The Step Child

by Ford, Donna

  Christmas was the best time at primary school. The gym would be festooned with paper decorations and a huge ‘real’ tree with twinkling, sparkling, shimmering baubles and tinsel. There was a school party and we’d all gather in the big hall where we’d career up and down the wooden floor doing the ‘Grand Old Duke of York’, the ‘Dusty Bluebells’, the ‘Farmer’s in his Den’, followed by a tea of miniature egg sandwiches, sausage rolls, sweet sticky cakes and orange squash. Santa would visit, we’d all sing ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ then it would all be over. I wished I could take it home with me and felt sick to my stomach when it ended.

  Those were my days, my school memories, but nothing was really separate from what was happening with Helen. I hated home time. I’d start watching the clock just before the bell was due to ring and begin to get really anxious if people started mucking about and there was a chance I’d be late home. I knew Helen would watch the clock and I’d be in big trouble if I was late. I’d get out of school and run as hard as I could, my chest burning with the exertion and my stomach doing somersaults. I’d be relieved if I got home and was only sent to my room. Sometimes I’d be told to stand in the lobby or bathroom and wait; wait to see what she was going to do that day, what she had in store for me. On very, very rare occasions – maybe if she’d had a few cans of Special Brew – she would tell me to get changed and go and play until I was told to come in. On these days, it didn’t matter what the weather was like; I just took the chance and did it. Often I’d be called in just in time to do the dishes, tea already having been eaten in my absence, because I didn’t matter.

  It was just an endless round of starvation, beatings, abuse and cruelty. It beggars belief that I was finally sent to a child psychologist and yet they uncovered nothing. I would have thought it would have taken any decent professional about 10 minutes to work out what was going on, yet I was sent back to Helen time and time again. And each day, it seemed, she thought up new horrors for me. By the time we moved to Edina Place, the social work visits seemed cursory. Helen always told them how awful and evil this ugly little girl was. On top of that, Frances, Simon and I were all told exactly what to say.

  Helen had three brass monkey ornaments on the mantelpiece – one with its ears covered, one with its mouth covered, one with its eyes covered. ‘Look at them,’ she’d hiss before any official visit. ‘That’s what you lot need to remember – get that in your thick skulls. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. See no evil.’ She glowered at me – her particularly despised stepchild. ‘You. Don’t forget. Don’t forget those monkeys. And don’t EVER forget that I’m watching you more closely than anyone.’

  When the social workers came, the three of us would stand in front of them as they asked us questions. Helen would stand behind them, squinting at us, promising us without words just what would happen if we said a word to shatter the myth of the perfect stepmother. And those monkeys. They terrified me then, and I still break out in a sweat if I see a similar trio to this day.

  Helen would never voluntarily give me anything good in my life – however, on one occasion, she slipped up.

  I hated Gordon. He was not the little brother I had hoped for. He had become his mother’s son. He had lost me my Auntie Nellie, and he treated me like shit. I’d never become attached to Andrew because I’d learned my lesson with Gordon; I chose to avoid Helen’s youngest for fear that he would turn on me too. I had closed myself off to her children. I didn’t trust them because they came from her and she was the source of my hell.

  But then she had another baby.

  She had Karen.

  I didn’t even know she was pregnant. I always kept my eyes away from her when I could, looking only when there was no other option, so I didn’t see the growing belly. She was always complaining about being tired, so I wouldn’t have noticed any difference there either.

  One afternoon, we came back to the house to find my Dad at home. This in itself was unusual enough, but when he told the three boys and me to go to our rooms and stay there (Frances had gone by this time), without any shouting, it did seem a little different. I wasn’t about to pry – it was bonus enough that I wasn’t being hit. The day dragged on. I heard some shouting, some moaning. Nothing different there. Helen was always shouting. There was often moaning coming from her bedroom too – although usually when my Dad wasn’t there. It did go on for an awfully long time though.

  Then the doorbell went.

  This terrified me.

  Usually when Helen sent me to my room, and she made that strange moaning noise, I waited on the bell ringing. Although it was unlikely to be one of the men who abused me because they didn’t do that when my Dad was around, I still felt apprehensive. If there was a special coded ring, I knew it would be someone coming for me, someone coming to use me with Helen’s permission as part of her party afternoons. But this time, although I heard a man’s voice, he didn’t come for me. We all stayed in our rooms for ages before my Dad finally said we could come out and go to the loo if we wanted. I remember we all rushed along at the same time and we all stopped just inside the door as we pushed in together.

  ‘Eurgh! What’s that?’ shouted Gordon, pointing at the bath.

  Andrew joined in, making pretend retching noises and shouting, ‘Blood! Blood!’

  I looked in. The old, stained potty we had was full of some horrible thing – all red, bloody and lumpy. I had no idea what a placenta was, so didn’t have a clue what I was looking at.

  My Dad pushed past us, grabbed the potty up, shouting, ‘Never you bloody mind what it is! Just get on with whatever you need to do and we’ll tell you later.’

  Later came.

  We were ushered into Helen and Don’s bedroom where she sat, in a nightie, holding a baby.

  She looked quite happy.

  ‘Come and say “hello” to your new sister,’ she said. ‘This is Karen.’ She looked straight at me. ‘Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she just a beautiful little girl? Just what a little girl should be.’

  I walked over, expecting to see a horned devil, another evil spawn. I wasn’t prepared, even then, for what I felt. I was 10 years old, and as I looked at this newborn child, I felt more love than I had ever known before. I wanted to rip her out of Helen’s arms, to run away with her, protect her for ever. Part of me felt so scared – another girl. Would she face the same fate as me? I knew that skinny as I was, weak as I was, I would do all in my power to stop that.

  As the days went on, additional parts of the picture became clearer. I heard others talking about how good my Dad was being, how not many men would stand by their wives in his position. It finally clicked. He wasn’t Karen’s Dad. Once I realised that, I realised more. I knew who her Dad was. There was one man who had never touched me, who used to hang around a lot. Whenever Helen dragged me to the shops, I always knew if we were going to bump into Lenny because she would make a special effort with her hair, make-up and clothes. She always smiled more around him, and put on her fake personality. He was nice to me too – although that was the last thing I wanted. I remembered a time when we met him in a shop in Easter Road.

  ‘Hello, wee Donna,’ he had said, ruffling my hair.

  I felt Helen wince beside me as she tried to keep the smile plastered on her face.

  ‘How are you, then? Having a nice day? Keeping yourself busy?’

  I didn’t know what to answer – I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to say anything.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Helen, knowing full well that it was fear of her that kept me silent. ‘She’s pig ignorant this one,’ she laughed, her face contorting into what she thought was a seductive look rather than a grimace.

  Stop. Stop talking to me now, I willed Lenny Crooks.

  If you keep talking to me, keep being nice to me, keep giving me attention – I’ll pay for it later. I’ll pay for it so hard.

  But Lenny Crooks couldn’t read my mind.

  He kept talking.

  Kept ruffling my hair.

&n
bsp; Then he said the fatal words.

  ‘She’s a bonny wee thing, Helen, isn’t she?’

  I stopped hearing things after that. I knew what was going to happen. She finished her conversation with Lenny and we went home.

  She didn’t say a word.

  She got the tawse.

  She stripped me.

  She whipped me.

  She finally stopped long enough to get her breath and send me naked and bleeding to the bathroom where I stood alone, freezing, starving, until the next morning. For being a ‘bonny wee thing’.

  The man who had unwittingly caused that was Karen’s father.

  Through Karen I learned that I could love another person, but I also learned the fear which comes from that. In the event, Helen didn’t care for her and she thankfully left when Karen wasn’t much more than a baby.

  In my new little sister (which was how I thought of her, even though we had absolutely no blood tie), I had the baby dolly I had always hoped for. Even though I was now 10, I still had dreams of the Tiny Tears I had wanted since I left Barnardo’s.

  In the days leading up to the first Christmas after Karen was born, Helen sidled up to me. ‘Well, Donna,’ she started. ‘What are you hoping Santa brings you this year?’ It must be a joke, I thought. Other years, I was lucky if I got a packet of crayons – I got some basic stuff she would need to buy me anyway, but nothing ‘frivolous’, nothing like the gifts lavished on Gordon and Andrew. I didn’t know what to say. Was it a trick? Probably, but I couldn’t help myself from telling the truth. Even with Karen around, I still wanted a Tiny Tears – and I told her.

  ‘Is that right? Well …’ she paused as if thinking. ‘We’ll just have to see what we can do.’

  For the next few weeks, I could hardly sleep. There was hope. There really was hope. And on Christmas morning, I could hardly believe my eyes. There, under the pathetic tree, was a box.

  A Tiny Tears shaped box.

  With my name on it.

  For the first time I could remember, there was a beautifully wrapped present, and a tag which said, in big letters:

  To Donna

  Merry Christmas!!!!!

  Xxxxxxxxx

  It didn’t matter that it didn’t say from ‘Mum and Dad’ – that would be too much to hope for. What did matter was that she was there. My dolly was there. Oh, I would love her so much! I was already thinking how much comfort she would bring me. I would get through things with that dolly to hold and cuddle.

  Helen was really getting into the Christmas spirit. She was laughing and jiggling Karen on her hip. ‘Come on, everyone,’ she called to the others, who were concentrating on their gifts. ‘Stop what you’re doing and watch Donna open her BIG present! Watch her open just what she deserves.’

  Gordon and Andrew moaned a bit, but came over. My Dad was there too. I didn’t lift the box up; it was too precious. I left it on the floor, and gingerly took up a corner of paper. I tore a little corner off the wrapping – was it all going to be a disappointment?

  I could barely contain myself.

  I read the words ‘TINY TEARS’ out of the corner I had ripped.

  I felt faint.

  It was real.

  SHE was real!

  Laughing, hysterical with happiness, I ripped the rest of the paper off.

  And sat.

  And looked.

  And wanted to die.

  I heard Helen laughing maniacally behind me.

  Gordon shrieking and even Dad laughing too.

  And I looked at the box. The Tiny Tears box.

  The empty Tiny Tears box.

  ‘There you go, Donna!’ she cackled. ‘There’s your present! Enjoy it!’

  I looked round to see her wave a hand at me, tears of joy running down her face.

  That was my Christmas. That was my gift.

  Karen got the doll, although I never saw her with it.

  I got an empty box.

  Everything an ugly little girl deserved.

  Chapter Twelve

  BLIND JIMMY

  1969

  HELEN’S DEMANDS CONTINUED. There was always something else that she wanted from me – whether it was just for me to stand there as a punchball or act as a ‘thing’ for her to exercise her temper on, there was no end to the reasons she found for me to be at her beck and call. The parties were part of that – but so were the ‘errands’ she contrived.

  One holiday afternoon, I had managed to escape my stepmother’s fists and tongue for a few peaceful hours. I could never relax entirely, but to be left alone in my room was the most I could hope for. I had spent the morning reading my books and thinking about my Auntie Nellie. The rest of the day – even with its isolation and loneliness, even with an empty stomach and a body covered in bruises from my last beating – would have been close to perfect for me if I didn’t see Helen until I went to bed that night.

  My stepmother had other ideas. She was always offering me to neighbours and cronies to help out. Of course, that ‘offering’ was even more obscene, more perverted since the parties had become established, but Helen also had what I thought of as a more innocuous side. I was always being sent to do cleaning for people, to help out with baby-sitting, to get their shopping. So it was no surprise when she shouted for me that day.

  ‘Get your lazy little arse through here,’ she squawked from the lobby as she passed my room. ‘I’ve got a message for you to run. Blind Jimmy needs a hand with his shopping and you’re doing bugger all, so get round there and help the poor old man.’

  Blind Jimmy’s home was a few streets away from us, a couple of doors down from where Helen had originally lived with her parents. He was old and he was smelly, though I did feel quite sorry for him. He lived on his own, and I assumed that because he couldn’t see and couldn’t get about very well, he had no idea that he and his house were in such a state. But my sympathy didn’t mean that I enjoyed being around him. I bit back my comments and looked at the list Helen gave me – McKellar’s the butcher’s for his meat and McGill’s the bakers for his bread. A straightforward list; I’d get through it in no time.

  ‘Where’s the money?’ I asked.

  ‘In Blind Jimmy’s pocket I suppose,’ Helen answered. ‘You’ve to take him with you. Get your ugly little gob round to his flat and go round the shops with him.’

  I followed her instructions. Blind Jimmy barely spoke to me as we went up and down Easter Road getting everything on the list. The old man walked with a limp and tapped his white stick against the walls and lamp posts as we went from shop to shop. In every place, he’d say what he wanted without a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, then drag a filthy old grey hankie out of his trouser pocket. The hankie was knotted tightly to keep his money in place, and he seemed to know what he had in there to the penny. I carried everything, and we finally made our way back round to East Thomas Street. That area has totally changed now – all the old tenements have been replaced by new housing – but at that time it was still ramshackle and cobbled, making walking difficult for Blind Jimmy. I guessed that was why Helen had wanted me to help him. To be honest, I hadn’t done much else. The old bloke could clearly cope with money and with dealing with people, so, apart from lugging his bags around, maybe I was there to make sure he didn’t trip up or stumble.

  Blind Jimmy lived in the type of area where ‘hard life’ was tattooed on every corner, on the face of every resident. Washing was either hung out in the unkempt front or back greens or from pulleys fixed to the outside of kitchen or bathroom windows in the upper apartments. So much for posh Edinburgh. Women sat nattering on doorsteps or across fences. Children ran around the streets yelling and screaming, playing hopscotch, kicking balls, skipping or scooting about on home-made carts. Hardly anyone had the luxury of a television or even a bike.

  Blind Jimmy’s flat was at the far end of the street on the ground floor. I helped him inside with his shopping and put it on a tatty table next to the cooker, the only space I could find. I was still waiting
for him to engage me in conversation or even to recognise that I was helping out. The room he lived in was tiny and completely cluttered with junk. The bed was barely visible in a nook to the right of the door, and opposite was the cooking area. A sink was piled high with filthy dishes, and, apart from a small chair covered in clothes and paper bags, the only other bits of furniture were a table and sideboard. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. The whole place was so dirty and depressing. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Jimmy?’ I asked. He turned slowly round, in the direction of my voice. He waited for a few moments, as if considering something, then wheezed, ‘No. That’s it.’ As I went towards the door he called me back. ‘Thanks. Thanks for helping. Here you go.’ His gnarled, dirty hand held out a threepenny bit. I couldn’t believe my luck! If I could hide it from Helen, spend it before I got home, then I could get something to eat. I took the money, left the flat, and ran to the shops as quickly as my legs would carry me.

  A few days later, Helen called me to her again. ‘You can go and help Blind Jimmy,’ she said, as if bestowing a great favour on me. ‘Make him his dinner, you idle little bitch. Do something worthwhile for once. The poor old soul’s not getting his meals-on-wheels today so he’ll have to make do with you. Now, get moving, make him some mince and tatties – and don’t show me up.’