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

horror, I found him lying on his straw . . . frozen completely stiff. I wailed, distraught. I so loved Smoky. I took him inside and cradled his rigid body gently in my arms, holding him close, trying to warm him up again. Of course it was no use.
    When my parents came downstairs, first one, then the other, took one look at Smoky and broke into laughter, goading each other on into waves of hysteria. I couldn’t believe it. He was my beloved pet and yet the more I cried, they more they laughed.
    ‘Smoky’s dead,’ I blurted. ‘Can’t you see that he’s dead?’
    They couldn’t speak for laughing. Couldn’t they see how upset I was?
    ‘Forget it,’ spluttered my father between howls of laughter. ‘It was just a rabbit. Plenty of them about.’
    At that moment, George came in from his night shift. He straightaway took in this bizarre scene and understood. With a nod of his head in my direction, he acknowledged my grief, walked across and enveloped me in one of his big bear-hugs. He took me straight outside, found a spade in Tommy’s workshop and somehow dug a hole in the frozen ground. When the grave was ready, we found a ragged old scarf, soft to the feel, and one of George’s own handkerchiefs. With all the reverence we could muster, we gently wrapped Smoky in his shroud and lowered him into the ground, and I helped George to fill in the grave. Then we found two old lolly sticks and made them into a cross, which we stuck into a crack in the earth. Standing back together, our breath misting in the air, we said a prayer over his grave.
    As we came back inside, George wiped a tear from my cheek. ‘I’ll take you to buy a new rabbit next Saturday. How would that be?’
    All week I had to wait. On Friday night, I hardly slept, I was so excited about going with George to choose a new rabbit, and on Saturday morning, George strode and I skipped along beside him to the pet shop, pushed open the door and went straight over to the place where they kept the rabbits. My smile froze as I looked into the empty hutch. Not a rabbit in sight. But the shopkeeper pointed to a wooden box next to it, and when we peeped through its glass front, there was a litter of the sweetest, furriest guinea pigs I’d ever seen. We asked the pet-shop owner how to look after them and he explained what they ate, how to groom them and care for them and let me stroke them.
    I chose the one I liked best, George paid, and I became the proud owner of Squeaky, named for the high-pitched noises he made. He was white with tricolours of dark brown and ginger – the most beautiful animal I had ever seen – and it was such joy caring for a cute little animal again. I loved the funny squeaks he made, especially when he heard my voice.
    Everything was right again with the world until the day I came home from school and, running over to the hutch to greet him, didn’t hear him squeak when I approached. I couldn’t see him in the open part, so I checked inside the sleeping area. I couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t there. I checked again, in case he was hiding under a pile of straw, but the hutch was empty. Where was he? I ran to the scullery and asked my mother.
    ‘Mam, where’s Squeaky? He’s not in his hutch.’
    ‘Your guinea pig? It’s dead,’ she shrugged. ‘Your dad put it in the bin.’
    I gasped. I couldn’t believe what she said. ‘He was all right when I went to school this morning.’
    ‘Well, it’s not all right now!’ she smirked.
    It wasn’t very cold, so I didn’t understand what could have happened to him. I ran and looked in the bin.
    ‘You won’t find it in there. The bins were emptied today.’
    I sat on the step and sobbed. How had this happened? He had been fine earlier. Now he was gone, with not even a body to bury and no explanation. It never occurred to me to question her any further. But I do wonder now.
    It was one of those days of terrible rows. As usual, it began as they say on the news – ‘scuffles broke