by Ford, Donna
I want to think that he wished he had realised sooner, but why couldn’t he even say that to me? Why did he take so much shit from her? Why didn’t he stand up for himself? Why did he beat me when she told him to? I can’t forgive my father for bringing Helen into my life, and neither can I forgive him for leaving me to the devices of his sick friends after she left. I want to believe that he never knew about the drunken attacks after he brought ‘friends’ back to the house, but he should have protected me. That’s what Dads are for.
There were times when I almost touched his heart – I saw it in his eyes – but Helen was always stronger than either of us. Did he really believe her when she told him I was evil? He made excuses for her, let her get away with it, gave her permission to punish me even more, and then became actively involved by meting out beatings to me at her command.
Is that how he intended things to be? Would any father actually choose that? Opt into it? I can remember the day he took me ‘home’ from Barnardo’s so well. I remember holding his hand so tightly and looking up at this man who would protect me. I was so proud! He was my very own Daddy.
But I was left in her hands by the man who should have been looking out for me, wasn’t I? He never even bothered to tell me about my real mother – not one scrap – and that was his duty. I had a right to know. The truth means so much more to a child than speculation, but speculation was all I had.
Even at my father’s funeral, I was ashamed of him. I had no love or respect for him, even at a time when we could, maybe, have made our peace with each other. I know that he is no longer here and can’t answer my criticisms, but I did give him that chance and he chose not to take it. He threw that away – the same way he had thrown away my childhood. So much was now lost and, with my father’s death, can never be retrieved. Little girls need a hero for a Daddy, and Don Ford was far from that.
These thoughts all race through my mind. I know that my relationship with my father (or his memory) is a complex one. My only chance of forgiving him in some way, at some point, is by looking at what I have become and what I have achieved. I am here, confident, fulfilled and happy. That is due to the people I met along my path, who in some way filled the voids my father both ignored and created. He lost out so much by not putting my needs as a child at the front of things. Because of that I pity him, I pity his wasted life. He never knew the love of his grandchildren or the satisfaction of seeing his own child happy – or the sleep which comes at night from knowing you have been a good parent.
Ultimately, I think I do forgive my father, purely because doing so makes me feel better than lifelong anger. But where he may invoke some degree of forgiveness and pity, Helen Ford can strive for neither.
To this day, I remember how Helen could make me feel so worthless, so insignificant, in everything she did. Not just the beatings, not just the starvation or the abuse, but in every little word she made me think I was nothing. One day, barely seven years old, I was scrubbing the lobby floor in Easter Road. I got a backhander right across the face for the word I had used. The word was ‘mum’. ‘You will call me Mrs Ford!’ she screamed. ‘Not mum – I’m not your mum and never will be!’ That was the voice of the woman who was supposed to be caring for me, feeding me and showing me the love of a mother. Her voice, those words, stung me as much as the beating I was in for.
Now, as the woman I have become, those words have a sweeter ring. I am overjoyed that she was not my mother and that I do not share her evil blood. I am proud of that. My only regret is that she gave birth to Karen because it is hard to believe she could have anything to do with the existence of such a lovely individual. Maybe she doesn’t even remember her daughter – the dumped baby, the child abandoned at 18 months, left with a man who wasn’t even her father.
Helen Ford said something in court about being a ‘loving mother’. What loving mother abandons her baby? I speak from experience because it happened to me too. But leaving Karen wasn’t her only crime. She stood in that court and lied, lied the same way she had done for years. Did she remember the three monkeys? See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil. I certainly remember them well. We shook with fear, with those monkeys in our mind, telling the social workers all the lies she had battered into us. Who else did she lie to? It has to be quite a list – doctors, family, teachers, friends, neighbours. Everyone really. Ultimately, she knows what the truth is. As do I. She knows how much she hated me and wanted to destroy me, and how little she thought of my life to allow her sick, perverted friends to use me. She does know, she does, and I cling to the hope that the knowledge will finally destroy her.
I have had so much to go through when I think of my father and stepmother, and when I try to separate what they each, in their own ways, did to me from the strong woman I have become. In my quest to find the real ‘me’, the core of the person which hasn’t been tainted by what was done, my own mother comes back to me time and time again.
I don’t even know what to call her. Breda? Brenda? Mother? Mum? Who is she? Where is she? Is she still alive? I have missed her my whole life, longed for her presence my whole life. I wonder whether she has ever thought about me in all these years. Well, I’ve certainly thought of her. I’ve cried rivers of tears for the woman I never knew, for the lack of her. I wonder if she would instinctively know that – or even care. So many times in these tears, when Helen Ford beat me and her friends sexually abused me, I called for my Mummy, I cried for her to come and save me. Throughout my adolescence I needed her comfort and words. She wasn’t there to see me marry, and she wasn’t there to hold my babies, as the proud grandmother should have been.
I have often thought of what my Mum looked like and how much of her is in me and my children. The photographs I have aren’t enough. I don’t know her smell. I’ve no recollection of ever touching her. I expect that she found new love, made a new life, possibly had more children to replace the ones discarded in Edinburgh. But I missed out on so much by not having her in my life. As I get older, I also know that she missed out too. I think I have turned out to be a fine person. I am proud of my achievements and my three beautiful children.
I don’t know if our paths will ever cross. I will never actively seek my mother, but, if she is still alive, I do want her to know that I am here if she does ever wonder about me. They say that nothing in the world can ever replace the love of a mother – I only wish I could have found out if that were true.
It still hurts that my father never spoke about Breda. When I hear people saying they are turning into their mothers, or they casually dismiss something their mums said, I feel a knife going into me. I never had that chance. I never had the opportunity to get bothered by my mother, and I still have an emptiness where those memories and feelings should be. Where Don Ford said nothing about her, Helen rarely shut up. She always spoke of her in a way that made it clear my mother was still perceived as a threat, as competition. Breda was referred to with venom. She was the one who had created me – the bastard child – with the man Helen now wanted to keep for herself. The fact that my mother was no longer around, and never would be, didn’t matter to my stepmother. She didn’t work with logic or good sense. I used to hang on to that story Simon had told me of Breda making daisy chains, and the gentleness he recalled. That’s all I had. As a mother myself, I find it hard to believe that the woman who gave birth to us would ever have erased her three children from her memory entirely, but I have no idea of the choices she had or why she made the decisions which ended up changing my life so much. I suppose I do cling to the little things – knowing that she was Irish, always being told by Helen that I was a little Irish bitch, influenced my decision to give my youngest daughter an Irish name. The photographs I have of Breda are difficult to make out – her features are slightly blurred – but I can still see a family likeness, especially between her, myself and my eldest daughter.
It all feels like a patchwork Donna has been made. The memories, the feelings, the half-recovered ideas from records, other peop
le, writing this book. Certainly, becoming an adult was difficult. I had to learn so many things – social skills, communication, how to trust, how to hug, how to love, how to look after myself, personal hygiene – but above all, how to become the person I wanted to be, not what I was shown as a child.
My self was non-existent. I didn’t know if I had rights or that it was okay for me to have wants and needs. I was driven initially by an urgency to get away from all I’d ever known – the filth, pain, anger, mistrust and loneliness.
I’ve felt lonely for as long as I can remember, and have always yearned to ‘belong’ and to join in instead of being on the outside looking in. As time went on and I was able to get further and further away from my childhood and pick up influences on the way, I began to formulate my ideals and decide on a path to follow. I know that, as an adult, I have often trusted others too readily, but I do believe in taking people at face value and that a decision is often made instinctually.
My philosophy of life is based on fairness. You must only ever ask something of others if it is fair. I have been so very lucky that my children are all healthy, intelligent, beautiful, caring individuals. I can still recall the overwhelming feelings I experienced after the birth of my first child. I remember holding him and gazing as he fed from me. I couldn’t stop thinking how lucky I was, but I also felt that this achievement was another poke in the eye to Helen. I was going to be the best mother I could be. My children were never going to know any of the pain I had known. They were individuals in their own right. One day they would be adults – and the last thing I wanted was to be responsible for rearing another messed-up individual. From the word go, they were always allowed to have an opinion, and whether we agreed or not, we discussed it and compromised where appropriate.
I have always felt that children must have boundaries for stability and security. They must be stimulated and encouraged to fulfil their potential. But, most importantly, they must be loved and know they are loved. In my view, the love given to a child must be unconditional.
I would like to think that I have got things right.
Only the legacy that is my family – the family I have made which is untainted by what was done to me – will tell whether I have succeeded.
Chapter Nineteen
THE TRIAL
I WAS FIVE YEARS and one month old when I was first given to Helen Ford. I was 11 when she left the family home and I got my first taste of freedom after suffering six years of abuse and deprivation. I didn’t see her again until the day I faced her in Edinburgh’s High Court in October 2003.
When your life is shattered – again – is there ever any warning? When fragile little lives which have taken so much time and care to put together are casually broken, it tends to be in the middle of complete normality. People suffer such losses, such grief, every day, and they generally do so without the slightest bit of notice. In the grand scheme of things, the stuff that comes with a forewarning isn’t really that important. We know when that big exam is, the driving test, a long-awaited holiday. But birth, death and the police knocking at your door tend to be a bit less predictable.
I can say it now – my name is Donna Marrianne Ford. That’s the name I was born with – but only through writing this book is it a name I have chosen to repossess. For years, I have hated my surname. It reminds me – of the mother who left me, of the father who put me in a children’s home, of the stepmother he brought to visit me when I was a toddler, and of the life she then made for me. I am taking that name back again, just as I am taking my life back again. I have tried to piece it all together before, but only now do I feel able to tell the whole story, and only now do I feel there is a chance I will be listened to.
I was living in such a gorgeous house, with such a carefully put-together life, when it happened to me in the winter of 2001. When I look back on it, I can see headings above certain days in – certain events from – my life. That one is clearly marked, ‘The Day the Police Came’. On the outside, I had everything. Three happy, healthy children. A loving partner. A successful career. It had all come at a price, and it had taken so very long to get there, but I truly did feel things were going well for me.
The house we rented was in Victoria Road in North Berwick. North Berwick is a stunning coastal village about 30 minutes from the centre of Edinburgh. It is a beautiful seaside resort with a traditional harbour at its heart, which sits on the southern side of the Firth of Forth where it meets the North Sea. It is a place that just feels happy. I adored living here. Victoria Road itself was full of history – it is one of the oldest roads in the area, and archaeologists have uncovered a wealth of artefacts. This sense of the past always appealed to me – perhaps because my own past was so lacking – and I have always been drawn to tradition and folklore. Our house was near to the harbour. As an artist, I spent much of my time visiting the old part of the town, and filled many sketchbooks with images of past and present fishing life. I had come to know the old characters well, and was even planning an exhibition in which my paintings would tell of the lost trade and skills of the local area.
Things were going well for me. In addition to painting, I also took on work as a house renovator, trying to turn people’s dreams into reality when they looked to add art to their homes in whatever way. I thoroughly enjoyed this work and the satisfaction I got from bringing ideas to life. I came home from a day spent on one of these projects to a busy house. My elder daughter Claire and her brother Paul were there with friends, and I had picked up their little sister, Saiorse, from her childminder. I revelled in the buzz of a frantic house. It was something I needed.
Both Paul and Claire, at 16 and 14, were at the age when food is the biggest concern. They scavenged around the kitchen, in and out of every cupboard, raiding the fridge and freezer, shouting and laughing as they all dodged each other. There was that feeling which comes at the end of the day – when you can feel absolutely shattered, but also totally content with your life. Even though it was all perfectly mundane, perfectly normal, it felt so good. My kids were settled, I was receiving critical acclaim as an artist, and I had even met the man I would later marry.
When the doorbell rang, I didn’t give it a second thought. Even when I opened it to find two police officers standing there, I wasn’t filled with dread. That came later.
It never even occurred to me that this visit could be related to my past. We were all safe. I hadn’t done anything to be worried about. It was probably something very straightforward – in fact, it probably didn’t even relate to me. Perhaps it was something to do with neighbours, a break-in maybe or a car problem.
They identified themselves. I asked them in, one male, one female officer. By now, the kids were all off doing their own things, so we went to the kitchen. I remember the pleasantries. Would they like tea? No, thanks. Would they like to sit down? Yes, please. Was there anything I could get for them? Just answer a few basic questions, thanks.
‘Can we just check your identity first?’ asked the woman officer. She looked perfectly innocuous. Quite young, professional, no big sign over her head saying she was going to rip my life apart. ‘Are you Donna Marrianne Shipman? Were you born on 5 June 1959? Is your brother Simon Robertson?’ They confirmed addresses I had previously lived at, and dates when I had been there. I answered in the affirmative to everything, and yet still nothing was falling into place.
Then the words hit me.
‘Donna, we’re from the Family Protection Unit of Lothian & Borders Police. We’re here to tell you that Simon has made some very serious allegations. These allegations relate to how you were both treated by your stepmother, Helen Thomson Laing Ford, when you were children. We are currently investigating these claims and need to know whether there are things you would like to tell us. Is there anything you would like to add?’
Some more words started swimming about. ‘You don’t have to say anything just now, Donna. It’s really important that you think about the implications of this. What Simon has
told us is very serious indeed and you need to consider whether you want to contribute anything to any inquiry. We will have to act on any information you provide us with, so take some time before making your decision.’
I could hear them speaking, I could hear the words. I knew they were trying to be nice. This was their job and I’m sure they had both been on dozens of courses and training sessions which taught them how to deal with this type of scenario. But this was me. This was my life. And this was my past coming back to me at a time when I had finally thought it buried.
The questions kept coming. ‘When did you last see or hear from your brother, Donna?’ Half-brother! Half-brother, I wanted to shout – please let them get the facts right on this then everything else might be accurate too. We had the same biological mother, but different dads.
I told them that Simon had been looking for me on a number of occasions, the last one being in 1997 when I had received a few letters from the Salvation Army ‘Missing Persons’ Department. These letters said that Simon wanted to be in touch and that he hoped I felt the same way. I didn’t. I had informed the Salvation Army that I had no wish to contact any members of my family then or at any time, but they sent me his address ‘just in case’. Why couldn’t I be left alone? I had nothing in common with my half-brother other than our shared biological mother and some awful childhood memories. We were totally different people with vastly contrasting lives, and I never wanted to be reminded of what did bind us.
Now, in my home, in my kitchen, with my children playing in another room, was another assault on me and the world I had tried to make for us all. As the policewoman sat there and told me what she knew about my past, from what Simon had told her, I was too shocked to speak or move. These were shreds of my personal history which no other person had access to. I didn’t want her to know. I didn’t want her to bring it to my house. She told me again of the allegations Simon had made against our stepmother – but it became clear that she and her colleague didn’t know the half of it. What they said, what Simon had told them, was perfectly true – but it was still sanitised; it was still so much less than what had been done to me.
