My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story by Helen Edwards, Jenny Lee Smith Page B

worst thing was when my mother screamed, ‘Just you wait. One of these days you will come home and I’ll be gone. I’ll just put my coat on and walk out of here. I’ll walk into the sea and you’ll never ever see me again.’
    This consumed my thoughts. I was terrified. I couldn’t get the image of her walking into the sea out of my mind. I think I went into shock. How could she leave me? What would I do?
    One Sunday I was downstairs when they started. I was in the way, so Tommy picked me up and slammed me into the kitchen wall. Flattened, the breath knocked out of me, flaming darts of pain shot through my spine. As I collapsed onto the floor, my back on fire, they battled on, oblivious, wrapped up in their mutual rage. I struggled to subdue the pain and looked for an opportunity to escape.
    Relieved to find a moment at last, I stumbled upstairs and shut my door. The pain subsided to a deep throb as I lay still on my bed. It didn’t occur to me then that it might be anything serious. It was weeks before the pain faded to a dull ache, but I tried to hide it, and my parents never noticed. I’d have been in more trouble if they had.
    From a very young age, I understood that my mother was overstepping the boundaries with relish. She aggravated Tommy beyond reason. If she would only be quiet for a minute. I willed her to stop, but no – every time, it came to a point where he suddenly snapped. He lost control and punched her in the face or pushed her to the ground.
    One day, when George was there, he tried to intervene at the early stages of a row. Each of them was pushing and jabbing at the other in the chest, backwards and forwards, Tommy more strongly than Mercia, doing their dance of anger. Nose to nose they spat out scathing insults.
    ‘You’re such a big man, aren’t you, pushing a little woman like me around?’ she goaded.
    ‘And you’re such a bitch, always trying to find ways to annoy me. You bloody well do it on purpose!’ he shouted. Then he hit out at her.
    George was seventeen now, a strapping lad, as tall as Tommy. He stepped forward and tried to push himself between them. ‘Please calm down, Dad,’ he said. ‘You’re not doing any good, hitting out at Mam. Stop this now!’
    But in his anger, my father gained superhuman strength. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do in my own house? I’m the boss here,’ he said furiously, and then manhandled George all the way through the house and out of the front door. ‘Get out . . . and don’t come back!’
    As Tommy turned towards the kitchen he spotted me at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You see? You’ve caused this again. It’s all your fault. Come here!’
    I ran upstairs as fast as I could towards the sanctuary of my bedroom with Tommy, now a purple-faced ogre, chasing me two stairs at a time. I tried not to fall, to get to the top before he caught me, but it was too late. The blows started, his fists flailed. As he hit me repeatedly, I cried and cried. What had I done? Why was it my fault? When would he stop?
    Once it was over, between my sobs, I heard Tommy storm out of the house. Mercia bashed things about, ranting and raving to an invisible audience. Finally the air fell silent. A bruised peace enveloped us and the house heaved another sigh of relief. My whole body smarted from my father’s blows. I curled up in the corner, hot tears streaming down my face. What had I done? Whatever it was, it must have been very, very bad.
    I had learned early on to try and be the peacemaker. Bruised and sobbing, I tiptoed downstairs. My mother was slumped in a chair, exhausted. I put on the kettle and made her a cup of tea. I climbed up on a chair and reached down the prettiest plate from the top cupboard, arranged some biscuits on it and took it through on a tray.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mammy. I’m sorry . . .’ I tried to soothe her.
    She remained silent. No acknowledgement of me or the tea I’d brought her. She sat and stared out of the window, her face white