The Step Child (22 page)

I could barely contain myself.

I read the words ‘TINY TEARS’ out of the corner I had ripped.

I felt faint.

It was real.

SHE was real!

Laughing, hysterical with happiness, I ripped the rest of the paper off.

And sat.

And looked.

And wanted to die.

I heard Helen laughing maniacally behind me.

Gordon shrieking and even Dad laughing too.

And I looked at the box. The Tiny Tears box.

The empty Tiny Tears box.

‘There you go, Donna!’ she cackled. ‘There’s your present! Enjoy it!’

I looked round to see her wave a hand at me, tears of joy running down her face.

That was my Christmas. That was my gift.

Karen got the doll, although I never saw her with it.

I got an empty box.

Everything an ugly little girl deserved.

HELEN’S DEMANDS CONTINUED
. There was always something else that she wanted from me – whether it was just for me to stand there as a punchball or act as a ‘thing’ for her to exercise her temper on, there was no end to the reasons she found for me to be at her beck and call. The parties were part of that – but so were the ‘errands’ she contrived.

One holiday afternoon, I had managed to escape my stepmother’s fists and tongue for a few peaceful hours. I could never relax entirely, but to be left alone in my room was the most I could hope for. I had spent the morning reading my books and thinking about my Auntie Nellie. The rest of the day – even with its isolation and loneliness, even with an empty stomach and a body covered in bruises from my last beating – would have been close to perfect for me if I didn’t see Helen until I went to bed that night.

My stepmother had other ideas. She was always offering me to neighbours and cronies to help out. Of course, that ‘offering’ was even more obscene, more perverted since the parties had become established, but Helen also had what I thought of as a more innocuous side. I was always being sent to do cleaning for people, to help out with baby-sitting, to get their shopping. So it was no surprise when she shouted for me that day.

‘Get your lazy little arse through here,’ she squawked from the lobby as she passed my room. ‘I’ve got a message for you to run. Blind Jimmy needs a hand with his shopping and you’re doing bugger all, so get round there and help the poor old man.’

Blind Jimmy’s home was a few streets away from us, a couple of doors down from where Helen had originally lived with her parents. He was old and he was smelly, though I did feel quite sorry for him. He lived on his own, and I assumed that because he couldn’t see and couldn’t get about very well, he had no idea that he and his house were in such a state. But my sympathy didn’t mean that I enjoyed being around him. I bit back my comments and looked at the list Helen gave me – McKellar’s the butcher’s for his meat and McGill’s the bakers for his bread. A straightforward list; I’d get through it in no time.

‘Where’s the money?’ I asked.

‘In Blind Jimmy’s pocket I suppose,’ Helen answered. ‘You’ve to take him with you. Get your ugly little gob round to his flat and go round the shops with him.’

I followed her instructions. Blind Jimmy barely spoke to me as we went up and down Easter Road getting everything on the list. The old man walked with a limp and tapped his white stick against the walls and lamp posts as we went from shop to shop. In every place, he’d say what he wanted without a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, then drag a filthy old grey hankie out of his trouser pocket. The hankie was knotted tightly to keep his money in place, and he seemed to know what he had in there to the penny. I carried everything, and we finally made our way back round to East Thomas Street. That area has totally changed now – all the old tenements have been replaced by new housing – but at that time it was still ramshackle and cobbled, making walking difficult for Blind Jimmy. I guessed that was why Helen had wanted me to help him. To be honest, I hadn’t done much else. The old bloke could clearly cope with money and with dealing with people, so, apart from lugging his bags
around, maybe I was there to make sure he didn’t trip up or stumble.

Blind Jimmy lived in the type of area where ‘hard life’ was tattooed on every corner, on the face of every resident. Washing was either hung out in the unkempt front or back greens or from pulleys fixed to the outside of kitchen or bathroom windows in the upper apartments. So much for posh Edinburgh. Women sat nattering on doorsteps or across fences. Children ran around the streets yelling and screaming, playing hopscotch, kicking balls, skipping or scooting about on home-made carts. Hardly anyone had the luxury of a television or even a bike.

Blind Jimmy’s flat was at the far end of the street on the ground floor. I helped him inside with his shopping and put it on a tatty table next to the cooker, the only space I could find. I was still waiting for him to engage me in conversation or even to recognise that I was helping out. The room he lived in was tiny and completely cluttered with junk. The bed was barely visible in a nook to the right of the door, and opposite was the cooking area. A sink was piled high with filthy dishes, and, apart from a small chair covered in clothes and paper bags, the only other bits of furniture were a table and sideboard. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. The whole place was so dirty and depressing. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Jimmy?’ I asked. He turned slowly round, in the direction of my voice. He waited for a few moments, as if considering something, then wheezed, ‘No. That’s it.’ As I went towards the door he called me back. ‘Thanks. Thanks for helping. Here you go.’ His gnarled, dirty hand held out a threepenny bit. I couldn’t believe my luck! If I could hide it from Helen, spend it before I got home, then I could get something to eat. I took the money, left the flat, and ran to the shops as quickly as my legs would carry me.

A few days later, Helen called me to her again. ‘You can go and help Blind Jimmy,’ she said, as if bestowing a great favour on me. ‘Make him his dinner, you idle little bitch. Do something worthwhile for once. The poor old soul’s not getting his meals-on-wheels today so he’ll have to make do with you. Now, get moving, make him some mince and tatties – and don’t show me up.’

I didn’t like Blind Jimmy. He wasn’t friendly. He was smelly and dirty and miserable, and his house was stinking and filthy too. After being in his house last time, I had scratched and itched for days. I hated being around him and I hated running Helen’s errands, as I knew every time she sent me to ‘help’ someone, it made her look like a good person – and I didn’t want any part of that. But, as usual, I couldn’t disobey my stepmother’s orders and I didn’t really have any choice in the matter. The only glimmer of light was the thought of another threepenny bit if I was good. Well, I could do that, I could be good.

I made my way round to East Thomas Street. The sooner I got there, the sooner I could get this over with – and get some treats to eat. I knocked on the door and the old man answered it straight away. He was disgusting, dressed in shabby grey long johns which were full of holes. He had an old shirt on top of them, and I could smell him as soon as he opened the door. ‘It’s me, Jimmy,’ I said. ‘Wee Donna Ford? Helen says I’ve to make you some dinner? Mince and tatties?’ Everything I said was phrased as a question to him, in the hope of getting a response. His swivelling, rheumy, unseeing eyes wandered about, then he turned, coughing, spluttering, and stumbled back into the flat without a word, climbing into his manky bed. I followed him in – it clearly wasn’t going to be a chatty lunchtime, but that was fine by me. Maybe I could get done, get my money and get out even more quickly than I had first hoped. I looked over towards where the old man lay. The sheets looked as if they had never seen a bit of soap, and he was the same colour. Everything was
grey, everything smelled. Maybe Helen did have a bit of good in her if she was willing to help some dirty old misery guts like this – even if it was actually me doing all the hard work.

I set myself to peeling and cooking potatoes, and heating up some mince that was already in a pot on the stove. There weren’t any clean dishes – there wasn’t anything clean in that place – so I washed a plate and a spoon and handed the meal over to Blind Jimmy, who still hadn’t said a word to me. He ate the meal with all his usual spits and splutters – I concentrated on cleaning some more dishes to avoid listening to the sounds coming from him. Finally he had finished, and I had cleared up. I had only one thing on my mind – my threepence! Give me my threepence!

‘Lassie! Come over here!’ he finally called to me. I was so relieved. He hadn’t forgotten why I was there. I went over to his bed, but instead of reaching for his grey hankie with the money in it, Blind Jimmy grabbed my hand. I screamed, both with the shock and also in disgust at him actually touching me. ‘Let me go!’ I shouted. His eyes were wavering all over the place, and his mouth was twisted into a toothless grin. He was small and he was old, but he had a grip of my right wrist and no intention of letting it go. I tried to pull away from him – pulling, pulling – but he pulled me harder. I fell onto the side of the bed, and as he pulled at me more, I found myself lying across his wizened, stinking old body.

I can still remember looking at the greyness – the sheets, his long johns, everything grey, everything hopeless. This pathetic old man, so often the butt of other people’s jokes and cruelties, had found someone even weaker, even more pathetic. He pulled up my dress and whacked me across my backside. I tried to get up but he was holding me down, and, despite his frailty, his strength was greater than mine.

He was talking to me now. I could hear the words come closer to me. They sounded as if they were starting very far away, but the whispering got louder, the hissing got nearer – ‘Shut up keep
quiet shut up keep quiet shut up keep quiet.’ I knew the drill. I was always to shut up. I was always to keep quiet. I couldn’t help but cry – this was too much even for me. The smell, the disgusting old man touching me in places he shouldn’t. ‘Shut up. Keep quiet.’ Self-preservation kicked in. He may have been old. He may have been blind. But he could still hurt me. I was so scared of what I knew he was going to do – and even more scared of what he might do if I kept making a fuss.

‘Are you going to keep making that bloody racket?’ he asked. He told me to stand up, even though he was still holding my hand. ‘I can’t. You’re holding my hand too tight,’ I protested. ‘You bloody can and you bloody will,’ he replied. ‘I’m going to keep holding your hand and you’re going to bloody well stand up, you little whore.’ I stumbled to my feet awkwardly, with him still holding me as he moved my hand towards his penis. Fumbling around, he put his other hand inside my knickers. Standing there, totally humiliated, totally powerless, I watched myself being doubly abused by this pathetic old man. He masturbated himself with my hand as he fiddled around with me. Finally, he was finished. Finally, he let me go. My legs were trembling and I was sobbing. I was hurting. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t think straight. I pulled my clothes together, wiped his filth off me, and headed for the door.

‘Wee Donna Ford,’ he shouted out after me. ‘You’ll keep quiet about this. You’ll not breathe a word to a soul. You’ll go home and you won’t talk about it because no one would believe you, and the only person who would sent you here anyway.’

I ran out of his horrible, dark, smelly hovel and through the streets. I stopped only once – to vomit in a privet hedge on Elgin Terrace. As I threw up, I could hear children laughing and squealing in the playground next to the bowling green. I wasn’t allowed out to play – but I was allowed out for this.