What Daddy Did

by Ford, Donna

  I walked over to where the tenement flats were and opened the heavy door which led into the stone stairwell. The note was probably about a party Helen was planning, I reasoned. There was a feeling of dread in my stomach as I didn't know whether it would be the next day or next week, but I knew that I would be part of the 'entertainment' whenever it did happen. I went up the stairs to the second-floor flat which I knew belonged to Mr Smith. He must have been waiting for me because he opened the door before I'd even managed to ring the bell.

  'Come in, come in,' he said, pulling me by the wrist into his flat. He had horrible teeth – more gums than anything else – and he smelled as though he didn't even know what a bath was. Helen didn't keep me clean, and I was never allowed free access to the bathroom to wash myself (that was a place for punishment), but I seemed to have a heightened sensitivity to the stink of others too. He started to pull me through to what must have been his living room. 'I have to go,' I stuttered. 'I have to get back or Helen will wonder where I am.' I'd tried that line many times before with many of Helen's friends, and it had never worked. It wasn't to be any different today. All of these men knew – as did I – that Helen had sent me to them. Helen couldn't care less what they did to me once I was in their homes or shops.

  'No, no,' he answered. 'Don't you worry about that, Donna. Helen says you can stay here as long as you like.' I didn't 'like' to stay there for another second. His attempts to pull me towards the living room were becoming more successful. When we got there, he pushed me down onto an old, smelly easy chair and leaned over me. 'Now, Donna, can I get you anything?' he asked, as if we were having a perfectly normal conversation. I wanted lots of things – mostly an escape route out of there. I shook my head. 'Ah well, now – maybe I'll be able to think of something,' he leered.

  He stood up and moved his hand towards the front of his trousers. As soon as he started to unzip them, I made a dash for it, pushing past him and running down the hall. I heard him coming along behind me, calling my name in an almost sing-song way, as I finally got to the safety of the front door.

  The locked front door.

  He put his arms above me as I stood there. 'See? See what a silly wee girl you are?' he asked. He moved his hands down, grabbing me by the shoulders. I closed my eyes, but he told me to open them. 'Don't you want to, Donna?' he said. 'Don't you want to lick my lollipop?'

  He stood there smiling with his trousers and pants around his feet, and shoved my hand onto his horrible, inflated penis. 'There you go,' he said. 'I knew you'd like it. Now, go ahead – lick my lollipop.' He kept saying it over and over again, more to himself than to me I think, as he pushed my head down and forced me to do what he wanted.

  Finally, it was over. That scene – that moment – was over at least, but it's only very recently that my memory has allowed me to visit that chapter again. I know that there are many, many more episodes all too similar to that one, still locked away. Whether they will come out – when they will come out – isn't something I have any control over, but maybe you are only given what you can cope with. I hope so.

  Chapter Thirteen

  SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN

  ON THE BACK OF MY BIRTH certificate is written, 'baptized at London Road Church, Edinburgh on June 9th 1966 by Rev W Scott Reid'.

  I wasn't a baby when that baptism happened, nor was my mother present. In fact, it occurred almost two years after I was 'restored' to the care of my Dad and his new wife Helen.

  Reading through my files – particularly those that relate directly to my time in the Barnardo's institution – there is much mention of religion, or the lack of it, within our family. My mother is referred to as a 'lapsed Catholic', and it is stated that, 'the children have not been baptized'. On my return home it was a prerequisite that I would be given a religious education, so, every Sunday without fail, I attended Sunday school. My Dad and Helen didn't go, but my older half-brother and half-sister came with me when they too arrived 'home'.

  The memories I have of attending Sunday school are bittersweet.

  I can recall some nice times such as singing jolly children's hymns. I also loved the Sunday school picnics where, for one day of the year, I would get the opportunity to travel on a bus with all the other kids, and we'd arrive at a park where I could play like a normal child. On top of that, I'd be fed! I'd receive a little paper bag with a cold meat pie, a biscuit and a homemade bun. On those days I was truly in heaven.

  At Sunday school I would listen to the Bible stories related to us by our teacher, about the miracles that were performed by a mystical person called Jesus. I didn't know who Jesus was but He sounded good and kind. I loved these stories – the birth of the baby Jesus; the parting of the waves; the Ten Commandments; and how Jesus fed so many people with a few fish and loaves. However, one story that sticks like glue in my mind and seemed terribly apt to me is the verse from Matthew – suffer the little children.

  If there is one clear image in my mind, it is the day that I heard these words. I was around nine years old and we had been living in our new house for a matter of months. The week of this sermon was the week that I had, for the first time ever, been sexually abused.

  I was sore all over that Sunday morning – bruised on my body from the beating I'd received on one of the days that week, and sore down below because that week I had been sent on an errand to one of Helen's friends. The man I had been sent to had stuck his fingers 'in there'. He told me I would like it, but I didn't, I truly didn't.

  That Sunday, I got up and got dressed as I had been instructed by Helen. Wearing the best of the clothes I had, I walked up Easter Road with my half-brother and half-sister. Frances was holding one of my hands, and, in the other, I clutched the round copper penny I had been told to place in the big brass collection plate as it was handed round at the end of the service. Even now, I can feel the tears stinging my eyes as I remember how we walked up that road passing all the familiar shops, most of them closed now.

  The stillness of the day was disturbed only by the clanging of the bells leading us all into the big church like ants. When we got there my sister went into the main part of the church where all the adults stayed. I didn't know what she did there, but my brother and I, like all the other children, went into the little room at the side where the Sunday school was held.

  We all sat down on mats that were placed haphazardly on the wooden floor. First, we prayed then we sang a song. I don't recall what that song was, but I remember looking at all the other children and wondering why they were so happy. Our Sunday school teacher went on to tell us the story of people bringing their children to Jesus so that he might put his hands on them to bless them. The disciples disagreed with this and Jesus said: 'suffer the little children'. That was it. That was all I heard. Even Jesus – this person whom I thought was a nice man – agreed that children should suffer, that I should suffer.

  I was bereft. I didn't hear or understand the next part where the teacher went on to say that innocents such as children should be welcome in the Kingdom of Heaven. All I heard was that it was fine for me to be suffering and that Jesus approved of it. This Sunday school, this place, was the only solace for me in my life. I welcomed my time away from Helen to listen to something nice, but even here – in my eyes – it was okay for the things that were happening to me to happen. Jesus, too, was a man and He thought it was acceptable for children to suffer. At that precise moment in time, I felt that there was no way out for me.

  The pain of that moment was terrible. I clutched the penny and wanted to run away with it, but I didn't. I put it into the collection plate when it came round, and I walked home with my sister and brother, hurting even more than when I had set out that morning. That Sunday afternoon, as I lay in my bed in my dark boxroom, listening to 'Sing Something Simple' on the radio, I vowed that I would never ever trust Jesus. Now, as an adult, I have enormous respect for anyone who has a religion and uses it in the correct way, and I understand fully what was meant by the words in this pa
rticular chapter of the Bible. But if there ever was an illustration of how easy it is for children to misconstrue words then this must be it.

  The hell at 'home' was being exacerbated by Helen's eldest son, who had learned all he knew from his mother. Gordon was by far the favourite. In her eyes he could do no wrong, whereas in fact he was the most horrible boy ever. He was two years old when I went to live with them, but he was never the sweet little baby brother I'd hoped for. I know as an adult that it wasn't his fault, and that it was the way he was brought up by Helen that made him sneaky and spiteful, but it was really terrible living with him.

  Helen made it clear from the word go that he was 'special' and I was not. She constantly sang to him and bounced him on her knee. He was hugged and played with – even my Dad was like this with him. Gordon had his own toys and nice clothes even when money was tight. It is hard for me now to believe that he was three years younger than me because he was to become such a tormenter. By the time he could talk he was encouraged to 'tell on' me. If I was standing somewhere on punishment, he would call to Helen that I had 'moved' and I would be beaten on his word. He would come into the bathroom when I was standing there and shout and scream. When Helen came running, he would say I had hit him and I would be beaten again.

  This set the pattern for his daily behaviour. By the time we moved house when I was eight and he was five, Helen wouldn't blink an eye at him kicking me as I stood in punishment. I was powerless to say anything about this; my breath would have been wasted. Gordon would sometimes bring me my food into the bathroom or my bedroom, and he would spit in it first or throw it down so that it spilled all over the floor. He would then laugh at me as I scrambled to scrape up this precious food from the floor with not a shred of dignity left. When Helen left, he was knocked off his pedestal a bit as he could no longer behave like this in front of my father; so he would wait until my Dad wasn't around, then he would start his nipping, kicking and tormenting.

  Once, I managed to get him into trouble with my Dad. I was around 13, and Gordon would have been 10. My Dad had been out at the pub as usual, and while he was there Gordon had niggled and niggled at me, calling me a bastard and constantly kicking his football at me. By the time my Dad came back I was in a terrible state, crying as if my heart would break. After hearing what had happened, my Dad whacked his son with a slipper. This was far too much humiliation for Gordon, as not only was my Dad punishing him for the first time ever, but he was doing it in front of me too, the lowest of the low. You may think that this would be balancing – that Gordon would have learned a lesson – but this was not to be.

  He waited and finally got his revenge on me. As he always did.

  I'm not sure exactly how this incident came about, but he asked me to go with him to a printer's yard halfway down our street where he played football with his friends. I was presumably lulled into a false sense of security by his apparent niceness. I had left Karen in the house with my Dad and I can remember being aware that I must get back to give her some lunch. It was a warm sunny day and the printer's yard was closed – it must have been because we could only play in the grounds when it was closed. I recognised most of the boys as being from the gang that all hung around the street. They were much the same age as Helen's son, except for one boy who was a couple of years older.

  I didn't think much of it when they stopped kicking their ball on my approach and the older boy said hello. 'Come roond here and see what we found,' said one to me. 'Aye,' said another, 'come and see.' I didn't sense anything amiss so I went round the corner into a recess that housed some bins, not really knowing what to expect. As we went round into this place, two of the boys grabbed me by the arms as the older boy came towards me. He started touching me, lifting up my skirt and pulling at my pants. I tried to kick out at him, and I was yelling at him to 'Fuck off! Fuck off! Get lost!' I was shouting and screaming, but, before I knew it, I was down on the ground and he was on top of me. I could hear all the other boys laughing and shouting as I lay on the ground with this boy pushed on my body, the gravel digging into my exposed flesh.

  Again, I was powerless and helpless.

  Again.

  I tried to push him off. I tried to fight him but he just pinned me down and started moving on top of me, pushing himself into me. Doing all of the things I hated – and recognised so well.

  When he finished, he got off me and I jumped up. Making myself as decent as I could, I ran away from them. As I ran, I could hear their laughter and the fact that they had simply gone back to bouncing the ball off the ground. I have never known whether he was old enough to have any real idea of what was going to happen, or did happen, but as I ran away I caught sight of Helen's boy, Gordon, laughing and laughing as the tears of humiliation and frustration streamed down my face.

  The last time I was conscious of this spawn of Helen Ford's was in 2003 at the High Court in Edinburgh. He was a man now and he stood there as a witness for his mother. I was revealing her cruelty and he was defending her, saying what a wonderful mother she was. I know that he is technically my half-brother but I do not class him as anything to do with me. I can accept no link because of the way he was.

  He should heed the warning that 'what goes around comes around'.

  It was one of the lessons I did heed from Sunday school.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ANDREW AND KAREN

  HELEN'S YOUNGEST BOY WAS THE antithesis of his older brother. Andrew was a meek, mild-mannered child who always wore a cheeky grin on his face. He was born in November 1966 in the house in Easter Road. It was lovely to have a new baby around because quite often I would get the job of pushing him in his pram in the back green to get him to settle. I liked those times because I could pretend that I had a dolly to play with, which I longed for.

  Gordon, though, was not as happy to have him around. He was very jealous of this little thing taking his place. No longer was he the one getting all the attention; here was a threat to the affections of his mother. He would often nip baby Andrew or torment him when Helen wasn't looking. When the baby cried, it wouldn't be Gordon who got into trouble; it would be me.

  I can't recall having an enormous amount of interaction with Andrew; often, he just went off into his own little world. Yet he must have been so alone and confused in that terrible, dysfunctional house. I have a school photograph of him when he was around 10, a fair-haired, blue-eyed child wearing exactly the expression I recall when I think of him.

  Although he was treated differently from me by Helen, I can't ever remember him being really nasty. Yes, he joined in watching brother Gordon taunt me, and he was not discouraged by Helen, but he seemed different. He, too, was a witness for Helen at her trial, but unlike her older son I didn't recognise him as the man he had become. As far as I am concerned, Andrew was another one of Helen's victims. He was only six years old when his mother left him. She also left someone who, to me, was far more precious.

  Helen's youngest child was a little girl called Karen, born in October 1969. This baby was to change things dramatically for me. Through her I was to learn how to love someone and to know how it felt to have someone love you back.

  The run-up to Karen's birth was a frenetic, fraught time in the house because there were so many arguments between my father and Helen. I can only speculate that this may well have had something to do with the miracle of Helen becoming pregnant when my father knew he could no longer have children. Maybe there were a few discussions over who the biological father could be. I recall the day of her birth clearly and how she was born at home in the bedroom my Dad shared with Helen. I remember Helen's moans and the fuss and drama, then seeing the placenta lying in a potty in the bath.

  When I saw Karen, I was so pleased because she was lovely. She was round and cherubic and so vulnerable. I got many opportunities to push her up and down the lobby in her big pram, rocking her to sleep; and as I did, I pretended – as with her brother – that she was my dolly. I'm sure if Helen had realised how much I
enjoyed this 'chore', she would have stopped it.

  I was so small that I could push the pram by going under the handle and moving it from the end of the pram itself. As I pushed and rocked her, she would look at me. I remember making little faces at her as she laughed and smiled. I loved this! How nice it was to have this positive response in someone. But I also worried. I thought that she would grow up and see that I was bad and ugly and evil, then she would no longer smile at me – but that never happened.