My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story (23 page)

The following morning I was resolute. I went to the bus stop early, and when I arrived at the college, I asked to see the Principal.

He had a kindly manner. He must have noticed my red eyes and sensed some anxiety. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

I explained the problem about my father’s anger when I told him about doing this course.

‘He really needs me to get a job and bring some money into the house,’ I said. ‘He refuses to let me study for two years. But I really do want to do this course.’

He sat in thought for a few seconds, twitched his nose and considered what I’d said. Finally he leaned forward and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. Let’s talk this through and see if there is some way you can do the course – perhaps an arrangement that your father will agree to?’

I nodded, grateful that he seemed so sympathetic to my situation. We discussed the course itself and different options there might be that would be more likely to satisfy my father. Finally he proposed a solution.

‘It will be a big pressure for you – a lot of intensive work – but I think we could arrange for you to do the whole course compressed into just one year, if you are willing to do all the extra studying in that time. You’ll have to work twice as hard. Do you think you could manage that?’

I didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, I don’t mind working hard. I really want to do it – this is my big chance. Thank you.’

‘And you’ll talk about it with your father?’

‘Yes, I’ll tell him when I get home,’ I agreed. ‘Thank you so much.’

I didn’t say that I was still afraid of what his answer might be. I’d have to deal with that on my own.

That evening, quaking, I approached my father when he was relaxing in the lounge.

‘I went to see the Principal at the college today,’ I began in trepidation. ‘I told him you don’t want me to do the course in two years, and he said I could do the whole thing in one year, if you agree. This is the one thing I really want to do, more than anything, and I’m prepared to work twice as hard to achieve it in one year, if you’ll let me.’

My father’s reply was adamant. ‘No. I cannot allow it. There is no way you can do this course. I forbid you to go to that college again. You have to get a job and earn some money. The sooner the better.’

I used all of my teenage negotiating skills to try and bring my father round to at least consider my point of view. I explained the potential benefits to the household if I gained a qualification that would enable me to earn more. Gradually he calmed down a little.

Finally I consolidated my plea. ‘I promise that, if you will allow me to do this course, I will get a part-time job somewhere in the evenings or at the weekends.’ I realized this was an impossible ask. I could never successfully complete an intensive course, with so much extra study, while at the same time doing a part-time job. But it was my only chance. To my great relief, this was the decider.

‘All right. As long as you pay towards your board and keep. You’ll have to pay for all your own books and study materials too, mind.’

I had no other option but to agree. ‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Dad.’

That year remains a blur to me. All I can remember is the extreme fatigue and stress, the intensity of balancing my coursework with my part-time job in a supermarket, not to mention my dysfunctional family. I had no time for a social life, although Mike remained a good friend in the background, nothing more. My health suffered. Always tired, I caught one thing after another: throat infections, stomach upsets and colds. To make it worse, there were many nights when insomnia set in and I couldn’t sleep. But somehow I kept on going. I lurched from one day to the next, utterly determined to achieve my goal. How I managed to get through it all I don’t know, but I did. At last I had earned a qualification.

I was elated, and now the bright light on my horizon, the thing I most looked forward to, was my boyfriend Simon’s arrival from England. We had continued writing to each other throughout my time in South Africa, and now he was ready to come and join me. My parents agreed that he should move in with us and get a mechanic’s job in Pretoria, as planned. How we were going to manage on my balcony, I couldn’t imagine.

CHAPTER 20

Helen

Tales of the Unexpected

My father’s new job, working as a fitter for the South African Iron and Steel company, came with a three-bedroom house in Pretoria West. Thank goodness! I had a proper bedroom at last, and, with my newly acquired qualification, I had found myself a good job as secretary to the manager of a major car dealership in the west of the city. My newfound confidence gave me great hope for the future.

I was impatient to see Simon again after all this time. I had qualms, of course, following such a long absence – would we still feel the same about each other when we met? Or had we grown apart? Could our relationship survive, living in the ‘madhouse’ of my family life?

I needn’t have worried as we immediately re-established our former closeness. He was excited about his future – his new job and our life together in South Africa. We both were. We paid board and lodging to my father every week, a separate bedroom for each of us. After all, we weren’t married and this was my parents’ home.

My father’s behaviour, always unpredictable, now became increasingly bizarre. His practical jokes in particular took on a macabre quality.

I came out of the bathroom one morning and walked straight into a scene from a horror movie. Tommy was hanging from the door frame. He had a noose around his neck and hung with his head to one side, his face contorted into a fixed grimace and his tongue lolling out. A wave of nausea hit me. My hands became clammy, my legs weakened, and I fainted to the floor. What I failed to notice was that my father was holding onto the door frame as he hung. I came to as he let himself down and burst into laughter.

‘No sense of humour – that’s your trouble!’ he berated me. ‘Can’t you take a joke?’

On another occasion, one hot African night, a bat flew into our house. Dad picked up the fly-swatter and chased the bat from room to room. It might have been funny to some people watching this grotesque pantomime, but when he cornered the bat he laughed in a manic frenzy as he beat it to death.

‘Stop it!’ I pleaded repeatedly, in vain.

Tommy pounded the creature to pulp. The memory of his demented laughter as he finally stopped still has the power to send shivers through me.

After work one evening a neighbour stopped at our gate for a chat with him. It seemed an unlikely coincidence, but apparently this man was the hangman for Pretoria, and he told my dad that he was due to hang someone the following day. My father was fascinated, but the hangman expressed some emotional difficulty with the nature of his job, which surprised my father. I rather suspect he would have relished the hangman’s work.

The following day the hangman performed the execution as required. ‘It was a good job I talked him round,’ said Tommy that evening. ‘I knew it would help.’

His smug expression left me cold. Simon, who was getting to know my father better, shuddered with distaste.

It wasn’t easy living with my parents – and their demands. ‘Cook the dinner, do the washing up, iron my shirts . . .’ My father always had to give the orders in our house. He had to be the boss and exert his authority on Simon as well: ‘You will not smoke in this house without my permission.’ Even though he smoked himself. We couldn’t even play the radio quietly without him shouting at us to ‘turn that rubbish off’.

Simon and I talked of our dream – to set up a home of our own one day. This spurred us on as we worked hard and planned our future together. We went out as much as we could, to get away from my parents.

Out of nowhere, our plans were jolted once again.

‘I’ve got a new job in Johannesburg,’ announced my father when he got home one evening. ‘We’re all going to move there next week.’

Simon looked the way I felt – shocked and devastated.

‘We don’t want to go to Johannesburg,’ I began. ‘We’ve both got good jobs and friends here. We could get our own apartment and stay here.’

‘No you bloody won’t.’ He slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. ‘You’re only eighteen. Much too young. There’s no way you’re going to leave home yet. Not till you’re at least twenty-one.’ He gave a cruel laugh. ‘I will not allow it.’

‘But . . .’

‘I will not allow it,’ he repeated. ‘You will both get new jobs in Johannesburg, and that’s all I’m going to bloody well say on the matter!’

Simon and I talked about this over the next two or three days. Although he was twenty-one, I was still considered to be a minor. Lots of people were allowed to leave home at eighteen, especially if they could earn their own living, but my father wanted to continue his ownership and control of me. There had to be a way.

I phoned the British Embassy and talked it through with someone there.

‘The trouble is,’ said the kindly voice, ‘that if you were in England, you could legally leave home. But here in South Africa, you are not considered an adult until you reach the age of twenty-one.’

‘But I’m a British citizen.’

‘Yes, but I’m afraid that makes no difference here. You live here, so you have to abide by South African law. I’m really sorry that I cannot help you further.’

We should have left there and then to go back to England. We nearly did, but my mother heard us talking.

‘How could you possibly think of leaving me?’ she wailed. That made me feel really guilty, as I knew my living with them made things easier for her. I was torn. Simon voiced what I had already acknowledged to myself: we’d have to go to Johannesburg.

Luckily, we all found good jobs when we arrived, which helped us settle in. Simon and my dad worked together at British Leyland as final vehicle assembly inspectors. I cannot imagine how difficult that was for Simon. By now he had recognized what my father was and disliked him intensely.

The only way we could find some privacy for talking in the evenings was to go and sit in the car. Simon was exasperated living with my parents, particularly my father, but he found my mother difficult too. She demanded that he call her Mam. Well, she wasn’t his Mam, but she demanded it, so he always had to call her that. To his credit, he put up with an awful lot. Life with my parents was a roller coaster that we couldn’t get off.

At this stage, my mother, not having a job, became increasingly possessive of me. Perhaps she feared that the day was approaching when I would leave home and abandon her. Though she had never shown me any love, I recognized that she was needy and tried to pacify her, mostly to give us an easier life. Every lunchtime Mercia expected me to call her from work and spend my whole lunch-break talking to her while the other girls went out or did some shopping, as girls do. It was quite ridiculous, really. I had only seen her that morning, so we rarely had anything new to talk about.

One particularly busy day, we all had to work through lunchtime with only coffee to keep us going, so I didn’t have a chance to call her. When I got home that evening, she refused to speak to me. During dinner, she turned to Dad.

‘Do you know? Helen couldn’t even be bothered to call me at lunchtime today and I was alone all day. I didn’t have a soul to speak to.’

‘Really?’ sympathized my father

‘I waited all afternoon for her to call. But she didn’t give me a thought; neglected her own mother.’ She paused and gave me her ‘martyr’ look.

‘I couldn’t get to the phone,’ I explained. ‘We had to work all through lunch today so I couldn’t call you.’

‘She didn’t even apologize properly when she got home.’ She puckered her brow and drew her lips together.

My father slammed his knife down on the table and turned to me. ‘It’s your duty to think of your mother. You must call her every day, no matter what, to make sure she’s all right here, on her own.’

My mother continued her sullen silence with me, so I stopped making lunchtime calls. One less apron string.

Some weeks later, we had just finished dinner when Dad turned to Simon and me. ‘So when are you two going to get married?’

We were stunned! We had talked about it from time to time, of course, but we always came to the conclusion that he would never agree to our marriage, not until after I was twenty-one. We were so surprised by this unexpected question that we didn’t answer. Just looked at each other.

‘It’s about time you got married. Of course, you would have to stay living here, and you’re both earning good money, so when you get married you can pay half the rent and all the bills.’

We should have seen the signs, but we were too excited to notice. We weren’t going to miss this opportunity.

The date was set for five months away, when I would be nineteen. We had lots of things to think about and began to get organized. We planned a full church wedding, followed by a reception at home. I tried to involve my mother, but she showed no interest at all. Indeed, she wouldn’t even talk about it. I got the feeling she was resentful about our getting married. Even when I went to have a fitting for my wedding dress, she refused to come with me, so I asked a friend from work to come instead. We had to pay for everything, Simon and I. My parents contributed nothing, though my father did begrudgingly agree to pay for the simple reception buffet which we ordered from the caterers.

‘What are you going to wear?’ I asked my mother as the day approached.

‘I don’t know, and I don’t care,’ was her reply.

I persuaded her to come into town with me and try on some clothes, thinking this might make her feel more positive. But no, it was an awful day. She didn’t like any of the outfits she tried on. I don’t think she wanted to like them. Finally, we found a silver-grey dress and matching jacket. She didn’t actively dislike it, so I bought it for her with my own money, and the hat, gloves and shoes to go with it. She didn’t thank me.

When everyone had left for the church, it was just me and my father in the house. Finally I was ready. I was both excited and nervous, and I hoped I looked my best. My father would surely be proud of me as the radiant bride today.