My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story (24 page)

I went into the living room wearing my wedding dress with the veil down and holding my bouquet.

Tommy looked at me, his face expressionless. ‘You look very nice,’ he muttered and turned his back on me. He seemed almost embarrassed at seeing me and couldn’t wait to get out of the house. ‘Come on, then.’

As we went out to the car, I was struck by a terrible empty feeling of disappointment, as if he’d let me down again. He could have tried to show some pride in me, even if he didn’t feel it.

On the way to the church, we sat side by side with a silent chasm separating us. Finally, without turning his head, he muttered in a sullen voice, ‘You can change your mind, you know. If you want to change your mind, I’ll back you all the way.’

I was speechless with shock. It was as if he was pouring icy water on the happiest day I’d ever had. I couldn’t think why he’d said it, but I was sure I didn’t want to change my mind, so I said nothing and tried to put it out of my thoughts, determined to enjoy my special day.

The church wedding was a lovely ceremony and everything went well. Sadly, none of Simon’s family nor George and Joan could afford the fares to come and help us celebrate, but they sent telegrams, and we had some good friends there to share our joy, as well as my parents.

All our guests seemed happy, apart from my mother. She just stood around when we went outside for photographs. She talked to no one and stayed on the edge, passive, ignoring everything. Even when cajoled kindly by the photographer, she barely managed a straight-mouthed smile. She kept her lips firmly clamped together and her eyes on the middle distance, beyond the churchyard.

We had a wonderful afternoon at the reception until the catering lady approached me. Loud enough to be overheard, she told me my father had refused to pay her. There I was on my special day, in my beautiful dress, surrounded by all our friends . . . humiliated. Naturally I didn’t have any money on me, so I had to ask Simon to take care of it. We could not believe that Tommy would do this to us on our wedding day.

The great news that came a few days later made up for it. My father told us he had found himself another job working for a company that was building a landing strip at Windhoek airport. My heart sank at first on hearing this: not another battle. But I was amazed to find that neither of my parents seemed to expect us to go. Apparently, now that we were married, my father could no longer exert any control over me by law. He must have known this, because he didn’t even try. It was such a relief when we waved them off to Windhoek. Now Simon and I would be left to our own devices.

At last we moved into a brand new apartment of our own at Germiston, near Johannesburg. This was the first time in my life that I’d been allowed to live outside my parental home, and the sense of freedom was intoxicating. We were thrilled to have this beautiful flat to ourselves, to be able to do what we liked, when we liked. We planned with great excitement how we would have it, ordered furniture and arranged our lives to suit ourselves. One of our greatest treats was inviting friends to visit our home. I had never been able to do this before, so now we enjoyed relaxing evenings, eating with friends and chatting as late as we wished.

We lived on the fourth floor, with a balcony overlooking the bustling main street below. Shortly after we moved there I found out that all the flats were ‘serviced’, which meant that someone would come and clean our apartment every day. It was included in the rent, so it wouldn’t cost us anything extra, but I felt deeply uncomfortable with this. It was our home, and it didn’t feel right for a stranger to be there when we were out. I suppose I was a little naive, because I decided to tell the African man who was our cleaner that I didn’t need a cleaner and would therefore not require his services. It didn’t occur to me this might have an effect on him, but of course this was South Africa, the apartheid regime.

The man began to cry, great tears running down his cheeks.

I didn’t know why, so I asked him, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘If I do not clean the flat, madam, I will lose my job.’

I could have kicked myself for being so insensitive to this gentle man. I realized I must change my mind straightaway. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Please ignore what I said. You are welcome to come and clean our flat every day.’

‘Thank you, madam,’ he said, smiling through his tears. I thought for a moment he was going to shake my hand or give me a hug, but then I realized this would be forbidden.

Of course, it still felt wrong and I didn’t really want him to do our cleaning, but I couldn’t see him out of a job, just because of me.

Shortly after we moved into our apartment, it was Simon’s birthday. I remember it so clearly – 20 July 1969, a momentous day, celebrated across the world as the day of the first moon landing. Sadly, South Africa did not permit televisions as they were meant to be a corrupting influence. I recall the frustration of knowing that back home in Northumberland we would have been able to watch Neil Armstrong taking that first step, that ‘giant leap’, as it happened, whereas here we could only hear about it on the radio. Strangely, though, we found it almost more riveting because we couldn’t see it and had to imagine the scenes as they happened.

That night, as the silver light shone through our bedroom window, I was so excited to think that men were actually walking on the moon that I got up at 3 a.m. and slipped out onto the balcony. I was amazed to see the revelry in the street below. It was like a carnival atmosphere, with people dancing and bands playing music. I woke Simon and we ran out of the flat and down in the lift to join in. We all bought the newspapers next morning to see the pictures of men on the moon and read all about it.

As well as spending evenings with friends, we sometimes drove thirty miles through the scented evening air to the nearest drive-in cinema so that we could see the latest movies. These were such carefree days for us.

One morning, there was a white envelope amongst the bills As soon as I recognized the writing, I knew something was wrong. The blood drained from my face and my skin turned cold. Once a week my parents wrote us a letter and my father always addressed it. This letter was out of turn, and the writing on the envelope was my mother’s.

I held it and stared at it for a few seconds, not wanting to open it, but eventually I reached for a knife and carefully made a slit along the top. In trepidation, I pulled out the single, thin sheet of paper. There were only a few lines to read, but they were enough to threaten our newfound happiness. I had known it would be something bad, but it was worse than I could have expected. My father, aged only fifty-one, had suffered a heart attack and was dangerously ill in hospital.

‘You have to come and see him,’ my mother wrote. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ Then, plaintively, ‘He asked for you.’

I gulped. My father had never asked for me in his life. Now he wanted me to come to him, and my mother was almost begging me to go at once. A flood of confused emotions hit me. My dad was seriously ill in a strange town hundreds of miles away. I began to tremble from the shock of this news. Of course I must go.

I wanted to go anyway, beset by fear for him and for us all. What would happen if . . .? No, I couldn’t think about that now. I was surprised to feel love for this man who had been the monster of my childhood years. At this moment he was my dad in a foreign land and he needed my help.

The company I worked for were fantastic when I told them and immediately arranged a flight on their own private plane to get me to Windhoek. I gazed out in wonder at the stunning African panorama below, the ‘Big Hole’ in Kimberley caused by diamond mining, the Kalahari desert and the wildlife scattered across the plain.

When I arrived, I got a taxi straight to the hospital. Dad was gravely ill, in coronary care, wearing an oxygen mask and attached to a heart monitor. He was in a private room with a crucifix above his bed. Mum and I stayed with him for a long time and he seemed to improve slightly. Finally, exhausted, we went back to their house for a change of clothes and something to eat. As we sat down, my mother told me what had happened.

‘When he came home from work, he was in terrible pain. I think that’s when he was having a heart attack.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I called an ambulance and they rushed him to the hospital.’

‘It’s quite a small hospital. Do you think they’re treating him properly?’

‘Well, I know it looks basic, but everything is very clean and the nuns care for the patients well. They seem to have all the equipment they need to help Dad.’

‘Why are there nuns?’

‘It’s a Catholic hospital,’ she said. ‘When we got there, even through his pain, Dad saw the cross and demanded it be taken down. He told them he’s an atheist, but they said they couldn’t take it down. He was angry about that, which didn’t help.’

‘Have you spoken to a heart consultant?’ I asked.

‘Aye. He said Dad’s in a bad way, but he’s holding his own.’

Just then, the phone rang. Mum went to answer it.

‘Quick. We have to go back. He’s very poorly.’

We rushed back to the hospital and found him alone in his room. Suddenly, right there in front of us, my father arrested – he turned blue and stopped breathing. We called for the nurse, but no one came, and I realized I had to do something fast. I was nineteen years old and had no training at all, but instinct kicked in.

I thumped his chest with my fist. Then I applied regular pressure and tried to encourage his breathing. ‘Come on, Dad,’ I said. ‘Breathe. Breathe for me. You have to breathe. You can’t leave now. You’re my dad.’

I worked and worked on him. I didn’t know whether I was doing the right thing, but I kept on with it anyway. Then the miracle happened. Well, that’s how it seemed to me. He started to breathe again. I could feel his chest moving and his heart started beating steadily once more.

He opened his eyes. ‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said. ‘From up there.’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘I saw you pounding my chest. I saw it all.’ Then he looked at the crucifix. ‘And there was someone else there.’

His eyes watered and tears ran down his cheeks as he turned to me. ‘You saved my life.’ He held my hand and wept openly.

All of those years of violence and neglect faded away in that moment. I looked down at him and felt nothing but compassion for him.

The nuns eventually came in and took over his care, as I sat down, shaking and weak. One of them brought me a cup of sweet tea.

‘She saved his life,’ said my mother. It was the first time I had ever heard pride in her voice when talking about me.

The nun who had brought me the tea placed her hand on my head. ‘Bless you, my child.’ Then she was gone.

For my whole life, from the time when I was a small child, I had always believed, hoped, that if I could be ‘good’, the best I could possibly be, it might change things. That by being a good daughter, I could make my mother love me and my father change for the better. I just wanted to be special to them. Sitting there, holding my father’s hand, I supposed this powerful experience we had shared was for a reason. Perhaps now things would change between us all.

In those days, in South Africa, if someone had a long-term health problem, there was no extended ‘sick leave’ or care provided. Since my father was considered too unwell to do his job, when he was discharged from hospital, his employer fired him. With a sense of dread, I realized that the only solution was for my parents to come to Johannesburg and live with us. We would look after them until my father recovered. My mother was not working and had no qualifications to obtain any work, so we would have to pay for everything, as usual.

We found a three-bedroomed house in Benoni and arranged to move in the day they arrived in Johannesburg. Dad was still very weak, and when we opened the front door of our new house, the house for which Simon and I were going to pay the rent, my parents walked into the master bedroom.

‘We’ll have this room,’ said my father. ‘You two can choose one of the other rooms.’

I was about to say something, but I bit my lip. He was a sick man who needed some comfort to help him get better. I couldn’t deny him that. We’d be fine in the small spare room.

As we unpacked our things, my parents took over the lounge and kitchen. A great sadness engulfed me. Simon and I had only been allowed to revel in our freedom for such a short time.

CHAPTER 21

Helen

The Gun Chase

‘I’m pregnant,’ I grinned. I was bubbling over with excitement.

‘That’s wonderful.’ Simon gave me a huge hug.

‘Hey, not so tight,’ I teased him, then held his hand to my tummy.

He looked almost reverent as he exclaimed, ‘I‘m going to be a dad!’

We were both absolutely thrilled with our news, and realized that sharing the house with my parents would make it difficult to keep a secret. So we decided to tell them after dinner. ‘We’re going to have a baby,’ I announced.

After a flicker of surprise, my father grunted and went straight back to reading his newspaper. You’d think I had told him a fly had died.

Simon took my hand in his and turned to my mother. ‘We thought you’d be pleased.’

She looked from one to the other of us. ‘Well, one thing about being pregnant,’ she smirked. ‘Everyone knows what you’ve been doing, don’t they?’

Our happiness turned to shock. How could she say such a terrible thing, especially in front of my husband? I squirmed. It was naive, I suppose, but we both thought they would be happy. Not at all – I was stunned at their indifference, their lack of support.

At fifty-two, Tommy’s chronic health problems made him subdued, even withdrawn some days. Conversely, my mother brightened. She had reprised her role as mistress of the house. Of course, it was our house and we paid for everything. But my mother took over.

This situation could never have worked out for long, but we felt we had no other option. Why did I continue to do as they commanded, without question? Simon was the same. Anything to keep the fragile peace, I suppose.