The Step Child

by Ford, Donna

  If I wasn’t in my room, hungry or sore, I’d be at school. That should have been a release for me, a relief, but it wasn’t really. I was still an outsider. I didn’t really have friends, for lots of reasons. I wouldn’t be allowed to go back to anyone’s house to play. I certainly wouldn’t be given permission for another child to come back to our house.

  But, more than that, I was excluded because of what Helen had turned me into. I stank. I constantly smelled of pee. When I stood in the bathroom for hours on end, I wasn’t allowed to use the toilet. If I needed to go, I had to wet myself. I wasn’t allowed to change my underwear after that. Helen took great delight in rubbing my face into my stinking pants, making sure that she held me tight and close into the stench until I was heaving. Then I had to put them back on again. The knickers which were rank with stale urine had to be worn the next day as a mark of shame. Sometimes, when I felt brave, I would sneak them off in the middle of the night, turn the tap on as little as I was able and try to get the stench out. I’d leave them to dry overnight and hope for the best. It never worked. I was dirty and I smelled. Children prey on the weaknesses of their peers. I was the girl who smelled of pee. Others would hold their noses when I went past or complain if the teacher made me sit beside them. How were they to know? Teachers presumably thought I wet myself deliberately or that it was something of which Helen despaired – they didn’t know that she inflicted it on me, and they never seemed to care.

  On non-school days I’d be at home, usually in the bathroom on a punishment for breaking an imaginary rule. Sometimes I’d be called through to the living room after hours had passed, but only to do chores – usually the ironing, or perhaps to collect washing that I had to lug back to my bathroom prison and trample in the bath until my legs ached. Everything that wasn’t punishment was based around cleaning. I’d be told to scrub floors with a nailbrush, scour windows until my hands were red raw, do the washing in cold water in the middle of winter in my vest and knickers – and I was so desperate to get out of the bathroom that it seemed like a liberation.

  As soon as we moved to Edina Place, it became clear that Helen was going to use the bathroom for punishment just as much as she had in Easter Road. She was obsessed with that room and all that went on in it. I’ve obviously wondered, as an adult, what Helen was put through as a child herself to turn her into the monster who ruined my own childhood. In that one room, there must be a clue. Whatever was done to her, whatever abuses she must have suffered, must surely have taken place in a room where she, in turn, thought it necessary to inflict degradation upon me. I can remember just standing there for hours on end with my hands by my side. Those old houses were so cold, so unforgiving. Even when you were happy and just living a normal life, it was a case of running in and out of the freezing room as quickly as possible to ‘do your business’. But I would be there for a lot longer – and I swear she’d forget I was even there.

  As I’ve said, the irony was that I wasn’t even allowed to go to the toilet while I was trapped in there. Sometimes I would plead, shouting out that I really really needed to go and that I’d do anything if I could use the loo. I soon learned that this would annoy Helen even more, and that if I ever asked, I had absolutely no chance. I soon gave up. The humiliation, the next day stink, all became second nature. If I moved, she’d scream that she could hear me and that I’d ‘get it’. I believed she probably could hear me, because I could certainly hear everything from her part of the house. The sound of the television programmes continued, the background noise to my life, but I never saw any of them. Now, when the constant stream of reminiscence shows fills the weekend schedules, I see clips of programmes that are so familiar to my peers, but to me are the soundtrack of my mortification at the hands of my stepmother.

  I thought I had it bad in Easter Road, but Helen’s hatred of me really came out in Edina Place. In the bathroom, she would push my face against the mirror. ‘Look at you,’ she’d hiss. ‘Look at your ugly, ugly face. You’re such a little witch, Donna. Such an ugly little witch, just like your mother. I don’t know how you can bear for anyone to ever look at you. You must turn their stomachs. That must be why you’re so useless and so evil and so rotten. It’s all because of this ugliness. It shows in your face and it comes out in everything you do.’

  I believed her. I couldn’t look in the mirror when she shoved my face into it because I was scared of what I’d see. If you are so ugly that you can’t be loved by someone who everyone tells you is good and kind, then why would you want to look at that reflection? I was skinny Donna, the starved little girl. I was smelly Donna, the child who pissed her own pants and whom no one would sit next to. I was bad Donna, the child rescued from an orphanage but so naughty that she didn’t deserve any kindness. And I was ugly, ugly, ugly Donna, the witch-girl so hideous that she couldn’t even look at her own image for fear of what it might show.

  I couldn’t look in a mirror for many years after Helen left my life. And I didn’t even look at the photographs of me as a little girl until very recently. When I finally did open my eyes and face up to what was in those pictures, I was shocked. Shocked by what I really was. Normal. Appealing. Pretty.

  Helen took all of that from me.

  Edina Place wouldn’t be a new beginning – it would be nothing less than a new horror.

  Chapter Seven

  AUNTIE NELLIE

  1965–1967

  ELIZABETH EWART CHANGED ME. To the rest of the world, this formidable retired headmistress who lived in Paties Road in Edinburgh’s upmarket Colinton area was probably a bit of a cliché. Unmarried, Auntie Nellie was very particular in her ways and manners, and always so certain of what was ‘the right thing’. I had known her at both my homes – Easter Road and Edina Place – but as I got older, I started to notice just how much she meant to me, and this coincided more with my life at Edina Place.

  To me, Auntie Nellie was my only hope. She was my Dad’s auntie really – his mother’s sister – so she was, in effect, my great-aunt. Names didn’t matter – what did mean something was the fact that Nellie took a shine to me from the word go. No matter what was to happen to me, what was going to be done to me, it was Auntie Nellie who was the biggest influence on my life. It was Auntie Nellie who made me what I am, and it was Auntie Nellie who has always made me so certain that good does triumph.

  Her house was a pristine 1930s bungalow, a million miles away from the life I knew. It felt so rich and comfy; the entire house was suffused with warmth and full of lovely old furnishings. There was a grandfather clock ticking in the hall, a barometer on the wall, a Bakelite telephone from the 1930s and shining brass irons in the fireplace. There was old mahogany furniture everywhere, tables that gleamed, and overstuffed armchairs with lace antimacassars draped over the back and on the armrests.

  Auntie Nellie’s bedroom was opulent and sumptuous. There was a huge wooden bed covered with an embroidered satin throw and matching eiderdown. On her three-mirrored mahogany dressing table was an array of magical, wonderful items – even though I didn’t dare touch them, I still appreciated their existence. On top of an embroidered lace doily was a silver brush, mirror and comb set. Beside them sat a jewellery box surrounded by ornaments. In the box, treasures lay in miniature drawers – lace hankies, leather gloves, silk scarves. Nellie’s bedroom smelled of lavender. Everywhere was gentle and in complete contrast to my hard, harsh world – soft carpets, soft cushions, soft throws!

  There was a pantry full to the brim of jars of home-made jams and chutneys. Food that was just there, there for the taking – that, to me, was a miracle in itself. Beside the food were stacks of chinaware, all so dainty, so perfect.

  It’s hard to describe what that house meant to me – it was a refuge, a fantasy of what other homes could be like. It was storybook stuff compared to where we were living. Auntie Nellie even had her own headed notepaper, the epitome of class! Sometimes, I found it hard to believe she was actually part of our family – but I clung to it. If she
was a relation, and if she loved me as much as she seemed to, then maybe there was some hope for me. Maybe things wouldn’t stay as bad for ever as long as Auntie Nellie was there.

  Even now, years later, I find it difficult to talk of her simply because she meant so much to me. She was a wealth of wisdom and knowledge, and was wholly instrumental in switching me on to reading, to books, and to the other world I could create in my mind. Her house was a dreamlike palace to the child I was, but she gave me much more than that. She gave me my imagination. I was allowed to meet up with Auntie Nellie about once a month – presumably, the joy of getting rid of me meant more to Helen than the pleasure she got from denying me everything else – and I lived for those days. I could hardly believe that anyone would take a special interest in me. Helen was already drumming it into me that I was ugly, that I was a little witch, that I was an unwanted bastard child. Auntie Nellie’s attentions seemed so tenuous as a result – surely she would find out about me? Surely she would see what Helen saw any minute and everything would be taken away?

  On the days when Auntie Nellie was due to collect me, I was full of apprehension. Would she turn up? Would it be as wonderful as before? The day itself didn’t start off any differently in terms of Helen’s treatment of me. ‘Get up, you little bastard!’ she shouted from the living room. I already had on the best clothes I could find and I was waiting, just sitting and waiting.

  Suddenly, the doorbell rang. It was Auntie Nellie! I heard mumblings between her and Helen, but didn’t dare come out until I was called for. As soon as we both stepped out into Leith, our adventure began.

  Auntie Nellie was very posh in my eyes – even her clothes could tell you that. She was a typical ‘Edinburgh lady’ of that time, generally dressed in a lambswool twinset and tweed skirt. She wore black ‘ladies’ brogues, which were always polished to a high shine. One day she informed me that the coat I loved her wearing was a ‘camel coat’. I thought this was the height of poshness – it was years before I realised it was made from wool that gave the appearance of camel hair rather than made from a few camels themselves! Auntie Nellie would never be seen without a hat when she went out, and I can remember her handbag as if it were on the table in front of me now – black patent with a gold clasp, hooked over her left arm. Her left hand was gloved and in it she held the glove of her right hand, whilst in the ungloved right hand would be a little purse which matched the main handbag. When it was really cold, Nellie would wear a real fur coat, not a mangy moth-eaten one but one that felt as soft as silk. Although she could be stern and pedantic in a school-marm sort of way, my Auntie Nellie was round, soft and warm.

  ‘Today, Donna,’ she said, squeezing my hand in hers, ‘we will be taking high tea. It is very important that you know how to conduct yourself amongst people. It is vital that you realise the importance of good manners and etiquette. Today, my dear, we begin.’

  Auntie Nellie and I jumped on a number one bus and began our journey up Easter Road. Behind us, we left the shabby shops and grubby tenements where I spent my days. The bus stank of fag smoke and old men, but I couldn’t care less – my dignified, wonderful Auntie Nellie was beside me in her perfect clothes, with her perfect style, and we were getting away from it all. The bus took us past the Palace of Holyroodhouse and up the High Street. At the very top of the Royal Mile, we alighted and walked down the Mound with Edinburgh glittering all around us.

  ‘This, my dear, is your city,’ Auntie Nellie told me. ‘You are part of it, and it is part of you. Never forget that you have a responsibility to yourself to be all you can – look around you and be inspired. Look around you at this city of wonder and history. These streets have been walked upon by royalty. Mary Queen of Scots put her feet on these same cobbles as you and I. Dignitaries and important people from all over the world have come to this magnificent place for centuries to be motivated, to become enthused by all that we have. Don’t forget that – it’s all there for you, Donna.’

  As I looked around at Edinburgh Castle beside me, at the art galleries laid out before me, at Princes Street Gardens shining in the sunshine, I could believe what Auntie Nellie was telling me. I wasn’t a little witch when I was away from Helen. I could just be a normal little girl, out with a loving relative, who truly could have the world at her feet.

  Auntie Nellie was a perfect source of stories I never tired of hearing. Edinburgh has an amazingly rich literary heritage, and is also a city in which the tradition of oral storytelling was passed down to children of my generation. When Nellie picked me up from our house and we travelled up to Princes Street, I felt as if I was going back in time. The backdrop to our walks and talks was the castle, the crags and closes surrounding the city, and the famous stores which attracted tourists from around the globe. For me, Princes Street was the heart of it all. Although things were beginning to change, by the time I was taken out on our trips, Nellie could bring it all back. There were parts of the stories I could still relate to – the Scott monument towered over the scenery for me as it had for Nellie as a girl. The castle remained imposing. The ‘Disgrace of Edinburgh’ at the far East End continued to be a powerful symbol of how people in power could get things wrong.

  But there were also details that I could only imagine. Auntie Nellie loved to tell me of the days when trams were the major traffic feature in the city centre. There had been tramlines on both sides of the street, with a constant stream of vehicles going up and down, and white-gloved traffic policemen waving their matching white-banded arms about. By the end of the 1950s, this system had changed and Princes Street was becoming more as we know it today, even although the tramlines lasted longer than the trams themselves. When Nellie and I walked along in our own little world, I often closed my eyes and imagined I was back in those days, which seemed so much safer and more comforting in the distance. I adored it when she told me of the shops and stores of her youth. The actual layout of Edinburgh city centre has changed little, but where once there were independent retailers and shopping experiences the envy of any city in the world, there are now tacky burger outlets, sex shops and fly-by-night pound stores. She would tell me stories of the East End of Princes Street where just past Jenners had been R.G. Lawrie’s and the Old Waverley Hotel, a glove shop and a cigar retailer. The Scottish Omnibus Company now had premises there, where tourists and locals alike would buy tickets to explore the new layout of the city.

  As we reached the bottom of the Mound, our destination appeared before us. The grand old lady of the world-famous Princes Street shopping parade would receive the distinguished company of two fine ladies today – Auntie Nellie and I were bound for Jenners, the department store which symbolises the capital and attracts the great and the good whenever they decide a trip to Edinburgh is on the cards. ‘High tea at Jenners, dear,’ whispered Auntie Nellie. ‘What could be finer?’

  Jenners’ high teas were indeed a special treat. The store possessed a proper tea room with starched white tablecloths, upon which lay the most exquisite china and gleaming cutlery. Waitresses hovered, wearing black dresses covered with immaculate white aprons. There was a background warbling chitter-chatter from the ‘discriminating’ Edinburgh ladies, whose best hats and coats were always brought out for this occasion. Auntie Nellie was going to treat me – but it was also a learning experience. I would be told about all of the buildings we had passed and which surrounded us – the history of Princes Street, Edinburgh Castle and the Scott monument. Nellie would talk about how ‘fine’ the shops were in her day, and I listened to the list of names which were fast disappearing. Binns and Patrick Thomsons became memories passed down from Nellie to me, growing in stature as they were given the gloss of her retelling.

  ‘Now, my dear,’ she said, bringing me back to the present-day wonders of the Jenners’ high tea. ‘What will we have?’ There was little point in asking me – I wouldn’t have known where to start, and I certainly didn’t think I had any right to ask for anything. But Auntie Nellie knew exactly what to do. Before m
y eyes appeared the most wonderful vision. A waitress stood at the side of our table with the china and chrome cake stand just for us. ‘What do you think of this, my dear? Is there anything you like?’ asked Auntie Nellie. Was there anything I liked? I didn’t know where to start! At the bottom of the stand was an assortment of dainty sandwiches, all with the crusts cut off. Next, on the middle plate, stood Paris buns and scones of all description. On the top were the most beautifully coloured and decorated French fancies. I immediately decided to lunge for these gorgeous confections. Just as I went to make my move, a reserved voice broke into my reverie. ‘My dear,’ she intoned, ‘whether in life or a cake-stand, one must always – always – start at the bottom and work one’s way to the top.’ The cakes were calling out to me, but I loved Auntie Nellie’s ways so much that I was happy to take her advice – after all, an unlimited number of sandwiches was an indescribable treat for me too.

  After our high tea, shopping was on the cards. Auntie Nellie often bought clothes for me on our monthly trips, but it was hard to keep them. Everything good I had always disappeared – I don’t know whether Helen sold them or gave them away but, for a few hours at least (sometimes longer if my Dad saw them), I had lovely, warm, new, fresh clothes. Marks & Spencer would be our first stop, where Auntie Nellie would select woollen kilts and jerseys – warm, smart and very sensible. Next, she might buy me TUF shoes, which were an absolute delight as they had a compass in the sole – it was so unusual for me to have anything frivolous that even something as basic as a compass gave me enormous pleasure.