Read Online My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story by Helen Edwards, Jenny Lee Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Helen Edwards, Jenny Lee Smith
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and suddenly it was quiet again. I slumped, the tears poured down my cheeks, and my whole body was still shaking from the fear of witnessing yet another episode of domestic turmoil – almost a daily event.
I tiptoed downstairs to find George arriving home, opening the front door and helping Mercia limp through into the scullery. She sat down and he bathed her wounds. She gave him a weak smile; she often smiled at him. But she ignored me, as usual.
He looked over in my direction and we made silent eye contact. The warmth of that bond between us helped to gradually dispel the misery of our situation. I could read in George’s face the anger he felt that his little sister should have to witness such things.
But it wasn’t quite over. Mercia raged on in anger.
‘That bloody man. He’s a monster, an animal. He’s a no-good loser. I wish I’d never met him. He makes ma life a nightmare.’
Next she turned to me. ‘It’s all your fault. I wouldn’t have had to marry him if it wasn’t for you. I shouldn’t have kept you. You do all you can to ruin my life. I don’t know why I ever had bairns. They’re nothing but trouble. I could have been a model, you know. I could have had a glamorous life . . .’
‘Sorry, Mammy,’ I said as usual. I didn’t know why. I suppose I thought it might soothe her, make her feel better. But it never did.
Unable to calm down yet, she carried on maligning Tommy, moaning at me, smiling at George. ‘Thank goodness I’ve got you to look after me,’ she said to him.
‘Not for much longer. I’ll be off to sea soon.’
‘Must you go? I wish you wouldn’t go and leave me. How can you leave me?’
‘I have to go, Mam. It’s part of my engineering apprenticeship. Remember? I start next Monday.’
‘How could you leave me at the mercy of that brute?’ she fawned and fumed by turns. ‘If he kills me, it will be your fault. He’ll murder me one of these days. Then he’ll have to go to prison. He’ll feel at home in there, with his own kind.’ Mercia went on and on, like a terrier with a bone.
George sat at the table, solemn but seething, keeping his head down low. Suddenly, as if released from a catapult, he shot up straight in his chair and turned to our mother, his young face contorted with anger. ‘Why don’t you keep your mouth shut, Mam? You always make him worse. You know you needle him, but you still carry on. Helen and I are always the ones that suffer when you do that. Why do you have to be such a martyr ?’
There it was – the word that epitomized my mother in every way. She was a martyr her whole life long, though few people could have been less deserving of the term.
We didn’t have many visitors in our house; neither of my parents had friends. It was just the family who came, but only when Tommy was out – my mother made sure of that. Whenever we did have any of the aunties and uncles round, it was like a theatrical show. Mercia lit up, centre-stage, as soon as visitors arrived, and the lights didn’t go down till they left again. She welcomed them in with a vivacity that mesmerized me. She was like a different person. A glamorous stranger.
On this particular visit, she hustled them in with her usual hospitality. ‘Come in. Come out of the cold. I’m glad you came. It’s lovely to see you all. Give your coats to Helen. She’ll take them upstairs.’ She turned to me. ‘Put them on the bed carefully now.’
Then she led them all into the living room with a bounce in her step. ‘I’ve put the kettle on. We’ll have some tea and I’ve made a cake.’
I struggled upstairs with an enormous pile of coats and scarves, unable to see where I was going. As I laid them across my mother’s pretty counterpane, I heard the uncles’ laughter in the living room. Someone must have cracked a joke. I went down to join the party and watch the show.
‘Dorrie, you’re in the choir,’ said my mother. ‘Will you start us off with a sing-song?’
‘Oh aye,
I tiptoed downstairs to find George arriving home, opening the front door and helping Mercia limp through into the scullery. She sat down and he bathed her wounds. She gave him a weak smile; she often smiled at him. But she ignored me, as usual.
He looked over in my direction and we made silent eye contact. The warmth of that bond between us helped to gradually dispel the misery of our situation. I could read in George’s face the anger he felt that his little sister should have to witness such things.
But it wasn’t quite over. Mercia raged on in anger.
‘That bloody man. He’s a monster, an animal. He’s a no-good loser. I wish I’d never met him. He makes ma life a nightmare.’
Next she turned to me. ‘It’s all your fault. I wouldn’t have had to marry him if it wasn’t for you. I shouldn’t have kept you. You do all you can to ruin my life. I don’t know why I ever had bairns. They’re nothing but trouble. I could have been a model, you know. I could have had a glamorous life . . .’
‘Sorry, Mammy,’ I said as usual. I didn’t know why. I suppose I thought it might soothe her, make her feel better. But it never did.
Unable to calm down yet, she carried on maligning Tommy, moaning at me, smiling at George. ‘Thank goodness I’ve got you to look after me,’ she said to him.
‘Not for much longer. I’ll be off to sea soon.’
‘Must you go? I wish you wouldn’t go and leave me. How can you leave me?’
‘I have to go, Mam. It’s part of my engineering apprenticeship. Remember? I start next Monday.’
‘How could you leave me at the mercy of that brute?’ she fawned and fumed by turns. ‘If he kills me, it will be your fault. He’ll murder me one of these days. Then he’ll have to go to prison. He’ll feel at home in there, with his own kind.’ Mercia went on and on, like a terrier with a bone.
George sat at the table, solemn but seething, keeping his head down low. Suddenly, as if released from a catapult, he shot up straight in his chair and turned to our mother, his young face contorted with anger. ‘Why don’t you keep your mouth shut, Mam? You always make him worse. You know you needle him, but you still carry on. Helen and I are always the ones that suffer when you do that. Why do you have to be such a martyr ?’
There it was – the word that epitomized my mother in every way. She was a martyr her whole life long, though few people could have been less deserving of the term.
We didn’t have many visitors in our house; neither of my parents had friends. It was just the family who came, but only when Tommy was out – my mother made sure of that. Whenever we did have any of the aunties and uncles round, it was like a theatrical show. Mercia lit up, centre-stage, as soon as visitors arrived, and the lights didn’t go down till they left again. She welcomed them in with a vivacity that mesmerized me. She was like a different person. A glamorous stranger.
On this particular visit, she hustled them in with her usual hospitality. ‘Come in. Come out of the cold. I’m glad you came. It’s lovely to see you all. Give your coats to Helen. She’ll take them upstairs.’ She turned to me. ‘Put them on the bed carefully now.’
Then she led them all into the living room with a bounce in her step. ‘I’ve put the kettle on. We’ll have some tea and I’ve made a cake.’
I struggled upstairs with an enormous pile of coats and scarves, unable to see where I was going. As I laid them across my mother’s pretty counterpane, I heard the uncles’ laughter in the living room. Someone must have cracked a joke. I went down to join the party and watch the show.
‘Dorrie, you’re in the choir,’ said my mother. ‘Will you start us off with a sing-song?’
‘Oh aye,
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