by Donna Ford
From an early age, we had been brought to the attention of the RSPCC, and from that moment there were files on all of us. There were files from Barnardo's, Social Work Department files, files from Rillbank, doctors' files and school files. Each one of them expressed a concern, yet nothing was done. When these files were produced in the High Court in Edinburgh in 2003, they showed a pattern and a link of opinions that was not picked up on and recognised back in the days when I was left there to my fate.
As an adult I asked my father why he had let things go on. He just turned his head away, without giving me so much as one word for an answer. Why did he do nothing? Why did he not see what she was doing? How could he be so blind? What made him take her word without even asking me? Fathers are supposed to be protectors. They are supposed to love us and nurture us and listen to us and allow us a voice. They are supposed to praise us and instil us with confidence. My father didn't do any of these things. Yes, he gave me a roof over my head, but it was never a home.
How I craved the same attention that he gave his boys with Helen, who were both golden in hair and nature in his eyes, as that was what she told him and that was what he chose to believe. Never once did he see or question my bruises or gaunt appearance, nor did he notice the vacant look I knew I wore when I had been sexually abused.
I felt different after the sexual abuse began. I knew that I acted differently too because I couldn't bear to look at people. I was too embarrassed. I was mortified about what had happened to me, what had been done to me. I didn't really know very much about what had gone on, but I knew it was wrong. That my own Daddy wouldn't notice seems beyond neglect.
My father would come back from work and know only what Helen told him. He may have been tired from work and life but he never noticed me full stop. Even when he had to reprimand me he did it without really looking at me. Did he just switch off? Did he believe what Helen told him, that I was bad? Or did he just not care?
I have very mixed feelings about my Dad. I always wanted his love and approval but I thought he was a weak man. He was controlled by Helen when she lived with him, then when she left, he was controlled by drink. Was he an alcoholic? I don't know. He claimed that he went out to the pub because he needed adult conversation; he claimed he needed a drink to relax him. He didn't go a day without a drink so I would say that he was definitely dependent on drink, and if being dependent on drink deems you an alcoholic then, yes, that's what he was.
When I was a little girl, I wished that someone would come in and save me, take me away somewhere nice, look after me and love me for ever. It never happened. When I was older, looking back, I wished that someone would just hold my hand and go back in there with me and stop me being scared. I want people to know how bad it was because it happens to so many children, and it shouldn't.
This genre of books has been widely criticised for its value or purpose. However, writing my story has been a saviour for me. It wouldn't work for me to talk about what went on with a stranger. I have worked things through in my own way because that is right for me. I know there are many wonderful organisations out there that offer excellent counselling services, and people must look at all of their options and choose what is right. For me, though, writing is my method of healing. I write the memory down, and by doing that I am able to think about what went on, and I am able to see that I am away from all that now. I can apportion blame where blame is due. I can look at how it has affected me personally, and ultimately I can move on.
And moving on is something I want to do so very badly.
Chapter Eleven
NELLIE AND MADGE
AUNTIE NELLIE WOULD BE SO proud of me, I just know she would.
Auntie Nellie was my Dad's aunt, technically my great-aunt, a title befitting such a magnificent lady. In The Step Child I told the story of Auntie Nellie and how she was my greatest influence back then, the only light in some very dark days. I still sometimes comfort myself with memories of how she would take me out once a month to Jenners for high tea, and to Marks and Spencer's to buy me school uniforms. Nellie had been a headmistress and was a fine, gentle, elegant, well-travelled lady. She introduced me to books and education – she was the greatest inspiration of my life.
I lost her through no fault of my own when Gordon made me steal her purse and put all of the blame on me. Nellie couldn't forgive that because, for her, stealing was such a heinous crime. She died without knowing the truth about what really went on, but I have never forgotten her and her teachings. I carry her with me always.
Many of the women I admire and respect in my adult life have an element of Auntie Nellie in them; they are sophisticated, cultured and unmistakably good people. It may seem odd that Helen allowed me the privilege of contact with Auntie Nellie, but she did it for one reason and one reason alone – the reason that was always most important to her – money. Auntie Nellie had a house in the Clinton district, a smart Edinburgh suburb. She had plenty of money and would be leaving it as an inheritance to someone. Helen probably assumed that it would be left to me as Nellie was always fond of me. She also no doubt assumed that I wouldn't see a penny of it, as she and my Dad would have full access to it. However, Helen didn't want to leave anything to chance, so she usually sent her eldest son, Gordon, with me when I went to visit. Presumably, she thought she was covering all bases, and that Nellie would become fond of Gordon too, and leave money to both of us. Only a mother could be so blind. Helen had turned Gordon into an obnoxious, loathsome, cruel little liar – and exactly the sort of child Nellie would never fall for.
One thing Helen had done well in terms of her mothering was to raise that boy to be nasty – because of that, my stepmother never saw the colour of Nellie's money when she died. Back then, when I was chastised and beaten for blowing this golden opportunity for her, I was saddened – not by the loss of money, but for the loss of such a wonderful person in my life. What I didn't see then was that, actually, Auntie Nellie had left me an inheritance, and it was far greater than money could ever buy.
I had the gift of goodness bestowed upon me through this lovely woman. I also benefited in far greater a way than Helen would ever have known, and that was through the books that Auntie Nellie had left for my Dad.
These books were kept in the boys' room, which had an adjoining door into my bedroom (originally the boxroom). My bed ran alongside this door, and on the other side of it was my elder half-brother's bed. I knew about these books that Auntie Nellie had left because I was given the job of putting them away in the press. As I put them away, I hatched a plan to sneak some into my room. I had to wait until there was enough noise in the living room, usually when they were all having tea, then I'd open the door just enough so that I could squeeze through. Then I'd quickly – and as quietly as I could – get the book I'd earmarked and sneak it back into my room, putting it under my mattress. The whole time my heart would be racing with the fear of getting caught and also with the excitement of managing to get one over on Helen.
These books saved me because they offered me an escape. When people talk about never underestimating the power of the written word, I feel that I am a living example of that. I learned so much through books as a child. Mostly I read novels – Little Women, What Katy Did, Oliver Twist, David Copperfield – but sometimes I would be so scared of being caught that I'd grab the first one that came to hand. Occasionally, I'd end up with a gardening book, and once I got Patrick Moore's Sky at Night! No matter what book I got, I read it, or sometimes I just looked at the pictures. Now and again I would use the plain piece of paper at the front of these books to do little drawings, usually of the story I was reading. I suppose it is because of my love of books and the importance they played in my childhood that it seemed the most natural progression in the world for me to write a book and tell my own story.
I often wonder why Helen kept these books. I can't remember her reading much herself. Most of these books from Auntie Nellie were classics, the kind you would expect a retired teacher l
ike her to have. The light was poor in my bedroom but I always managed to get a chink of it somewhere, usually by the door. When I felt it was safe, I would crouch down by the door, holding the book to the light, and I'd read and read. All the time, I'd be listening and watching for someone coming. If someone did come, I'd have to quickly run and put the book under my mattress and get back into my 'position' – hands by my sides, sitting upright in bed or standing with my face against the wall. Through these books, I educated myself and obtained hope. I gained a very different perspective on life from the one I was personally experiencing.
For many years, losing Auntie Nellie was a great source of pain. I couldn't recall the memories of her without hurting. Now, however, with the freedom I have achieved from bringing all the dark horrible things that went on into the light, I can also enjoy the memories of Auntie Nellie. I no longer blame myself for losing her as I did back then, and I can look back on what she gave me rather than what I lost. The same can be said of my Dad's sister, Auntie Madge. For years, I mistrusted her because she was friendly with Helen, but when I look back now I realise that she, too, in her way, was also giving me something.
Auntie Madge was the baby of the family, the only girl among three brothers. She was unmarried – a spinster, as they called any woman who was unmarried in those days. A small lady, she wore glasses and looked a lot like my Dad. She was always immaculately groomed with neatly coiffed hair and smart Jackie Kennedy style clothes. Her shoes and bags were always matching, and she wore gloves and a hat. She worked as a secretary and was quite independent.
My earliest memories of her are in the flat in Easter Road. I remember one occasion when she visited and I was sitting upright in the bunk bed in my vest and pants with my hands by my sides. I don't know why I was there, but I must have been 'bad' and on a punishment. What I recall is Auntie Madge coming through and reading me a story. This was a revelation as nobody ever read me stories.
Then there were times later on in my life, after Helen left, when Madge invited me up to her smart new house in Murray burn, a new housing scheme, and tried to teach me about grooming. I can see that little house now in my mind. It was so smart and clean with flowery curtains and a soft sofa. The radiogram would be playing 'Telstra' by the Tornados; she loved her music, the Shadows being a particular favourite. We'd sit on her sofa and she'd show me how to do my nails, how to file them and buff them before applying clear polish. She lathered Pond's cold cream on her face every day and Pond's vanishing cream once a week. Auntie Madge, like Auntie Nellie, was a million miles away from the only woman I had known – Helen.
I would have liked to have found out more about Madge. I wish I could have sat down and talked to her about her family, about how she and my Dad and their brothers grew up, but sadly she died when I was in my twenties. The last thing I heard about her was that she had crippling arthritis and was on gold injections to relieve the symptoms. I didn't really know her that well – I didn't see her every week or anything like that – but what I did know of her left an impression on me. She was independent at a time when a big question mark hung over the head of any woman who was not married in their twenties; she was selfsufficient and a respectable, kind woman; and she was my Dad's sister. I wish she had seen something in me that might have made her want to help.
Granny Ford was the mother of Auntie Madge and my Dad. She was also a positive influence for me, even though my memories of her are even fewer and sketchier. I can look back and see us visiting her in her little cottage in Ashley Terrace. I'd play in her garden while she cooked mince and tatties, and I'd hear the ticking sounds of the cuckoo clock that my Dad brought back from Germany when he was in the army.
She had neat grey hair, curled and pinned, and her penny was always tied around her waist. She hugged me and sang to me. When I was around eight and still in the flat in Easter Road, she died. My Dad was bereft. It was the only time I ever saw him cry. Apparently, Granny Ford fell in her bathroom, having suffered a stroke, and bumped her head, causing her death. I didn't go to the funeral as children just didn't go to them in those days. She, like Auntie Nellie, just left my life.
Auntie Nellie was a good person. Auntie Madge was a good person, and my memories of my Dad's mum – Granny Ford – are also good. These are the important things to me. They were my Dad's family and they were good and kind people. I had small glimpses of this kindness and goodness in my Dad in the very early days, and I know that Karen – Helen's youngest child – saw a goodness in him too. With all this knowledge I am able to see that possibly, without the influence of Helen in his life, he was like his family – basically decent. However, he was also a misguided person who was heavily influenced by Helen's evil. It is heartening for me to know that my side of the family is that way.
I can't say the same for Helen.
My birth mother and her family don't come into it because they don't really care – if they did they would have found me long before now. I shudder to think what would have happened to me if I hadn't had the influence of these people in my terrible childhood. I am eternally grateful to Auntie Nellie, Auntie Madge and Granny Ford for giving me some of their goodness in those terrible dark painful days. These are the important legacies, the legacies I can hand on to my children – not the twisted, perverse ways of Helen and her pedophile friends, and certainly not the legacy of a mother who abandoned me when I was just a baby.
Chapter Twelve
ERRANDS
I DON'T KNOW HOW the minds of other people work. Do they have flashes of memories coming through when they least expect or want them? I do. Especially now. Since the court case, since I faced Helen Ford and watched as she was found guilty, then sentenced, more and more is coming through and forcing me to look at what happened to me. I don't go for counselling. I don't have a team of psychiatrists and psychologists there to help me through every thought. I really only have myself.
How can I know everything that was done to me? No-one remembers every single day of their childhood. Even when that childhood is filled with horror, there are ordinary days and times when life just goes on. But then, of course, come the things that no-one ever wants to think about. There are many episodes of my abuse that I have only glimpsed fleetingly – I assume that the power of my mind blocks things that are too awful, or prevents too many incidents being relived at once.
I remember Blind Jimmy. I remember the stench of the old man I was sent to 'help'. He was a disgusting creature with never a nice word to say to anyone, and on the day Helen sent me to him to 'help', I was horrified just to think I would have to clean and tidy up for him, horrified to even spend any time in that filthy grey flat. I should have known. Looking back, when he started to abuse me – holding my hand to masturbate him while he stuck his fingers into me, laughing and wheezing all the time – it was almost to be expected.
I remember the barber. I remember the red-and-white striped pole and the bowl of sweeties for kids who got their hair cut by him. Helen sent me to him with a note – and a warning not to read it. As with Blind Jimmy, as with all of my abusers, Helen didn't just know what was going to happen; she facilitated it. As I sat on the swirling barber shop chair – enjoying the sights flying past, enjoying fun for once – Helen would have known why the barber locked the door after reading her note, why he smiled at me in a different way to any other time, why he pulled the blinds down, why he felt it would be absolutely danger-free to stick his hands up my skirt, and force them inside me.
She also sent me to the homes of men she considered 'friends'. I remember some of those instances clearly. Too clearly.
There was always a created reason behind these trips. I do wonder why. Everyone involved seemed to be so sure of themselves, as if they would never have to account for their actions. Yet there was always a pretence, whether it was a note, a chore or an errand. One day during the summer holidays when we were living in Edina Place, I was given one of the dreaded folded-up notes.
'You!' Helen screamed from the k
itchen through to me in my dark little bedroom. I'd been hoping that she'd forget about me and that the worst thing I'd have to deal with that day would be boredom. As soon as I heard her voice, however, I knew that was a pipe dream.
I scrambled off my bed, hiding the book I'd been trying to read in the mattress hole where I kept my treasured fiction from Auntie Nellie. I scurried through to the kitchen where Helen stood, holding a wet tea towel in one hand and a bit of paper in the other. Every word that came from her mouth was accompanied by a slap of the tea towel at my face and head: 'Take – this – and – get – across – the – road.' I took the note and left the room. 'Don't you dare fucking read that, witch!' she shouted at me, as always.
