My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story (17 page)

‘Where are you all going?’ asked the elderly resident.

‘We’re from Newcastle, on our way to compete in a swimming match against Hawick and Galashiels.’

The elderly lady paused for a moment, then replied in her tuneful Borders accent, ‘I hope you lose!’

When we finally reached the pool and started the competition, we gave Mrs Watson our watches to look after and she wore them all in a row up one arm. It was an old-fashioned pool with rounded corners and the coaches stood at one end to shout us on. The whole competition was very close in every race. The women’s relay the final race and guess who was swimming last? So it all depended on me whether we won the trophy that year or not. When it came to my turn, I dived in about two yards behind their last swimmer. Gradually I pulled back the distance, and on the second leg managed to pass her just in time to touch ahead of her and win. The whole team, watching along the side, erupted with joy. I looked around to see Mrs Watson no longer on the edge but in the water, looking bedraggled but jubilant, with her arm straight up in the air, gallantly keeping the watches dry!

Despite all the coaching and the tournaments, we still went to Embleton, Mam and I, whenever we could. It always felt good to be out in the fresh air and the sea breezes, and I loved relaxing with the odd round of golf there.

I missed my dad terribly when we were there. I suppose I never had time to think about it when I was training for swimming events, but here I could reminisce. Memories of our companionable happiness came flying back on the salty breeze, all those times when I had caddied for him across the links. I stood on the third green one day, next to our bungalow, and watched the kittiwakes gliding low over the gorse-strewn dunes. It was as if he was there, close by, watching them with me. I felt his encouragement, his infectious enthusiasm, his special pride in me as I played on around the course with renewed energy.

Golf was my relaxation from the main focus of my life, swimming. Strange that I didn’t realize then the direction my future would take.

When I was thirteen, my mother decided I really ought to have some proper golf lessons, and took me to the Foxton Hall Golf Club at Alnmouth, about ten miles south of Embleton. I’ve got a photo somewhere of me having my first golf lesson. I can remember wearing golden corduroy trousers with an awful jumper that I think my mother had knitted. It was a Fair-Isle jumper, quite fashionable then I suppose, but thick and itchy. It was the first time I had worn it and it brought me out in a rash. I had to wear it as my mother was watching and I didn’t want to offend her. Now, of course, I realize that I’m allergic to wool, but we didn’t know about allergies in those days, so I just tried to ignore the itching as much as I could.

Mam paid over five shillings for my first lesson – a lot of money in those days. Eddie Fernie, a brusque Scot, was the golf professional at the club, renowned as an excellent golf teacher. ‘Now then, Jennifer. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

As I stood on the lush green grass, teeing up, a man walked past the practice ground towards the first tee. I hit my first ball and as I watched it whistle through the air I heard a voice nearby.

‘Now, Eddie. That wee laddie has got a lovely swing.’

Eddie laughed. ‘That wee laddie happens to be a lassie!’

At the end of the lesson, he walked with me over to where my mother was waiting.

‘How did Jennifer get on?’ she asked.

‘I don’t want any more money from you,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘It will give me great pleasure to turn this wee lassie into a champion.’

I was astonished. I think Mam was rather surprised too. She tried to protest, but he was resolute, so I went for free lessons with him every week after that, and she used to bake him a cake, or take him a dozen eggs, to thank him for his generosity.

I was fourteen the first time I entered the ladies’ tournament at Dunstanburgh Golf Club. I had always gone barefoot there, and I wasn’t worried about how I would play but about the fact that it was the first time I’d ever had to wear shoes when playing golf.

‘You have to wear shoes in the tournament, mind,’ the captain said.

I didn’t know if I could play in shoes. I was sure it would affect my game. I was wrong. I was runner-up to my mother.

Coming that close to victory in an adult tournament surprised me. I hadn’t realized I could do so well at the game I loved, and it made me determined to win the next year – to beat my mam – so in between my swimming commitments, I carried on with the golf lessons and practised whenever I could, barefoot, just as I’d always done.

However, a few words said in anger were to change everything for me.

CHAPTER 14

Helen

My Hero

My discovery of my parents’ marriage certificate simmered beneath the surface, but I was happy at school at this time, and, in spite of everything, I did well. One day we were all given the opportunity to go on a school cruise, but we had to have parental consent. The cost of the cruise was £28, which doesn’t sound much now, but in those pre-decimal days, when houses could still be bought for less than a thousand pounds, £28 was a lot of money. The school arranged for weekly payments of £1.

In trepidation, I took home my consent form. I didn’t believe I would be allowed to go, but I had to hope some miracle would make it possible. To my complete amazement, my parents agreed to let me go. They knew it was six months away, so they didn’t seem too worried about finding the money to pay for it. I was astonished when they signed the form and my place was booked. I wanted to dance, sing, shout with joy. Every day when I woke up I felt it must have been a dream, but it was real. My parents made the weekly £1 payments and I got a paper delivery round after school to earn some pocket money for the trip.

It was all going so well. But then they stopped the payments. I never knew why and they didn’t say anything. My earnings were five shillings (25p) a week, so it would take me four weeks to save up each £1. I took on Saturday and Sunday morning deliveries as well to earn another five shillings, and this meant it took two weeks to earn £1. Gradually I began to make up the deficit.

The date came when the final payment was due. I was still in quite a lot of arrears as I simply couldn’t earn enough to pay for it, and my parents refused to pay any more.

At this point George came home from sea. When I told him what had happened, he was furious. During his trip he had saved some of his wages to spend with Joan. Now, without a murmur of complaint, he gave me enough money to cover the arrears. Of course I always loved him coming home, but this time more than ever he was my saviour.

So the cruise was paid for. It was really going to happen. My first holiday, my first time abroad – I was in heaven just thinking about it. My parents didn’t seem to care whether I went on the cruise or not. Nor did they care that George had paid off the rest of the money when it should have been them. There was just one shadow. Having used most of my earnings to make the back-payments, I had the grand total of £1 pocket money for my big adventure. It would have to be enough.

George took me to the meeting place to board the bus for the docks, and I shall never forget what happened next.

‘Goodbye, George. And thanks for paying for the trip.’ I stretched up and gave him a kiss. ‘You’re my hero.’

He blushed. ‘Have a great time, kiddo.’ He reached into his pocket, pulled out all the money he had with him, and gave it to me.

I was flustered and overwhelmed. I hadn’t told him about my pocket money problem, yet he had worked it out. I didn’t know what to say. I felt I should give it back to him, but he waved it away.

‘Keep it, pet,’ he said. ‘And spend it on yourself.’

He stepped back as I climbed onto the bus to sit with my friends, relieved and excited. He beamed a wide smile at me and waved as the bus pulled away. I kept waving until I couldn’t see him any more.

The whole trip was one long thrill, a happy, carefree interlude with my friends. Being away from home is often a great experience for children at that age, but for me it was wonderful to be free to enjoy each day without threats or worries to spoil my fun.

Too soon we were back home again and everything was back to normal. But for me, after the cruise, it was all in sharper relief than ever before.

Having just become a teenager and conscious of fashion, it was a great humiliation that my mother would not buy me any clothes. She didn’t buy herself a great many clothes that I remember, and there were times when she was in such a depressed state that she didn’t pay attention to her appearance. But when she went out she was always smartly dressed, and she had some pretty underwear. I had one skirt, one jumper and one coat. At school we wore uniform. For gym we had to wear brown flannel knickers – surely the baggiest, most unfashionable undergarment ever – and these gym knickers were the only ones I possessed. I had no other underwear. I wore those knickers every day for years. Every night I washed them in the bath, squeezed as much water out as I could and hung them to dry overnight in my room. As we had no central heating, they rarely dried much, so I went to school every day wearing damp knickers.

I did ask her for more pairs of knickers and my mother said she would buy some for me, but she never did.

However, my mother loved knitting, so she unpicked an old mohair cardigan and decided to knit me a new jumper out of the wool. Whenever she unpicked something, I had to hold my hands up so she could rewind the wool around them. The mohair made my skin prickle, and within moments my fingers reddened and started to itch. Before long my hands were on fire. Finally the day came when my mother had finished knitting this revolting dark grey prickly jumper and I had to wear it. It was purgatory having to wear it so often. I always came out in an angry rash and have been allergic to wool ever since.

The fact that I didn’t possess a dress of my own made it particularly exciting when George and Joan asked me to be a bridesmaid at their wedding, alongside Joan’s two sisters. They had set the date for their marriage for July 1962 – a full white wedding. We were measured up for our dresses and went to have regular fittings, which I loved. Joan also wanted us to wear white, kitten-heeled shoes, so my mother reluctantly took me to town to buy some.

‘Don’t tell your father, mind,’ she warned. ‘If he finds out, he won’t let you wear them.’

He always had to approve everything I wore. He banned anything fashionable or pretty, so these shoes would be sure to enrage him.

The day approached and I couldn’t wait. Joan told me to get everything I needed ready the day before to take round to her parents’ house the next morning, so that we could all get dressed together. I asked my mother what I would need. ‘Have a bath,’ was all she said, so I did. Then I went to bed, but I hardly slept that night. It would be such a happy occasion, and very special to me to see George marry his sweetheart.

I got up and walked to my future sister-in-law’s house to get ready, carrying the box with my precious kitten-heeled shoes. When I arrived, Joan’s mother opened the door. She looked me up and down with a sneer. I was terrified.

She grabbed my arm. ‘Come here,’ she said, and dragged me upstairs to the large front bedroom where Joan and her two sisters were getting ready. ‘And what am I going to do with this?’ she said as she propelled me through the door.

They all stopped what they were doing and looked at me. I felt like a street urchin, small and ugly.

Joan broke the spell. ‘Hello, Helen, pet. Come and join us.’ She grinned, then turned to her mother. ‘It’s all right, Mum. We’ll soon turn Helen into a princess.’

Perhaps it was going to be all right after all, though it seemed like an impossible task.

‘Now, don’t worry,’ Joan said, smiling sympathetically at me as she dampened my hair and set it in rollers. She put my dress out for me and helped me to get ready, in between doing her own make-up. I noticed Joan’s sisters had beautifully curled hair with Alice bands in place. They had had their nails manicured with delicate pink nail polish and wore pretty necklaces to go with their dresses. Joan put a necklace out for me too, and I smiled gratefully. No wonder her mother was so shocked to see my straggly, straight auburn hair, my shabby clothes and my forlorn look.

One of Joan’s sisters dried my hair, took my curlers out and tucked in an Alice band to match theirs. I put on the beautiful dress and my white kitten-heeled shoes. I had never worn such a dress or such feminine shoes, and Joan was right – I felt like a princess. I tried to forget that underneath it all were the hated brown knickers. And I dreaded the moment when my dad caught sight of my shoes. I hoped he wouldn’t, but I was sure he would. I knew he was capable of murder. I dared not think about it.

As we walked down the aisle in the church, everyone turned to look. Joan was radiant, beautiful, and everyone smiled at us. I enjoyed that moment. I wanted to remember this feeling for ever. Then it happened. I saw Tommy, to my right, turning his head to look at me, and his eyes went straight down to my shoes. I saw that familiar black cloud of fury cross his face. Even as we sang the first hymn, I knew I was in big trouble.

I don’t remember the rest of the service, but I do remember the rest of the day. I was miserable, scared beyond belief. Years later, Joan asked me why I hadn’t smiled in any of the wedding photos. I couldn’t tell her.

When we got home, the row began as soon as we walked in through our front door. First, Tommy shouted at my mother. ‘Why the hell did you buy those shoes for her?’ He prodded her in the chest with his outstretched finger. ‘You did it on purpose, didn’t you?’ He pushed her down into the chair. Then he turned to me and yelled a torrent of abuse.

‘You look ridiculous in those common shoes. You can forget any ideas of walking around Whitley Bay trying to get the lads’ attention in those. They’d probably just laugh at you anyway.’ His voice was rising and his face was turning redder by the second. ‘I won’t have you flirting and mincing around in them.’ He clenched his fists and his eyes bulged with anger. ‘Take those bloody shoes off!’