My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story (15 page)

I began to resent more and more that I hadn’t been allowed to be there for him when he most needed me, that he had died and left me without saying goodbye, and that it was just my mother and me now.

Dad’s death seemed to separate me from Mam at first. But I couldn’t sleep – I cried alone in my bed night after night – so she took me into her big bed to sleep with her. I became clingy for a while. Very clingy. I had nobody else to comfort me now.

When Mam was arranging things for Dad’s funeral, I just assumed I would be going to the funeral with her.

‘You can’t come, pet,’ she told me when I mentioned it.

‘Why not?’ I protested. Everything was being pulled away from me.

‘Bairns don’t go to funerals,’ she said, her face blank of emotion.

‘But it’s Dad’s funeral. I want to go. He would want me to go.’

‘No, Jen. You can’t go.’ There was a finality in her voice. No emotion or explanation.

Much later, when I thought about it more rationally, I realized that she was probably trying to protect me. It’s what adults did in those days, wasn’t it? Children weren’t allowed to go to funerals. That’s the way it was. But not being there to see my father buried left me with a strange feeling, a doubt that I couldn’t shake off. Maybe he hadn’t really died. I felt that for months afterwards, though I kept it to myself. Did he die? Are they telling me lies? They’re keeping him hidden from me, but where is he? I went over and over it in my mind.

There was nobody who could understand how I felt. No one to help me come to terms with it all – we didn’t have counsellors in those days. Nobody to talk to except my dog Janie, who listened with endless patience. She kept me going. And of course it was my Dad who had given her to me, so she was a precious link to him, to all the happy memories.

My mother withdrew into herself for a while. Perhaps I did too. Finally I realized that nothing would ever be the same again.

CHAPTER 12

Helen

A Sunbeam for Jesus

One day I came home from school to find my mother shivering in front of the unlit fire. It was the first time I’d seen her up and dressed since she’d fallen ill. She was still thin and her cheeks were hollow, but she was eating a little now. I should have been happy to see her up, but I gasped at the shock in her face, her red-rimmed eyes and the dried tracks of tears down her cheeks. Something dreadful must have happened.

She looked up at me, straight at me, startled as a fawn. The silence was as loud as thunder. She gave me a slight nod, as if relieved I was home, then gazed back at the empty grate.

The suspense was frightening. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Grandma is dead.’ Her tears began anew – great uncontrolled sobs that wracked her frail body.

The shock stabbed me deep inside. I shook with grief, with fear. ‘
No!
’ I shrieked. ‘She can’t be.’

My first instinct was to console my mother, to have her console me. I wanted to hug her, but she had turned her back to me and showed no sign of wanting any solace from me, so I didn’t dare.

I was twelve years old and I didn’t know what to do. I had lost my wonderful grandma. For several minutes I was too stunned to really believe it, except that my mother’s misery made me think it must be true. My tears welled up, and immediately I felt guilty – I hadn’t seen Grandma for ages. The last time had been at least a year ago, when my father had bought the big Rover car and we’d taken her out for a drive. A vivid memory of her laughter popped into my mind – she loved that afternoon. It was my last memory of her, and it made me smile for a moment . . . before the tears began to flow. Why hadn’t we seen her since? I knew it was beyond my control, but I felt guilty all the same. She would have missed us. We should have been there for her, with her.

I went to the kitchen and made my mother a cup of tea. I knew sweet tea was good for shock, so I put an extra spoonful of sugar in it. I lit the fire to keep her warm and made her something nourishing to eat. Instead of her usual protests, she ate in a trance, then I led her up to bed. Still she paid no attention to my presence, said not a word. I tried at first to stroke her hand, but she flinched. Why couldn’t she let me comfort her? And who would comfort me? I sat with her until my father got back from work at ten o’clock. I heard him come in and close the front door below, so I slipped out to the top of the stairs.

‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ he grumbled as he started up the steps.

‘Grandma has died,’ I sobbed. ‘Mam’s in the bedroom. She’s very upset.’

He looked at me, expressionless, then pointed to my bedroom. ‘You – get to bed.’

He ran up the rest of the stairs, two at a time. The last thing I saw as I closed my door was Tommy sitting down on their candlewick counterpane with his arm round my mother as she talked to him, spilling out her grief.

I went to bed, alone with my sorrow. My beloved Grandma had been a mother to me in my early years, and all the years of sixpences since then proved she had never stopped loving me. Her unconditional love would be no more. If only I had been able to spend more time with her.

No one thought how I might feel. It was all about her, my mother, just as it was always about her.

I cried long into the night. I thought back to all those ‘wakes’ we had at her house. Now it had finally come true. All those happy times – the family gatherings, the Sunday teas, the sing-songs – would be consigned to the memory-box. Who would ever love me like Grandma did? Yes, of course I had George – I’m sure he loved me – but it wasn’t the same. He was always far away and he had his own life to lead. At least he had a life. With Grandma gone, I felt more alone than ever. I sobbed myself to sleep.

The day before the funeral, all the family gathered at Grandma’s house, including Patricia and her parents, who lived further away from Seghill than we did so I hadn’t seen them for years.

The aunts and uncles sat around with their endless cups of tea, discussing and sharing their memories of Grandma. My mother sent me out of the room with my cousins, until it was time for us to go upstairs one at a time to see Grandma in her open coffin, lain on top of her bed. When it was my turn, I walked nervously into the bedroom. I had never seen a dead body before and I was apprehensive about this being her body, but no longer her. I understood, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to look.

‘Eee, come on, Helen. It’s your turn, hinny,’ whispered Auntie Nancy. ‘Come and say goodbye to your grandma.’

I stepped forward to look into the coffin. She was lying with her head on a satin pillow. Serene. Her grey hair brushed back neatly. I could have imagined her to be asleep, had I not known.

Auntie Dorrie came into the room behind me. She put a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Give your Grandma a kiss, pet.’ She gently eased me forward till I could lean over the side. ‘Go on, then.’

I bent my head down towards hers and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. I was not afraid any more. As I straightened up, I noticed the smoothness of her skin, as if all her wrinkles had been ironed out. I took one last lingering look.

‘Goodbye, Grandma,’ I breathed.

After that I was ushered outside to play with my cousins, but we didn’t feel much like playing. We stood around and talked about when we were little.

On the following day, my father drove us back to Seghill again. Everyone was gathered once more, and Auntie Dorrie was in charge, welcoming my parents into the house. As we stood in the living room, she turned to me and said, ‘You go off with the younger cousins, Helen. You’re too young to go to the funeral.’

I was shocked, incensed. Why shouldn’t I go to my own grandma’s funeral? Normally obedient, I suddenly became defiant.

‘She was my Grandma. I’m twelve years old and I am going to the funeral, even if I have to walk there myself!’ I burst out.

Silence suddenly shrouded the room. My mother frowned and my father clenched his fists. All the adults exchanged surprised glances. I stood my ground and set my face. I was inwardly determined, and I think they must have realized I meant what I said.

Uncle James was the first to break the silence. ‘Let her come with us if she wants to.’

‘All right, pet,’ nodded Auntie Dorrie, and nothing more was said about it.

It was a bitterly cold winter’s day, with a thick carpet of snow on the ground. We all travelled in a long, slow line of cars behind the hearse to Seghill’s Trinity Church. I don’t remember much about the funeral service, but I do recall that we had to crunch, slip and slide our way across the lovely old churchyard to the graveside. It was where my grandfather had been buried all those years before I was born, when my mother was a child. His grave had been opened up and now the men lowered Grandma’s coffin into the cavity to join her beloved husband. The aunties, uncles and older cousins stood solemnly around the grave with my parents and me. They were all sniffing and crying and holding each other, while Tommy and Mercia stood back. Nobody held me, so I just thought back to the times when as a small child I’d sat on my grandma’s knee, and a warm glow spread through me. I looked around at this large family, my family, which I still felt part of, always surrounded by comfort and love – if you excluded my parents.

After the service, we all went back to the house, each silent, deep in our thoughts, remembering her in our own ways. Later that day, the will was read. Because I had been at the funeral, I was allowed to stay for that, too, but I can’t remember any of the details.

It was a sad day for us all, but I had the feeling she knew I was there with her. I would miss her every day for the rest of my life.

I had been at ‘Park Pen’, my new secondary school, for more than a year by now and had settled in well. I liked the school. It was just a short walk from the house where our flat was in Whitley Bay, across the road from the famous local funfair – very lively then, but since demolished – and I made lots of good friends. We met up outside school in the evenings, did our homework together, and saw each other at weekends. My mother never seemed to notice that I wasn’t at home. I think Tommy was glad to have the place to themselves. Perhaps they rowed less when I was out.

Some of these friends invited me to go to their houses, meet their parents and have meals with them. The first time I went, I was greeted with ‘Come in. Would you like a cold drink? Or a cup of tea? Would you like a biscuit?’ It took me by surprise.

I had realized early on in my life that there was always a happier, kinder feeling at Grandma’s or my aunties and uncles’ houses, but then my parents were nicer people too when they were in company – it was only when we went home that they changed. I thought the other cousins’ parents changed as well when nobody else was there. I hadn’t ever really questioned it.

But when I went to another friend’s house and her parents were the same, it was a bit of a wake-up moment for me. I realized it was
my
parents who were strange. It wasn’t like that for other kids. These adults were welcoming and
kind
to me. There was fun and laughter, a happy atmosphere, not like my home. Having thought until now that my life was like everybody else’s, then discovering that it wasn’t, was quite a shock.

I suppose I realized all this now because I was old enough to look around me and make direct comparisons and consider differences more perceptively. I was so unused to the welcome I received from these strangers that it made me feel ill at ease, but my friends’ parents recognized my shyness, gaucheness even, when I first visited and showered me with kindness. It was not only the people, the love and affection, the warmth and fun that struck me; I noticed too their comfortable homes, which were well furnished, my friends’ bedrooms, painted in pastel colours, with proper beds and mirrors, pictures, lampshades and nick-nacks. All things I didn’t have. They showed me the colourful clothes in their wardrobes, their toys and books. It was a revelation to me.

The most important difference for me, the starkest contrast, was that I knew my parents would never welcome my friends into our home. Indeed, my friends wouldn’t even come and call for me. I asked them why.

‘I don’t like your dad,’ said one.

‘We’re frightened of him,’ said another.

So instead I had to call on them or meet up somewhere. I remember those friends and classmates with great affection. We were just normal kids, having fun – a new experience for me. I loved those carefree times together – life away from home. It was a very happy contrast.

Another place I found kindness was the Cullercoats Fisherman’s Mission, a Methodist church at the end of our street. Neither of my parents ever went to church – my father was an atheist – but I was curious, so when a girl in my class who lived near me asked if I’d like to go with her to church, I went. It was the Sunshine Corner bible study class, and here I became a ‘Sunbeam for Jesus’. I started going to church services twice every Sunday, and suddenly I was part of something. Something that included people who were friendly and caring, who were interested in me and welcomed me. I loved the time I spent there. I involved myself in all the activities, the religious life of the church, and got to know many members of the congregation. It felt as if I had a new, kinder family. I felt I belonged to something. I believed I really was a sunbeam for Jesus. My parents never visited the church with me or came to see what I was learning. This helped me to feel that my being there was a special time doing something that was mine only, something my parents couldn’t touch.

One of the church’s big occasions was Easter. All the children learned a piece from the Bible, a few verses which we recited in front of the congregation on Easter Sunday. I learned my piece by heart – I could have recited it in my sleep! When the big day came, my mother said she would come and watch me do my recital. We sat in the choir stalls, which were raised above the rest of the congregation, and each child in turn stood up to recite their verse. I was excited beyond belief, especially as my mother was sitting there, watching. Then my turn came, and I stood up to do my recital . . . and passed out.