Read Online My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story by Helen Edwards, Jenny Lee Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen Edwards, Jenny Lee Smith
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let’s sing some hymns,’ suggested Uncle James.
‘Or what about a good old-fashioned song?’ added Auntie Gladys.
‘“Daisy, Daisy”?’ pleaded cousins Jean and Gillian.
‘Right,’ agreed Auntie Dorrie and started us off. Everyone joined in – the adults and the children. There were five of us cousins there that day: John, Jean, Gillian, Melanie and me. Halfway through the singing, some of the uncles put on funny voices, competing with each other to see who could sound the most absurd. All of us children had a fit of the giggles, which started the adults off too.
Then my mother stood up and pretended to be an opera singer, putting on all the prima-donna airs and graces, warbling at the top of her voice.
‘Ee, our Mercia, you are a scream,’ gasped Uncle Marcus, almost choking with laughter.
‘You should have been on the stage,’ shrieked Auntie Nancy.
My mother glowed with pleasure as she exaggerated her stage bows and blew kisses to her admiring audience. ‘Thank you, dahlings,’ she purred. ‘I love you all.’
I watched this performance with amazement. Who was this? Was she really my mother, the same woman who did nothing but moan and argue when it was just us in the house? The woman who rarely smiled, and never at me?
After tea and cake, it was time to go home.
‘Helen, go and get the coats.’
‘Yes, Mam.’
I piled them up and struggled back down the stairs, stumbled on the bottom step and only just held on to them.
They all took their coats and turned to my mother to thank her before stepping out into the darkness, muffled up to their chins against the cold, still chuckling and joking in the night air as they went.
‘Come again soon,’ my mother called, waving after them, a broad smile on her face – till they disappeared round the corner. Then there was a sudden switch as she dropped her party mask and scowled at me, back to normal again. ‘Clear the table and put the dishes in the scullery,’ she said. ‘And don’t drop any of them. I need to put my feet up. I’m worn out.’
My father was almost as much an enigma as my mother. As a prisoner of war, he had suffered many ignominies that challenged his need to control everybody in his life. He talked about it very little, although he did tell me once that every morning for ten days the Japanese guards told him he was going to be shot.
‘We shoot you. Ten days.’
They came up to his bamboo hut every morning, forced him to kneel, blindfolded him, cocked their pistols . . . and, as one day followed the next, backed out at the last moment, laughing at his fear. He was sure they would carry out the execution before the last day. The tenth morning came. They went through the same ritual, and this time he was certain it was his last breath. They paused for a long time. Then they told him to get up.
‘You go. Go . . . go,’ they laughed.
Can you imagine how that must have affected him?
On another occasion the guards ordered him to stand and watch as they said to a group of his fellow prisoners: ‘OK. You can go. Just go. Run. We let you go. Run.’ They made the men run away from them, though in their weakness they could hardly walk. They moved as best they could, and as they tried to run the guards shot them in the back, one by one.
My father never forgot that. Never forgave them. He burned with that flame of fury all his life. Maybe that’s what made him the tyrant he became in our house. He couldn’t be in control when he was a prisoner of war, but he could now. And he was going to make sure it would stay that way.
I remember Tommy’s husky voice – deep and rough from being such a heavy smoker, I suppose. His voice was a danger signal because when he was angry it rose in pitch. Rage shook his whole body – it was like an illness that overtook him. Perhaps it was an illness. The only way he could respond, his only remedy, was physical aggression towards anyone who happened to be there, me included. If I couldn’t
‘Or what about a good old-fashioned song?’ added Auntie Gladys.
‘“Daisy, Daisy”?’ pleaded cousins Jean and Gillian.
‘Right,’ agreed Auntie Dorrie and started us off. Everyone joined in – the adults and the children. There were five of us cousins there that day: John, Jean, Gillian, Melanie and me. Halfway through the singing, some of the uncles put on funny voices, competing with each other to see who could sound the most absurd. All of us children had a fit of the giggles, which started the adults off too.
Then my mother stood up and pretended to be an opera singer, putting on all the prima-donna airs and graces, warbling at the top of her voice.
‘Ee, our Mercia, you are a scream,’ gasped Uncle Marcus, almost choking with laughter.
‘You should have been on the stage,’ shrieked Auntie Nancy.
My mother glowed with pleasure as she exaggerated her stage bows and blew kisses to her admiring audience. ‘Thank you, dahlings,’ she purred. ‘I love you all.’
I watched this performance with amazement. Who was this? Was she really my mother, the same woman who did nothing but moan and argue when it was just us in the house? The woman who rarely smiled, and never at me?
After tea and cake, it was time to go home.
‘Helen, go and get the coats.’
‘Yes, Mam.’
I piled them up and struggled back down the stairs, stumbled on the bottom step and only just held on to them.
They all took their coats and turned to my mother to thank her before stepping out into the darkness, muffled up to their chins against the cold, still chuckling and joking in the night air as they went.
‘Come again soon,’ my mother called, waving after them, a broad smile on her face – till they disappeared round the corner. Then there was a sudden switch as she dropped her party mask and scowled at me, back to normal again. ‘Clear the table and put the dishes in the scullery,’ she said. ‘And don’t drop any of them. I need to put my feet up. I’m worn out.’
My father was almost as much an enigma as my mother. As a prisoner of war, he had suffered many ignominies that challenged his need to control everybody in his life. He talked about it very little, although he did tell me once that every morning for ten days the Japanese guards told him he was going to be shot.
‘We shoot you. Ten days.’
They came up to his bamboo hut every morning, forced him to kneel, blindfolded him, cocked their pistols . . . and, as one day followed the next, backed out at the last moment, laughing at his fear. He was sure they would carry out the execution before the last day. The tenth morning came. They went through the same ritual, and this time he was certain it was his last breath. They paused for a long time. Then they told him to get up.
‘You go. Go . . . go,’ they laughed.
Can you imagine how that must have affected him?
On another occasion the guards ordered him to stand and watch as they said to a group of his fellow prisoners: ‘OK. You can go. Just go. Run. We let you go. Run.’ They made the men run away from them, though in their weakness they could hardly walk. They moved as best they could, and as they tried to run the guards shot them in the back, one by one.
My father never forgot that. Never forgave them. He burned with that flame of fury all his life. Maybe that’s what made him the tyrant he became in our house. He couldn’t be in control when he was a prisoner of war, but he could now. And he was going to make sure it would stay that way.
I remember Tommy’s husky voice – deep and rough from being such a heavy smoker, I suppose. His voice was a danger signal because when he was angry it rose in pitch. Rage shook his whole body – it was like an illness that overtook him. Perhaps it was an illness. The only way he could respond, his only remedy, was physical aggression towards anyone who happened to be there, me included. If I couldn’t
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