The Step Child (31 page)

I have often thought of what my Mum looked like and how much of her is in me and my children. The photographs I have aren’t enough. I don’t know her smell. I’ve no recollection of ever touching her. I expect that she found new love, made a new life, possibly had more children to replace the ones discarded in Edinburgh. But I missed out on so much by not having her in my life. As I get older, I also know that she missed out too. I think I have turned out to be a fine person. I am proud of my achievements and my three beautiful children.

I don’t know if our paths will ever cross. I will never actively seek my mother, but, if she is still alive, I do want her to know that I am here if she does ever wonder about me. They say that nothing in the world can ever replace the love of a mother – I only wish I could have found out if that were true.

It still hurts that my father never spoke about Breda. When I hear people saying they are turning into their mothers, or they casually dismiss something their mums said, I feel a knife going into me. I never had that chance. I never had the opportunity to get bothered by my mother, and I still have an emptiness where those memories and feelings should be. Where Don Ford said nothing about her, Helen rarely shut up. She always spoke of her in a way that made it clear my mother was still perceived as a threat, as competition. Breda was referred to with venom. She was the one who had created me – the bastard child – with the man Helen now wanted to keep for herself. The fact that my mother was no longer around, and never would be, didn’t matter to my stepmother. She didn’t work with logic or good sense. I used to hang on to that story Simon had told me of Breda making daisy chains, and the gentleness he recalled. That’s all I had. As a mother myself, I find it hard to believe that the woman who gave birth to us would ever have erased her three children from her memory entirely, but I have no idea of the choices she had or why she made the decisions which ended up changing my life so much. I suppose I do cling to the little things – knowing that she was Irish, always being told by Helen that I was a little Irish bitch, influenced my decision to give my youngest daughter an Irish name. The photographs I have of Breda are difficult to make out – her features are slightly blurred – but I can still see a family likeness, especially between her, myself and my eldest daughter.

It all feels like a patchwork Donna has been made. The memories, the feelings, the half-recovered ideas from records, other people, writing this book. Certainly, becoming an adult was difficult. I had to learn so many things – social skills, communication, how to trust, how to hug, how to love, how to look after myself, personal hygiene – but above all, how to become the person I wanted to be, not what I was shown as a child.

My self was non-existent. I didn’t know if I had rights or that it was okay for me to have wants and needs. I was driven initially
by an urgency to get away from all I’d ever known – the filth, pain, anger, mistrust and loneliness.

I’ve felt lonely for as long as I can remember, and have always yearned to ‘belong’ and to join in instead of being on the outside looking in. As time went on and I was able to get further and further away from my childhood and pick up influences on the way, I began to formulate my ideals and decide on a path to follow. I know that, as an adult, I have often trusted others too readily, but I do believe in taking people at face value and that a decision is often made instinctually.

My philosophy of life is based on fairness. You must only ever ask something of others if it is fair. I have been so very lucky that my children are all healthy, intelligent, beautiful, caring individuals. I can still recall the overwhelming feelings I experienced after the birth of my first child. I remember holding him and gazing as he fed from me. I couldn’t stop thinking how lucky I was, but I also felt that this achievement was another poke in the eye to Helen. I was going to be the best mother I could be. My children were never going to know any of the pain I had known. They were individuals in their own right. One day they would be adults – and the last thing I wanted was to be responsible for rearing another messed-up individual. From the word go, they were always allowed to have an opinion, and whether we agreed or not, we discussed it and compromised where appropriate.

I have always felt that children must have boundaries for stability and security. They must be stimulated and encouraged to fulfil their potential. But, most importantly, they must be loved and know they are loved. In my view, the love given to a child must be unconditional.

I would like to think that I have got things right.

Only the legacy that is my family – the family I have made which is untainted by what was done to me – will tell whether I have succeeded.

I WAS FIVE YEARS
and one month old when I was first given to Helen Ford. I was 11 when she left the family home and I got my first taste of freedom after suffering six years of abuse and deprivation. I didn’t see her again until the day I faced her in Edinburgh’s High Court in October 2003.

When your life is shattered – again – is there ever any warning? When fragile little lives which have taken so much time and care to put together are casually broken, it tends to be in the middle of complete normality. People suffer such losses, such grief, every day, and they generally do so without the slightest bit of notice. In the grand scheme of things, the stuff that comes with a forewarning isn’t really that important. We know when that big exam is, the driving test, a long-awaited holiday. But birth, death and the police knocking at your door tend to be a bit less predictable.

I can say it now – my name is Donna Marrianne Ford. That’s the name I was born with – but only through writing this book is it a name I have chosen to repossess. For years, I have hated my surname. It reminds me – of the mother who left me, of the father who put me in a children’s home, of the stepmother he brought to visit me when I was a toddler, and of the life she then made for
me. I am taking that name back again, just as I am taking my life back again. I have tried to piece it all together before, but only now do I feel able to tell the whole story, and only now do I feel there is a chance I will be listened to.

I was living in such a gorgeous house, with such a carefully put-together life, when it happened to me in the winter of 2001. When I look back on it, I can see headings above certain days in – certain events from – my life. That one is clearly marked, ‘The Day the Police Came’. On the outside, I had everything. Three happy, healthy children. A loving partner. A successful career. It had all come at a price, and it had taken so very long to get there, but I truly did feel things were going well for me.

The house we rented was in Victoria Road in North Berwick. North Berwick is a stunning coastal village about 30 minutes from the centre of Edinburgh. It is a beautiful seaside resort with a traditional harbour at its heart, which sits on the southern side of the Firth of Forth where it meets the North Sea. It is a place that just feels happy. I adored living here. Victoria Road itself was full of history – it is one of the oldest roads in the area, and archaeologists have uncovered a wealth of artefacts. This sense of the past always appealed to me – perhaps because my own past was so lacking – and I have always been drawn to tradition and folklore. Our house was near to the harbour. As an artist, I spent much of my time visiting the old part of the town, and filled many sketchbooks with images of past and present fishing life. I had come to know the old characters well, and was even planning an exhibition in which my paintings would tell of the lost trade and skills of the local area.

Things were going well for me. In addition to painting, I also took on work as a house renovator, trying to turn people’s dreams into reality when they looked to add art to their homes in
whatever way. I thoroughly enjoyed this work and the satisfaction I got from bringing ideas to life. I came home from a day spent on one of these projects to a busy house. My elder daughter Claire and her brother Paul were there with friends, and I had picked up their little sister, Saiorse, from her childminder. I revelled in the buzz of a frantic house. It was something I needed.

Both Paul and Claire, at 16 and 14, were at the age when food is the biggest concern. They scavenged around the kitchen, in and out of every cupboard, raiding the fridge and freezer, shouting and laughing as they all dodged each other. There was that feeling which comes at the end of the day – when you can feel absolutely shattered, but also totally content with your life. Even though it was all perfectly mundane, perfectly normal, it felt so good. My kids were settled, I was receiving critical acclaim as an artist, and I had even met the man I would later marry.

When the doorbell rang, I didn’t give it a second thought. Even when I opened it to find two police officers standing there, I wasn’t filled with dread. That came later.

It never even occurred to me that this visit could be related to my past. We were all safe. I hadn’t done anything to be worried about. It was probably something very straightforward – in fact, it probably didn’t even relate to me. Perhaps it was something to do with neighbours, a break-in maybe or a car problem.

They identified themselves. I asked them in, one male, one female officer. By now, the kids were all off doing their own things, so we went to the kitchen. I remember the pleasantries. Would they like tea? No, thanks. Would they like to sit down? Yes, please. Was there anything I could get for them? Just answer a few basic questions, thanks.

‘Can we just check your identity first?’ asked the woman officer. She looked perfectly innocuous. Quite young, professional, no big sign over her head saying she was going to rip my life apart. ‘Are you Donna Marrianne Shipman? Were you born on 5 June 1959? Is your brother Simon Robertson?’ They
confirmed addresses I had previously lived at, and dates when I had been there. I answered in the affirmative to everything, and yet still nothing was falling into place.

Then the words hit me.

‘Donna, we’re from the Family Protection Unit of Lothian & Borders Police. We’re here to tell you that Simon has made some very serious allegations. These allegations relate to how you were both treated by your stepmother, Helen Thomson Laing Ford, when you were children. We are currently investigating these claims and need to know whether there are things you would like to tell us. Is there anything you would like to add?’

Some more words started swimming about. ‘You don’t have to say anything just now, Donna. It’s really important that you think about the implications of this. What Simon has told us is very serious indeed and you need to consider whether you want to contribute anything to any inquiry. We will have to act on any information you provide us with, so take some time before making your decision.’

I could hear them speaking, I could hear the words. I knew they were trying to be nice. This was their job and I’m sure they had both been on dozens of courses and training sessions which taught them how to deal with this type of scenario. But this was me. This was my life. And this was my past coming back to me at a time when I had finally thought it buried.

The questions kept coming. ‘When did you last see or hear from your brother, Donna?’ Half-brother! Half-brother, I wanted to shout – please let them get the facts right on this then everything else might be accurate too. We had the same biological mother, but different dads.

I told them that Simon had been looking for me on a number of occasions, the last one being in 1997 when I had received a few letters from the Salvation Army ‘Missing Persons’ Department. These letters said that Simon wanted to be in touch and that he hoped I felt the same way. I didn’t. I had informed the Salvation
Army that I had no wish to contact any members of my family then or at any time, but they sent me his address ‘just in case’. Why couldn’t I be left alone? I had nothing in common with my half-brother other than our shared biological mother and some awful childhood memories. We were totally different people with vastly contrasting lives, and I never wanted to be reminded of what did bind us.