HOWZAT

“Bless your heart,” she said, sympathetically, but repeated the set answer. I was none the wiser.

Shortly afterwards, Geoff Travis from Rough Trade, Peter’s record company, called me. He had it on good authority that Peter had been in London the previous night. He then told me to brace myself for even worse news. What could be worse than this, I thought? Peter had been arrested again.

This latest episode of Peter running from rehab knocked me for six. The tears flowed and hope ebbed away. This was an all-time low for me. It was just before Christmas and there were difficulties at home. Peter’s dad, Peter senior, had said that he was no longer allowed to come home. But if I felt low, then it was doubly hard for my poor husband.

He was no longer “living”, he was just getting through the day — and not getting through it very well, either. Sheer professionalism alone kept him going, and still does. He is a soldier and he has to go to work. It wouldn’t occur to him to take time off for stress. I have the same work ethic. I actually believe that going to work helps; it’s a reason to get out of bed in the morning, when all you want to do is go to sleep and not wake up. It wasn’ t a case of suicidal thoughts but just a desire to have some peace and not have to live in the way we were doing now.

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Shortly before Christmas 2005, when things were very bad at home and the Peter Problem was raging, my husband very quietly but very pointedly asked me to do him a favour. He wanted to be alone. He asked me to leave the family home for a week, to book into a hotel — anything — but to leave him alone. He asked if I could leave before he returned from work. He asked so quietly, yet so precisely, that it made me very frightened. Not frightened for me, but afraid for my husband. I felt that he had reached his nadir and so I didn’t argue. He felt that I understood. Once he had left for work, I cried and prayed. My husband has no faith; nothing to support him or to bring him hope or comfort.

I made two phone calls — one to the padre on camp because I was scared that my husband would commit suicide, and one to a friend called Liz to ask whether she had a spare bed for a few nights. After packing my bag, I left a note for my husband saying where I would be and to call me any time. I am a crier, but this time I cried a river.

I was out of the house for only two days. My husband had called me and said that I’d better come home. Here was a man unable to sleep, severely distressed and at a loss as to what to do. It doesn’t get much worse than this. When I write the Peter Problem it now takes on another meaning: the Peter (plural) Problem.

Although I had returned home, nothing had changed. Peter senior had moved into the spare room, and as much as this was upsetting for me it allowed me to keep my phone switched on during the night. I hardly slept and my husband barely slept: I could hear him walking around at night.

There was dialogue between us but things were strained. There were only four or five weeks until Christmas and I continued preparing for the “festivities” as always.

Eventually Peter senior and I were able to thrash out some issues. He found the whole Peter Problem so very hard to tolerate but understood on a deep level that for my part, as a mother, I had to continue keeping in touch with Peter, had to continue to hope, continue to have faith. The only thing left to do, it seemed at the time, was to consider ending our marriage as we knew it because, as far as Peter senior was concerned, my involvement with my son made it intolerable. You may think the obvious — that this was a choice for me: either my husband or my son.

But that wasn’t the case. I don’t have a choice. One is my son and I am unable to turn my back on him even though I have wanted to at times; the other is my husband to whom I made a solemn vow — for better or for worse, until death us do part. He can leave me, but I can’t leave him.

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