My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story (22 page)

Finally, Mrs Ashman dropped us off at the Jacaranda Hotel, our temporary home until our permanent accommodation was ready for us.

The hotel itself seemed fine, but I was dismayed when I saw our bedroom – a double room with a double bed for my parents and a small single put-you-up shoved into the corner for me. I was sixteen years old and I had to share with my parents, just like I had done as a small child. Was this what it would be like everywhere we went?

The answer soon materialized when, a few days later, we were supplied with a one-bedroomed furnished apartment.

‘You can sleep on the balcony,’ said my father.

It was a small second-floor balcony with no furniture except a ‘shake-down’ bed which doubled as a sofa during the day. The concrete floor of the balcony was painted glossy red, and on the outer side there was a waist-high, rough brick wall. The only privacy was afforded by a canvas roller-blind which pulled down at night.

This set-up was surreal I was like Rapunzel in her tower, except that it was no fairy-tale – I was trapped with no hope of escape. I’d been transported to a strange land, and my bed was outside in the open air in all weathers, with hardly any privacy, even less security, and an insect problem. My parents closed the doors from the inside at night, so I was out there on my own. That balcony was a metaphor for my life – looking out at the world, but not part of it, excluded by my family. A reject. Mere property, to be stored out of the way.

The air on my balcony was hot and still, the fragrance of semi-tropical flowers a consolation for the constant clicking sound of the cicadas in the undergrowth beneath. Lizards and chameleons made their homes on my balcony, where they basked in the sun during the day. Being a fair-skinned English girl, the insects zeroed in on me like torpedoes at night. There were cockroaches and a whole variety of Africa’s larger creepy-crawlies. I became used to them all in time. But worst of all were the mosquitoes. They’d won the lottery; they attacked me every night, so I was plagued with mosquito bites for weeks.

Tommy’s new boss invited us to the RAF club, where all the company’s employees met on Saturday nights. On that first evening I found myself stuck with a group of unknown adults swapping stories about their time in the war. I concentrated on trying not to yawn.

Soon I became aware of a ‘what shall we do about her?’ situation. I was being talked about, within earshot, and it wasn’t complimentary.

‘Helen’s sitting around at home, being lazy and useless,’ moaned my father. ‘She needs to get a job – something easy that even she can do.’

My father asked around to see if there were any shirt factories for me to work at. Everyone looked shocked. In the sixties, under apartheid, only ‘blacks’ were allowed to do that kind of job.

On one of these Saturday evenings, I met a student called Mike.

‘Hi. You must be Helen? I’m the boss’s son,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘Just home from uni for the long vacation.’

‘I’d love to do a degree, but I’m not allowed to study.’

‘No, I gathered that.’ He tilted his head in sympathy. ‘Why don’t you come and meet some of my friends tomorrow?’

‘That would be great.’

We talked and talked. He listened to my troubles and seemed to understand those problems I chose to share with him. But of course I kept a lot back.

Mike came and called for me the following day. He had the sweetest car – a vintage Austin 7 that he had restored himself.

‘Would you like me to take you on a drive around Pretoria?’

I didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes please.’

He showed me the sights of the city and then took me to meet up with some of his friends. I was so relieved to come across people nearer my age and began to feel more at home.

I started to hang out with Mike. Sometimes he borrowed his dad’s Chevrolet truck and we took his two younger brothers to the drive-in. We sat in the back of the truck on those hot African nights watching movies and eating snacks. I didn’t have a job yet, so Mike and I were free to spend every day together. His dad had the removals contract for the embassies, and he let us have the keys and free access to some of the grandest buildings in Pretoria with their luxury swimming pools. I had an idyllic summer swimming and sunbathing with Mike and his friends in those plush surroundings. In between, he taught me to drive the Morris Minor he had restored. My life was definitely improving.

But despite South Africa’s blue skies, dark clouds never stayed away long in my family. My father didn’t like his job and his resentment exacerbated his instability. The long-distance driving that kept him away for days at a time didn’t help. I’d never really thought about the implications. I took things at face value most of the time – the easiest way to stay out of trouble.

One Saturday, when Tommy was away on one of his long trips, Mike and I were stopped by another company driver.

‘Go and buy two cinema tickets for me, will you?’ he said to Mike. Then he turned to me. ‘I’m going to take your mother to a movie.’ He paused and put his finger to his nose. ‘Keep this to yourself. No questions asked. Right?’

He could have been straight out of a rubbish gangster film. I would have laughed about it if it hadn’t been such a serious situation.

Mike had to do as he was asked, so my mother went to the cinema with this man. We went to a different cinema that evening and I didn’t get home till quite late, so I tiptoed onto my balcony and shut the door.

I don’t know when my mother got home.

All she said the next morning was, ‘Don’t you dare tell your dad.’

I was alarmed that she was dating while my father was away. I knew what it would lead to if my father found out.

My first New Year’s Eve in South Africa started full of promise. It was a beautiful summer’s evening. Mike took me out for a meal. After dinner we drove into the centre of Pretoria, the traditional focus of celebrations, and arrived to a carnival atmosphere with everyone laughing as they sang and danced to live music. Some of the revellers rocked our car and shouted ‘Happy New Year’ greetings to us as we inched our way around Church Square. We laughed with them, carefree and full of hope. At midnight we drove to the Union Buildings, high above the city, and watched the fireworks dance in the velvet sky.

On the way home we chatted and laughed in the car until we turned the corner into the street where I lived. The road was empty apart from a lone man standing in the middle of the street. As he saw us, he jumped up and down and waved his arms wildly.

‘Look at that guy,’ said Mike. ‘He’s a lunatic, isn’t he?’ We laughed.

Then our headlights lit up the grimace on the man’s face. His shouts were soundless above the noise of our engine.

In an instant, my laughter turned to dread. ‘It’s my father, Mike,’ I whispered, and, more urgently, ‘Don’t stop the car!’ A cold fear crushed my heart in a vice and acid rose into my mouth. I knew my father. I knew what he was like, what he could do. Seeing him now, like this, I knew it was imperative that we drive away. If we stopped I felt sure he would kill me . . . and Mike too. ‘Please, Mike,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t stop!’

I suppose Mike was concerned about my father – he did stop the car. As he pulled up, the lunatic rushed over to us. I shrank back into my seat and he flung open the passenger door. In one movement, he grabbed me by my arm, pulled me out of the car and threw me to the ground.

‘Get into the house,
now
!’ he screamed.

I ran for my life. I could barely make it up the stairs – my legs gave away beneath me with every step. I focused on our front door. I had to get there, fast.

The last time I saw Mike, he was sitting in the car, stunned by the shock of what he saw unfolding.

When I reached our apartment, I found my mother sitting up in bed, her bedroom door open wide. She watched me, wordless, the hint of a smile playing on her lips as I staggered out to the balcony. I knew what that meant. She had wound my father up again, as she always did. She couldn’t resist it.

I went to bed, but couldn’t sleep for ages. Mike’s car had gone from the road and I hadn’t heard whether my father had come in or not. I couldn’t get his maniacal expression out of my mind. Finally I must have drifted off, but not for long.

As dawn broke I lay sleepless, in fear of what had happened to Mike.

CHAPTER 19

Helen

An Education

A few days after New Year, my dad erupted again with grave consequences. When he was told to take another long trip away from home, he refused to go, but he didn’t refuse quietly. Oh no. He made a big scene, accusing his boss, Mike’s dad, of employing him under false pretences. Mike’s dad, shocked, responded with an ultimatum: either my father did this trip, or he would not get paid what he was owed. It was a stale-mate, and neither of them would give in. Tommy refused to go, and his boss refused to pay his wages.

We had no money, not even for food, and there was almost nothing left to eat in the apartment.

Mike had called me to tell me he was OK, my father hadn’t hurt him. ‘His anger just seemed to drain away after you had left,’ said Mike. ‘It was uncanny, as if he had lost his purpose.’

I was so relieved to know he was safe. We went out together again on the night of Tommy’s row at work – it was Mike who told me about it. I think his father was fond of me, and he invited me to come round to their house to join them for dinner in the evenings. He said nothing about the argument with my father, but I knew that was why. I was pleased to accept, and grateful for their kindness.

So Mike picked me up each evening and I had dinner with his family. One day, while we were sitting at table, Mike’s father turned to me. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with us? You spend enough time here already!’

I smiled.

‘I mean it,’ he continued. ‘You’d be very welcome to come and stay with us full-time. We would love to take care of you.’

I couldn’t believe it. I looked at his wife, who beamed and nodded in agreement.

I was flustered, torn between what I wanted to do and what I knew I would have to do.

‘That’s very kind. Thank you so much. I’d love to accept . . . but I’m afraid I can’t.’ I dared not agree to this tempting arrangement, as I knew how my father would react if I did, and I wouldn’t be the only one to suffer.

The conflict at Tommy’s work deteriorated further. Out of funds, he stormed round to Mike’s dad’s office and demanded to be paid what he was owed. Mike told me that his dad refused again. Tommy erupted into a violent rage and threatened Mike’s father with such menace that Mike’s father drew his gun.

‘I’ll shoot you if you don’t leave the premises,’ he said, his finger on the trigger. ‘Right now! And don’t ever come back here again.’

Tommy stormed home and turned on me. ‘I forbid you to see that bastard’s son ever again.’

I was in a difficult position. Mike and his family were my dear friends, yet his father was at loggerheads with mine.

‘No, Dad. I can’t do that,’ I said. For only the second time in my life I stood up to him. I stayed as calm as I could, though I felt far from calm inside. ‘Mike is my friend. You don’t have any argument with him, or with me.’

‘We’ll see about that!’

When I told Mike, he came round to our apartment to talk to my father. With grave misgivings, I let him in.

He faced up to Tommy. ‘I’ve no wish to be involved in this matter,’ Mike began. ‘It’s between you and my father. It’s nothing to do with Helen and me. It’s a private matter and I don’t wish to take sides. I’m sure Helen doesn’t either.’

‘No, I don’t,’ I shook my head.

‘So I would like you to agree that I continue to go out with Helen and our friends as usual. I think that’s reasonable. I hope you know that I would do nothing to upset you or Helen, so I would like your agreement on this.’

There was an ominous silence. I tried not to show my fear as I watched the cogs turn in my father’s brain. Finally he seemed to make up his mind.

‘Thank you for coming round to talk this through,’ he began. ‘You’re right. It has nothing to do with you, and I agree to what you ask. But I would prefer you not to come here again.’

Another silence while I took that in. Mike thanked my father and we went off to meet some friends. So nothing had changed, but Mike never entered my home again.

I was still out of work at this time. All the menial jobs were apparently the province of black Africans, so there was nothing I was qualified to do. My father, always so forceful about my working for my keep, seemed to be stumped. What I was desperate to do, of course, was to further my education, which had stopped as soon as I had turned fifteen. I wrote letters to various colleges and was finally accepted to do a two-year commercial subjects course in Pretoria. This was a great boost to my confidence. I wouldn’t have chosen secretarial work, but I did want an education, and a qualification. I was elated to be offered this opportunity and couldn’t wait to start.

There was one obstacle. I kept putting it off, but the evening before I was due to start the course I had to tell my father about it. The conversation did not go well.

‘How long is this course for?’ he asked, his face dark as thunder.

‘Two years.’

‘
Two years?
’ he shrieked. ‘And who is going to pay for this? Who is going to pay for your keep?’

I said nothing.

‘You should be out working,’ he ranted. ‘I will not allow this. I forbid it.’

His one-sided outburst continued for most of the evening.

‘You have no right to any more education. You’ve had all you need; all you’re fit for. It would be a waste of time. How dare you think you can just be allowed to waste your time on such nonsense for two years while I slave away?’

I didn’t dare mention that he didn’t have a job.

The row escalated. He yelled, screamed, stomped around and slammed doors far into the night. My mother went to bed, and I crept off too as soon as I dared. I lay awake nearly all that night, tears streaming down my face, my hopes dashed. I was desperate to do this course. What could I do?