The Step Child (23 page)

It had happened again. Just like all of those men who used me at Helen’s parties. Just like all of the times Helen got me out of
bed to ‘do’ something for one of her friends. Just like with the Barber. Just like it was with anyone who chose to use and abuse me. It had to stop. What Blind Jimmy had done to me had to be the last time.

I should have known better.

It happened three more times in that soiled hell hole with a pervert who had finally found someone weaker than himself. Each time I went because Helen told me to and because I was more scared of her than of anything else in the world. And I wasn’t the only person who knew this – she did too, and that was much, much worse.

THE VISITS TO BLIND JIMMY
and the Barber stopped but there were always other men to take their place. The parties continued. My fear of the doorbell, my days of starvation and my whole miserable life went on as it had done since I was a little girl.

Until one day.

The day Helen left.

I knew that she and my Dad had been arguing even more than usual. Every little thing set her off, especially if it reminded her of my mother, the perpetual enemy. Once when my Dad was singing ‘Danny Boy’, Helen launched into a screaming session. ‘There you go again!’ she yelled. ‘With your bloody Irish songs, always bringing
her
into it, always dragging
her
into things!’ There had been continual shouting and screaming for some time. I had heard snatches of it but the noise and the atmosphere was such a constant in my life that I didn’t pay too much attention. Helen always put my Dad down, always complained that he was at work and that they had no money. He couldn’t win. As a child, I didn’t understand it – surely if he didn’t work as much, we would have even less money? On top of that, if he wasn’t at work during the day, how could she continue with her parties? Perhaps she was calling his bluff – or perhaps, as I always hoped, he
suspected she was up to something and that was the root cause of their fighting.

Whatever the reason, the outcome was all I had been wishing for since I was years younger. In the New Year of 1969/1970, Helen packed her bags and walked out of my life.

She left a legacy.

Not the bruises I still had all over my body. Not my broken dreams and waking nightmares. Not even the yearning I still had for a real Mummy.

She left Karen.

She was 18 months old when her mother deserted her – as Breda had deserted me – and I loved her with all my heart. When we had all lived together, I did have some interaction with Karen. As a baby, she bothered Helen, so I was often ‘allowed’ to walk her pram up and down the lobby, with the strict instructions that I was responsible for keeping her quiet and out of Helen’s way. If I failed in my task, I knew what was coming to me. The natural cries or whimpers of a baby would result in another battering for me. So Karen and I walked many miles up and down that hallway, and I was already fond of her, even though we had minimal contact. I loved watching her chubby little face in her pram, and I always hoped I might be allowed to bathe her again after holding her once as she was splashing and giggling and Helen got on with something else. In the back of my mind was a worry that she might turn out like Gordon or Andrew, who had gone from innocent babies to nasty little sods given the teaching of their mother, but Helen seemed uninterested in her daughter, which gave me some hope.

How her mother could have left her is beyond me. When Helen left, I had to face up to so many emotions, a lot of them linked to Karen. Of course, I was ecstatic that my tormentor had gone, but her departure brought back feelings about my own mother leaving. Karen and I were in the same boat, really.

The morning after Helen walked out of the door, my life
changed yet again. I walked through to the kitchen where my Dad sat. He had been up all night, and was clearly upset. I felt a difference already. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t have a knot in my stomach. I could even ask a question without feeling the rings on her hand belting my face.

‘Where is she, Dad?’ I asked. ‘Where’s Helen?’

He looked up from the kitchen table where he had been staring, wordlessly. He looked so tired, so drained.

I heard the words I wanted to hear so badly.

‘She’s gone. And she won’t be coming back.’

‘Really? Truly?’

‘Aye. I can promise you that you won’t be seeing her again.’

I didn’t know whether to believe him. However, the only promises I had been given in the past had actually come true, so maybe I could cling on to this one. Helen had been fond of saying I’d get a beating I’d remember – that she could promise me. I’d get walloped so hard I wouldn’t be able to feel my legs – that she could promise me. If I said a word, I’d pay for it – that she could promise me. And she always kept her promises. Every time.

So maybe I could believe my Dad. Maybe she was gone. For ever.

I looked round. ‘Who’s still here, Dad? Who did she take with her?’

My Dad looked confused. And old.

‘What?’ he said, obviously not understanding what I was asking.

‘Gordon? Andrew? Karen? Did she take them all? Where are they?’

‘They’re here. They’re in bed. They’re all here.’

She’d gone – but she’d left all of her children. Even precious Gordon. Part of me was terrified that she would be back, if only to collect him, but I should have realised that, as always, she was only interested in herself. I should also have known that mums can leave – they can leave three of their children quite
easily and never be seen again. After all, Breda had done the same thing.

‘What are we going to do now then, Dad?’ I asked. I needed some guidance, some adult input – I wanted my Dad to show that, finally, he was going to do what was needed and be the sort of parent to keep this family together in the way it should be. He looked at me as if I’d just asked him to explain the theory of relativity. Then, his face changed – suddenly, he’d worked something out.

‘What’re we going to do?’ he laughed. ‘That’s obvious, Donna. It’s up to you. It’s all up to you. You’re the woman of the house now – you’re in charge.’

I was 11 years old.

I had spent the past six years being beaten, starved and abused.

Now, all of a sudden, I was in charge. That was it. I was elated by Helen’s absence but quickly realised there was still no time to be a child. Still no chance to be carefree and safe. I had gone from being nothing to being everything.

‘And that bairn,’ he said, referring to Karen. ‘She’s without a mother now, Donna – you’ll have to be that for her. Best start now – best go through and see what she needs.’

I followed his instructions and went through to the cot where Karen slept. My heart was bursting and my brain was pounding. Helen was gone. I was in charge. Karen was standing up with her terry towelling nappy sagging around her knees. God knows how long it had been since she was last changed. It wouldn’t have killed my Dad to see to her – he must have changed nappies when he first looked after the three of us when Breda left – but he obviously hadn’t given it a second’s thought last night. The poor little thing was drenched and stinking, but she still managed a great big smile for me. I struggled to lift her out of the cot, and finally hauled her over the side where I set about changing and dressing her. She was mine now, and I would do my best for her. Still, I was terrified. Helen could come back any minute – she’d
catch me out of my room, catch me doing things she hadn’t authorised, and I’d be beaten to within an inch of my life. I felt like that for a long time, even when it became obvious she wasn’t in a hurry to return.

Over the next few days, my father made it clear that he meant what he’d said. I felt pleased. There was a nicer atmosphere than there had been in a long time, and I was chatting to my Dad on an equal basis. He had to rely on me and confide in me, and that felt good. I felt useful and needed. Helen wasn’t coming back and it was all to rest on my skinny little shoulders. I was responsible for cooking, cleaning and keeping all the other kids in line. I had to beg money off my father for food, do the shopping and get the meals ready. I had to wait for him outside pubs, plead with him for a few pennies inside pubs. I had to make sure we had clothes and shoes and were washed and dried. Of course, it couldn’t all be done, but I did my best. I was a little housewife, a little mother, within days.

It was hard work. Although Simon was older than me, he didn’t have the same responsibilities as the girl, as the little woman. It was expected that I would carry everything, that I would be the one to keep the family together, no matter what. Karen took up so much of my time that, if I hadn’t been so fond of her, it would have been unbearable. As it was, even little things like washing the nappies could take me all day. I was so little myself, so skinny and weak from years of neglect and malnutrition, that hard physical graft really took its toll. We didn’t have a washing machine, so the soiled nappies had to be scraped, washed, steeped in a bucket, bleached, then washed again before being hung up to dry. In between times, I’d spend hours rushing in and out saving them from the rain, hanging them up again for a few minutes of sunshine, all day long. My arms ached. My back ached. It was work that would challenge a grown woman, never mind a scrap of a child. Karen was a happy baby though, and was seemingly oblivious to the chaos around her.

It was such a strange time for me as I had gone from being a prisoner, locked up most of the time, to a child with complete freedom in some ways. I could go where I wanted when I wanted – as long as I took Karen with me, had the meals ready for the rest of the family, and looked after the house. Some freedom for a child not yet in her teens, but a wonderful change for me. Some of the freedoms of the new role I had taken on, or been forced into, came at a price, however.

I became ill quite soon after Helen left. One morning I woke up in absolute agony.

‘Dad!’ I screamed. ‘Dad! Help me!’

He rushed through to my tiny room to find me doubled up in pain.

‘What’s wrong, Donna? What have you done?’

I hadn’t done anything! I was aching, but I still managed to notice that he put the blame on me before anything else. The pain was excruciating and it didn’t go away, but it was made clear that I just had to get on with things. This continued for some days, with me screaming for him every morning and him eventually dismissing my cries.

Finally, it became too much to ignore and I was taken to the Royal Hospital for Sick Children. At the Sick Kids, I was given an immediate diagnosis. Appendicitis. My time in hospital was quite pleasant – I knew I was safe, and I had some respite from the constant cleaning and caretaking I had done since Helen left. My appendix was taken out and I soon returned home. However, the pains continued and I was being sick all the time. What was wrong with me? The doctors had done all they could and yet I was as ill as ever. Finally, I worked it out. I worked out what the doctors and my father had been blind to – presumably because they didn’t see the full picture, they didn’t ask the right questions or hear what they really needed to hear.

I was making myself ill with food.

When Helen left, my immediate thought was of food. I had
been hungry for so long that I had almost forgotten any other state. When she walked out, things went from one extreme to the other. For the first few months after she went, I ate anything, anything at all. I had gone from constant starvation to stuffing my face with whatever I could get hold of. And my body couldn’t cope.