What Daddy Did

by Ford, Donna

  As well as pushing the pram, I was involved with basic chores connected with the baby such as washing nappies and sometimes feeding her. I didn't see much of her, however, because I was in my room so much. When Helen left, and I had to take full-time care of Karen, it wasn't easy – I was 11 years old – but I was more than happy to do it.

  I remember that first morning after Helen left so well. We were all milling around the house in a state of confusion, yet I was so happy. I just couldn't believe that she had finally gone. The most surprising thing for me was that she had left Karen behind. When Helen had left a year previously for a little while, just after Karen's birth, she'd taken the baby with her. I'd really missed the little one. I'd missed her smiling face as I pushed her in the pram.

  As time went on, Karen would beam at me whenever she saw me. Being so small, I had to stand on something to lift her out of the cot but I managed it. I also managed to bathe her and feed her and then spend whole days playing with her. She and I went virtually everywhere together. I finally had someone to love properly in this baby and she loved me back. She would sit on my knee and I would read her stories. I would sing her the nursery rhymes I used to sing to myself as I stood alone in the bathroom or bedroom. I would draw her pictures and I would laugh as she tried to draw. I protected her from her eldest brother nipping and tormenting her. I walked her to and from nursery. I took her to the play park and the swimming baths. I got her to eat things she had never tried. I nursed her when she was ill. I would go to the charity shops and buy her clothes and I would dress her up as best I could.

  By the time I left home, Karen was at primary school. I was so desperate to get out of the house and away to start my own life that I just couldn't give much thought to what effect my leaving would have on her. I now know that, at that time, she felt she had been 'abandoned' again. I did feel guilty, and when I visited once or twice in the first year after I left, I went back just to check on Karen, as she was the only one I gave any thought to.

  She was my little sister. Ironically, as she has no direct blood link to me, she is the only one I class as being real family. She was the only one who showed me true love during my whole childhood.

  I tried to keep in touch with her but going back to the house where so many things had happened to me was difficult. At one time during my twenties when I was living with my fiancé and his parents, I would collect Karen and she would come and stay over. I would take her shopping and buy her well-needed clothes. My future mother-in-law, Flora, was a remedial teacher, and she would sit and help Karen with her reading and writing. I would buy her lots of Christmas presents and wrap them up and take them to her.

  But then I abandoned her again.

  Before I married, I made a conscious decision to leave my past behind. I couldn't deal with the memories of all the things that had gone on in my childhood every time I visited the house and saw Karen. For my own self-preservation, I withdrew again. In my youth and ignorance, I didn't consider the effect this would have on Karen or what her fate would be when my father died, leaving her homeless. I now know that all of these acts devastated this vulnerable young girl, and that she didn't have an easy time when she went to live with her older brother. I wish I'd had the wisdom and knowledge then that I have now, but I was used to thinking about my own survival first.

  I am very proud to say, though, that in spite of what could have been devastating for us – what could have been the end of a bond we made all those years ago – Karen understands now that we were both victims of circumstances way beyond our control, and she has accepted me back into her life.

  I am so proud of her because she is a beautiful woman who has managed to carve a nice life for herself with her husband, who she's been with since her teens. They have two lovely, intelligent little girls, and the love in their family is inspiring. This, as far as I am concerned, is a real achievement because it wasn't easy for Karen.

  After I left home it was just Karen and my Dad in the house. My Dad was not at all a well man at this time, yet in spite of social work contact she was left to look after him in a sheltered housing complex. She has told me about much of this time she spent with my Dad but I shall respect her wish not to go into the past here. I'll say only this: Karen, I loved you from the minute I saw you. You are my little sister. I know I haven't always been there for you, but now that I am able to put the past behind me I know we have so much to look forward to, as do our children as cousins. You are an amazing young woman. I have enormous respect for you and your husband and I love your two beautiful little girls to pieces.

  I want you to know one thing: Helen Gourlay Ford may be your biological mother but I can assure you that you are so very, very different from her. If she'd had only one ounce of your kindness and gentleness then our childhood might have told another story. But the past is the past and now I look forward to the future with you in my world.

  Karen, I love you.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RING, RING, RING

  THE YEAR BEFORE HELEN left was, by far, the worst – given what I'd already been through, that says a lot. Helen was constantly cross and miserable and the parties were more frequent and more horrific for me. I can't understand her justification or motive for any of this. I can only guess that behind the increase in parties and the appalling nature of the sexual attacks on me was some sort of reaction to how she perceived her life and home situation.

  As always, I have many more questions than answers. Was she preparing to leave my Dad and somaking things worse for me as she knew she wouldn't have access to me soon? Was she punishing my Dad by punishing me? If that was the case, did he explicitly know what was going on? I know I'll never get to the bottom of it all.

  There were a number of men involved in my abuse. Some of them I saw only once or twice, but there were also a few who repeatedly raped and abused me. I never knew their names, of course, and I barely saw what they looked like. Sometimes my room would be dark as I didn't have lots of natural light coming in, but at other times I just couldn't bear to look at them or even open my eyes at any point. I guess that just made it better for them – some of them must have wanted my fear and terror as much as they wanted what they were doing to me.

  What I do remember is the smell of them.

  And what they did to me.

  What they, as grown men, chose to do to a child.

  During the summer holidays when I was nine years old, the obscenities against me reached a new high. I spent most of my time in my bedroom that summer anyway, but there were huge differences in the experiences I had there. Sometimes, in the morning, I'd be told by Helen to 'get up and get up dressed'. I knew this meant there was a chance I might get out into the sunshine for a bit that day. I'd push baby Karen in the pram to the local shops and I'd go to the butcher's and the greengrocer's, and usually the baker's, before returning home. Once I got back, there wasn't much variety in what I was ordered to do. Helen would scream, 'Get to bed, you!' I'd do as I was told – I was well trained – and get out of my clothes, keeping my underwear on, before getting into bed.

  What I did next would depend on what I could hear outside.

  If there was no party going on or preparations under way, Helen would just want me out of her way for the rest of the day. On those days, I could usually sneak a book out from under my mattress and take it over to the closed door where I got the most daylight seeping through beneath the gap. I could manage to read quite a lot while Helen was busy in the living room. Sometimes, I could even draw if I had managed to hide a scrap of paper and a few pencils or crayons from the others. Helen would have gone ballistic if she'd caught me, but she usually preferred to ignore me completely if I was in my room. Nevertheless, I would continually listen and watch for someone coming near my room.

  However, if I got back from the shops with Karen to the signs or sounds of a party being prepared, the day would be quite different, and I would long for the alternative of being left alone for hours on end with no food
and no company. I'd hear her getting ready. The music would go on. I would get my usual command to get to bed, but on those days I would go there and sit bolt upright with my arms by my sides while things got under way. Some days, things would happen quickly; other times, it would take longer. I could be sitting there like that for minutes or for hours. I had no control over it, but I knew what was coming.

  It's difficult to say exactly how many people were at these parties, but I'd guess around six at the most, including Helen. I only ever heard one other female voice at these events, a woman I didn't know. The parties always started around lunchtime, and they began with three rings on the doorbell.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  When I heard those three rings I would freeze. I'd wait for the sound of the footsteps and the shadows passing by my door as the bell was answered and people were welcomed in. The music would have been going for pretty much all of the morning anyway, but it would get slightly louder once guests arrived. There would be talking. There would be laughing. There would be the sound of beer cans popping and I could smell the cigarette smoke.

  They were there for a good time.

  I just sat there waiting in that little prison of a room. My room was long and narrow and my bed faced the door. On party days I sat there rigid. I sat in that bed in my vest and pants with my book under the mattress, and I waited until he came in.

  Whoever he might be that day.

  It was always the same ritual. I hear two sets of footsteps and see two shadows under my door. The man and Helen. Then my door opens just enough to let someone in, then the door closes. I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them close to me, and bury my head under the covers, just like I always do, but he always finds me. Whoever he is that day, he always finds me.

  In my mind, in my adult mind, I can still hear the music and laughter. I can smell the smoke, and, as I feel I am back there with him approaching me all over again, there is the added smell of man. I'm not sure if I knew what that was back then, but the stink seems so powerful in my memory now.

  In my head, I fall back into my childhood and I know that, depending on which man it is, things will happen. Different things for different men.

  Man One likes to stroke my hair.

  He sits on my bed and talks quietly to me. Does he think that this makes him a nice man? Maybe he thinks I'll like him if he uses the right words and right tone of voice. Then, perhaps, it will be easier for him to justify to himself what he is doing to me. This man tells me that I am so pretty. He tells me that over and over again. I know that he is lying because Helen tells me that I am an ugly little witch. Ugly. Pretty. I don't think it matters because I'll still hurt. So, this man lies to me some more, but even though he is still talking quietly, like nice men do, I can tell that he is getting annoyed. He wants things to hurry up so he pulls the covers off me. This man pokes at me and prods at me over and over again. He still says that I am a pretty little thing, but his voice is more hurried now and he is getting out of breath. He is touching himself and, although it is disgusting, I would rather that he touched his thing than make me do it.

  He's talking all the time, saying the same words over and over again as his breath gets faster.

  'Isn't that nice?' he says.

  'Isn't that nice?'

  No. No, it's not. He is still stroking my hair as much as he can with his free hand, but he is pushing my head. He is forcing it down to his thing, making me take it in my mouth while he shakes it until he's reached satisfaction. Then he stops. Smiles at me. 'Wasn't that nice?' he says as he moves towards the door.

  Like all the others, he taps gently on the inside of my bedroom door and it is opened immediately for his exit. Someone has been waiting outside all of the time he has done those things to me. Was it Helen? I can hear a woman's voice and a woman's laughter. Has she been waiting there, listening?

  Man Two doesn't like to talk at all. He comes into my room as I wait with my eyes closed on the bed and says nothing. He makes some noise, some low noise, while he gets on the bed beside me before pushing me down. He is a big man – everyone is big to me as I'm so little anyway – and he lies on top of me. This man tries to force his thing between my legs. He pushes and pushes and all of the time I'm nearly suffocating. He finally seems to manage. He gets what he wants, and all he does is grunt all the time. It hurts so much. All I want is for it to stop and for me to go to the loo. This man just leaves without even looking at me when he has finished. He taps on the door and exits. I'm left there, wondering if there will be more of them today. I can never relax, even when one of them has gone, because there can always be others. If I knew that there would be no-one else for the rest of the day, maybe I could read a little, but I never know when the door is going to open and Helen will let someone else in.

  On some days, Man Three is in my room. He is a combination of Man One and Man Two. Sometimes he will talk to me, sometimes he won't – I don't think it makes any difference because they all do what they want anyway. Sometimes he pushes himself into me; sometimes he wants me to touch him; sometimes he touches himself while he says things. There are lots of these men – they blur into each other – but I recognise that some of them have particular things they want to do. To enjoy it more, I suppose. They have particular things they want to do that makes abusing a child better for them. Nicer.

  Every time and with every man, I was terrified before and during the acts. Afterwards, I was just sad and sore. I felt dirty and horrible. I always welcomed them finishing their deed and then gently tapping on the inside of my bedroom door to be let out. When they left, I would curl up in a ball and cry and cry, wondering what I had done that was so bad.

  Chapter Sixteen

  UNANSWERED QUESTIONS, UNWANTED MEMORIES

  WHAT KIND OF MAN SEEKS sexual gratification from a child? Who are these people? I can guess that they are in some way inadequate; I can guess that they may claim they were abused as children – although, for me, that is one of the most shameful excuses to hide behind. I know that these men are 'normal'-looking men who often have families of their own.

  There are many reasons and opinions about what makes a person a paedophile, but I want no excuses or justification. I know their methods and the damage they do. I feel that the most shocking part of my story is the fact that I was made available for these men – in my own bedroom, the place that should have been my haven – by the person who was supposed to take care of me and protect me.

  On a few occasions at Helen's parties, I was made to stand in the bathroom and be belted over the bath while people watched my abuse, as if they were at a show. Did Helen sell tickets? I sometimes wondered. Did she profit from my horrors? I do wonder what she got out of it – was it all emotional and psychological? Perhaps she just hated me so much that she wanted me to suffer in every way imaginable, or perhaps she benefited financially. Did men pay her for the privilege of raping me? Sometimes I get a flashback of a moment, like a movie-clip in my mind. I know it is a memory of something that happened but it is almost as if I am removed from my own body, looking down or in on the situation. I know I don't want to look at this clip because it is too horrible, but, at the same time, I have no control over which memories come in and invade my thoughts.

  One such flashback that has recurred over the years is a time in the bathroom of the house in Edina Place. I would have been around nine years old. I don't know what day or month it was, but I remember that it was cold and dull outside, and the rain was tapping on the window. There was no sun this day to warm the room slightly or cast the shadows that I liked. With the sun, there always came spots of light dancing across the room, and there would be an area beside the bath where I could stand and catch a bit of warmth on my shoulder. But there was no sun this day.

  I stood with my hands by my sides as I had been told, in my underwear, and with nothing on my feet. I shifted one foot on top of the other, trying to warm one at a time, and I picked a scab on my leg to k
eep myself amused. I had a feeling that this was going to be a bad day because I had been sent in there first thing in the morning. My older half-sister had taken the other children out, maybe to the cinema if Helen had grudgingly given her the money. That's what was so worrying. If she'd made an investment to get rid of them, she'd want payback. From me.