My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story (29 page)

The day after I moved in, there she was knocking brightly at the front door! I could hardly believe it. I let her in with a huge grin.

‘Hello, Mam.’ I gave her a hug. ‘I’m so glad you came. You’re my first visitor!’

‘Ee, that’s good. Do you need any help?’

The next few weeks were up and down. She had her resentful moments still, and had to continue taking medication for a long time, but she was regaining her emotional strength now and I was glad that at the age of seventy-eight she could finally relax and enjoy her retirement, spending time with friends and relations and watching golf on the TV whenever it was on. Our relationship got back to normal and we put that disturbed period behind us.

I loved living at Cramlington. Richard came over quite a lot and we both continued with our independent lives in between. My neighbours were all very friendly and we often socialized together when I was at home. Some of them took care of the house for me while I was away, so I never needed to worry.

In my friendly new community, I suddenly felt I wanted to go back to church. I started to believe again, for the first time since that terrible day my father died. We had a lovely old church at Cramlington, with a fantastic vicar who was very welcoming, and the first time I attended a service there, the church was absolutely packed with friendly families, full of smiles and singing brightly. I felt like I was coming home. A tremendous warmth radiated through the church, an atmosphere of complete acceptance of one another regardless of background or circumstances. I felt so enriched by the whole experience that I went regularly when I could after that and have been a firm believer in God ever since.

Most of the families in the houses around me had children and I used to watch them play outside just as we had done when I was young. Sometimes they would wave at me as I went out in the car, or when I was doing some gardening. I loved hearing their laughter and I couldn’t help thinking: what would it be like to have children of my own? Richard and I had never really talked about it, so maybe it was time I broached the subject with him. I didn’t even know if he wanted children. But I didn’t feel the time was right while I was still away on tour so much, so I put it off for a while.

The following year, 1982, I was voted North-East Sports Personality of the Year. This was one of my highlights, as it was voted for by the sports journalists across our region, who apparently wanted to show their support for a local woman achieving across the world in her sport and raising the profile of the north-east region. That was the important factor. It was a big thing, so it was all televised and I was to be presented with a big trophy, but sadly, wasn’t able to be there because of a tournament, so my mother was thrilled to bits to receive it on my behalf. I couldn’t believe all this fuss was for me, just for doing something I loved – playing golf with my friends on tour on the best courses in the world.

The following year was even better, when I attended the ceremony myself to pass on my trophy. I was delighted to present it to a certain young footballer then making a name for himself playing for Newcastle United – Kevin Keegan. I have to confess I was rather star-struck, though I tried not to show it. The press carried photos of us together and I still have one of them in a frame on my sideboard, Not because it’s of me, but because it’s with Kevin and my mother. As a lifetime Newcastle supporter, Connie was even more excited to meet him than I was.

The risk of aiming for a professional career had certainly paid dividends. I could now support my mother and provide extra comforts for her. Despite her arthritis, she was quite fit and active for her age. I occasionally took her with me on tours, and we’d hire a car and have a holiday in California or wherever was reachable between tournaments. She loved it, and I know my dad would have been very proud of his ‘little girl’ doing so well at the game he had taught me.

But of course, in one important way, I wasn’t his little girl. Whatever I did and wherever I went, there was still that ache that never left me, always gnawing away in the back of my mind, impatient to get out. One of these days I’d pay more attention to it and start on the journey to seek answers about my adoption, my real origins, maybe even find my own blood family. Would I feel I belonged? Could I have been any happier there? Might I have become a different person?

CHAPTER 26

Jenny

A Visit to Seghill

A few years earlier, in 1975, a change in the law had made it possible for adopted children to gain access to their original birth certificates and adoption records. All I had possessed up to then was a shortened form of birth certificate, issued after my adoption, and with only my adoptive parents’ names on it. At last there was a way to access my true birth certificate.

When this law was passed, I was heavily involved in professional golf tours and tournaments, so I filed it away in my brain for a time when I could start on that journey. Finally, one day in 1980 after a day’s matchplay, I spoke to my friend Jane about it.

‘I really want to find out where I came from; who my real mother was.’

‘I don’t know why you want to do that!’ she said, sharp as a knife. ‘Why can’t you just be happy with the parent you’ve got? Your mother has given you a good life, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes, she has. Both of my parents were great. But that’s not the point.’

‘Well, I was adopted too, and there’s no way I’m going to look for my birth parents.’

Jane was a great friend, but she had her own view and that was fine. We agreed to differ. Hers was a common response in those days, when everyone brushed such situations away, and her matter-of-fact perspective had some sense to it – I had to acknowledge that. I changed the subject, but I couldn’t forget it. Out of sight it might be, but it certainly wasn’t out of mind. There was always this void. I felt there was something vital that I was missing. I suppose it came down to one thing: Who was I? Every time this question surfaced in my mind, it became more and more insistent.

Finally, I could ignore it no longer. I didn’t want to upset my mother, but she was alive and well and it seemed as if she was going to live for ever. At this rate, I might go before her. I had to do something about it, so finally I applied to see my records. I could do this without telling Mam. I felt sure I could keep it quiet. She need never know.

I applied for the records and they were sent, not directly to me, but to the adoption counsellor. This was the standard process, because anyone in my situation had to have counselling to prepare them to receive the information.

I remember so clearly the day I went to see the counsellor. The street was wet with rain outside the tall brick building, but the sun’s rays bled out from behind the clouds.

I strode into the room, heart pounding, and the counsellor sat me down at a table.

‘Right,’ she began, straight to the point, rather like me, I suppose. ‘It’s my role to make you aware that there is a possibility of a double rejection.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you could find out who your mother is, and, as she’s already given you away once, you might find she doesn’t want to talk to you, or have anything to do with you.’

‘Oh.’ I tried to take this in. I had thought about this possibility, but had chosen to blank it out.

‘You might have other siblings who don’t know you exist.’

She continued along this line, and my head reeled at the thought that I might have brothers and sisters – something I’d always wanted, always missed. Maybe I hadn’t been an only child after all. But then the double deprivation of that hit me – not knowing they existed, if they did, and at the same time being deprived of their company and support throughout my childhood.

She paused to let me consider all this and how I felt about it.

I didn’t wait for her to speak again. ‘Yes, I do want to do it. I definitely want to know. Even if they don’t want me, I need to know.’

She nodded. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Definitely. Absolutely sure.’

‘You could always wait a while if you like, to prepare yourself emotionally for what might happen. Nobody knows how your parents will take it when they find out.’

‘No, there’s no need to wait. I’ve had a long time to think about this and have made up my mind, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

‘OK. Now, before we go any further, I must tell you that I’m here to help you. If you’re certain you want to go ahead and find your family, I’m here to support you and I will help as best I can.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I must start by saying that here, in the north-east of England, we normally find it’s easy to trace families, because when girls get married, they move one door along the same street.’

‘That’s true.’ I smiled, relieved that this would be a straight-forward task.

She took from her lap a document of some kind and passed it across the table to me. I unfolded it and held it up to read. There it was – my birth certificate, printed out – a simple document, but the most important of my life so far. The date in 1948 was certainly my birthday. Jennifer was my given name, the name I had now. Obviously my adoptive parents must have decided to keep it. Perhaps they liked it themselves, as it was a popular name at the time. They had added two middle names, but my first name, Jennifer, was the only thing my real mother had ever given me. I wish I’d known that when I was younger. All those years of thinking I had nothing of hers, and now I discovered that she gave me my name.

I looked at the dash surrounded by empty space in the next column with a hollow feeling – utter dismay. The column was headed ‘Name and surname of father’. It was blank. I had no father, according to my original birth certificate – a terrible disappointment. This could mean only one thing, something I had always wondered about, and presumably the reason why I was adopted. Perhaps my birth mother had had no choice. She might have been forced to give me away, which would mean she hadn’t rejected me after all. Maybe she really loved me . . . I stopped myself. I was getting carried away with fanciful thoughts.

I moved on to the next and most important column. ‘Name, surname and maiden name of mother’, and underneath was written: ‘Mercia Dick, formerly Bradshaw.’ Mercia – what an unusual name. Distinctive.

‘Mercia,’ I heard my voice saying. The counsellor sitting opposite me nodded and gave a half smile of encouragement, as if she understood my reactions. I suppose she had seen it before in others. She must have gone through a lot of these sessions.

There was more below the name: ‘. . . a shop assistant of 6 Northcott Gardens, Seghill.’ I knew Seghill very well – it was just two miles down the road from my house in Cramlington. How amazing. I’m sure Mam used to go there with her corsets – she probably had clients there. She’d have visited them, gone into their houses to fit their corsets and chatted with them. Connie was always very good at talking with strangers and putting them at their ease, which of course helped her to sell a lot of corsets. Perhaps she had even been inside Mercia’s house, or her mother’s? This thought warmed me in an odd way. A coincidence maybe?

I moved on across the columns. The ‘father’s occupation’ was of course blank. Next was the person who registered the birth. ‘M. Dick. Mother.’ Finally the date of registration, just eight days after I was born. Was this because she was keen to register me, or because she had to? Was I still with her then? Perhaps she was feeding me and making a bond between us that made it more difficult for her to give me away?

My mind turned everything over and examined every possible clue.

I had been born as Jennifer Dick, with no named father and a mother called Mercia. At first it seemed odd that she’d had a former surname, but then I realized that maybe she’d been married, possibly widowed or divorced. I was born after the war, so her husband couldn’t have been killed in the war . . . or could he? Yes, of course he could, since he clearly wasn’t my father . . . I was going off at tangents into the realms of fancy again, so I deliberately brought my mind back to focus on the present, on the woman sitting opposite me and the piece of paper in my hands. There would be plenty of time to think around it all when I got home and over the days to come. The main thing was that this woman on the certificate, my birth mother, Mercia, presumably wasn’t a teenager when she had me, unless she’d been born with a different name herself, and . . . No, I’d think about all of that later.

‘So there’s no father’s name registered,’ I said.

‘No.’ Her face was expressionless. ‘That suggests to me that maybe your mother had an affair . . .’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

I looked at the certificate one more time, then carefully folded it and tucked it into my bag.

‘One last thing,’ I said. ‘Do you have any record of where she lives now?’

‘No.’ The counsellor shook her head. ‘But I have some contacts who can look into that sort of thing. If you like, I’ll try to find out for you?’

‘Yes, please!’ I was new to all this and had no idea where to start, so her offer of help was a great boon.

‘I’ll get back to you within a fortnight.’

It was a long fortnight. Every day it felt like I was at the mercy of the lead weight under an old grandfather clock that was swinging very slowly. And at the end of each day there was still no news. Nothing. I moaned about the delay to Richard.

‘Well, if you’re too impatient to wait,’ he said, ‘give her a call.’

‘She’s obviously having difficulty finding this Mercia. Maybe she died young. Or maybe she emigrated or something,’ I wondered aloud.

‘Well, you won’t know if you don’t call her.’

‘But I don’t want to be too pushy – it might put her off helping me.’

It was another two weeks, a month after our initial meeting, before I finally gave the counsellor a ring.

‘Yes, I’m sorry I haven’t got back to you yet. I’ve been trying to find some news for you, but I’m not getting anywhere.’ She paused. ‘Do you want me to carry on?’

I’d had a lot of time to think about this, so I said, ‘Not really.’ It seemed to me that this woman probably hadn’t done much.