there if I needed them. I think Peter saw that too. You could interpret everything that happened next as his attempt to get me away from them. He didn’t want me – I know that now. But he didn’t want anyone else to have me either.
In the meantime, we had to get by in this tiny one-bed. No sooner were we married than I said, ‘We can’t stay here. One of us has to get a job.’
‘I’m not fucking getting one,’ he snarled, that sense of entitlement shooting to the fore. ‘I’m on disability.’
‘Well, I’ll get one then.’
He shrugged.
‘Make sure you get enough to pay for babysitters then.’
‘What do you mean? You can look after Daniel. You’re not doing anything else all day.’
That didn’t go down well. He pushed his face up so close against mine I thought he was going to bite me. ‘That’s your fucking