by Donna Ford
The day passed quickly as I had my imagination to rely on. Before long, I realised that I had been out all day and most of the kids had gone indoors for their tea. I was sitting outside the stairway one door down from our house, drawing with some chalk that one of the girls had left behind, when I saw him.
He was walking up the street.
I didn't know his name. I just knew he was one of the men who had often come into my room.
I was absolutely terrified and, as I looked up, he spotted me. Helen's words were still ringing in my ears and I knew that there was no way I could go into the house. I wouldn't dare. I ran into the stairway and down into the basement. It was dark and the back green door was locked as it often was, so I hid by the coal cellar door. I could hear all the noises from the flats and I could smell all the dinners being cooked. My heart was racing. Had I managed to evade him? Had he even noticed where I had gone?
I crouched down as small as I possibly could in the dark corner by the cellar door, then I heard a noise. His footsteps were coming down to the basement. As he approached the bottom of the stairs, he started calling my name softly, almost in a whisper. I could smell him – drink and fags and a sort of workman smell. God, how I hate that smell.
As he approached me, still calling 'Donna' in a quiet voice, I stood up and tried to run past him. He was quicker than me. He grabbed me and put his hand over my mouth, telling me to be very quiet. When he finally took his hand off my mouth, I tried to pull away. 'I have to go,' I said to him. 'Helen will want me home!' He knew I was lying. Helen couldn't have cared less. 'Shh!' he said. 'It's all right. Helen will be fine.'
Looking back, I can't help but go over my options – I wish I had run up the street instead of into the stairway. The man had a jacket in his hand, a sort of blue workman's jacket, and he laid it down on the basement floor. I knew then what he intended to do. I knew there was no getting away from it – or was there? Just as he laid the jacket down, we both heard one of the flat doors open above us. The man immediately pulled me towards him and put his hand over my mouth again. I heard the clip-clopping of shoes descending the stairs before they finally went out the front door. As it slammed shut, the man pushed me down roughly on top of his jacket.
It felt like there was something in his pocket. I could feel it digging into me.
I closed my eyes tight shut and tried to block out what was going to happen next. He prised my legs open and started trying to force his penis into me. It hurt so much. The smell of him was nauseating. The sounds of him grunting and that of a television in the distance were all making my head spin. I tried to think of everything I could to take away all of this, but I just lay there and let him do what he wanted as I'd done so many times before with so many men.
When he was finished he got up and, after zipping his trousers closed, he handed me a hankie from his pocket and told me to wipe myself. 'Remember our secret,' he told me as he left. As he walked up the stairs I realised I was crying – but I was bleeding too. I felt so wretched. I didn't know how long I'd been down in that basement. It seemed like hours. I just sat there, crying softly, clutching my knees and wondering – as I always did – what I had done to make me so bad and deserving of all these nasty things.
So, going back to that place – physically as well as emotionally – did bring the terrifying memories out yet again. I have no idea how many of these memories are still there or whether they will ever surface. All I know is that I have dealt with this one now. I have brought it out into the light, and when I visit Paul's flat in future, I shall think of the lovely garden, the bright sunny rooms and my boy's optimistic outlook on the future, not my past.
Chapter Thirty-six
THE WORLD I HAVE MADE
TIME HAS PASSED SO QUICKLY. It's February 2008 and I'm sitting here, writing this, surrounded by my children. I'm in Paul and Ayumi's flat, just a stone's throw away from the home I grew up in, so close to where all the bad things happened, where I spent my childhood days wondering whether I'd be fed or abused.
It's a wonderful contrast. Here sit my three children, laughing and happy with the security of knowing that they love each other and that I would rather die than harm a hair on their heads. As I look at Paul, Claire and Saoirse, I realise that the mantra I adopted for myself – It's never too late to have a happy childhood – has been a healing thing for me. Through them, I've enjoyed the wonder of childhood, of knowing what it feels like to run free and to play, to have adventures, to be excited about Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and all the other wonderful aspects of a happy childhood that I myself could only dream of.
My two older children are now young adults. As I listen to them discussing the plans they have for their futures – Paul and Ayumi's forthcoming wedding and trip to Japan, and Claire's nursing course – I feel so very proud of my achievements. Saoirse still has all of this to come, but in the meantime she chats excitedly about our forthcoming house move and having a garden again, after such a long time living in a flat. 'We'll make a den,' she says, 'in the trees at the bottom of the garden, just for us, Mum.'
I wonder if you can understand just how much these simple words mean to me. When I was a child sitting in fear in my dark boxroom, hurting and hungry, I never ever dreamed I could be this happy.
I know that I didn't come through my childhood without physical and emotional scars, but these are things I can combat and overcome because I want to. If I hadn't gone into the dark days of my past and revealed the abuse, I fear I wouldn't be in this position now where I am able to see what I have achieved in spite of the horrors of my early years, nor would I be able to heal the damage that was done to me.
In the year 2000, I was sailing through my life – or so I thought. Life was, at least, ticking over for me. I had my children and my art but I didn't have me. I didn't know me. I felt that I was a child in an adult's body. Deep down inside me was a horror that I feared – the horror of my past. At times it didn't let me settle and I just couldn't share it with anyone because . . . where would I start?
Now I sit here, eight years on, and at last I can find the peace I have always yearned for because I have told my story. I have told it not to any one individual but to the world, and I am still accepted. I feel no shame and, finally, I am free. Through telling my story, I have righted a terrible wrong.
I never really wanted to go back into my past because I was far too scared. I knew it would be terrible. And, indeed, it has been terrible, like falling into a black pit full of demons and monsters. Despite all of this, I could always see the light, and I knew all I had to do was climb back up and out. I have beaten the demons by telling my story. They won't come back. I have no room for them in my life. I have told my story and, on the whole, that has been a rewarding, cathartic experience.
After my first book was published, I hoped that my mother or her family would materialise. Well, Breda is still missing or doesn't want to be found, and her family doesn't want to know me. Two years have gone by since I contacted her brother and I have heard nothing. That hurt back then when all my feelings were raw, but it no longer concerns me. I am no longer sad or angry at this fact. I am ambivalent.
My mother never appeared in my life when I really needed her, when I was crying through pain and hunger. She is not the kind of mother I can respect; she is not the kind of mother I am; so I wouldn't know what to say to such a woman. And for all the things that she should have offered me – her unconditional love and protection, and being a grandmother to my children – there have been other women, magnificent caring women who have come along and offered me and my children this love and nurturing, without expecting a single thing back.
No, it isn't me who is missing out here. It's you, Breda. It is you who is missing out because you do not feel the joy of love that a grandchild can give you, nor can you rest at night knowing that you have absolutely done the right thing by your children.
I'm pulled back to the moment because the sound of my children and Ayumi l
aughing is so loud. So wonderfully loud!
I feel blessed.
I have so much to look forward to now that I have climbed back into the light. There's no room in my life for the past now. I can finally put it on the shelf and, if anyone ever wants to know about it, they can read it. I now know that there are important reasons for telling my story: where I had no control I now do; where there was injustice there is now justice; where I was broken I am healing; and where there was darkness and pain there is now love and light.
So I leave my past here in this book and, as I sit with my children in the very street where I suffered as a child, I am no longer haunted by the memories. It's a different world now; the one I knew is long gone. When I looked into the past at the start of this journey all I could see was the child Donna sitting cowering in the dark boxroom, but she is no longer there. She is me: the adult, the mum, the artist, the woman with the knowledge that all from now on will be safe, happy and finally free.
CONCLUSION: ME
MY NAME IS Donna Ford and I am a good person.
I am Paul's mother. I love him and he loves me.
I am Claire's mother. I love her and she loves me.
I am Saoirse's mother. I love her and she loves me.
I have many friends.
I can hug and I can trust.
I can love and I am loved.
I am an artist. I can paint and draw and create beautiful things.
I can make a home for my children and I can keep them safe and secure.
I have wonderful memories of good times and good people.
My past is something I can choose to visit or choose to keep locked away until I want to look at it.
I can let my demons go.
I can celebrate who I am, and the person I have made myself.
And my future?
I have no idea – but it will be golden and warm and filled with joy.
It's never too late to have a happy childhood.
And mine has taken such a very, very long time to get here . . .
EPILOGUE
Dear Donna
When we started the process of writing your first book together, I don't think either of us could have guessed the road we would travel. I had done some research and spoken to a few people before deciding to begin ghostwriting. The advice was pretty much universal: keep your distance; see the story as a short-term project; don't expect to make a new friend. It didn't quite work out like that, did it?
The Donna I first met was a very different woman from the one I now know. You have always been strong and capable – but that comes from a deeper place these days. It comes from knowing, absolutely, that you have a character that has been shaped by you – you haven't just done a great job with your kids; you've done a great job with yourself as well.
None of this has been easy for you, and none of it will ever be made better by a few platitudes, but what you have achieved is remarkable. I can't imagine how you have coped with some of the memories thrown up by deciding to tell your story, but I knew that I wanted this book to end on something positive, something which would be there for ever, locked inside the good memories. So, I asked all of your children to write a letter to you. I've probably just created something else to make you cry in the process!
Your legacy isn't Helen Ford or what was done to you – your legacy is three beautiful, healthy, loving human beings who adore you.
Have a wonderful life, Donna – you deserve it.
Linda xxxx
Dear Mum
A fighter. That's how I would probably best describe you, Mum. Despite having dealt with some of the worst things life can throw at you, you have remained strong and positive. Throughout our childhood, we weren't blessed with an awful lot of money, but you never let that affect us. In fact, we had a massively rich childhood – rich with fun and laughter and adventure; we would always find something interesting and exciting on our day trips out.
I want to tell you that you are an amazingly talented woman, both as an artist and a person. You have brilliant viewpoints and can hold a conversation with anyone on any topic. You have a very sharp mind (which is pretty annoying when I try to play you at Scrabble!) and are a massively caring person. You put your family first at every opportunity, and would much rather see us have a small luxury than have anything yourself.
I strongly believe that you have given me the best start I could have hoped for in life. You have shown me a very broad way of thinking, taught me to put others first and instilled in me the importance of considering other people's feelings, always achieved by leading by example. You have made me the person I am today.
I am not only proud to have you as my Mum; I'm proud to know you as a person.
Your son – Paul xx
Dear Mum
Or should that be Mother Teresa? I sometimes wonder whether there is a single thing in this world that you can't do! If you don't know how to do something, you'll give it your best shot . . . and in the process of trying we always have a lot of fun and laughter along the way! If I ever have something that needs to be done, I always believe you will be able to help me out. I don't know how you manage it.
I couldn't even start to explain how much you actually mean to me. Not only are you my Mum, but you're a good friend too. As with all friends, we scream and shout about petty little things, we go off stomping and shouting, but it's guaranteed that in 10 minutes we'll be the best of friends again with tears of laughter rolling down our cheeks.
Mum, it was not until I attempted to read The Step Child that I understood a lot of things that you have done for us in our life, and why you have done them the way you have. There was one incident in particular that I read which made a lot of things fall into place. You spoke about your first ever day at school and how you were sent there, all alone, in hand-medown tatty clothes. You stood in the playground looking at all the other children, with their parents waving them off, and you felt so alone. This is so hard to write, Mum – as I'm typing, tears are rolling down my cheeks. I can hardly bear to think that you, out of everyone in the world, had to endure what you did. When any of us had a first day at school, you made it so special. Everything we had was brand new and was laid out neatly for at least a week beforehand. You took photos of us all dressed up in our shiny new uniforms, and you stood proudly with tears in your eyes as you waved at the school gates. We knew that those were tears of love – what we didn't know was they were tears for that little girl who never experienced what we did.
Thank you, Mum, for being you. You had the worst possible childhood, but when you had your children, you decided that things would be different. We had the best upbringing that anyone could ask for. It was full of fun, adventure, excitement, love and togetherness. I remember once when you took us for a walk at Tiningham Woods and we got lost. You turned it into an adventure . . . let's see who can find the car first! That sums you up – eccentric – but I wouldn't change you for the world. I know that you will be there for me any second of every day.
I had to stop reading The Step Child and I'll tell you why – it was too disturbing for me to see you that way. That may be selfish of me, but I didn't want to change the way I thought of you. How could I still come to you with every little problem knowing what had happened to you as a child? It wouldn't be fair. You are my rock, my hero. I couldn't bear for the tables to turn and for you to change from being a strong woman to someone vulnerable. It's just too hard to think of.
I don't know how you managed to bring us up so well. You are an extraordinary person and I can only hope that I will become a woman just like you. That would be an incredible achievement. All you ever think of is everyone else – well, Mum, let's start thinking of you for a change.
