My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story (9 page)

I grew to recognize individual cows and love them. Eventually, some of them let me climb from the stile onto their backs. I used to ride them. You know, it never occurred to me that this could be dangerous. I don’t think anybody saw me, or I would certainly have been in trouble. I’ve always loved animals. To me they are to be respected and adored. They were. They listened to all my problems and I knew they wouldn’t tell anybody. That was quite powerful for a troubled six-year-old.

I loved the summertime, especially on Saturday mornings when George came over. Although he didn’t formally move out, George hardly ever stayed at our house any more. He was now well into his engineering apprenticeship at the Wallsend Slipway on the river Tyne. This was a busy shipbuilding yard and he loved his work there.

‘You should have seen the thrill on ma face, pet, the first time I helped to start up a huge ship engine,’ he said, his face shining with enthusiasm. ‘The noise it made – it was like the music of a grand orchestra with an enormous percussion section.’

When a new ship was built, George was one of those who took it to sea on its trials, up the coast of Scotland, or across the North Sea, for days, sometimes weeks at a time. When he wasn’t at sea, he mostly stayed with friends, and he had a succession of girlfriends, so I didn’t see him much, except on these Saturday mornings. During the term time, he took me to my ballet classes and sat watching while I cavorted around the ballroom floor trying to be a ballerina. Thinking about it now, that must have been a chore for a sixteen-year-old boy, but he always made it a very special time for me.

‘That was good,’ he’d say after I’d demonstrated a new move. ‘Do it again, pet.’ He was the one person who gave me confidence and made me feel valued.

After ballet, we walked past the bus stop and on towards home together through woods and meadows, talking, playing, happy in each other’s company. I used to show him my ‘secret places’, where I knew there were animals living. Once I showed him the nest a stoat had made for her babies. When we got there, the babies were out of the nest and I sat down on the parched ground to play with them.

George was cross. ‘Don’t do that, pet. The mother could attack you. They always go for the neck. They can really hurt you.’

‘She won’t hurt me,’ I said. I felt confident about that because I played with these stoat babies most days after school. The mother stoat always sat and watched me. She never tried to attack. It almost felt like we shared a language, that we understood each other.

We had some hard winters at Murton. I remember one particularly harsh spell when the whole village was snowed in so that no one could get on with their work or go to the shops. I recall getting ready for school one dark morning, aged seven, bundled up in my coat, scarf, mittens and Wellington boots. I was sent out to walk more than a mile through thick, deep snowdrifts. I tried my best to keep plodding on, though it was difficult to walk. In places the drifts were up to my chin, and flakes kept falling down the back of my neck. I trudged on, one slow, sinking step at a time. I could see nothing but white as the snow whirled into my eyes, nose and mouth. I was frightened that I wouldn’t make it, but afraid that if I didn’t I would be in big trouble for not going to school.

Halfway along the journey there was another farm where I called for my friend every day to walk the rest of the way together. It was hard to find it in this unfamiliar landscape, but somehow I made it. My friend’s mother opened the door and stared at me, her mouth wide open, horrified.

‘What on earth are you doing here, Helen?’

‘I’m on my way to school,’ I said, my voice thin with cold and weak with the struggle.

‘You can’t get through. We are completely snowed in. You cannot possibly have got here all that way by yourself!’

‘Yes I did.’

‘Ee well, you’ll have to go straight back home again. Don’t even try to go any further than here, pet. Go home and get warm.’

I tried to hold back the tears as I turned and trudged the first steps homeward.

‘I cannot imagine what your mam was thinking, mind, sending you out this morning, alone, in this weather. It’s too dangerous.’

This parting shot muffled in the blizzard was barely audible just a few feet away. It didn’t occur to me that maybe this woman should have told me to stay there.

I battled all the way back, planting my feet in my earlier footsteps where I could, but the fresh snow had obliterated many of them. I finally reached our house, ice-cold and exhausted. My mother was still at work next door and I was locked out, so I had to go to the farmhouse to find her. She hurried me back and let me into the freezing house, then left me to change my clothes and sort myself out. She was gone with hardly a word. It didn’t appear to cross her mind that she’d sent me out into a blizzard in which I could have got lost and died of exposure. It took me all day to warm up.

The years we lived at this house saw an escalation of the rows, the fights and the misery they caused. Every Sunday morning my parents’ battle flared up. They shouted and screamed, objects flew and doors slammed. If George was there, he would sit and practise on his guitar upstairs.

My parents hurt each other more with every word and gesture. Looking back, I can see they were two immature adults, unable to resolve the issues between them. Now, of course, I know most of those issues were about me. He must have known some of her history, and didn’t like it. If he’d known it all . . .

But Mercia guarded most of her secrets. What he did know would have been difficult enough for any man in those days. They simply took it out on each other, both of them hitting out against their demons on a daily basis. On one occasion I was sitting in a chair when they started rowing. They went on and on and on, trading insults and worse. I sat still, my hands over my ears, hoping to keep out of the way. I didn’t want to hear all this. Finally, something snapped. I held out my hand to signal a ceasefire. ‘Stop it! Stop it! Please stop it!’

I was amazed to see them both click out of their fury as they turned to look at me.

‘Stop it!’ I pleaded.

In an instant, Tommy’s hand shot out and slapped me across the head. ‘Get to your bedroom!’

What was I thinking of? I ran for safety as they resumed their fight.

Most Sundays at Murton I sat on the stairs, too frightened to venture all the way down. I had nothing else to do but listen to my parents as they charged around the house, spat hateful words at each other, crashed dishes, threw things and slammed doors. I quaked with fear. I knew I couldn’t escape. At some point I would be dragged into it, usually by my father.

‘This is all your fault,’ he’d snarl at me. ‘You’ve caused trouble again.’

I didn’t have to do anything to cause trouble. But I was always to blame. It was many years later that I found out what he meant.

Then he’d turn to Mercia. ‘If it wasn’t for that bloody kid, I would walk out of here.’ A tirade of malicious insults would ensue.

The worst thing was when my mother screamed, ‘Just you wait. One of these days you will come home and I’ll be gone. I’ll just put my coat on and walk out of here. I’ll walk into the sea and you’ll never ever see me again.’

This consumed my thoughts. I was terrified. I couldn’t get the image of her walking into the sea out of my mind. I think I went into shock. How could she leave me? What would I do?

One Sunday I was downstairs when they started. I was in the way, so Tommy picked me up and slammed me into the kitchen wall. Flattened, the breath knocked out of me, flaming darts of pain shot through my spine. As I collapsed onto the floor, my back on fire, they battled on, oblivious, wrapped up in their mutual rage. I struggled to subdue the pain and looked for an opportunity to escape.

Relieved to find a moment at last, I stumbled upstairs and shut my door. The pain subsided to a deep throb as I lay still on my bed. It didn’t occur to me then that it might be anything serious. It was weeks before the pain faded to a dull ache, but I tried to hide it, and my parents never noticed. I’d have been in more trouble if they had.

From a very young age, I understood that my mother was overstepping the boundaries with relish. She aggravated Tommy beyond reason. If she would only be quiet for a minute. I willed her to stop, but no – every time, it came to a point where he suddenly snapped. He lost control and punched her in the face or pushed her to the ground.

One day, when George was there, he tried to intervene at the early stages of a row. Each of them was pushing and jabbing at the other in the chest, backwards and forwards, Tommy more strongly than Mercia, doing their dance of anger. Nose to nose they spat out scathing insults.

‘You’re such a big man, aren’t you, pushing a little woman like me around?’ she goaded.

‘And you’re such a bitch, always trying to find ways to annoy me. You bloody well do it on purpose!’ he shouted. Then he hit out at her.

George was seventeen now, a strapping lad, as tall as Tommy. He stepped forward and tried to push himself between them. ‘Please calm down, Dad,’ he said. ‘You’re not doing any good, hitting out at Mam. Stop this now!’

But in his anger, my father gained superhuman strength. ‘Who are you to tell
me
what to do in my
own
house? I’m the boss here,’ he said furiously, and then manhandled George all the way through the house and out of the front door. ‘Get out . . . and don’t come back!’

As Tommy turned towards the kitchen he spotted me at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You see? You’ve caused this again. It’s all your fault. Come here!’

I ran upstairs as fast as I could towards the sanctuary of my bedroom with Tommy, now a purple-faced ogre, chasing me two stairs at a time. I tried not to fall, to get to the top before he caught me, but it was too late. The blows started, his fists flailed. As he hit me repeatedly, I cried and cried. What had I done? Why was it my fault? When would he stop?

Once it was over, between my sobs, I heard Tommy storm out of the house. Mercia bashed things about, ranting and raving to an invisible audience. Finally the air fell silent. A bruised peace enveloped us and the house heaved another sigh of relief. My whole body smarted from my father’s blows. I curled up in the corner, hot tears streaming down my face. What had I done? Whatever it was, it must have been very, very bad.

I had learned early on to try and be the peacemaker. Bruised and sobbing, I tiptoed downstairs. My mother was slumped in a chair, exhausted. I put on the kettle and made her a cup of tea. I climbed up on a chair and reached down the prettiest plate from the top cupboard, arranged some biscuits on it and took it through on a tray.

‘I’m sorry, Mammy. I’m sorry . . .’ I tried to soothe her.

She remained silent. No acknowledgement of me or the tea I’d brought her. She sat and stared out of the window, her face white with anger, Tommy gone who knows where.

‘Can I do anything, Mammy?’ No reply. The long silence had begun again. I was used to it by now. I knew she probably wouldn’t talk to me for days.

I trailed with weary steps back upstairs to my room and sat in the corner. I made myself as small as possible and hugged my one-eared teddy bear, my only friend. I began to think back. What had I done to upset my parents? Why did they always blame me for everything? I didn’t know what I’d done wrong, but it must have been something bad. It must all be my fault. I always said sorry, but it was never enough. All I wanted was for them to love me. If I tried as hard as I could, maybe I could make them love me. But whatever I did, it never seemed to make any difference.

Mercia had a black eye the next day, but she told our neighbours she had walked into a door. They looked like they understood. I had to stay at home for a few days till my bruising went down.

My father did come back, but he and Mercia were not speaking again. Not speaking to me, either. That was nothing unusual. Indeed, for me as a child, these were the good times. They ignored each other for days, sometimes weeks on end. My father went off to work each day with barely a word. My mother got me up for school and silently dragged the wire brush through my long auburn hair, hitting me on the head when I cried out as she yanked on the tangles, and then propelled me out of the door without a word. When nobody was speaking, there were no rows, just heavy silences. I would be safe for a while.

George came round rarely after this, and only when he knew Tommy wouldn’t be there. It was always great for me when he came, but I didn’t see much of him now. I didn’t blame him for steering clear of this nightmare family. I was so much younger than him anyway that I was used to feeling like an only child. I was glad he was living his own life, but I often wished I had a brother or sister, especially a sister, close in age to me. Someone at home to commiserate with.

I felt safe when everyone was out and I was alone in my bedroom, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t lonely. And whenever there were problems in the house, there was nobody to turn to. I yearned for a sister to share things with. I suppose that’s why, at about this time, I developed an imaginary one. I used to talk to her when I was on my own. She didn’t have a name, I just called her ‘Sister’, and she was always there for me. She was a good listener. She walked to school with me and I talked to her about everything.

My parents never came to school, not even for parents’ evenings, but my mother did once turn up to a ‘Parents’ Day’. We had Scottish dancing lessons at school and the whole class practised a display. I loved Scottish dancing. As I didn’t have a kilt to wear, a teacher lent me one, and dancing in it as it swirled was the most exciting moment of my life. I was so proud of myself and I couldn’t wait for the performance. My mother sat with the other parents and watched me dance, then she met my teachers, and it was all going well until a teacher asked her about my little sister. Her face froze into a granite mask. ‘Helen does not have a sister,’ she sniped, and pushed me out of the door.

It is incredible how a day, a moment, can change in a heartbeat. That special day suddenly crumbled to dust. The dark clouds of my mother’s anger threatened the promise of what was to come. She dragged me with such force all the long walk home my arm nearly came out of its socket. I begged her not to tell my father about my imaginary sister, but I knew she would. I was sent up to my room to wait.