My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story by Helen Edwards, Jenny Lee Smith Read Free Book Online

elicited some sympathetic nods.
    ‘Poor you. What a shame your husband couldn’t bring you,’ said the receptionist.
    ‘My arms really hurt from all that carrying. And it’s all been such a shock. Do you think you could make me some tea, dear, good and strong?’ She had deep, brown puppy eyes, my mother – capable of melting hearts wherever she went.
    ‘Thank you. It’s been awful for me. I don’t know how I managed to carry her so far. But somehow I managed and got her here.’
    ‘Ee, well done, pet,’ said the orderly who made the tea.
    ‘Very brave,’ said the young doctor, smiling kindly at my mother, who was still a good-looking woman.
    ‘I never slept a wink all last night, worrying about her.’ She combed her hand through her waves of auburn hair.
    ‘Well, young lady,’ said the nurse, turning to me for the first time. ‘I think you should thank your mother for being so devoted to you.’
    ‘Thank you, Mammy,’ I said, trying to hold back the tears. ‘I’m really s-sorry.’
    They put me in a knee-high plaster, with a small ‘walking heel’. Then, joy of joys, I was given a ride home in an ambulance, which made me feel very important, especially at the end of our journey when it stopped in our road and all of the neighbours came out to look. For the first time all day, I was given some sympathy for myself.
    ‘Ee, what a terrible time I’ve had,’ complained my mother. ‘I had to carry her all the way to the hospital this morning. Nobody offered us an ambulance then. I’m worn out.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Mammy. Thank you for carrying me.’
    This went on for weeks. She would tell everyone in Seghill, down the street, in the shops, and the family too. ‘I had a terrible time of it, carrying her all the way to the hospital, you know. Exhausting it was. And little thanks I got!’
    As children do, I made a quick recovery and soon forgot the pain. Before long I learned how to race around like any healthy five-year-old, plaster or not. In fact, my plaster was a positive bonus with my friends at school, especially the ‘walking heel’. I found I could spin on the heel, ‘ski’ across wooden floors and perform all manner of tricks with this fantastic new ‘toy’.
    With the inevitability of hindsight, the day came when my boisterous antics broke the plaster and I had to go back to the hospital for a new one. My father was away on a long-haul trip then, so my mother had no one at home to moan to except me, but she made up for it a few days later, after my father had returned from his trip, when I broke my plaster again. This time the hospital gave up on the plaster and put my leg in a kind of splint made out of layers of two-inch elastoplast, right up to my knee.
    My father was livid when he got home.
    ‘Our Helen’s broken her plaster again,’ my mother told him ‘We’ve been all the way back to the hospital to have a third new plaster fitted. We called for an ambulance this time, but it took all day and they decided not to put a plaster on again, so they bandaged it tightly instead.’
    My father’s face darkened as he took a look at my leg in its elastoplast binding. ‘How did you do this?’ He exploded with rage. ‘What were you doing?’
    I hesitated.
    ‘You will answer me!’ he shouted into my face.
    ‘I was only playing, Daddy . . .’
    ‘Don’t you remember I told you not to walk on it?’ The fact that it was a walking heel was lost on him.
    ‘Y-yes,’ I whispered.
    Without another word, he picked me up roughly, put me across his knee and held me down with one hand pressing on my back, while he pounded me on my bottom with the other as hard as he could, on and on and on.
    I cried out. I screamed. I bawled as the tears streamed down my face. My whole back was in pain as he pummelled me till I was black and blue. He took no notice of my protests, nor of the fragile binding on my leg, which was under pressure and throbbed throughout the beating.
    Finally, when he was tired,