‘Forgive me,’ I whispered as I buried my baby sister in a Shallow grave I’d dug with my own hands

Growing up in a chaotic home on Merseyside, young Joanne raised herself and her brother and sister, while her mother lapsed into a downward spiral of drinking and casual sex.

But the consequences of her mother’s messy lifestyle turned out to be far worse than Joanne could ever have imagined.

In Silent Sisters, the daughter who was falsely accused of murdering her own baby sister tells the full story for the first time since exposing her mother’s crimes.

A FATEFUL DECISION

I switched off the engine, sucked in my breath and, for what would be my last moment of peace, I rested my head on the steering wheel. I had wrestled all night long with the decision. It was wrong and it was right; perhaps in equal measure. But all I knew, in absolute certainty, was that the body of my baby sister could no longer remain in a bin inside my mother’s wardrobe.

She deserved dignity and respect. She needed a proper burial. And there was nobody else to do it, except me. I clicked the car door shut and went up the path to mum’s door.

She stepped out without a word, a canvas bag looped casually over her arm, as though she was carrying shopping. The practicalities of burying a baby all by myself were mindboggling and I hadn’t thought it through well at all. I had sandals on too. Great planning.

DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS

The cemetery was a short drive away, little more than 10 minutes. Mum sat in the passenger seat and didn’t say a single word. But the stench from the car boot was making me gag. My eyes were streaming in protest.

And then, suddenly, we were there. Our family grave. Nanna Winnie was buried here, along with my Uncle Bernard, and my own beloved baby son, John. I had been here just a couple of weeks earlier, with flowers for John on his birthday. I could never in my most disturbing of nightmares have dreamed that I

Suddenly, we were there. Our family grave. Nanna Winnie was buried here, along with my Uncle Bernard, and my own beloved baby son, John. I could never in my most disturbing of nightmares have dreamed that I would be back here – for this.

would be back here – for this.

First John. Now Helen. The grave was becoming some sort of mecca for dirty little secrets. A nerve centre of criminal depravity.

FORGIVE ME, DARLING “Hello, John,” I said under my breath. “Forgive me, darling. Forgive me.” Mum stood, impassively, at the side of the grave. She was clutching the bag tightly to her stomach, her knuckles white, as though she was trying to hold on. It was impossible to tell whether she was reciting silent prayers or she was running through next week’s shopping list in her head. “She’s no help,” I told myself. “She never has been. She won’t start now.” There was nothing for it. I had to start digging. I hadn’t brought a spade, for obvious reasons. Digging at a grave, with a garden spade, might just ring alarm bells. I scrabbled at the earth with my bare hands, my fingers soon raw and bloody, but I didn’t feel a thing.

“Pass me the bag,” I said breathlessly. I had dug about a foot and a half down, and I felt that would be enough. Any more and I was frightened of hitting Bernard’s coffin. The thought sent shivers through me. “Where’s the head?” I asked quietly. Mum pointed and handed me the canvas bag. My hand cupped around what was unmistakably her skull, through the layers of the bag, I laid her down gently and whispered a prayer. The smell was hideous, and I felt it stabbing at the back of my throat.

“Forgive me,” I whispered again.