Justice for Helen

by Marie McCourt

  We all rallied to comfort her. Losing Dad at such a young age shook us all, but strengthened the already close bond we had with Mum and prepared us for more heartache ahead.

  In April the following year, my son Michael arrived safely and calmly in a planned home birth. From the moment she was led into our bedroom, eyes as wide as dinner plates, to meet her baby brother, Helen was besotted.

  Baby Michael was her baby, not mine, she’d say. One afternoon, when Michael woke, crying, Helen looked up from her dolls: ‘I’ll give him his bottle, Mummy,’ she offered.

  ‘You sit there and don’t move. If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you hold him,’ I told her.

  I was in the kitchen, cooling the bottle, when I realised how quiet it was in the living room. Too quiet . . . Peeping in, I found Helen jiggling her baby brother on one shoulder, just as she’d seen me do. I froze in horror as she swung him across to the other shoulder – just missing his head on the wooden arm of the settee.

  ‘Helen!’ I screeched, rushing forward and scooping a startled baby out of her arms. ‘That’s naughty!’ I cried, soothing a by-now hollering Michael. ‘I asked you to sit still. Well, you can’t feed him now.’

  I’d never seen her cry so hard. Finally, I calmed her down by sitting her on my lap and we fed Michael together – once she’d promised never, ever, to pick him up again.

  I can picture us, sitting there in contented silence. My toddler and my new baby in my arms. Occasionally, Helen gave a little involuntary shudder as a leftover sob escaped her. She turned to give me a sheepish, watery, smile then planted a kiss on her baby brother’s forehead. She was a born mother, even at that age.

  Over time, their bond only ever intensified. Occasionally, they got up to no good – like the time we had building work done and I caught them sticking their chubby fingers in the fresh window putty. But, on the whole, they were as good as gold.

  Our estate was filled with young families. Most, like Helen and Michael, attended Our Lady Immaculate Catholic primary school, nearby in Bryn. After school and all through the weekends, the estate would ring with the happy sound of children playing outside.

  If Michael hurt himself, I never got a look in! For his fifth birthday he’d got a gleaming bike and couldn’t wait to try it out with his friends. Minutes later, I heard a commotion outside and found his friends carrying him dramatically up the garden path: after braking too hard, he’d been catapulted over the handlebars. My hands flew to my face at the sight of the blood trickling down his chin and knees.

  As I dabbed gingerly at the gravelly wounds with cotton wool, Michael switched from weeping silently and bravely to screaming hysterically. Suddenly, Helen appeared at my side. ‘Mum, you’re making it worse,’ she said firmly. ‘He can tell you’re upset and it’s scaring him. Let me do it.’

  I watched in amazement as she ushered me to one side. There wasn’t a peep out of Michael as she expertly cleaned the wound, dabbed antiseptic cream on and finished with a plaster. She’d long decided she wanted to be a nurse when she was older. ‘There,’ she said with a flourish, planting a kiss on his forehead, ‘all done.’ And off Michael trotted, to show off his war wounds.

  The kids yearned for a television like their friends but it was a luxury we couldn’t afford. I’d always lived by Mum’s motto: ‘Make sure you have coal for the fire, money for rent, and a little bit left over for food. Never, ever, get into debt.’ It’s stood me in good stead.

  When the lady over the road announced she was upgrading her TV and asked if I’d like her old one, I was touched . . . until she added, ‘For £25 . . . ’

  It was a lot of money, but an eavesdropping Helen and Michael had already started jumping up and down with joy. Billy and I scrimped and scraped to get the money together and, after taking delivery, we all stood back to admire it. It was beautiful – a piece of furniture in its own mahogany case.

  Helen and Michael loved finally catching up on shows like Blue Peter, How, Magpie and Crackerjack! – and spent many happy hours curled up together, transfixed by this whole new world.

  Money was tight but we’d have lovely family days out. Margaret had three children, while our younger sister Pat, like me, had two. We’d all meet up for a picnic on the beach at Formby. As a toddler, Michael was terrified of the sand and Helen would laugh as she patiently coaxed him off the picnic blanket.

  I wish I could remember more of those times. Many evenings spent listening to my siblings reminiscing has made me realise that whole chunks of memory have either never registered or been erased by my brain – possibly, due to the motorbike accident or the sedatives I was on for years.

  I’ve cried really angry tears railing at God: ‘Why didn’t you give me a good memory – or at least let me remember more of those happy times?’ But, remarkably, from the moment Helen disappeared, my memory is pin-sharp. There is nothing I don’t remember about that night – Tuesday, 9 February 1988.

  Maybe my early memories had to go in order to make room for the heartbreaking ones. The ones that would ensure her killer was caught. Whatever the reason, I treasure the few happy memories – and photos – I do have. (Even developing a film was pricey then so you rationed photo-taking!).

  While the children were still young, I went back to work, at Littlewoods Pools, part-time. We needed the money – for bills, but also for the children’s activities. Helen loved her dance classes and both children learned to swim and attended Cubs, Brownies and Girl Guides – earning badges galore.

  Helen got on with everybody – I don’t recall a single occasion when she fell out with a friend or a mum came to my door to complain about something she’d done or said. She could be stubborn and mule-ish, though. At eleven, she moved to senior school – St Edmund Arrowsmith school in Ashton-in-Makerfield.

  The day we shopped for school shoes is etched in my memory. We headed to the local shoe shop, where Helen dismissed every single plain black shoe as too tight, too big, pinchy or feeling funny.

  ‘What about these?’ she suggested, pointing to a pair with a forbidden two-inch heel.

  ‘No, Helen,’ I said, firmly. ‘The school specifically says “flat shoes”.’ Her face fell. Around us lay a sea of abandoned shoes, discarded boxes and tissue paper. The assistant coughed – ‘I’ll just go in the back and see if we have any other styles.’

  Meanwhile, I marched my mutinous-looking daughter outside. ‘Helen, I am not having this,’ I said firmly.

  Her bottom lip trembled. ‘But, Mum, all my friends have shoes with heels, I’ll be the only one.’

  ‘Well, all your friends with heels will be sent marching back home to change,’ I continued.

  As Helen stared forlornly down at her feet, I did some quick mental arithmetic with my housekeeping money for that week. ‘OK, let’s sort this between us,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we get flat shoes for school and heel shoes you can wear playing out?’ Watching her face light up was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. She flung her arms around me.

  ‘Oh Mum, that’s brilliant!’

  I can still see her striding out of the shop, proudly clutching a shiny carrier bag with not one, but two, pairs of new shoes. It was the most extravagant thing I’d ever done but it was worth it.

  At thirteen, she came home full of news. ‘I’m making my confirmation – and we get to choose a new name!’ she enthused. Wiping my hands on a tea towel, I asked her to sit down while I told her the story of how she came to be born on St Martha’s day.

  Helen listened, rapt, only for her face to fall when I suggested Martha for her confirmation name. ‘Oh Mum, that’s lovely,’ she said, ‘but we’ve chosen our names. I’ve picked Ann.’

  Suddenly, a thought occurred to me: ‘Why don’t you ask your teacher if you can have two names – Martha Ann?’

  Helen thought about it, then nodded: ‘That’s nice – and different!’ she agreed. We were thrilled when her teacher agreed. At last St Martha was going to get some recognition – and Helen loved having
such a personal story to tell.

  Her choice of sponsor – the person who would stand by her side when she made her confirmation – took us all by surprise.

  ‘Aunty Pat?’ I repeated incredulously. Mum used to joke that when she went into hospital to have my younger sister she came home with the wrong baby! ‘But your Aunty Pat doesn’t even go to mass,’ I began.

  ‘Mum, I love me Aunty Pat,’ Helen said firmly. ‘She’s funny and she makes me laugh with her jokes.’ One of my favourite photos shows a teenage Helen leaning across the back of the settee to hug a seated Pat. I don’t know what had just been said but they were both creased up laughing.

  On the day, we all gathered at our local church in Ashton-in-Makerfield and one by one, the children – and sponsors – snaked their way to the front of the church to make their sacrament.

  I craned my neck to see Helen, in a smart new dress, kneel down in front of the Archbishop, Pat with her left hand placed on her niece’s shoulder. Helen uttered her confirmation name and listened attentively to his quietly-spoken words: ‘Helen Martha Ann, be sealed with the Gift of the Holy Spirit,’ while making the sign of the cross on her forehead with holy oil. I beamed with pride. Sacraments like first Holy Communion and confirmation are huge rites of passage for Catholic families. One day, please God, she’ll stand at this altar and make her wedding vows, I thought. Bring new life into the world, make me a proud Grandma.

  As Helen and Pat made their way back down the aisle, I nudged Margaret. ‘What’s wrong with our Pat?’ I whispered. ‘She looks like she’s been hit over the head!’

  Margaret followed my gaze. Pat was literally floating back down the aisle, a serene, rapt, dreamy expression on her face. Afterwards, I pulled her to one side: ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  Pat’s face lit up all over again. ‘Oh Marie,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t believe it. When Helen told the Archbishop her confirmation name he closed his eyes, smiled and repeated: “Martha Ann, how beautiful! That was my mother’s name.”’

  We were all astounded. What on earth were the chances of that? It still wasn’t enough to make Pat go to mass, though!

  * * *

  As time passed, we outgrew the bungalow. We’d built a small extension to make a third bedroom but there was no privacy if the children wanted their friends around.

  I fell in love with a brand-new estate being built in the nearby village of Billinge, four miles away, and in 1979 we were the first family to move in. The kids loved the novelty of finally having stairs and a spare bedroom. Shortly afterwards, Helen proudly announced she’d got a babysitting job after answering an advert in the post office window.

  ‘You can’t babysit,’ I told her, ‘you’re too young.’

  Helen’s face fell. ‘But, Mum, she chose me out of all the girls who applied.’

  After meeting the mum, who told me how impressed she was with Helen – and how her kids had loved her – I relented on the condition that me or her dad would walk her home afterwards. Helen earned £2 a shift and loved treating herself to hair clips from the chemist or a little cake from the bakery.

  In time, Helen became the most popular babysitter on our estate. Children always asked for her when their parents were planning nights out. She adored playing silly games and reading bedtime stories.

  Helen also became an Avon representative, knocking on doors all over the estate to take orders. With her commission, she’d buy herself pretty little soaps to keep in her drawer – I’ve still got some of them.

  Had she lived, Helen would have made a brilliant business-woman. For her thirteenth birthday, I’d bought her a desk for her bedroom and a typewriter in one of those little cases that opened up. She loved typing out letters and filing her Avon orders. She might not have been the tidiest of people but her paperwork and clothes were always immaculate.

  By now the cracks that had always run through my marriage to Billy became chasms. As a devout Catholic, divorce wasn’t something I’d ever contemplated and it wasn’t something I entered into lightly, but it was clear that our staying married was never going to work. Early in 1984, we finally divorced. The children were heartbroken, of course. But they also knew we hadn’t been happy for years and, very quickly, accepted it as the right decision for us both.

  As a single mum, I watched every penny and worked my socks off. After leaving Littlewoods Pools I worked as a catalogue rep for Empire Stores before moving to a sales job for Dolphin Showers. I also worked for a kitchen company near Manchester, took on a window craft job and also ran a little business with my sister-in-law doing house parties with ‘seconds’ clothing from Marks & Spencer. Sometimes, I’d have a good month with bonuses, other times, there’d be hardly anything. Helen and Michael knew how hard I worked and really appreciated everything I did for them.

  Of course, they had the usual teenage rows but they never lasted for long. Those two were as thick as thieves and squabbles quickly blew over.

  I prided myself on being a good mum. I’d prepare dinner late at night when they were in bed, peeling vegetables while watching Coronation Street.

  Helen loved cooking (but not so much the cleaning up afterwards) and would experiment with pasta and lasagne in comparison to my meat and two veg, sausage and mash repertoire. I did my best, but looking back, I sometimes grow tearful, thinking, was it enough? Did I give them enough attention? Had I known then that I’d only have Helen for another few years I’d have happily lived as a pauper if it meant more precious time with her, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.

  * * *

  After her O-levels, Helen went to college, hoping to enrol on a nursing course at eighteen. In the meantime, her friend Janet got her a job in the dole office in Wigan. Helen was a clerical assistant there for just over five months before redundancy struck. ‘She’s got such a nice way with people,’ Janet told me. ‘A lot aren’t happy when they come in, but Helen calms them down and is really friendly with them.’

  Helen loved office work so much that nursing lost its appeal. Jobs were scarce in the Northwest – but her cousin, Gaynor was working at Tooting Bec Hospital in South London and helped her get a job as an office assistant there. ‘I’m going to London!’ Helen cried excitedly.

  Initially, the novelty was great. ‘Our Helen’s only got everyone going out to the pub on Friday after work,’ Gaynor told me proudly. Apparently those Friday nights were a roaring success. But Helen was such a home bird. Our Friday evening phone chats always ended with her crying, ‘I just want to come home, Mum.’

  Three times I drove straight down to dry her tears and spend the weekend with her, but after a couple of months I said, ‘Helen, if you’re not settling down here, come home.’

  So that’s what she did.

  Her old colleagues kept their Friday night drinks tradition. She’d only worked with them for a short time but they were all distraught at her murder three years later . . .

  It was lovely having her home. We’d shop in Liverpool at weekends and puff and pant our way through a weekly aerobics class.

  With no sign of regular work, Helen took up her Avon position again and even started bar shifts at the local pub – the George and Dragon – on busy nights. She also fundraised for Guide Dogs for the Blind and would rattle her tin in there enthusiastically.

  The pub was just around the corner, on Billinge Main Street. For years, it had been an old-fashioned pub, but then a new manager, Frank Keralius, refurbished it. The traditional snug bars and ale made way for a modern lounge with discos and quiz nights. It became popular with a lot of the youngsters in the village, including Helen. That’s where she met her boyfriend, David, who she dated for two years.

  I was surprised when she handed in her notice and switched to bar shifts at the Conservative Club. Finally, she confessed that it was because of the new bar uniform: a mini skirt and low-cut top. ‘I hate letting them down, but I can’t wear that,’ she said. ‘It’s just to get more blokes to the bar so that if we’re bending over, they can see
up our skirts and down our tops.’

  I was so proud of her principles. Helen had a lovely figure but she was quite self-conscious. Even on family holidays, she only wore a swimsuit – never a bikini. Naturally pretty, she wore the tiniest amount of make-up: a slick of mascara and lip gloss.

  My cousin’s husband, a docker, was a keen amateur photographer and had entered a work’s ‘portrait’ competition. ‘I can’t get over how beautiful your Helen is,’ he told me. ‘Do you think she’d pose for me?’

  I managed to talk her into it. He set up a little studio, with special lighting, then photographed Helen in front of a window – looking back to the camera.

  We saw all the ‘takes’ and they were lovely so I was really surprised when I saw his entry.

  ‘Where’s our Helen’s lovely smile?’ I asked, disappointed. ‘She looks really serious.’

  Don’t get me wrong, it was a stunning shot of her gazing solemnly into the lens. Her curly hair cascaded around her and her blue eyes were piercing. But when Helen smiled, her whole face lit up – her eyes danced and twinkled. You couldn’t help but smile along with her.

  He explained that the shot was enigmatic and atmospheric. When he admitted he hadn’t won, I couldn’t help myself: ‘I’m not surprised!’ I retorted. ‘If you’d entered a smiling shot you might have.’

  He presented us with a framed photograph and I have to admit, the more I looked at it on the coffee table, the fonder I became of it.

  When Helen failed to arrive home that awful night in February 1988, that was the photo the police took to use in media appeals and searches. Over the years, it’s become such an iconic, instantly recognisable image of my daughter – and it’s the picture that graces the cover of this book.

  I can see now that a carefree, laughing shot wouldn’t have had the same impact. The image needed to be pensive and thoughtful. It needed to highlight the grave injustice of a killer not only taking the life of a young woman so cruelly but perpetuating our grief in denying us her funeral. She was just eighteen, with her whole life ahead of her. That image has resonated with people all over the world. It’s pulled at their hearts and stirred them into supporting me. ‘Such a beautiful girl’ . . . ‘my heart goes out to you’ . . . ‘I have a daughter the same age and can’t imagine your loss’ were typical of the many heartbreaking comments I received from other mums.