My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story (14 page)

The wind whispered ghostly taunts. ‘She never loved you . . . let her die . . . live your own life.’

‘
No!
’ I shouted, my hands over my ears to block them out. I needed her to stay alive, to get better. I had always been at fault. Here was my chance to redeem myself. I needed to help her, to earn her love, so I resolved to do everything I could to make her better.

I gazed out across the rolling waves, dark and powerful, to the horizon. There is so much beyond, I thought. Where is George? If only he was here. He could help. He could support me and share the burden. I needed him badly, and I felt sure he would want to be here, but he was far away, and not due back for months.

When I returned home, the sun had set and the house was quiet. Tommy heard me come in and, as I slipped my coat off, he came out to the hall.

‘We’ll have to get stuck in and do this,’ he said.

His face was pale and drawn. I had never seen him look anxious before – almost vulnerable. We both knew it was a critical situation.

Over the next few weeks, I nursed my mother night and day. I bed-bathed her, emptied her bedpans, mixed up protein drinks for her and fed her with a spoon, like a baby . . . when she would take it. Mostly she didn’t. She always tried to stop me.

‘I don’t want it. Take it away. I don’t want it.’ At least she was speaking now.

‘Come on, Mam. You’ve got to have something. Have it for me. Just try a little bit for me,’ I coaxed her.

Often, she refused to open her mouth. Just looked at me as if I was an insect crawling out of a hole. ‘No, I don’t want it.’

Then I had to get my father to come upstairs. He always managed to get something down her, somehow.

It was a stressful time – there was always the threat of that word ‘otherwise’ – and it was such hard work, physically as well as emotionally. I was soon exhausted. My whole body felt heavy as I dragged myself about, day after day, but this was my duty – I had to keep going. There were times when I resented my mother’s cold recalcitrance, but I was too anxious about her to dwell on my feelings. I just focused on coping, on doing what needed to be done. I did not want my mother to die. For some reason, it was my fault that she was so ill, and it would be my fault if she died. I might be only a child, but I had to help her through this.

I realize now that she was in a severe depression, a serious psychological crisis, coupled with anorexia. I realized then that she needed me, even though she repeatedly shunned me for being a constant reminder of whatever it was she didn’t want to think about. She depended on me to look after her and keep everything going, but hated me for it. Her resentment and her refusal to cooperate made me all the more determined to help her. I even stayed up during the night sometimes if my father was out, as I knew I alone was responsible for her feeding and toileting if he wasn’t there. Yet every day she gave me those ice-cold looks that made me squirm.

The day approached when I would take my eleven-plus at school, the exam to decide whether I went to grammar school or secondary modern. I knew I was bright enough to pass and that this was my big chance, so I struggled with what school work I could manage in between nursing my mother round the clock. I rarely had the time or energy to complete my homework, and if I got stuck with something there was no one to ask for help, but I did the best I could. I don’t think my teachers realized what I was having to cope with. Lack of sleep was the worst deprivation. I felt woolly and lethargic, but I managed to keep going.

On the day of the eleven-plus I woke up with a huge sty, which swelled up and closed my eye completely. I sat in the exam room staring at the paper, unable to see it properly, my eye was so sore. I read the questions again and again, but I couldn’t take them in. I looked at the clock. The black hands stood still. A wave of fatigue engulfed me. I just wanted to lay my head down and go to sleep on the desk. I don’t recall much else about that day.

When the results letter came, my father left it unopened. I knew I was capable of passing the eleven-plus and I desperately wanted to go to the grammar school. Though I realized I probably hadn’t done enough on the day, a brave flame of hope still burned inside me. Maybe, just maybe . . . I kept looking at the plain brown envelope and its embossed lettering: ‘Education Department’. I took the letter up to my mother, but she pushed it away. I placed it on my father’s plate that evening. He threw it away.

Later that evening I retrieved it from the bin and opened it. I held my breath as I unfolded the stiff white paper . . . then let it go with a heavy sigh. The letter said what I feared. I had failed the exam. The disappointment was a silent wound that didn’t heal for a long time.

CHAPTER 11

Jenny

Six Terrible Weeks

When I was eleven, the people who had rented our upstairs flat in West Jesmond for years moved out, leaving it in a dreadful state. My father gutted it and started to do up the whole house. The plan was for us to live mainly upstairs, which was more spacious as it spanned part of another property, and to convert two of the downstairs rooms into a larger hairdressing salon for my mother. That way she could serve her customers better and at the same time earn a bigger income to help pay my school fees.

Dad worked very hard in his day job, came home, had a meal and spent every evening renovating the house. He was determined to do all of the work himself, so it took him a long time, making a little progress every day. He got increasingly tired, and developed a tickly cough which he put down to all the dust generated from dismantling the brickwork and drilling the woodwork.

I remember the day he came back from the doctor’s. My mother was concerned.

‘What did the doc say, Sid?’

‘Don’t worry. He said I was fine.’

‘What about the weight you’ve lost?’

‘Oh, I told him that was because I’ve been working so hard on the house.’

‘But you don’t eat enough . . .’

They suddenly realized I was there and sent me off to bed, so I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, or all the other conversations that followed subsequent visits to the doctor. I later discovered that each time Dad was told he was ‘fine’.

Finally, the doctor sent him to see a specialist, who took X-rays and did some tests. I was very worried when I heard about this, but neither of my parents would tell me anything more. My mother shielded me as much as she could from her own anxiety, and my dad somehow managed to stay cheerful whenever I was around.

I suppose I presumed that all the hard work and stress had affected his health and he just needed a good rest. I don’t think I wanted to consider any other explanation, even if I’d been given it.

Then my Dad took so ill that he had to stop work altogether, leaving the whole house in a state of chaos.

He was admitted to the local hospital, where they did more tests, and while they waited for the results he grew worse every day. It was clear that Dad would not be able to continue with the house, so my mother managed to get some money together and gathered the help of various friends who gave their time for free. Meanwhile, before the results were back, Dad was transferred to the hospital at Shotley Bridge. Mam was in a terrible state, trying to get me to school, keep her hairdressing business going, oversee the renovation work and visit my father as often as she could. Even I could see she wouldn’t be able to keep that up for long. I was secretly frightened about him going into Shotley Bridge, as I’d heard somebody say in a shop once, ‘They don’t come out of there alive, you know.’ I thought she must have got that wrong. Surely there was some mistake. My dad couldn’t die. He was such a positive man. I was sure he would recover. He’d probably just gone in there for a rest.

Mam took me to see him a couple of times at the beginning, before he was too ill. I was shocked to see him so thin and gaunt, yet he made a huge effort to be cheerful for me. As he saw me enter the ward, he pulled himself up a little and gave me the best smile he could. I remember that smile – always a smile for me. I remember too the pain in his eyes and the sallow skin stretched taut across his hollow cheeks. As I sat by his bed and held his hand, he spoke to my mother in a hoarse whisper.

‘They did a test today. They tried to look down my throat, to see the blockage.’

She made some soothing, tutting sounds, as if to say ‘not in front of Jen’.

But he seemed oblivious and carried on as if afraid he would run out of time. ‘They gave me an anaesthetic, mind. It was supposed to knock me out, but it didn’t quite work and I could feel it – very painful.’

‘Shh, shh,’ continued my mother as she stroked his forehead. ‘It’s over now. Lie back and rest.’

‘They said I have a tumour.’

‘What’s a tumour?’ I asked.

‘Oh, nothing for you to worry about, pet,’ said Mam with a look that said the opposite.

I couldn’t believe what was happening. My mother refused to believe it too. She came home from the hospital one day and bounced in to pick me up from my cousin’s house. As we walked home, she told me that the test results had come back. ‘They’ve made a big mistake and they’ve got all the results mixed up,’ she said, smiling. ‘They’ve given me the wrong results, so, you see, it’s going to be all right.’

This was wonderful news, and we rejoiced together that we would soon have him back with us, on the mend.

But the next day she came back even more despondent than before.

‘They muddled up the tests,’ she muttered.

I didn’t understand. What was going on? I thought it was all going to be all right? Now I was in fear again.

I had no time to find out from Mam what she meant about the muddled tests. It was the beginning of the holidays and Mrs Dwerryhouse, a school-friend’s mother, came to take me to stay with them at our Embleton bungalow, so for the next two weeks I was separated from both of my parents and any news.

The first night away I lay in bed sleepless, praying and crying. I prayed and prayed to God through my tears to make my dad better. I prayed every day and night we were there. I realized it made life easier for my mam for me to be away and know that I was well cared for, but why couldn’t I visit my dad? I was desperate to see him, but nobody would take me.

‘Why can’t I go and see my dad?’ I asked in anguish, trying not to show it.

‘They don’t let bairns into the hospital,’ replied Mrs Dwerryhouse. But I knew this wasn’t true, as I’d been there when my dad was first admitted.

My mother had told me nothing, and she didn’t contact me at all during those two weeks. I didn’t like being shuffled away sideways with people I didn’t know very well and kept in the dark. With no news about what was going on, I was frantic with worry and fear, mostly for my dad, but also for myself. He was my best friend. How would I cope if he didn’t get better?

I couldn’t talk to Mr and Mrs Dwerryhouse, and although I went to school with Sheena, I didn’t know her very well. They were nice people, but quite detached. There wasn’t anyone I could turn to; no one who would understand. I tried to go on as normal, unable to tell anybody how I really felt. If only I had a sister or brother to share all of this with, I thought. We could cope together.

It was a Saturday. I gazed out of the window across the plateau of grass. There were no phones in the bungalows, so it was a surprise to see my mother plodding round the green with her sister, Auntie Edna. I couldn’t believe how much weight my mother had lost as she approached the bungalow. She had turned into a thin woman in such a short time. She was a wreck, an empty version of herself, her eyes red and puffy, her shoulders stooped.

As I watched them approach and saw the look on her face, I went cold. I just knew they were coming to give me the news I didn’t want to hear, the news that would change our lives for ever.

I ran outside and she wrapped her arms around me, sobbing.

‘
No, no!
’ I cried out. I didn’t want to hear her say the words that would make it true.

‘He’s gone, Jen,’ she whispered.

‘
NO!
’ I slammed my hands over my ears.

She led me inside the bungalow and we sat down together, holding each other with a frightening ferocity. With the tears pouring down her face and wracked with grief, she tried to tell me. ‘I’m sorry, pet. He died this morning. Now there’s no more pain and he’s at rest.’

I refused to hear. The words came out of her, but I couldn’t take them in and didn’t want to believe what she was trying to tell me, over and over.

Finally she stood up. ‘Come on now, pet. Pack your things, we’re going home.’

Mam drove our little A30 car all the way back to West Jesmond, with Aunt Edna in the passenger seat at the front and me on my own at the back. For the whole of that hour-and-a-half drive I sat in desolate silence, with only the sound of their sniffling in the front as they tried to contain their sobs.

I lost my faith in God on that journey. All those days and nights of fervent prayers, praying that it was all be a mistake, or a nightmare I would wake up from, pleading with God to cure my father so that we could all live happily together again had been for nothing. I felt God had abandoned me. I wanted to be angry with him, or with the whole of religion, but gradually came to the conclusion that it was all a lie, that he didn’t exist, that my prayers had been for nothing. It would be twenty-one years before I would believe in God again.

I don’t remember the rest of that day, till bedtime, when Mam came into my room, sat down next to me and told me all over again. She put her arm around me, but this time I couldn’t respond. I felt numb. Empty. Yet I couldn’t cry. Why couldn’t I cry? I felt so guilty about that.

It was a long time before I fell asleep that night. Not because of my dad – I still hadn’t accepted the news, so that wasn’t the reason. It was because of my guilt at not having reacted as my mother expected, or as I expected. What was wrong with me? Then I felt worse because I was being selfish and only thinking of my own reactions.

Several days went by before I finally recognized the reality of my father’s death, and at the point of realization, I broke down and couldn’t stop crying. Now the tears of all those anxious days and weeks poured out. I had to accept that I had lost my father. But how could I accept it?