‘Let’s go to the pub,’ he suggested one afternoon as we strolled past one.
‘No, I don’t really drink,’ I explained.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. You’d better wait outside for me, then,’ he replied, before heading inside the door.
I was so headstrong and independent that I wasn’t used to having a man tell me what to do, so his manner had shocked me. But I also quite liked the fact that he was authoritative and good-looking, so I let it go and followed him inside.
‘Why do you wear glasses? Are you short-sighted?’ I asked as we sat down at a table with our drinks.
Peter adjusted his glasses and began to explain.
‘No, when I was a baby I had a problem with one of my eyes – it turned inwards. I had it corrected but it didn’t work, so now I only have limited vision in it. Although this one,’ he said, pointing towards his left eye, ‘is absolutely perfect!’
I loved Peter’s honesty and found his uncomplicated view on life totally refreshing. But Mum wasn’t as keen. They were both strong characters, with big personalities to match, so they constantly clashed.
‘He’s an arrogant bastard!’ she muttered underneath her breath one evening – loud enough for me to hear.
At that time, Peter was a qualified plumber working for the council, but Mum had always wanted me to marry a doctor, so she thought he was beneath me. To make matters worse, Peter’s mum didn’t like me very much either, so we had a battle on our hands just to stay together as the mum-in-laws plotted and planned to split us up.
‘I wish we could get away from here,’ I sighed as we sat together in the pub.
I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Peter, and he with me, too, but the constant nagging and interference from both sides had put a strain on our relationship. Instead, we tried to stay out as much as possible. We’d go to the pictures, for drinks, or we’d simply take our bikes and cycle alongside the River Thames. Peter was a football fanatic, a QPR supporter. He lived close to their ground so he’d go down there every Saturday. In the evening, we’d go out for dinner – usually a fish restaurant because it was his favourite. Sometimes we’d take a picnic and meet up with our friends Bert and Joan. The four of us would take a bus to Uxbridge, which had wide-open spaces where Peter and I were able to kick off our shoes, run barefoot through the grass and relax in the sunshine – anything to stay out of our mothers’ ways.
As it got closer to my SRN (State Registered Nurse) exams, Peter tried to help me revise. He’d look through the textbook and fire questions at me. Over the months, he’d become so knowledgeable about all things medical that I’m certain he knew just as much as I did.
‘You’d make as good a nurse as me!’ I teased, throwing a cushion at him.
‘Well, I’ve got the legs,’ he laughed, flashing me an ankle.
As my twenty-first birthday drew close, Peter decided that I should start saving up.
‘Just a few bits … for your bottom drawer,’ he suggested.
‘Was that a marriage proposal?’ I gasped.
Peter arched one eyebrow. ‘Well, maybe I should get you a ring first?’
I tried not to laugh. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave him a kiss. Peter wasn’t the type to go in for the full bended-knee marriage-proposal bit, so this was as good as it got.
‘All right, I do!’
We visited an old-fashioned jeweller on Uxbridge Road, where Peter spent £8 – a fifth of his monthly wage – on a single solitaire diamond ring. We were officially engaged on 23 February 1953, but we didn’t have a party because we couldn’t afford one. When he finally slipped the ring on my wedding finger I was so happy, I thought I would burst. I passed my SRN in June 1953, and 18 months later I married my beloved Peter the week before Christmas, on 18 December 1954. We were wed at St Luke’s church in Shepherd’s Bush. I bought my wedding dress from Shepherd’s Bush market for £5 and 5 shillings. The veil and headdress cost me a further £3, but I didn’t care.
Throughout the year I’d saved up enough to line my bottom drawer with things for our new home, but none more prized than a beautiful crystal fruit-bowl set. It comprised one big bowl and six smaller ones, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Every time Peter and I had an argument, his mother insisted he claim back some of our ‘bottom drawer’ goods, just in case. But more importantly, she’d always tell him to take back the fruit-bowl set. That set of bowls travelled constantly between Peter’s mother and me, so much so that, by the time we’d married, there was only one small bowl left because all the others had been smashed.
We lived in rooms above Mum’s flat, which was a big mistake; they were cramped quarters and the walls were paper-thin, so she heard every word. She tried her best to split us up. She bickered and constantly had a go at Peter. She’d ask him to bring up coal from the yard below to light the fire. He hated being told what to do so he’d refuse and dig his heels in, which only served to infuriate her even more. In the end, I’d collect the coal for a quiet life.
‘But it’s a man’s job. You shouldn’t be doing that – he should!’ Mum protested. I simply couldn’t win.
Peter’s mum was also meddling but in a much more subtle way. If she knew I was cooking his dinner she’d go out of her way to invite him over, cook a meal and turn on the TV to delay him further. We didn’t own a TV so, inevitably, I’d be sitting at home for him in front of a stone-cold dinner for two. I’d simmer away with anger, waiting to explode. The outside influence took its toll and eventually I decided enough was enough. I was 22 years old but, in many ways, I felt as though my life was already over. I loved Peter with all my heart. He’d supported me during my nursing exams and had always been my rock and shoulder to cry on when I’d had a tough day at work, but his meddling mother had made our relationship impossible.
By this time, my father had started a relationship with a widow, an old family friend called Polly. She was a wonderful woman and she loved and cared for my siblings as though they were her own. But just as Dad had started to move on with his life, mine had stalled to a halt. Polly had three children: Val, who was the same age as me; Harry, her eldest who’d already left home; and her youngest child, Meryl, who was the same age as Tony. It meant there was no room for me, but I wrote to Dad and Polly to tell them how unhappy I was in London.
Maybe it’s time to come back home, Dad wrote in reply.
It made perfect sense. I loved Peter but he constantly argued with Mum and she’d retaliate. Neither of them would back down and I’d had enough. I bought a train ticket and travelled back to Yorkshire to visit Dad and Polly.
‘You’ve lived Peter’s way of life so perhaps it’s time he tried your way of life for a change,’ my father suggested.
I nodded my head because it was true. I was utterly miserable living in rooms above Mum, with Peter’s mother constantly sticking her nose into our business. Each week it seemed as though the gulf between us had grown wider. My father was right; paradoxically, the only way to save my marriage was to leave Peter and return to Yorkshire.
4
I went to see my doctor, who told me in no uncertain terms that I was so stressed out that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I felt it too. Mum was always arguing with Peter over nothing. He refused to kowtow to her, so we lived in a permanent stalemate with me caught in the middle. Secretly, I’d started applying