by Ford, Donna
I was graciously allowed to go back to my bedroom, my freezing tiny body cultivating yet more cuts and bruises. Helen screeched at me to stand facing the wall without moving. As I counted the roses on the wallpaper, tracing the pattern over and over again with my eyes, things seemed more hopeless than ever. I had always had Auntie Nellie to dream of before – but she was gone. I was bitterly cold, starving, hurting inside and out, completely alone, and I had lost the one individual who had actually treated me as a person. When my Dad came home, the yelling started again – this time with Gordon smirking in the background. My Dad said he was going to disown me for bringing such shame on the family, but I knew they were only words.
I stood there in that room, listening to the insults, feeling the pain creep through my body, watching Gordon sneer at me, and I vowed to myself that one day – one day – I would be a person of whom Auntie Nellie would be proud. They wouldn’t crush me; they wouldn’t take away what she had instilled in me, no matter how hopeless it seemed.
I never saw my Auntie Nellie again. She died a few years later, and it came to light at the reading of her will that she had planned to leave everything to me, until that fateful day. She may not have bequeathed me her house or its contents, but her efforts were not in vain. Apart from the obvious bequest of a love of books and a thirst for knowledge, Elizabeth Ewart left me with hope and a yearning to discover myself, to find the woman she thought that little girl could become. She made me realise the value of what each of us holds in our heart, no matter how bleak things become.
Auntie Nellie had gone. I was more alone than ever. All I was left with were her words. ‘Books are the key to knowledge, and knowledge is the key to life itself.’
And that alone would become enough to save me.
Chapter Nine
PARTY TIME
1968
AUNTIE NELLIE LEFT ME with an amazing legacy. I think about her much more than I think about Helen Ford, and I actively try to put the good stuff from Nellie way ahead of the bad stuff from Helen. As well as the emotional support and intellectual stimulation my father’s aunt gave me, she also provided a practical release. When she died, her huge collection of books was given to our family. Of course, this meant nothing to Helen. The books were worthless to her as reading material; she would never have considered actually using them – the only surprise is that she didn’t try to sell them as soon as they arrived. For me, they were a lifeline. Naturally, they weren’t given to me. They were stored in the boys’ room and I had to access them surreptitiously. My bed was next to a wall, against a door, on the other side of which was Simon’s bed. We couldn’t use the door properly, but Simon could open it a tiny bit and pass books through to me. Until then, I had been in total despair. Then I discovered this amazing, magical world. I had my escape and Nellie had given it to me.
I adored the musty smell of each new book that came through that tiny passage towards me. I loved the avenues which were opened up each time a new adventure began. I could be transported to a world in which orphans won and young girls conquered their oppressors. I went on travels and had such experiences, even while stuck in a room with little light, no door handle, and an ogress outside. I learned to cope by living in a fantasy world. Books were all I had – they were the saviours of my childhood. On a daily basis, whenever possible, I would disappear into a story, becoming an intrinsic part of the plot, the scheme and the drama. Reading took me so very far away from my life as I was living it. I began to draw the scenes of the story on the blank pages at the beginning or end of the book, making it all as real as possible. My absolute favourite was Little Women, and I could reread it a hundred times without being bored, each time a new character appealing, each time a new story thread reeling me in.
Of course, Helen couldn’t bear it. On the occasions when she did catch me reading, I always thought that would be the last book I’d ever see. But something stopped her from getting rid of them, burning them or selling them – I can only assume my Dad played some part because I would hear them arguing about it, and I would be given another reprieve. Reprieve in the sense that the books would stay on Simon’s side of the door, but I would be beaten senseless for yet another rule transgression.
Things hadn’t changed for the better in Edina Place. I was still starving, still beaten, still neglected, humiliated and unloved. But now I had my books, I had my other world. Was that why Helen decided to make things even worse?
I know that, to a lot of people, I am nothing more than a category. I was an abused child. I am an adult living with the memories of that abuse. To some, I am a victim. To others, I am a survivor. But behind each label, behind each story, is an individual. And for this individual, the memories of the sexual abuse I suffered, endured and moved on from have created the adult I am today. I defy anyone sexually abused as a child to claim that the abuse has had no effect on the way they have developed as a sexual being. However, it is only as I have begun to revisit my past that I have started to realise fully just how significant this aspect of my earlier life is to the person I now am. I wanted to say that it didn’t matter. I wanted to claim that it was of no consequence – but that is a façade that takes either too much stupidity or too much effort to maintain. I do feel that I have, at many points in my life, been in denial regarding this part of my history. What those men did, as much as what my stepmother did, has made me. I now owe it to myself to face that.
I’ll never forget the day it started. I was a resilient child – I had to be – but even I didn’t think things could get worse. By this time in my life, I was seeing some patterns to what was happening to me. The beatings, the physical abuse, the mental torture, the humiliation always happened when my Dad was at work and when Helen had one of her parties. These parties took place during the day; they had to as that was when she knew she had a free run. I don’t know when the parties started – they seemed to be going on all the time. Helen loved the attention and the noise. She appeared to revel in it, and she never needed a reason for one of her ‘events’. She always had people coming round, and she seemed to know everyone in the Easter Road area and Leith. All I do know is that I was starting to dread the days when Helen would get dressed up, and I would often see this if it was a school holiday or if I was being kept off school for no real reason. She would get her make-up on, struggle into a miniskirt, and start boozing in preparation. Carlsberg Special Brew was her drink of choice. The beer was stronger than most others, beloved of alcoholics and down-and-outs, and a sure sign that Helen was ready to party. The first time I was sexually abused at one of her parties, I was so confused and bewildered that I’m not entirely sure I knew what happened.
‘Get to your room, bastard!’ she had shrieked at me just after lunch. ‘And fucking stay there!’ I was happy to go. Her parties were loud and rowdy. I didn’t know the people who came because I was always in the boxroom. Quite content, I left her, glad to escape without a cuff to the side of my head. I sneaked into my room. It was freezing and it was dreary, but it was mine. I settled down under the covers to read Little Women, always my favourite, always the one I wanted to go back to.
I could hardly concentrate. I wanted to get lost in my book, the way I always did, but it was so loud. The party was in full swing, even though it was the middle of the afternoon, and Helen was already knocking back the Special Brew. I could hear Frank and Nancy Sinatra singing ‘Something Stupid’. I could hear laughter and shrieking and high spirits. It always felt vaguely threatening, but at least I was in my room, even if it was dark and miserable. I could hear cans being opened and chattering going on. I could hear men. I could hear Helen.
As always, I was aware of everything. When I moved around in my room, or read, I would watch for changes in light and shadow at the little gap at the bottom of my door, which would warn me she was coming. This day, I could hear the movement of more than one person. I knew something was going to happen. I just felt it in the pit of my stomach, in every part of me.
; There was hushed whispering outside my door.
They weren’t moving down the hall.
They weren’t going away.
Oh my God – was she bringing someone else in to batter me? Was there to be more torture?
I couldn’t yet see the shadow of feet at the door, but I put my book into its hiding place under my mattress then sat back, fully upright, assuming Helen would be in any second.
I hadn’t done anything! I hadn’t even asked to go to the toilet! I knew by now that it didn’t actually matter – I never did anything, but it didn’t stop me getting beaten.
I heard a man and a woman outside.
I heard some muffled giggling.
Then the door handle turned and the door opened slightly.
I didn’t have a handle on my side of the door, but others were free to come and go as they wanted from the other side. My privacy didn’t matter. What was going on this time? I knew by now it wasn’t just Helen. The movements of the handle were too slow. There was no anger behind them, just wariness. If it had been my stepmother, she would have been in the room by now, and my face would already be stinging from her slaps.
Someone came into the room.
A man?
Someone else pushed him in slightly and closed the door behind him.
I saw his silhouette. Definitely a man.
Then he spoke. Softly.
‘Donna?’ he said. Why did he question who I was? There couldn’t be any doubt. Anyone coming into that room would know it was mine. She would tell them and she was in control of everything. He repeated my name as he shuffled towards me. ‘Donna?’ he said into the darkness that belied the daylight outside.
I was terrified. He must have known because he made a pathetic excuse to reassure me with his words.
‘Donna? Don’t worry. Don’t be scared, hen. Everything will be fine. Nothing to worry about.’
His words had the opposite effect. I didn’t recognise his voice. I could hear the party going on and, for a moment, thought of shouting, screaming, for help. Instantly, I realised that would be futile. Who would help me? I listened as the laughing and the music carried on, and this man kept telling me not to worry as he took tiny soft steps towards me.
I heard a voice in the lobby. Was someone out there listening? What for? Was this a dare? Was it all some sort of joke?
The man got closer and closer, finally reaching my bed. He sat down. His eyes were obviously adjusting to the dim light, but it didn’t matter as he was in a more powerful position anyway – he knew my name; I had no idea who he was.
He reached out.
He touched my hair.
He stroked it.
He was on the edge of my bed and he started saying something. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t work out the words. I knew this was dangerous. But what could I do? I couldn’t speak. I knew I daren’t speak. I thought it was best just to let him ramble on – what was he saying?
‘Donna? Can you hear me? Are you listening? I was just saying – well, I’ve seen you around, Donna. I’ve been watching you. You’re an awfully pretty wee lassie, Donna. A real stoater.’
What? What? Why was he lying? Was it to distract me? I wasn’t pretty. I was ugly. An ugly little bitch. A bastard.
‘Have you got a boyfriend, Donna? Have you got a young man that you – well, that you get close to?’
I was barely nine years old, I rarely got out of the house, and he was wanting to know if I got up to anything with boys? Was he mad?
‘You must get told how gorgeous you are all the time, Donna. I bet the lads can’t keep their hands off you. You’re a real wee tease, Donna, aren’t you?’
He went on and on. It didn’t make sense. What was he up to? I kept shaking my head to everything he asked me. He kept repeating himself.
You’re very pretty.
I’ve seen you around.
You must have a boyfriend.
You’re very pretty.
I’ve had my eye on you.
You’re very pretty.
You’re very pretty.
You’re very pretty.
I wanted him to go away. He was scaring me now. His words were taking on a panicky tone. He started tugging at the covers, pulling them down off me. I held on to them, trying to keep myself covered. It was a battle – an unfair one. A nine-year-old, terrified, starved little girl against a grown man? No contest.
Then things changed. He wasn’t soft and placatory any more. His face came right up to mine and he said the words which terrified me: ‘You don’t want me to tell Helen you’ve been a bad girl, do you?’
I was shocked. He was threatening me. He must have known what she was like, what she did to me, to know that he could use that against me. As I turned all of this over in my mind, he yanked the bedclothes off in one swift move. I was shivering.
He stayed close to me. Leered over my face and, with one hand, pulled my pants down.
I tried with all my might – although there was precious little of it – to keep my legs closed. Every time I made some feeble attempt to do so, he prised them open again. I tried to focus on details as I had always done, but the overwhelming stench of beer and cigarettes was stronger than anything else. I tried to think about anything – my books, music, food.
But I knew what he was doing.
He carried on prodding and pulling and poking. He was thrusting his fingers into me and I was in agony. He ripped my pants off as I cried and cried and cried. It hurt and it was horrible. I knew he shouldn’t be doing it and I knew no one would care.
He kept telling me I was pretty, that he had been watching me, that I was a good girl. He pulled my hand and dragged it towards his penis. He moved it backwards and forwards, faster and faster, and kept sticking his own fingers of his other hand between my legs. I was trying to shift away but he was telling me to stay still. He was whispering things I didn’t understand, words I had never heard. Then, all of a sudden, his breathing got faster, and he was telling me I was a good girl, a good girl, then he had this horrible, sticky, silly mess coming out of him.
Then he stopped.
He got up and wiped himself on his shirt tail.
I pulled my pants on and the covers up.
He started speaking again. He stroked my hair, put his fingers to his lips and said, ‘Ssshh! That’ll be our wee secret, won’t it now? Good girl.’
He headed towards the door. I expected him to walk out but, of course, there was no handle. He tapped gently on the door and someone opened it. Someone had been there all along! Someone knew! I heard a female voice whispering as he left, and two sets of footsteps going down the hall back to the party.
I was weeping so much that I was terrified Helen would hear me. I was really hurting between my legs and I still had the silly sticky stuff on my hand. I knew there would be no point telling anyone. No one cared. I sat there in the dark wondering what made me so bad. I saw the girls at school with ribbons in their hair and mummies picking them up and longed for just a tiny bit of that. Now, when someone told me I was a good girl, a pretty girl, it came with all this pain. What was wrong with me? Had my own mummy known I was going to be bad? Is that why she left?
However bad I had felt up to now, Helen made sure I could only feel worse. The man who had abused me that day would be back. As would others. The parties became more frequent, and the abuse commonplace. Whenever there was a party, I knew when there would also be an assault on me. The paedophiles whom she presented me to had their own code – they would enter the house in Edina Place with three rings of the doorbell. When the parties started, I’d listen out for the ‘special’ rings – and break into a sweat when I knew one of them had arrived. As an adult, even having blocked out most of the abuse in order to function, I would have recurring nightmares in which I could hear the doorbell ringing. Three times. This was always so real that I would wake in a panic, and rush to the door to discover there was no one there. It was only when I began to research my past that this, and many other
triggers, went off, reminding me of what had happened.
I now wonder how I could ever have forgotten.
Chapter Ten
THE BARBER
1968
THERE SEEMED TO BE no end to the situations Helen could contrive in her quest to make my life even more intolerable. And now the sexual abuse had started, life was darker than ever before. Until recently, the only way I could deal with what I endured was to bury huge parts of my past, but the trial forced me to confront things I had tried to forget. The abuse I suffered was so frequent and so much a part of my life that it can be quite difficult to disentangle specific incidents – how many parties there were or how many times I was beaten are questions I can never answer. But some events, some characters, are horrifically clear.
There would occasionally be times when Helen was ‘nice’ to me. Her version of niceness wasn’t quite what most people managed, or even aspired to. There would never be any hint of selflessness, any notion of kindness for its own sake. There was only one reason for her to be nice to the ‘little witch’ – when she wanted something. Everything that was given to me as a treat was done so as if it were a huge sacrifice on her part. At rare times, I would be allowed to get up from my bed, get out of my room and get dressed in what passed for my good clothes.
I knew it was always for a reason. There had never been a time when it hadn’t been, so my response was mixed. Of course I enjoyed the chance of moving out of my prison, but I also knew there would be a price. And I knew what that price was likely to be. I came to dread these special ‘kindnesses’, the times when I was fully aware that escaping from where I was left to rot also meant that hell was just around the corner.