The Step Child

by Ford, Donna

  Where I went, Karen went.

  I am in no doubt that I saved myself from the scars of my childhood. No one else did that for me. But what Karen achieved for me was marvellous – she showed me not only that I could love, but also that I could be loved. The twisted irony was that it had taken the child of the woman who had wrecked my childhood to give that back to me.

  Even in a miserable life such as mine, not everything was darkness. There has to be some relief from the unremitting cruelty for children like me. Sometimes it comes in the form of events, pets or new opportunities. For me, there were always people who brought some brightness, even if it was never enough. Where there had been Granny Ford and Auntie Nellie, and little Karen, there came another. He was Dr Ritchie to me and he was my science teacher at Norton Park School. I had started at High School in the August following Helen’s departure.

  James – or Jim – Ritchie is now quite well-known in Edinburgh circles. As well as being a teacher, he also had a huge interest in the games and rhymes of the capital’s playgrounds. Dr Ritchie spent his working life of over 30 years as a maths and science teacher, but his spare time was dedicated to the real interests of the children he inspired. My old teacher discovered very quickly that, despite his talent for getting the best out of virtually every pupil he was allocated, nothing excited them more than play. He then made it his life’s work to collect these games and songs and paraphernalia of play, both to engage and to record. His first collection of material formed the basis of a programme called The Singing Street, which was broadcast by the Scottish Home Service in 1949. This started a parallel career as a radio writer, and Dr Ritchie began his collation of Edinburgh children’s history in earnest. He published two books on the subject in 1964 and 1965, and made a documentary which is still shown to this day in Edinburgh’s Museum of Childhood.

  James Ritchie was an incredibly kind man. By the time I reached Norton Park, I had suffered years of abuse and degradation. I didn’t trust teachers – none of them had ever done anything for me in the past, and they all seemed to walk around with their eyes closed – but this one was different. I was still a tiny scrap of a thing, all bones and worry, but each time I had a science class with James Ritchie, he made me feel as if I was so important, the centre of the world at the moment he spoke to me. Science didn’t draw me in – I was becoming more and more inclined towards art – but each time I entered the school lab, this gentle man would swing me up under my shoulders and lift me on to one of the workbenches so that I could see whatever experiment we were performing that day. ‘There we go, wee Donna,’ he’d say. ‘Now you can see it all.’ Sometimes he would sing to me, a German song, ‘Donna Clara’. The Bunsen burners, the test tubes, the great big blackboard meant nothing to me educationally, but as parts of Dr Ritchie’s world, they mattered. Every time he lifted me up, every time he spoke kindly to me, I got a glimpse of a life that could have been so different. Men could be nice. Men could be caring. They didn’t always rape or abuse or hurt. There were men like James Ritchie in the world, and thank God for them.

  Dr Ritchie was always interested if I had a rhyme to tell him, or a game to explain. He made me think that these things were important too. Looking back at the work he has left as his mark on history, I can see that he must have made many children feel this way. His books are full of the joys of childhood, the innocent pleasures children enjoy when they are left alone to play and sing. These were, of course, pleasures I rarely experienced, and, as an adult, reading James Ritchie’s work is very poignant for me. I do feel bitter about the many adults, the many teachers, the many officials, who ignored – or simply never saw – what was happening to me as a child. However, I don’t feel that way about Dr Ritchie because he truly did make me feel special, even if only for a few moments a week. Watching his film of The Singing Street brings different feelings. My memories of the man and his work had always felt good; there was nothing dark or wrong about how he was with me.

  But a few years ago I discovered something that made me think twice – about fate and about the links which bind us all, even in ignorance. I was told that Helen Ford was one of the little girls in that film. She was one of the children playing innocently, singing and skipping. Happy. Untainted. I don’t know which one she was. I don’t know what her life was like then or how her life was in the subsequent years, years that made her into what she became. The coincidence strikes me to the very heart. The man who was one of the few kind people I ever encountered had brushed past the evil woman who ruined my childhood when she herself was so young. He had filmed her. He had, presumably, listened to her stories and her rhymes. And then, years later, he had lifted that child’s stepdaughter up to his eye-level and made her feel good, normal and cared for – and he could never have known the bond between the two.

  There is a strong connection between the time I started High School and the time Helen left. Although many months separate the two, they both marked such clear ‘coming of age’ moments for me that they seem close. I was so happy that she had left and that I had some responsibility so the move to High School appeared as confirmation of my new status. I was caring for Karen – and doing a good job. Gordon couldn’t intimidate me as much because I had some power in the household. Now, with High School looming, I could perhaps find myself.

  Secondary school wasn’t the new start I had hoped for. I can’t remember any time when I was helped or encouraged with my homework, but I do remember going over and over my reading book and practising until I got it right. I loved being chosen to read aloud and spell. School was bittersweet. I wanted to excel and tried to, but I know now that the odds were stacked against me from the start. At least I could do some things, such as keep myself cleaner, but I was still not really part of any crowd. I was disillusioned but keen to try and do my best at something. I was the smallest in the class by far and felt really conspicuous. Although Helen had left the previous New Year and I’d had eight months without her influence, other pressures had taken her place.

  It was noisy and busy at secondary school and there was lots of movement compared to primary. Bells were ringing all the time and people were constantly going from class to class. We were given a timetable on our first day – maths, English, history, domestic science, science, secretarial studies, art, PE, geography, fabric and fashion, French – all split up into single, double or, at times, treble periods. I loathed secretarial studies – it was boring beyond belief – Pitman’s shorthand and learning to type as fast as you could without looking. It seemed stupid and senseless, given that I didn’t ever want to be a secretary.

  However, I did discover where my real interest lay – in art. When Norton Park and Leith Academy amalgamated, I was moved to the main school at the bottom of Easter Road. This was a different scene altogether. The ‘rector’ of the school, Mr McKay, was an ex-rugby player so rugby played a big part in the school curriculum. It was a sporty school in every sense. Hockey, which I hated because it involved being even colder than usual and hurt a lot, seemed to be always on the agenda. But the art department was wonderful. I relished those sessions. Even though I skived off school frequently, I always tried to get to my art classes, and even swapped with someone from my registration class – my secretarial sessions for their art. Nothing was ever said. I loved it so much – it freed me and challenged me.

  Sadly, apart from Dr Ritchie and the art classes, I have few good memories of Norton Park. My chores and responsibilities didn’t make me stronger – just exhausted. Every morning, I got up before the rest of the family to make sure the house was clean. Then I had to get everyone else up and make sure they all had breakfast. Once Karen was clean and changed, I set off for her nursery. It was some distance away, on Newhaven Road, and I rarely had the money for the bus fare. This meant that each day before school, I would have walked from my house to Karen’s nursery and then from her nursery to school. I was always tired, and usually late.

  I was still skinny and scrawny, and I never felt this
more than when I was at High School. From the first day onwards, I felt out of place. I suffered from styes and had a big chip on my front tooth. I wore a second-hand school uniform that was far too big for me. I was so thin that I wore three pairs of tights to try and make my legs look fatter. The whole experience was always intimidating, and teachers – apart from Dr Ritchie – didn’t make it any better.

  I would much rather have been home looking after Karen. Instead I had to face the wrath of one teacher after another. They saw a skinny, uncared-for, smelly kid who was always tired and rarely engaged with anything other than art. Just as it had been at junior school, they looked no further than the surface. Miss Mutch was our headmistress, a stern, grey-haired woman who never smiled, and she typified the whole school.

  Sometimes an incident would remind me sharply of what I had lived through. There was one English teacher called Mr Robertson, nicknamed ‘Penguin’ because of the way he walked. He was a quiet man, not very tall, and balding. One day he was having trouble controlling some boys in his class who were playing up whenever his back was turned. Something had been thrown when Penguin’s back was turned and nobody would own up. He’d had enough and declared that everyone was to get two of the belt. As he got out his large, strong leather tawse, I stared shaking. Beatings had been so much a part of my life but I hadn’t been hit since Helen left. I don’t know how I got through such a traumatic event, but it served as a reminder that the past would always be there, threatening to rise up at any moment.

  I was also terrified by the school playground. I didn’t have any friends so felt completely alone at break and lunchtimes. I spent most of my time hiding away as, yet again, I didn’t fit in. My favourite hiding place was the girls’ toilet – the memory of the powdered soap and green crispy hand towels is still strong. I would spend ages running my hands under the hot tap trying to warm them as I was always cold.

  As well as the cold, I always felt tired. The drudgery of my life was draining me completely. I rarely had time to play, or do any of the childish things I had dreamed of, even now Helen was gone. I often fell asleep in class only to be woken by the sound of a teacher’s belt or ruler on the table in front of me. Eventually I ended up only going to school for the art lessons. Nothing else mattered, nothing else touched me, so I truanted most of the time.

  I was putting parts of me away – and that might be the only way I could cope.

  Chapter Fourteen

  MOVING ON …

  1973–1976

  HELEN MAY HAVE BEEN physically out of my life for a few years, but the residue of her impact was still there. I had spent so much of my life doing little more than surviving that I didn’t really have the building blocks all young people deserve, the foundations which would help me on the next stage of my life. Even as a teenager, I had few friends. It was hard for me to trust people; it was hard even to know what to say to them when they asked questions about me. Should I rewrite my past, or just try to evade any investigations, no matter how friendly, when they arose?

  From around the age of 14, I started going out to the local youth club, which was held in a church on Easter Road. Even the concept of going out whenever I wanted, to places I chose, was still foreign to me. The youth club itself was probably pretty grotty, but to me it was full of opportunities. Attending the club finally gave me the chance to make some friends and do normal, childhood things which had been denied to me in my life with Helen.

  In general we’d all meet up in the church hall and hang out there, playing pool, listening to music. It was just mucking about really, but the innocence of it all seemed like a gift to me. I was completely accepted because no one at the youth club knew anything about my home life or what had happened there. This was hard for me to come to terms with – I actually thought I was so transparent that people could see my shame. As a child, while the abuse was ongoing, it had eventually dawned on me that it was all hidden, it was all secret. Nobody knew. However, as I got older, my thoughts swung the opposite way, and I found it remarkable that people couldn’t tell just by looking at me what a horrible, shameful girl I was. Wasn’t it obvious? Couldn’t they work it out? When I finally started to believe that they couldn’t see, they couldn’t tell, I really began to look forward to the weekly youth club evening.

  The organiser also took us all on trips. I was allowed to go on three of them. As well as the friendship and fun that coloured each occasion, I also began to learn things about myself. One trip was for the day to Yellowcraigs beach; the second was a full weekend break to a barn near Eddleston in Peeblesshire; and the final trip was four days spent on Iona. These were magical places to me, and each of them showed me just how much nature meant to my developing senses, how peaceful and settled I could feel in the right environment. But the trips didn’t come easily. I remember one of the youth leaders coming round to the house in an attempt to persuade my Dad that I should be allowed to go on the Eddleston trip. My Dad was very reluctant. He tried to get out of it by saying he couldn’t afford the cost – naturally a lie since he always had enough for booze – but the youth leader called his bluff by saying she’d pay my contribution. Dad still clung to as many excuses as he could muster – I was too young, I was too irresponsible, I wouldn’t enjoy myself. Obviously, none of this was true. He admitted, once the youth club woman had left, that he just couldn’t run the house without me. Again, his needs were to take priority. I don’t remember what eventually caused him to change his mind – but luckily he did.

  Eddleston was such a memorable weekend. We stayed in some old farm buildings, surrounded by fields. We ate and socialised in a main building and slept in the loft of a barn, which was decked out with campbeds and sleeping bags for all the kids. The ghosts didn’t all stay away – you take your baggage with you even on holiday – but I managed at least to cope with my fear of night-time, the dark and the shadows, all of which had stayed with me since my time in the cellar in Easter Road. We all went on walks through woods and fields; we ate around a big table together; and, in the evenings, the youth leaders (who were all quite young themselves) played guitars and sang around the fire. It was magical for me. Every time I hear ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ it reminds me of that time and brings a smile to my face.

  The trip to Iona was, however, the most magical of my childhood years. Although there were many other children there that I didn’t know, I had never felt so peaceful. Even the journey there was fascinating. We got the coach to Oban, followed by a ferry to Mull, and then finally a little boat that took us over to Iona itself. Even now when I think about it, I can still feel the bubbles of excitement churning in my stomach. Iona is beautiful with ancient buildings and history, and a landscape to make you think there is no better place in the world. Although Iona is so small that you can walk around it in next to no time, it also feels as if all the world is contained in that one little island. It was just what I needed – the feeling of being part of something much bigger, and of feeling safe on my terms really helped me.

  All these experiences helped to open my mind to a world away from Easter Road. They confirmed what I knew, what I had to believe in – someday I’d get away.

  Like every other place in Britain during the 1970s, Edinburgh in general – and Easter Road in particular – had its own gangs. This didn’t necessarily mean anything sinister, especially not for a young girl. However, there were specific, yet unwritten, rules which made it quite clear that the music you liked determined how you dressed, how you acted, and even who your mates could be.

  I did have two ‘friends’ in my adolescent years. Neither of them went to the same school as me, but they did live locally and we had formed some sort of bond when playing in the ‘street’ (which, in itself, was still a novelty to me). These girls weren’t friends in the sense of being great pals with whom I could share every secret, every thought. They were really just people I hung out with. We were in the same place at the same time – but they were still the nearest I had. I remember two main thing
s about them – their family life and the strict fashion codes they adhered to. If I ever managed to get anywhere close to a best friend, it was Joan MacKenzie. She was from a family of five girls and one boy who lived nearby, and they made such a difference to me. Joan was the youngest of the family; they all called her ‘Tootie’. I still had a problem working out why anyone would be nice to me without asking for something in return, but the MacKenzies always tried so hard. They would give me their cast-off clothes, ask me round for tea, and even include me in their Christmas parties. I’ve always wondered whether they suspected any of what I had been through, or whether they were just basically good people who helped those around them without question. They were such a loving family, and even though they didn’t have much, they shared with me and with others. This was another world to me – I had rarely seen generosity or kindness for its own sake before, and although it warmed me to the core, it also made me utterly ashamed of my home life.

  Joan didn’t go to the same school as me, but two of her elder sisters did, which was the only way I was able to get a school uniform for Leith Academy. We weren’t drawn to each other because of our similarities at all. Joan was really popular as she was very confident. She was so different to me, and so was her home life, yet we did get along well. We’d hang around together whenever I could get time away from my chores. What I remember really clearly about her is that she always knew exactly what to wear, exactly how to look so that she could fit in. She knew the rules, and everything about her just seemed effortless.

  Joan had long light-brown hair, in contrast to my short dark crop. I was trying to hide, make myself invisible to anyone who might be inclined to show an interest in me, but Joan didn’t have to worry – her solid, happy home life meant she could have a solid, happy adolescence too.