The Step Child

by Ford, Donna

  It never happened. Helen was apparently told, after taking Frances and Simon in, that because they weren’t my father’s children, they couldn’t be counted in our family total for rehousing. She had been thwarted and we would pay the price.

  By the time Frances and Simon came back, most of my childhood fantasies about a perfect family life had been shattered. Given my own experiences, this time I knew there would be no party, no warm welcoming, no balloons around the door and cake on the table. In fact, as far as I can remember, the day they were brought back blended in with all the others. One minute they weren’t there; the next they were.

  I have a clear memory of seeing Frances again after such a while. She was so beautiful! My half-sister had the most gorgeous long, dark hair and I just wanted to stroke it, and dream of looking like her one day. To begin with, Simon and Frances were dragged around to see all of our relatives, just as I had been, and Helen was sure to take her fair share of the compliments wherever we visited. I would listen to all of these people, my flesh and blood, praise her to the heavens, saying she was an angel to take on this brood of kids who had no link to her, and I’d think of what she did to me. I wondered how and why adults could be so ignorant and let such bad things happen to children. Did they see nothing? Or did they know and not care?

  Like me, Frances and Simon had a rude awakening – they quickly realised that Helen was not the kindly mother figure we all hoped for.

  Frances’s hair was one of the first things to go. Helen couldn’t stand anything pretty or worthy of praise, so one day she sat my sister on a chair in the living room. She held Frances’s hair up in one hand. ‘Pleased with this, are you?’ she asked. Frances already knew that there were never right answers where Helen was concerned. Silence was generally the best answer until you could gauge where she was going with her questions. ‘Pleased with your lovely hair? Take after your Mum with it, do you? Everyone tell you how pretty you are, do they?’ All the time, Helen was lifting Frances’s hair up, twirling it round her hand, then letting it drop.

  It was only after this had been going on for what seemed like ages that Helen pulled a pair of scissors out of her pocket. ‘Vanity’s a terrible thing, Frances – a terrible thing. Anyway – I’m sure it’ll all grow back again.’ She then chopped off all her beautiful hair. And made as bad a job of it as she could. It wasn’t a haircut; it was a scalping. Frances sat there and cried and cried as her hair fell about her feet. There was no hiding from it any more – Helen was going to hate Frances and Simon just as she hated me.

  Again, what was my father’s role in all of this? He must have seen the evidence of Helen’s hatred when he came home that night. He couldn’t have failed to notice that Frances had been scalped. He and Helen were always fighting, always shouting, so perhaps they did argue about things like that – but, if they did, it was never enough to change things, to make him do anything.

  Soon after Helen chopped off Frances’s hair, she got us all together to tell us ‘the rules’. We were all made to stand in the living room with our hands by our sides, like little soldiers. Helen rattled through a list that she was making up as she went along – don’t speak unless you’re spoken to; don’t take anything at all without permission; don’t talk to anyone without me saying you can; don’t suck up to your Dad; don’t expect me to be a mother to you. The list went on – most of it washing over me, as I knew that there was no rhyme or reason to Helen’s ‘rules’, and that adhering to them all wouldn’t save you in the slightest. But Simon and Frances – although terrified – still seemed to think that if they could only remember it all, and stick to it, then life might be bearable. They still had hope. I was running out.

  Our stepmother dealt with my half-brother and sister in different ways. Frances was almost 10 when she came back, so Helen could make use of her. I suppose it was also more difficult to intimidate the eldest of us completely, although she did try with incidents such as the hair-scalping. More than anything, Helen found Frances quite handy. She would be sent on lots of errands – to the shops, to neighbours, to collect bits and bobs, or to take messages between Helen and her friends. Helen would use Frances to walk the baby and even cook the dinner.

  On one occasion, I had been playing in the back green when I fell and hurt myself. Predictably, Helen showed no sympathy – her only response was to tell Frances that ‘if she wanted’, I could be taken to the ‘sick kids hospital’ to be checked over. It was a long bus journey, and I remember being so proud of my big sister as she found the hospital, spoke with the receptionist at accident and emergency, and then related my fall to the doctors. A few times, I remember staff asking where my Mum and Dad were, and telling Frances what a good girl she was. They must have found it odd that such a young child was in sole charge of another, but they stitched me up and we made our way back home again, alone.

  Simon had a different strategy, imposed rather than adopted. While Frances made herself useful and I continued to be the little bastard who bore the brunt of the physical abuse, my half-brother became the centre of Helen’s ridicule. From making fun of the way he looked, to playing practical jokes on him that weren’t in the least bit funny, there was no end to the amusement she got from this skinny, insecure, nervous little boy. One day she called him through to the living room. ‘Time to stop being so useless,’ she informed him. ‘At least your big sister can actually do some things if you get it through her thick head.’ Simon stood there trembling. I could see that he was trying to remember the ‘rules’, trying to figure out what he should do.

  ‘I want you to try and make yourself useful too,’ said Helen. Simon nodded vehemently. ‘Get yourself sorted, get your coat, and get yourself off down Easter Road. I’m not sure what shop you’ll need to go into, so best try them all. Go into every one, every single shop mind you, Simon, and ask them for a left-handed screwdriver. Make sure everyone in the shop hears you, and don’t take “no” for an answer. Don’t you come back here until you’ve got me what I’ve asked for – a left-handed screwdriver. Do you hear me? You useless, glaikit boy? Do you hear me? Has it gone in?’ Simon nodded again and set off on his humiliating journey. I can only imagine what happened next – the slight boy going into every shop each side of Easter Road and tremulously asking for something that didn’t exist, something which was such a good joke to everyone else, but just another method of degradation for Helen to inflict on us.

  Eventually Simon came back – empty-handed of course. He couldn’t even bring himself to speak to Helen. ‘Well, where is it, stupid?’ she asked. ‘Where’s the screwdriver?’ Simon just looked down. She got up and walked up to him, pushing her face down to his. ‘Oh, Simon. That’s just not good enough, is it? You didn’t try hard enough, boy. You didn’t do what I asked you to do. Do you know what you need to do now?’ Simon was shaking. What did he need to do? Get her something to hit him with? Lie down so she could kick him? Bend over so she could beat him? ‘Go back out again. Try Leith Walk. Every shop now, Simon, every shop.’ The fact that Helen was offering him a non-violent option brought such relief that my big brother raced out of the house. Leith Walk ran parallel to Easter Road and was a huge shopping street with flats above all the outlets. You could buy anything on Leith Walk; it was – and still is – the heart of multicultural, 24-hour Edinburgh, and Simon probably had high hopes for his elusive left-handed screwdriver purchase. To walk the length of Leith Walk, both sides, and go into every shop would be quite a project even for an adult, but Simon set off on his mission.

  When he returned hours later, empty-handed, he was weeping. He came into the house and shamefacedly went towards Helen. She said nothing this time – just launched into hitting him straight away, constantly telling him he was useless and a cissy. To this day, I think of all those shop-owners and customers probably having a good-natured giggle at the wee boy asking for a left-handed screwdriver, perhaps thinking he was on a childish dare, perhaps thinking he was winding up the shop staff, but no one knowing the hurt wh
ich was really behind his errand.

  Whatever the details of the homecoming of Frances and Simon, nothing much changed for me. I should have guessed really – although Helen didn’t like an audience of adults when she laid into me, kids didn’t matter. She was as happy to hit me and scream at me in front of Frances and Simon as she had been before their arrival. And a nine-year-old and seven-year-old couldn’t do anything to save me, not that I ever saw any evidence of them trying to. When you live in fear, when you live with the constant terror that you can be belted and whacked and punched at any second – especially when you are five years old and your attacker is a grown woman – you think about yourself rather than others for most of the time. It was the same for Frances and Simon. At times, my half-sister and half-brother would be there while I was being beaten, and at times I would witness attacks on them. Sometimes, each of us would watch in horror; sometimes we’d turn our faces away; always we’d be grateful it wasn’t us getting it. In the middle of it all, Gordon, who was now two, was watching and learning.

  One day, when I was about six, Frances and Simon ran away together. I was either too scared to go, or never invited – I can’t remember – but I do recall them being brought back home by the police. Helen acted terribly concerned and awfully relieved – but the door was barely closed on the helpful officers before all three of us were thrashed over the bath with a belt then made to scrub all the floors in the house. All the time Helen was screaming that we were never ever to call her ‘Mum’ as she wasn’t our mother and never would be. I think that was just about sinking in by now.

  Another time, standing in my room, facing the wall after God knows how many hours, I heard Helen shout for me. She was in the living room, and I immediately walked through, still in my vest and knickers. There was no sign of Frances or Simon, although Gordon was sitting beside his mother on the floor. Helen stared at me. Her eyes never really showed any emotion (even when she was incredibly angry, she seemed to be somewhere else). It was as if she could just remove herself from where she was, from where I was, and get on with the job in hand, the pretend job for which she had created made-up rules. Maybe that’s what abusers need to do – perhaps there is a part of them which needs to disassociate itself from what they are actually inflicting on a child. Or maybe it just becomes bread and water to them, and they couldn’t actually care less any more. Something seemed different this time – there was a tone to her, a feeling about the whole thing, a lack of control even more frightening than usual that made the hairs on my forearms stand up on end.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  Something was coming, I knew that. Something new. Something she had only just thought of. Should I cry? Should I beg her to stop whatever it was going to be? Should I laugh? Should I defy her? What would anger her more? What would mollify her? Even as an adult, I wouldn’t know how to act with someone like that, so the very idea that a six-year-old might know how to cope is laughable. Despite this, all these strategies ran through my mind. And always, always, there was the hope that I could do something to turn this awful woman into someone – something – more human.

  Her eyes remained cold, then a spark briefly came into them. ‘Come here, Donna,’ she said, stretching out her hand. ‘Come here for a wee minute.’ I had to take her hand, I had to go with her. The pull of some contact – no matter what would greet me at the end of it – was too much to resist. She took me – dragged me – along the lobby. We were going outside. Maybe she was going to knock on Mr and Mrs Woods’ door. Maybe she was going to tell them what a bad girl I was and shame me in front of them. It looked like that was her plan as we continued out of the front door. But we walked past their flat and started to climb the stairs. Where were we going? She couldn’t take me outside in my underwear, could she? Then people would know, people would know that she didn’t act like a good Mummy, a nice Mummy.

  But we weren’t going outside.

  We stopped at the door to the coal cellar.

  She crouched down beside me. ‘Look, Donna. Do you know what’s in there?’

  I nodded. It was the coal cellar and I told her so.

  ‘Think you’re smart, do you?’ she snarled. ‘It’s not just a coal cellar, Donna. It’s a place where bad girls go. It’s a place for nasty, evil wee witches. Ugly little bastards who don’t deserve good things or nice mummies get locked in coal cellars, Donna – and they never know if they’ll get out again. Maybe nobody would know you were in there, Donna. Maybe nobody would ever remember to let you out again, Donna.’

  I was shivering. Shaking. This was what she was going to threaten me with now, was it? Well, she’d won. She’d got me. I’d do anything, anything she could think of, anything she could make up, to avoid going in there.

  She looked at me. ‘Come on then, Donna. Let’s go.’ When we got back into the flat, I’d be brave enough to ask her – that was where we must be going now, and I would just come right out with it, I would come right out and ask her what I could do to avoid ever, ever, ever being put into that place.

  ‘Come on,’ she said again, and I realised that the hand holding mine wasn’t taking me back downstairs to the flat. It wasn’t taking me home. It was slowly dragging me towards the door of the coal cellar. She was taking me in there. This wasn’t a threat. This wasn’t a warning. This was real.

  I was going in.

  The wooden door creaked open as she turned the key in the lock. I whimpered. I couldn’t help it. Even though I knew it might anger her, I was so scared, the noise just slipped out of me. Just inside the door were a few wooden steps which took you down into a dark, dank, musty, dirty space. I tried to cling on to her hand but what chance did I have? She slipped hers away from me, shoved me down the steps – and smiled.

  ‘Have a nice time, Donna. Have a nice time.’

  The door was locked behind me as I waited for my eyes to get used to the dark. But they didn’t. They couldn’t. There wasn’t a single chink of light for me to focus on. I was frightened, lonely, sad and sore (I was always sore), and now I was in a place where I might be left forever.

  The utter terror and complete sense of loneliness was overwhelming – so many adults have an absolute fear of the dark, and yet here I was, a tiny, undernourished, unloved, beaten child being locked into a pitch-black, freezing place. I felt as if I could touch the blackness. I kept hearing the sound of the lock turning over and over again in my memory. What could I focus on? How could I get through this?

  All I could do was think of the sunshine, think of being outside. I thought that if I concentrated enough, I might be able to make a picture in my head, and forget I was there. I told myself not to scream – she might be outside listening and that could make her even angrier. I knew I mustn’t wet or soil myself – if I did, she would only rub my face in it when – if – I got out and scream at me for being disgusting. What was left for me to do? How could I pass the time not knowing if it would be minutes or hours? Or even, God forbid, days? The longer I thought about it, the more worked up I got – no one knew I was here! She could say I’d run away. She could leave me here forever – I could die in this hell hole.

  I had to believe it would only be for a few seconds, even while my head and heart were screaming that she’d never let me off so lightly. I could cope. I’d have to cope. It was only darkness, wasn’t it? There wasn’t anyone in here. I wasn’t being kicked or punched. I could get through this.

  Then the noises started.

  At first, I tried to tell myself I was imagining it. I hummed very quietly to myself, little bits of songs I’d heard on the radio. I couldn’t sing loudly because of the fear that Helen would be outside the cellar door. But quiet humming wouldn’t drown out what I could definitely hear. This wasn’t in my mind, and it was getting louder, more frantic. Closer.

  Scraping. Burrowing. The feel of wet noses against my bare legs. The touch of wet fur against my shins. I could feel sniffing and inquisitive bodies wondering who this intruder was. I was surrounded.<
br />
  There was nothing to focus on except the scraping of what I now knew were dozens of rats beside me. They got more and more confident, and I had to deal not only with their presence and their scraping about, but also with the squealing which now filled the cellar. They must have picked up on the fact that I was weak and wasn’t going to pose a threat so they started to reclaim their territory. The squeaking didn’t seem to stop; their investigation of me didn’t seem to stop. I was absolutely terrified as the sound filled my ears. Would they bite me? What would they do to me if I was there for days? For weeks? I could feel their fur against my legs, but eventually I had to sit down, even though I knew I was making it easier for them to crawl all over me. And they did. After a few moments, the scurrying around me changed to a clambering as they climbed on top of me, I felt them over every part of my body. I sat there, with my hands over my eyes, quietly sobbing, every inch of my body shaking as filth-ridden rats climbed across me in the pitch-blackness.

  Suddenly, other things in my life seemed so much more bearable. The backhand slaps she gave me with hands covered in rings that scraped my face. The insults and screaming before the near-naked degradation in the bathroom. All of that, and more, was so much better than this.

  Hours later, she came for me. The door opened silently. She didn’t say a word, just waited for me to find my feet and climb out. I staggered back to the flat, where nothing was said by anyone. I fell into my room, knowing that there was something new, and even more horrific, in Helen’s repertoire.

  As I stood by the wall, freezing and in shock, I looked behind me as she closed the door.

  ‘Witch,’ she hissed. ‘You fucking stink.’