Chapter 2: The leather jacket

The force of the blow sent Carla reeling; falling as if in slow motion backwards and crashing to the ground. For the longest time, all Carla could do was lie there, her cheek stinging with the pain of where George had struck her, her breath coming in short, angry pants.

She felt her belly; her skin was stretched tightly across the expansive space where her unborn baby was, she silently prayed to God, safe and well-protected inside her. She rubbed her bump gently, waiting for a sign. And then there it was, her baby girl kicking, pushing against her warm cocoon, letting her mum know she was there; she was okay.

With a sigh of relief, Carla turned her attention to her next problem; escaping the house. She'd had enough; she'd decided she would take no more. No more of George threatening her, controlling her and beating her, but most of all, no more of fearing for her daughter's life. She was leaving once and for all.

She'd had her bag packed, but George wasn't about to let her go; not after putting up with her pregnancy for almost nine months now; not when the finish line was in sight. No, George had his eye on Carla's benefits that would kick in once the baby was born, yet another way of controlling her.

Carla struggled, first to her hands and knees, and then, with a mighty effort, and pushing with all her strength away from the ground, she rose to her feet, swaying slightly, both from carrying such a heavy weight in her belly and the lingering dizziness from the back-hander she'd just received. She picked up her bag and turned to face George.

"Get out of my way," Carla demanded coldly.

George laughed; an evil laugh, Carla thought. He'd have to be evil to do the things he did to her, to Rob, to her mum. Even though her mum didn't seem to care what George put her through; it was almost like she enjoyed it, like it proved to her that George cared for her.

Carla had known there would be no point in appealing to her mum for help or protection; Sharon did whatever George told her to do; George was god. It was up to Carla to take action.

But, for all of Carla's bravado, she was frightened; the only way out was through the front door, the door that was being blocked by George. And, although the man was pudgy, with beady eyes like pin pricks in his swollen face, he wasn't soft; he had strength in his body. More than enough strength to keep her prisoner.

"What's going on?"

With a sinking feeling, Carla recognised her brother's voice. The last thing she wanted was to get him involved, not when he would have to stay here living with that monster after she'd left.

"Nothing, Rob." Carla spoke as calmly as she could. "Go back to your room."

"Carla, you're bleeding!"

"I'm fine."

"Did he do this?"

"Rob, please," Carla pleaded with her brother, but it was too late, Rob had squared up to George, who had watched the sibling exchange with amusement.

"You think you're a big man, don't you!?" Rob yelled at George; despite the difference in their sizes, not quite David and Goliath, but by no means an even physical match, Rob was prepared to take him on. "But you're a weak, pathetic waste of space! Picking on a pregnant teenager! You're disgusting!"

"Enough." George spoke low; he was deathly calm.

"You don't scare me."

Rob held his ground; he knew this was Carla's only chance to escape. He was willing to sacrifice himself for her; to endure one of George's beatings if he knew she would be safe.


Carla squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to erase the last image she had of her brother from her mind. She had watched as he lay on the floor of their living room, bleeding and bruised; George had pummelled him repeatedly with his fists, kicked him, spat on him. She saw him as he looked at her intently, as he silently pleaded with her to leave. So she had left; she had left him to receive the beating that was meant for her.

Opening her eyes, Carla knocked on the door in front of her. It was only now that she had pushed the horrific scenes from her mind, that she realised all was not well in this household either. The sounds of shouting became clearer as the occupants made their way to the front door. Carla almost ran from the house, fearful of the reception she was about to receive, but the front door was opened before she could move.

"What do you want?" Helen Connor glared at Carla, her hatred of her daughter's best friend had never been more obvious.

"Is Michelle in?"

"If you think I'm letting you anywhere near my daughter after –"

"Mum!" Michelle stormed into the vestibule, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Get back inside!"

"No!" Michelle screamed at her mother. "Carla's staying here."

"Over my dead body! That girl is no good for you; she's a bad influence."

"Hello," Carla couldn't restrain her sarcasm. "I'm standing right here."

"Don't you dare!" Helen rounded on Carla. "You come round here with your easy ways –"

"Easy? What are you –"

"Just because the estate slapper here gets herself up the duff," Helen turned to her daughter. "You don't have to follow her example."

"Mum, you're being ridiculous!"

"Am I? Is it just a coincidence that you wind up pregnant right after her? You always wanted to copy everything she did!"

"Chelle?" Carla tried to ignore Helen and speak directly to her best friend. "Are you… pregnant?"

Michelle nodded tearfully.

"Come here."

Michelle gratefully stepped into Carla's loving embrace, where she promptly dissolved into sobs on her shoulder.

"How's Dean?" Carla whispered to Michelle.

"He's been great, Car. Amazing."

"Good." Carla wiped the tears from Michelle's cheeks. "Dry those eyes, yeah? It's gonna be just fine."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is. You've got Dean, haven't you? And you got me."

"Thanks, Car."

"Now do you mind?" Helen was desperate to get rid of Carla. "We've got family business to talk about."

"I'm sorry, Car."

"It's okay. I'll find somewhere else."

Carla turned and walked away from the Connor house.

"Carla! Wait!"

Carla looked back; Michelle was running down the path after her.

"Maybe you can wait until they've all gone to bed and then sneak in. You can sleep with me in my bed. They'll never know."

"No, Chelle, I can't ask you to go against your family."

"But where will you go?"

"I don't know. But I don't want you to worry about me, okay?"

"What about that place? You know, the one on Elm Grove."

"No."

"Where else are you gonna go?"

"I'm not going there, Chelle. I'm not one of them."

"Are you sure about that?"


Carla sat on a bench in, she wouldn't call it a park, it was more a wedge of patchy yellow grass barely covering the sand pit beneath.

Darkness had descended over the estate; and with the darkness came the bitter cold. She pulled her leather jacket tight around her body in an effort to stay warm.

For now, Carla felt reasonably safe; she'd walked the streets of her estate after dark many times before, but she knew that, after midnight, it would no longer be safe for her.

Once again, she placed her hand on her bump, waiting for a sign, and felt her baby wriggle and squirm inside.

"Alright, baby girl. I'll go."


Carla stood facing the mysterious imposing detached house on Elm Grove. There were no signs, no indication of what was inside, but everyone knew what it was for. Just like everyone knew why there was a high wall out front, security grilles on the windows, a reinforced door, an intercom and a security camera system. It was all there to make the women living inside the house feel safe.

Now Carla was one of those women.


"It's all we've got for tonight." The woman who'd answered the door when Carla had rung the bell had shown her into a darkened room that was simply furnished with four single beds, each with a bedside table and small wardrobe. She switched on the bedside lamp next to the only empty bed in the room. "We'll talk in the morning, see what we can do for you."

Carla stared with growing dread at the other three beds, at the three sleeping women. She couldn't help but let a tear slip down her face.

"Try not to worry, you're safe here."

Once the woman had left her, Carla sat on the bed and stared around at her new roommates, her new friends. Being careful not to wake the other women, Carla quietly opened her bag and pulled out a pair of pyjamas before quickly changing into them.

Slipping under the covers of the bed, Carla listened anxiously to the unfamiliar sounds that surrounded her; the sounds, not of a home, but an institution, a place where only desperate people came.

She reached under the bed and dragged her leather jacket up onto the bed with her. She hugged it close to her chest and, burying her face in its familiar warmth, let the floodgates open and cried herself to sleep.


"Well?" Peter questioned Carla impatiently. "Are you gonna tell me?"

"Let's go inside, yeah, get a drink."

"I don't want a drink, I want you to tell me what's going on!"

"I'm not doing this on the doorstep of my local! Now come inside."

Peter had little choice but to follow Carla inside the Rovers.

"A red wine please, Liz. And whatever Peter's having."

"Whisky. Better make it a double, I think I'm gonna need it."

As Carla scanned the room to find a quiet spot to talk, Liam waved to her from where he was seated, a pint and a large glass of red on the table in front of him.

"Carla!"

But Carla ignored him and made a beeline for a recently vacated booth; she and Peter sat down, facing each other, with more than a little awkwardness, for their first proper conversation in sixteen years.

"Hey!" Liam suddenly appeared at the side of the table. "I got you a drink."

"Oh, Liam," Carla said apologetically. "I'm sorry, I need to, umm…"

She glanced across at Peter then back up at Liam, willing him to understand that she needed privacy without the necessary explanations. Liam merely looked at this man, known only to him by sight as one of the Barlow clan, and then back at Carla in confusion. "What's going on?"

"I'll tell you later. Can you just…" Carla motioned for him to leave. "Give us some space, okay?"

"Carla, if he's bothering you –"

"Liam!" Carla's tone was final.

Liam, more than familiar with this particular Carla tone, having been on the receiving end of it many times over the years, beat a hasty retreat. He swaggered back to his table where he kept watch over a conversation between two people he thought a most unlikely pair of confidantes.

But conversation seemed far from both Carla and Peter's minds as they stared at each other across the table, each of them thinking back to that day 16 years ago; how, for a few hours at least, their whole world revolved only around each other.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again." Peter was the first to break the impasse. "I mean, I'd hoped, but…"

"It wasn't much to go on, was it? Peter from the navy."

"Not enough to put on a birth certificate."

"I don't know which would've been more shameful; 'Randy sailor on shore leave', or 'Father unknown'. I opted for the latter."

"If I'd known…"

"What would you have done? Seriously? Would you have taken me home to your family? 'Hey folks, here's some random sixteen-year-old I got up the stick'!?"

"What did you say?"

"What?"

"You said sixteen-year-old. You told me you were eighteen."

"Oh… I, umm… I lied."

"Why?"

"Honestly?"

"If you don't mind!"

"I didn't think you'd go through with it if you knew my real age."

"And you would've been right! I was twenty six, Carla. Going with a sixteen-year-old when you're twenty six is a little… it's not right."

"You didn't enjoy it?"

"That's not what I'm saying. Not at all. Fact is, I've never forgotten that day."

"Me either," Carla stared at him, deep into those soft brown eyes and, for a moment, forgot herself. Until she remembered what she was there for. "It's hard to forget when you've got the evidence growing inside you."

"What's her name?"

"Emily."

"Emily." Peter smiled to himself as he thought about the girl he'd seen on the steps of the Rovers for that briefest moment of time not more than an hour ago. 'My daughter, Emily,' he imagined himself introducing her to his family, his friends.

"Emily Connor."

"Connor?"

"She was born Donovan but we changed it to Connor when I got married."

"So, he…?"

"He adopted her. Legally she's his daughter."

"Right."

"I'm not saying this to hurt you, you understand. The fact is, he was the one who raised her. He loved her and she loved him."

"Does she know that he, I'm sorry, what was his name?"

"Paul."

"Does Emily know that Paul wasn't her real father?"

"Of course. Me and Paul didn't get together until Emily was four."

"What have you told her about me?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I couldn't exactly tell her the truth, could I? 'Hey, honey, I met your dad on the street and a couple of hours later went to bed with him.' Look, I don't regret what we did. Not then and especially not now that I've got this amazing, beautiful, kind daughter in my life. But telling her how she was conceived… she doesn't need to know that."

"So what now?"

"Now?" Carla was incredulous; did he really expect to be welcomed into her daughter's life with open arms? Just like that? "Now nothing."

"But…"

"What are you expecting, Peter? An hour ago you didn't know she existed. Now what? You want some tearful reunion? To be welcomed into the family?"

"Well, I know it'll take some time to get used to –"

"She has– she had a father, okay? The only father she's ever known. This isn't the right time to be springing a new one on her."

"Is it just the timing that you object to?"

Carla sighed. Her life would've been so much simpler if she hadn't bumped into Peter that afternoon. But, as complicated as his presence in her daughter's life, not to mention her own life, would no doubt become, she couldn't help but feel happy at the thought that the mysterious stranger she had spent that unforgettable afternoon with all those years ago was back. And it seemed like he wanted to stay.

Momentarily distracted by the sight of Michelle entering the Rovers, throwing her an inquisitive look as she walked past the booth and joining her brother at the far table, Carla didn't answer Peter right away.

"Carla?"

"Sorry," Carla apologised, focusing her attention back onto Peter. "Yes, it's the timing. Absolutely. Give her some time to grieve for her dad properly and then I'll sit her down and tell her the truth."

"I'd like to be there when you tell her."

"We can discuss that later. Right now, I need you to promise me that you won't say anything until I'm ready. Until she's ready."

Peter stared across at Carla and wondered if he could really keep this a secret. He already felt like he was about to burst with the news; Carla could take months to decide when Emily was ready. How could he cope with that? But, looking across at Carla, seeing the pleading in her eyes, his resolve melted; he would do whatever she asked.

"I promise, I'll keep quiet for now. But, Carla, I won't wait forever."


Peter fell back onto the brick wall outside the Rovers; how could his life have changed so completely in the space of an hour? An hour ago, all he was hoping was to run into that cute hairdresser from Audrey's in the Rovers, have a few drinks and a bit of flirty banter. But then he saw her; Carla. He'd recognised her immediately; her face had become ingrained so deeply in his brain over the years, he would have recognised her anywhere.

Even though he had wanted to shake her for not finding him when she learned she was pregnant, the mere sight of her, the way she tossed that mane of glossy black hair, the way she pursed her lips, those plump, kissable lips, the way her eyes flashed when she was determined to get her own way, the way she held her head, so haughty, so proud, only served to remind him of that night; of slowly stripping away her clothes, of kissing every inch of her body, of making love to her. And then of missing her once she was gone. He hadn't understood why at the time; why he would miss this girl he'd known for only a few hours. He'd never missed any of the women he'd been with on shore leave; and there had been many. He wondered if somehow he had subconsciously known their paths would cross again; no, more than that, that their lives would become so indubitably intertwined.

He'd be lying if he pretended he wasn't petrified at the thought of being a father; especially a father to a seemingly headstrong teenage daughter. But, at the same time, he was excited. Excited to have someone to love, to focus his life and his energies on. Maybe he'd have two people to love. He daren't hope for too much too soon.

All he had to do now was to be patient; to wait for the right time. He didn't know if he was capable of being patient, he never had been in the past. And right now, all he wanted to do was scream the truth to the world.

With his mind and his heart in such a state of turmoil, Peter entered his father's house and sank down onto one of the dining chairs in the kitchen with a sigh.

"Are you alright, Peter?" Ken quizzed his son with hardly a glance up from the Guardian newspaper he was studying. But, when Peter didn't respond, he laid the paper down and looked up at his son. "Peter?"

"What do you know about the Connors?"

"I don't know much about them at all. Deirdre?"

"What is it, Ken?" Deirdre spoke with only a fraction of her attention dedicated to her husband; the majority of her attention was focused on the marrow she was preparing to stuff.

"The Connors. What do you know about them?"

"The Connors?" Deirdre wandered to the kitchen table and sat down, lighting a cigarette to aid in her thought process. "There's three of them, siblings, isn't that right?"

"You're telling the story, Deirdre."

"Okay okay! Well, there's Michelle who works in the Rovers, she's seeing Steve McDonald you know. And then there's her two brothers, Liam and Paul, they're the ones who took over the factory."

"What about Carla?"

"Oh, she's the wife of Paul, the brother who died. She's been working out of the factory as well by all accounts, got some fancy designer clothing line or summat being made there."

"And Emily?"

"That's the daughter."

"But what are they like? As people?"

"She's a cold fish, that one." Blanche piped up from her prime television watching vantage point on the sofa. "Turn you to ice soon as look at you."

"Which one, Blanche?" Peter turned to look at Blanche.

"That hoity-toity one from the factory. The widow. Carla! And that girl of hers is no better, from what I hear. Her mother's daughter alright."

"Is this true, Deirdre?"

"How would she know!" Blanche wasn't finished with her character assassination. "Those Connors wouldn't lower themselves to associate with the likes of us."

"Well, yes, we're not exactly in the same social circle," Deirdre admitted cautiously. "But I'm sure they're lovely when you get to know them. Although, from what the girls at the factory say…"

"What do they say?"

"Hard-faced cow may have come out of Janice's mouth once or twice."

"Why are you asking, Peter?" Ken asked. "I wasn't aware you knew them."

"I know Carla. Well, I don't really know her at all. I met her. Once. Sixteen years ago."

Ken's face remained blank; he didn't understand.

"Do the maths, dad."

Suddenly it dawned on Ken what Peter was trying to tell him.

"Oh, so…? Emily?"

"She's mine," Peter couldn't help but proudly claim Emily for what she was. "She's my daughter."

"That mouthy slip of a girl is your offspring?" Blanche reacted. "I've heard it all now."

"Yes, Blanche. She is. And I'd appreciate it if you could stop bad-mouthing her."

"Well, excuse me."

"But, Peter, I don't understand." Ken's brow furrowed. "Why haven't you said anything before now?"

"I only just found out. Just now. But you can't say anything. To anyone, okay? Carla doesn't want Emily to know."

"But you're her father, Peter!" Ken was outraged on his son's behalf. "You've got rights."

"It's just for now. She's only recently lost her dad." Peter saw the look on Ken's face. "He did bring her up, dad. He's got every right to that title. Legally as well since he adopted her."

"It must've been a big shock for you."

"Thank you, dad, yes, it was. I could do with a drink if you don't mind."

Retrieving a bottle of whisky and a cut-glass tumbler from the sideboard, Ken poured Peter a shot of whisky. Peter reached for the glass and downed the fiery amber liquid with a single gulp. He pushed the glass back towards Ken, signalling his desire for another drink. Ken obliged, pouring him a double measure this time.


Carla dropped her head to her hands; left alone in the booth after Peter's departure, she gave herself a minute of reflection before the expected onslaught of questions from her brother- and sister-in-law.

"Hey," Michelle asked in a gentle voice, her hand outstretched to stroke Carla's forearm. "Are you okay?"

Carla looked up at Michelle in an agony of indecision; how much should she tell?

"Can we go somewhere, Chelle? To talk?"

"Yeah, of course. We can go out to the back room. Shall I get Liam?"

"No!" Carla was adamant.


"This has obviously got something to do with Peter Barlow?" Michelle ventured an observation once she and Carla were established on the sofa's in the back room of the Rovers, a glass of wine each in their hands.

"Yep." Carla sighed loudly; Michelle knew her best friend well enough to know that whatever Carla was about to reveal, it was gonna be big.

"How do you know him? He's not your usual drinking buddy."

"Chelle, he's Emily's dad," Carla blurted out the truth. "Her biological dad."

"Wow!" Michelle was shocked. "I was not expecting that. How?"

"How do you think?"

"Sorry, of course. I meant… how?"

"It just happened one day. I'd had a row with mum and I took off in a mood."

"Nothing unusual there."

"I ran into this guy, like literally ran into him."

"And that was Peter?"

"Yeah. We got talking and one thing led to another…"

"Carla!"

"No! Chelle, you got pregnant at the same age as me so you can save your judgement thank you very much."

"Why didn't you tell him before now?"

"I knew his name, his first name only, and that he was in the navy. Until I bumped into him today I thought I'd never see him again."

"Peter Barlow though? Doesn't seem your type."

"What do you know about him?"

"Not much. You do know his sister's that Tracy who's banged up?"

"You mean the one who…" Carla mimed whacking someone over the head with a heavy object. "…did away with her boyfriend?"

"Yep!" Michelle's eyebrows rose so high they almost melted into her hair. "Nice family you've just joined."

"Oh, Chelle, don't!"

"Actually, I do remember hearing something particularly juicy about Peter."

"What?" Carla leaned forward eagerly.

"A bit of a reputation with the ladies."

"Oh," Carla didn't look too pleased with this information. "You mean he fools around?"

"So much so, he was married to two women at the same time."

"You mean… he's a… bigamist?"

"That's what I heard."

"It's his life, I guess…"

"Are you gonna tell Emily?"

"I suppose she'll have to be told eventually."

"Eventually?"

"She's too fragile at the moment, you know, after everything with Paul. It's all too raw for her."

"For all of us."

"I know." Carla reached out and held Michelle's hand lovingly. "I just hope he keeps his word and doesn't tell her before I'm ready."

"Maybe go round and see him tomorrow, make sure he understands."

"Yeah, maybe."

"So…" Michelle decided to change tack. "What was it like seeing him again after so many years? Do you still fancy him?"

"Michelle! I just buried my husband! Your brother, remember? I'm not about to jump into bed with someone else straight away, am I?"

"I'm not asking you to jump into bed with him, I'm just… canvassing opinion."

"Hmm… Look, I'm not gonna lie, he's pretty fit. And his eyes, Chelle. Have you looked into his eyes? I dunno what it is, they do something to me. It's not natural, I tell ya."


Peter had to escape the gossip inside No. 1, so he fled to the front doorstep to smoke a cigarette in peace.

He had almost instantly regretted telling his family the news about Emily, about the new addition to the Barlow clan. Blanche and Deirdre had delighted in recounting every piece of gossip about the Connors since their arrival on the cobbles late last year. But Peter couldn't believe what they were saying about Carla and Emily; he wouldn't believe it. He knew from the moment he met Carla that she had an attitude that would certainly rub people up the wrong way. But once you got to know her, she was different; generous, kind and funny.

The sound of heeled boots click-clacking on the cobbles of Coronation Street was the first sign Peter had of someone approaching. He peered into the darkness; his heart began to race when he saw Emily, his daughter, striding towards him. She had almost passed him before he managed to croak out a greeting.

"Hey."

But Emily ignored him and kept walking.

"Good night?" Now that Peter had found his voice, he was undeterred by her frostiness.

His question had the desired effect; Emily stopped in her tracks and turned to face Peter. But the filthy look she shot in his direction momentarily dampened his confidence.

"What's it to you?"

"Just being friendly."

Emily took a few slow, deliberate steps towards him, looking him directly in the eye.

"You were with my mum earlier." Not so much a question from Emily as an accusation. "Do you know her?"

"You could say that."

"Whatever." Emily rolled her eyes and turned to walk away; she wasn't about to encourage this guy in whatever game he was playing.

"Nice jacket."

Emily stopped in her tracks and looked back at Peter.

"What did you say?"

"I said, I like your jacket."

"Thanks." Instead of walking away, an unknown something that Emily didn't comprehend prompted her to speak frankly. "It was my dad's."

"He died recently?"

"Not him. My real dad. It was his jacket." Emily silently chastised herself for telling this strange man such personal things; nevertheless, she couldn't stop. "I never met him."

"I'm sorry."

"It was the only thing of his my mum had. She said he was kind. Gave it to her to wear when she was cold." Suddenly Emily laughed, struck by her own foolishness. "I dunno why I'm telling you this, I don't even know you."

"Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger."

"Maybe…" Emily wondered if this was true; she'd never felt the compulsion to reveal her feelings to strangers before. But there was something about this man she couldn't explain. "Sometimes I imagine I can smell him on it. Which is ridiculous, I mean, it's been sixteen years since he's worn it." Emily looked Peter in the eye, ready to find ridicule reflected back at her, but saw only compassion. "Don't laugh, okay, but… wearing this jacket, in a funny kind of way, it makes me feel closer to him. It's the closest I'll get though, I'm never gonna meet him." Emily lost herself in her own thoughts for a moment, thoughts of a man who meant both everything and nothing to her. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling.

"It's okay, I don't mind."

"I better get home. Mum's gonna kill me for being out this late."

"It was nice talking to you."

"Yeah, whatever."

Peter watched Emily as she walked away, hugging his leather jacket close to her. Not just to keep out the biting cold, but to feel close to her father; to him.

He hadn't hesitated to give Carla the jacket back in '91; sure, it was an expensive gesture for someone he'd just met, but he wanted her to have it, never imagining he'd ever see it again, let alone see it being worn by someone who, in the space of less than a day, had suddenly become his whole world.