What Daddy Did: The Shocking True Story of a Little Girl Betrayed

by Donna Ford

  I don't want to make excuses for my father but neither do I want to criticise him unnecessarily. All I want to do here is understand him a bit more. He is no longer alive so I can't speak to him face to face about this multifaceted story which is so far from straightforward, but I do need to work through what I know. I have very few good memories of him, and these are mixed up with some memories where I feel sorry for him. I know how ineffective he was at seeing what Helen was putting me through, but, in my mind's eye, I also see how kind he could be at times.

  He was forever helping people out. After Helen left we always had people staying over, people who had been chucked out of their homes, always men. I know that he just wanted to help these men, but most of them abused this kindness by abusing me. I recall people saying that he was such a good man for looking after all of us in the way he did. Most men, they said, would run a mile. This seeped into my subconscious and affected how I thought of him. For many years, I just couldn't see that my father was as responsible for my childhood treatment as Helen was. I suppose he was the better of the two in many ways, and he certainly never sexually abused me directly. However, by making the conscious decision to take me from Barnardo's to live with my stepmother and him, he was responsible to a large extent.

  He was my father.

  I was his little girl.

  He should have protected me.

  While Helen was still with my Dad, I didn't see much of him apart from the times he was asked to 'deal with' me. One particular incident that sticks in my mind happened shortly after we moved to Edina Place in 1967, when I would be seven or eight years old. It must have been a school holiday because I was at home but my Dad wasn't. This day was like most. I heard Helen get up and move about, make tea, switch the radio on, blaring out the latest hits. I heard her feed her children. Meanwhile, I lay frozen in bed waiting for her first command. It came this particular morning with a thump, thump, thump as she banged on my bedroom door. 'You! Get up! Get out of bed, NOW!' she screamed. I did as I was told (I always did), and then I stood behind the door, trembling, waiting for her next order.

  There were chores every single day: the dishes, sweeping up, washing the woodwork, scrubbing the floors, polishing the linoleum, cleaning out the fire, polishing the brass, bringing in the coal, taking out the rubbish – anything that needed to be done I and my older half-siblings would have to do. My most hated job was cleaning out the toilet. I had to pour bleach down it, then, with a cloth, I'd put my hand into the water and scrub every inch of the thing until it was 'spotless'.

  Then there was trampling the blankets. I didn't really mind this chore if I was left alone to do it, but Helen was in a bad mood that day. I was dragged from my bedroom by the hair and smacked across the face with the back of her hand for looking at her 'like that'. I never knew what 'that' was. I know now she just hated me and having to be a parent to me – those things and the fact that I was my father's firstborn were my real crimes. There was never any rhyme or reason to Helen's behaviour or mood swings. She could go from being quite chirpy and offering me food or the chance to get out and do the shopping or to brush her hair (which I hated), to this.

  That day, I was dragged into the bathroom and ordered to fill the bath, with Helen reminding me that cold water would be good enough. Then I put the bleach and blankets in. The bleach gave off such a stench it made my eyes sting, and I knew my skin would be red and irritated afterwards – but those things were the least of my worries. The smell of bleach is often a trigger for me, bringing back a memory of those times. I hate swimming pools for this reason.

  Trampling the sheets or blankets was usually a once-a-week event as Helen was very particular about keeping a clean house. The bedroom she shared with my Dad – which was wholly out of bounds to me – was immaculate, and the amount of cleaning we each had to do daily ensured the rest of the house matched. I don't think she was obsessed by it; I just think she liked the praise she got for the effort. I remember the look of pride on her face when one social worker commented on what a nice tidy house she kept. The woman jokingly questioned how Helen managed it with all those children. Little did she know that it was us who kept it that way; maybe she could have dug just a little deeper rather than make light of it.

  So that day, first thing in the morning and before breakfast (which I was never guaranteed to get anyway), Helen was standing there beside me in the bathroom in a nylon quilted dressing gown combined with the worn leather slippers she always had on her feet. Her eyes were magnified by her NHS glasses and her false teeth clicked furiously in her mouth as she screamed at me: 'Get in the fucking bath, you useless little bastard!' I did everything that she said without hesitating, as I always did. I trampled the blankets in the bath, walking up and down until she was satisfied that I was doing my job properly and could continue unsupervised. She left me to get on with it. I heard her boys going out to play for the day, bouncing their football down the lobby as they went, and I heard Helen move about in the living room. I carried on with my task, trampling up and down the bath, squeezing all the muck out of the blankets as my spindly legs got bluer and bluer with the cold water. As I trampled, I imagined that I was in Kinghorn, on holiday again, and that I was really splashing through the waves looking out for the baby flounders that lay just under the sand.

  I was rudely awakened from that thought when Helen yelled at me to 'get wringing'. This meant I now had to drain the water out of the bath, rinse the blankets then wring the water out by twisting the wet blankets. I was never a big child – Helen made sure of that by starving me – and that task is a difficult enough one for an adult. For me, with my tiny frame, it was nearly impossible. I was supposed to get all the water out, enough for them to be taken down to the back green to be hung out to dry. I did my best and folded them as well as I could before putting them in the plastic wash basket in the bath ready for Helen. I went back to my room as instructed and waited there for my next order. I was obviously not getting breakfast that day. My only hope of food some mornings was if I was on dishwashing duty and could scavenge a leftover from the plates of the others.

  I could hear Helen going about her business while the radio blared out. She was in a foul temper – if there was one thing I was aware of, it was my stepmother's moods. I waited for her next move towards me. It came soon enough.

  She had got dressed and was about to take the blankets down to the back green to hang out to dry. However, due to my poor attempts at wringing, water splashed onto her as she picked the basket out of the bath. That was like a red rag to a bull. She thundered along the lobby towards my room, shouting and screaming: 'You little bastard! You nasty little bitch! You did that deliberately, didn't you?' I was terrified and braced myself for what was to come. I was trembling and, in my fear, I completely forgot that I was sitting on the bed when I hadn't been given explicit permission to do so. When Helen charged into my room, she was therefore faced with yet another crime I had committed which would allow her to vent her anger on me.

  'You little bastard,' she screamed again. 'Look at the fucking mess you've made! And who told you to sit down anyway? Having a nice fucking layabout, are you?' She grabbed me by the hair and dragged me up the lobby to the bathroom, shouting and screaming all the way. When we got to the bathroom she hissed, 'Over the bath. Get over the bath.' Trembling, silently crying, and bracing myself for what was to come, I bent over the old cast-iron bath, feeling the cold through my threadbare vest. I gripped the curled metal edge of the bath and waited for the first wallop of the leather belt across my back and legs. It came soon enough. The leather slaps rained down, every wallop stinging and biting my flesh as she screamed at me and told me to say over and over, 'I am bad! I deserve to be punished! I am a horrible little girl!' It went on and on until she'd decided that she'd given me enough. When she was finished, she yelled at me to get the job done properly this time and to cut out the tears and petted lip. So I got on with it – wringing and wringing the blankets out, over and over, until s
he was finally satisfied. I was hurting, cold and hungry but I had been really, really bad so I needed to be punished further.

  It was barely morning, but I was already on to the next step of punishment that Helen had ruled necessary for me. 'You will stand there, you ugly little witch, and you will keep your hands by your sides without moving a fucking muscle, or I will know.' She screwed up her eyes at me behind those huge glasses and added, 'And that'll be your day until your Dad gets home.'

  I could feel the welts rising on the skin on the backs of my legs and my back. I was morbidly comforted by the warm glow of my wounds. Beatings always hurt afterwards but not as much as when I received them, and I had got used to that 'after beating' feeling, taking a little comfort in the fact that for now it was over. With my hands by my sides, I surveyed my surroundings and used all the little tricks I had developed to help get me through the hours. I counted the cracks and the tiles. I sang songs in my head – '10 Green Bottles', 'Ye Cannae Shove Yer Grannie aff the Bus' – any song I knew that had lots of verses, and nursery rhymes such as 'Jack and Jill', 'Old King Cole', 'Baa Baa Black Sheep'. I'd do anything to relieve the boredom.

  To stop myself from getting numb, I'd step from foot to foot. I'd sometimes stand with one foot on the other. Occasionally, a weevil would work its way out from under the bath and I'd amuse myself as I watched its journey, thinking how lucky it was to have so much freedom. Sometimes I would just close my eyes and listen to all the sounds outside that room: the television, the children playing in the back greens below me, dogs barking and gulls calling. Then I'd be making plans for the things I would do when I finally got away from there. Sometimes I took a risk by going to the toilet because, even though I stood there all day, I was not allowed to use it until I was told to by Helen. Most of the time it was just her in the living room as the boys were out all day.

  My only break came from stepping into the lobby every now and again when someone came to use the toilet, and sneaking a mouthful of water from the cold tap when I thought it was safe to do so. That was tricky because I couldn't allow there to be one bit of noise or mess. I would put my mouth right over the cold tap and turn it on very slowly and swallow back a mouthful, and then I'd resume my usual stance. Once I was caught right in the act. Helen sneaked up on me while I had my mouth over the tap, standing on my tiptoes. I thought I'd been so clever, that she was still in the living room. Just as I was about to swallow that delicious mouthful of cold water, a hand came whacking on to the back of my head and my teeth clattered against the tap. I felt them cutting through my lip and the water rushing up my nose as I choked and yelped all at once. My heart was racing and I was terrified. I waited for the onslaught, for the beating, for what was going to come next, but that time she didn't do anything more. 'Bed!' she shouted. 'Hands by your side!' I couldn't make sense of that either – this wasn't a punishment; this was luxury compared to standing all day. I was suspicious but just glad to have got away so lightly.

  On the day of my punishment for not wringing out the blankets properly, I stood in the cold bathroom all day, from just after breakfast time. I heard the boys come home for something to eat at lunchtime then go out to play again. Later, I heard them coming back in for their tea, and then each of them wanted to use the toilet. I stepped out to let them in.

  Then I was given some scraps of tea by Helen's eldest – the boy who had grown from that baby I used to watch her cuddle when she visited me in Barnardo's. He opened the door and put my plate and fork on the floor in front of me before saying, 'You've to leave the plate outside the door, pissy pants.' He shut the door and left, laughing at me. As I stood there, devouring every pathetic morsel on that plate, I could hear them all having tea and giggling and the telly in the background. Today I was on 'half rations' due to me being bad. This surprised me because normally when I was so bad, I'd get no food at all. But, that day, I was fed one slice of chopped pork, a few strands of spaghetti and a couple of chips. I licked the plate clean, put it outside the door as I was told then waited to see what would happen to me next.

  After tea, one of the boys came and got the plate, and then they went back out to play as it was still summer. It must have been just after six o'clock when my Dad came home, as I'd heard the opening music of the six o'clock news on television just before I heard the key in the lock. Fortunately, the bathroom wasn't as cold as it was in winter but I was still cold after standing there, hardly moving, all day. As the front door opened, the torture for me was the sun shining down the lobby, and the sound of children playing out in the street. Why couldn't I be one of those normal kids who got to spend the long summer days playing rounders and hopscotch or skipping in the street? What was wrong with me?

  I heard my Dad's footsteps coming up the bare floorboards of the lobby. As I listened, my heart raced with fear. I heard him putting his postbag in the cupboard halfway up the hallway. Through the frosted glass window of the bathroom door I watched his shape getting larger as he came nearer, then I watched it disappear as he went into the living room, the television becoming momentarily louder as he opened the door. I heard the kettle whistling for his ritual cup of tea and I heard their voices. It was, at first, just a muffled sound but then Helen's voice got louder and louder as she screamed at my Dad about me. I heard my name being yelled out over and over again. I thought how strange it was that she only called me by my name when she was talking about me and never to me.

  This argument was much the same as any I'd overheard while sitting in my bedroom and listening to every word. My bedroom was more of a boxroom than a bedroom, and its layout made it easy for me to listen in. Helen went on about how I was always being bad; how I wouldn't do as I was told; how I was cheeky to her. She said that she was at breaking point, and that her sons were missing out on things because she had all this extra work with me. I was lazy; I was insolent; I stole food and I wet the bed. All more work for her; all more work for poor, put-upon Helen. It always followed a pattern. After she had ranted, she would ask my Dad what he was going to do about me as she would claim she was at the end of her tether. I'd hear her say, 'I'm trying to be a good mum but she hates me!' and wondered how she could speak that way without the words choking her.

  This argument went on, as it always did, until finally I heard my Dad come out of the living room. I could tell by his footsteps that he was angry. He didn't come to the bathroom door as I'd expected, but went charging down the lobby and then stopped two-thirds of the way down. I could see his shape moving around. Then I heard him lifting the hatch to the cellar that ran below our flat, and joined up with a network of cellars that belonged to the various shops and restaurants on Easter Road, all separated by locked wooden doors. I heard him switch on the light he'd installed as he moved the wooden ladder into place that allowed people to go down there.

  Then he came to the bathroom.

  I bristled with fear as he yanked open the door. I looked up at him standing there in his Post Office trousers with a V-neck sweater over a white shirt and his tie loosened slightly. His eyes were massive brown pools behind NHS glasses. He was angry. I motioned to speak but he yelled at me not to say a word, and said that I was to get down in the cellar and wait for him.

  I scurried down the corridor in my bare feet and vest and pants, almost numb from standing in the cold all day. As I passed the living room I caught sight of Helen standing behind the door, watching and listening. I'll never forget that sneer on her face.

  I reached the hatch of the cellar and lowered myself onto the wooden ladder that wobbled as I climbed down it. I hated that cellar with its musty smell, cobwebs, dark shadows and cold, deathly feel. I just stood there again – awaiting my fate. I heard the footsteps of both my Dad and Helen walking about, and the muffled sounds of their resumed arguing. Then I heard him coming down the lobby. I watched as his shape occluded the hatch and he descended step by step, getting bigger as he got closer. I felt as if my heart was going to jump out of my chest. I was terrified.

  I
knew that I was going to get another beating but I just didn't want my Daddy to do it.

  He finally got down to where I was, and I stared at the ground, stared at his feet. As I did, he removed the slipper from his right foot and stood with one slipper and one sock-covered foot. He grabbed me and sort of put me over his knee, although I wasn't lying down completely. He started whacking me. Over and over again I was thrashed – combined with what Helen had done to me earlier that day, it was a miracle that my skinny, beaten, malnourished body didn't just give in. All the time that he hit me, my Dad's breathing was laboured.

  I tried to tell him to stop. I whimpered at him more than anything, but he just kept hitting and hitting me across the bottom and backs of my legs. He was really angry with me and told me I had to be good. He asked, 'Do you want your mother to leave us all?' My heart screamed out, 'Yes! Yes, I do! I want that woman who is not my mother, who will never be my mother and who says she hates me, to go away for ever. And I want you to look after me, Daddy, to protect me.' But my heart couldn't speak and, in a desperate fit of self-preservation, I said that I wanted her to stay.