Read My Secret Sister: Jenny Lucas and Helen Edwards' Family Story for Free Online Page B

hobble, this time with her reluctant support. She complained all the way to the village ‘bone-setter’. At least, that’s what they called him. He had no medical training and was more of a manipulator for aching muscles than anything to do with bones. But I didn’t know that.
    His look of shock alarmed me. ‘There’s nothing I can do with this,’ he said. ‘It’s broken. You’ll have to take her to the hospital.’
    My mother was forced to carry me back home, grumbling all the way.
    ‘If you hadn’t been so clumsy, you wouldn’t have hurt your ankle.’
    ‘Sorry, Mammy,’ I sobbed.
    ‘You’re much too heavy for me to carry. If you don’t keep still, I’ll have to put you down.’ She knocked my ankle with her arm.
    ‘Owww,’ I yelped.
    ‘Stop that noise . . . and stop fidgeting – you’re making my arms hurt.’
    We arrived back home and my mother plonked me down on a chair while she went out to the phone box on the corner to ring my father’s workplace. Dad was out driving his lorry, so she left a message with his employers to let him know of my accident. I don’t think she told them what kind of accident it was. I found out afterwards that he drove home like a demon.
    ‘Your dad’s on his way. He’ll be home soon,’ she said when she got back. She made me some toast, laden with butter and jam. Normally I would have loved that, but I felt sick, so I could only nibble a corner.
    ‘Eat up your toast,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to eat something.’
    I couldn’t eat it, and I must have made a face, trying my hardest to quell the nausea.
    ‘That’s the last time I do anything for you, miss. You needn’t think a broken ankle will get you any treats.’
    ‘Sorry, Mam. I feel sick,’ I said. I think the shock and the pain were all too much for me.
    ‘Well, don’t be sick in here. You’d better go up and get ready for your bed.’
    I was five years old and had a broken ankle, but I had to crawl up the stairs and get undressed on my own with tears streaming down my face and pains like shards shooting through me with every movement. And on top of my pain, and the guilt I felt for upsetting my mother, I feared what my father would do. Mam had said he was coming home early. I thought it was because I had done something wrong. It was my fault I’d broken my ankle and I was sure I’d be in trouble. I realize now that probably wasn’t the reason for him rushing home like that, but I was five and I already knew that everything was my fault.
    When Dad got home he came straight up to my bedroom. My mother followed him up. ‘She’s broken her ankle,’ she explained.
    ‘Is that all it is?’ he asked. ‘I thought it was something serious. You mean you made me leave early and race home for this? Just a broken ankle?’ They went downstairs and left me alone again.
    That was it. Nobody did anything – there was no strapping, no support and no sympathy. I was left in the dark, crying through the pain. I remember how even the weight of the blankets was agony. The only thing that helped was stuffing my pillow down one side of the bed to raise them and take the weight off. I couldn’t sleep. It would have been hard to feel more lonely in the slow, dark hours before dawn.
    Finally, next morning, my mother came into my room. ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to get ready to go to the hospital. We’d better get on with it.’
    She must have heard me crying in the night, but she didn’t say anything about it. Just her usual straight face, as cold as stone.
    We took the bus to the General Hospital about eight miles away. Of course I wasn’t able to walk, so Mam carried me to the bus stop, and from the bus stop in Newcastle to the hospital. We were there all day.
    She told everybody who would listen what a trial I had been to her.
    ‘Ee, I’ve carried her all the way. I know she doesn’t look much, but she’s really heavy, and – look at me – I’m only slight.’ Her put-upon look