The Step Child (21 page)

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.

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?