Justice for Helen
Page 2
Margaret was only earning £3 a week at a jewellery shop and she had to pay for bus fares and lunches. And even Dad was only on £9 or £10 a week.
I remember feeling so proud going home with my first pay packet and handing it over to Mum, saying: ‘Here you are.’
She was reluctant to take it and the envelope went back and forth a few times before I agreed to keep a small amount back. ‘Just give me ten shillings, Mum,’ I volunteered. ‘That’s plenty.’ Eventually, we settled on twenty shillings – a pound in today’s money.
All went well until the day I was moved onto a new machine that made the cardboard inserts that slotted inside the biscuit tins. It worked so quickly, firing cardboard at me at faster intervals, that I struggled to keep up and grew increasingly flustered and red in the face by the second. One of the bosses came over to help, but he struggled too. By now, panic was setting in. As someone else took pity and pulled the plug on the machine, I promptly fainted and came to, being carried to the site nurse.
When the factory car pulled up at home, with me lying sheepishly in the back, Mum went mad. ‘That’s it,’ she insisted. ‘You are not going back there.’
I was so upset; I loved the job and the money was great, but Mum was adamant. Besides, it was easy to get work back then – you could literally leave one job on a Friday and start another on the Monday.
Mum asked Dad to put a word in for me at the Littlewoods Pools office and within days, I’d started there as a clerk – quickly joined by Margaret.
Despite being shy, I had a good circle of close friends and we loved going out to dances. When I was eighteen, my friend Sheila (who lived around the corner) and I arranged a coach trip to see the Blackpool lights. It was such a success that we started organising regular trips out to little pubs in the country. People would come up to us and ask: ‘When’s the next coach? Put me name down.’
The arrival of a new family, with a lad our age, two doors up from Sheila caused a stir of excitement among locals. Sheila said to me: ‘Shall we ask this new lad if he wants to come on our next coach trip?’ Mick Murphy said he would and could he bring his friend, Billy McCourt?
Our friend Barbara had her eye on Mick. He agreed to go on a date with her so long as we made it a double date with me and Billy. Initially, I refused – I had no interest in Billy. But my friends went mad. ‘Oh come on, Marie – don’t be mean,’ they cajoled. ‘What sort of a so-and-so mate are you?’
Eventually, I caved in. Barbara and Mick very quickly became an item and eventually got married. Sheila got married to her boyfriend, Ray. One by one, our friends settled down and started families as Billy and I ambled along together.
When he suggested getting married as well, I replied, ‘OK, if you want to.’ I suppose we just fell into it – it was what you did in those days.
We married in 1964 – using some of my unexpected windfall to pay for it. I wanted a baby so much and so I was over the moon to find I was expecting a few months later. At that point, Billy and I were living with his family in Bootle but I was desperate to have our own little place – I didn’t want to wait for a council house.
When a little two-bedroomed bungalow came up in Ashton-in-Makerfield, near St Helens, I set my heart on it. Back then, they didn’t take account of the woman’s wages – even though I was earning a little more than Billy. Everything went on the man’s earnings and every bank we approached for a mortgage (which we’d pay back in monthly sums of £11, 9 shillings and 11 pence) turned us down flat.
Across the road from the Littlewoods Pools offices was a convent. Even back then, I was a devout Catholic and would pop across to lunchtime mass every day. One day, as I was filing out, this little nun came up and asked: ‘Are you all right, dear? You always have such a happy face, but recently, you look like you are carrying a burden.’
I tried to insist I was fine but eventually admitted that, yes, something was troubling me: ‘We’re trying to get a mortgage before the baby comes but they won’t take my wages into account, sister,’ I sighed.
‘Hmm,’ she said thoughtfully. Then she said, ‘Wait here,’ and scuttled off.
She returned, minutes later, with a prayer neatly copied onto a piece of paper. ‘Say this novena to St Martha of Bethany every Tuesday and light a candle. You will have your mortgage before the ninth Tuesday,’ she added confidently.
St Martha of Bethany – the patron saint of housewives – was the sister of Lazarus, who Jesus had raised from the dead.
I gasped incredulously. ‘You can’t pray for things like that!’ I said, but she simply smiled and pressed the paper into my hand.
As directed, I lit a candle every Tuesday evening and recited the prayer. For the next few weeks, work was busy and I couldn’t get to daily mass but on the Monday before the ninth Tuesday, I made a point of going. Afterwards, I hovered outside, waiting for the nun. ‘Sister,’ I said excitedly, ‘I have got some really good news. My husband is going down to the bank to sign for the mortgage today.’
This little nun clapped her hands with delight. Then, tilting her head to one side, she glanced at my bump and said: ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely if your baby was a little girl and she was born on 29 July – St Martha’s feast day. You could call her Martha.’
I immediately laughed: ‘Sister, there isn’t a cat in hell’s chance of that,’ I responded. ‘I’m not due until the end of August or maybe even the beginning of September.’ (We didn’t have accurate arrival dates then.)
She just smiled serenely. ‘St Martha has her ways . . . ,’ she said, patting my hand.
We moved into our little bungalow on 4 July – Independence Day, which was apt! We couldn’t even afford a radio, let alone a TV. My sister Margaret gave me her old wireless and I’d have it on in the background as I cooked and cleaned, proud as punch to own our own home.
Even though we’d moved, I was still booked with my GP near to my in-laws in Bootle and had a routine check-up on 29 July. I was glad of the appointment – I’d been waking all night with terrible backache.
Despite being the height of summer, it was a cold, rainy day as I caught the train into Liverpool, then the bus to Bootle. The GP had a sheepskin coat on – that will tell you how cold it was.
‘It’s just standard backache, Mrs McCourt,’ he said, scribbling out a prescription for painkillers. ‘If it’s no better next week, we’ll have to book you into hospital for some bedrest. My wife’s in hospital with the very same thing,’ he added, knowledgeably.
I walked wearily to my mother-in-law Cissy’s house to wait for Billy to pick me up after work. ‘You look tired, girl,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go and have a lie down upstairs?’
I lay down on our old bed but couldn’t settle. The pains were worsening and coming and going quite regularly. Frightened, I called down to Cissy.
‘Let me get Mrs Morrison from next door,’ she called back. She’d had eleven children – delivering quite a few, unassisted, apparently.
This small, elderly, woman took one look at me and said: ‘Cissy, get her to the nursing home before she has this baby on your doorstep.’
My mother-in-law bundled me into my coat, tied a scarf around my head and knotted it under my chin to keep out the cold, then linked my arm in hers as we walked slowly to the bus stop. As it was the summer holidays the bus, when it finally came, was packed with kids all heading to the swimming baths.
With Cissy’s help, I heaved myself onto the rear open platform of the bus and made my way gratefully to the seats that two children had just been unceremoniously turfed out of. The pains gripped me again, twice, on the journey and I closed my eyes and took deep breaths to get me through.
Walking from the bus stop to the Balliol Lodge Nursing Home in Bootle took an age as I kept having to stop, taking slow, deep breaths. As Cissy rang the doorbell, I was clinging to the gatepost, doubled up in agony. Suddenly, a matron appeared beside me. ‘Mrs McCourt, you can’t just turn up here like this,’ she said, crisply. ‘You’re not due f
or another month. You need to go back home and see your doctor.’
‘I’ve just been!’ I whimpered. Then the tears came. ‘Please don’t make me get on the bus again,’ I begged.
At that, she relented and led me indoors, where she asked me to ‘hop up’ onto the bed – a feat in itself. ‘Leave your coat on, love,’ she instructed. ‘We just want to take a quick look.’
For a few seconds, all was quiet. Then she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh God!’ A loud bell clanged and the room was full of nurses. ‘Take her coat and scarf off,’ someone ordered. Another barked at Cissy to dash home and get my overnight bag.
There was a flurry of clothes being unbuttoned and removed, a sheet being draped over me. As the pains came thick and fast, my head span as instructions to push and pant filled the air.
Seconds later, at 2.50pm, 29 July 1965, a baby’s cry rang out. ‘It’s a girl,’ I heard someone say. ‘Congratulations!’
Nowadays, newborns are placed straight into the mother’s arms, but back then, babies were whisked away to be checked and weighed first.
I lay there, alone, stunned and in pain, waiting for the doctor to come and administer stitches. Mum and Margaret were on holiday in North Wales with Aunty Mary. Cissy had gone to get my bag; Billy was at work. And my baby had surprised everyone by arriving a month early – on St Martha’s feast day, just as the nun had predicted.
Finally, I was sitting up in bed with my baby being placed in my outstretched arms. She was 6lb 13oz – a little scrap of a thing but not a bad size, considering she was early. She had a perfect little face and a shock of jet black, thick, glossy hair.
‘Would you look at that,’ one of the nurses said. ‘We’ve got our very own Bootle Beatles baby!’ (Beatlemania was at its height in the mid-sixties).
As I smiled proudly down at her little button nose and perfect rosebud mouth, her eyes flickered open and she stared, solemnly, back at me. In that moment, melting deeply into those beautiful blue pools, I felt a stirring, then a surging of love from my very soul. It was so tender, but so strong, so primitive and raw, it took my breath away. As she blinked once, then twice, I buried my face in her hair, then planted a kiss softly on her cheek.
Even in those first few moments of motherhood, I knew, without a flicker of hesitation, I would lay down and die to protect my child. More than fifty years on, that instinct has only ever grown stronger.
Chapter 2
A dream daughter
E
very mum is biased but Helen really was a dream daughter, beautiful both inside and out. From the moment she entered the world, she was sweet-natured, content and loving.
We stayed in the maternity home for two weeks. It sounds so strange compared to these days when sore, shell-shocked new mums are turfed out of hospital just a few hours after giving birth.
Back in the sixties, becoming a mum was a big deal and new mothers were revered, supported and cosseted. Between feeds, cuddles and nappy changes, babies were looked after in a nursery while new mums rested and recuperated and visitors were confined to the evening.
Helen and I were discharged on a Thursday – and she was baptised the following Sunday. You didn’t hang about in those days; babies were christened before even being registered to ensure a smooth path to heaven if, God forbid, anything happened to them.
I had already decided on the name Helen after my maternal grandma (it was years before I discovered she was actually Ellen, not Helen!) As a second name, I’d chosen Sarah after Mum. But following Helen’s early arrival on St Martha’s day, I thought we should honour the Saint’s day by calling her Helen Martha.
Certain family members had other ideas about both names. ‘I can’t believe you’re not calling her Mary,’ complained one of Billy’s devout elderly aunties. ‘You’re having her christened on our Blessed Lady’s birthday and there’s no greater saint in heaven. Her mother’s Mary, her godmother’s Mary, she should be called Mary.’
Back then, relatives were very free and easy with their opinions – and there was no let up. In the end, I abandoned second names completely. As holy water was poured through her glossy black hair, our baby was simply christened Helen McCourt but I vowed that when it came to her making the Catholic sacrament of confirmation, I’d tell her the story behind her birth in the hope she’d take Martha as her confirmation name.
As I’ve said, Helen was a model baby and once she mastered smiling, she never stopped. Trouble only ever flared when I wasn’t quick enough with her feeds.
We were visiting Aunty Mary, one day, when Helen woke crying. Mary watched me try in vain to pacify her before declaring knowledgeably: ‘That child’s hungry.’
‘But I’ve just fed her before coming out,’ I argued.
Mary scooped Helen into her arms and nuzzled her gaping mouth with a crooked little finger. In a split second, Helen had clamped onto the digit – and was sucking for dear life. Mary gasped. ‘If she’d have had teeth, she’d have had that off!’ she cried. ‘And look at her thumb, girl – it’s all red and dry. She’s been sucking her thumb in your belly, waiting for proper food.’
Handing Helen back to me, she started rattling pans. ‘This will help,’ she said, expertly mixing evaporated milk with cool boiled water before tipping it into a bottle. Helen guzzled it greedily then went out like a light. As I said, things were done very differently in those days!
After weaning, Helen became even more impatient. She could scream so loudly, I genuinely worried about her vocal cords.
We were still at the local shops, one lunchtime, when she stirred from a deep sleep. Uh oh, I thought, glancing at my watch. I’d never get home on time. For a few seconds, all was quiet as the hunger messages travelled to her brain. And registered. Taking a deep breath, she scrunched up her face and erupted. It was like a volcano.
Screeching to a halt outside the chemist, I slammed on the pram brakes, sprinted inside – almost taking the door off the hinges – snatched a jar of Virol (a malt extract preparation that Helen loved) from the shelf, then hurried outside, unscrewing the lid as I went.
‘OK, Helen. Just coming,’ I soothed, trying to make myself heard above the racket.
Grabbing her dummy, I scooped it into the dark brown, gloopy contents, quickly jammed it into Helen’s wide-open mouth, then watched, relieved, as she sucked furiously. Apologies to the stunned shop assistant who had to abandon her post to chase me outside and get me to open my purse but any mum would have done the same!
Our next-door neighbour, an elderly lady called Amy, was a godsend. She’d sit outside, her hands a blur with wool and knitting needles, watching Helen in her pram – meaning I could get on with my jobs.
Just doing the laundry took the best part of a day. I had to feed water into our old-fashioned top-loading washing machine – donated by a cousin – wait for it to heat up, then use wooden tongs to dunk clothes and sheets into the scalding steam.
While mopping my brow, I’d call, ‘Amy? All OK?’ through the kitchen door so often that Helen’s first word was ‘Ai-ee!’ She’d sit up and peer around the pram hood until she spotted Amy, then, mischievously, call her name over and over like a little parrot.
Helen grew into a very ‘busy’ toddler – chattering ten to the dozen while playing with her dolls or flicking through picture books. Her favourite doll was Emma Kate – a knitted doll made by Billy’s younger sister, Geraldine’s, mother-in-law. It was a real work of art – pale pink face, knitted pale green dress and curly blonde hair. Helen adored that doll, even after she’d lost her left arm from being dragged around everywhere.
Long after Helen had outgrown her dolls, Emma Kate took pride of place on her pillow. She’s still there to this day. It’s strange to think that this little doll with her sad, grey, eyes and determined pink mouth outlived her owner by so many years.
* * *
Aged two, Helen was delighted to learn that she was going to be a big sister: ‘A baby? In your tummy?’ she repeated, eyes wide with wonder.
I flushed with mortification. It was the first thing that had come into my head when she’d asked how babies got into tummies. The boys exchanged grins before looking away, while I tried to interest Helen in the cows in the fields we were speeding past.
Two Saturdays before Christmas 1967, a neighbour appeared, breathless, on my front doorstep: ‘Your dad’s been taken to hospital.’ Phones were few and far between then, so it was usual for relatives to reach out to neighbours in an emergency.
Billy drove like fury to get us to Liverpool, but we were too late. Dad had died of a heart attack – aged just forty-eight. He’d taken on extra overtime at work to make Christmas special. It was a bitterly cold morning and he’d struggled to get the car – one of those ones where you cranked a handle at the front to get it going – started. Flustered and late, he realised he’d already missed the bus so sprinted to the next stop and made it by the skin of his teeth. His relief must have quickly changed to confusion – then fear – as pain gripped his chest. Back then, men worked hard but never exercised. He was rushed to hospital but couldn’t be saved.
Poor Mum, still in her forties, was left a widow of seven children with three still at school. Even worse, she hadn’t been speaking to Dad that morning as he’d chosen extra shifts over Christmas shopping. His last words had been: ‘Look, Sarah, we’ll do it next week when we’ve got a bit more money to get things. I’ll see you later.’