What Daddy Did (11 page)

When I was a little girl, I wished that someone would come in and save me, take me away somewhere nice, look after me and love me for ever. It never happened. When I was older, looking back, I wished that someone would just hold my hand and go back in there with me and stop me being scared. I want people to know how bad it was because it happens to so many children, and it shouldn't.

This genre of books has been widely criticised for its value or purpose. However, writing my story has been a saviour for me. It wouldn't work for me to talk about what went on with a stranger. I have worked things through in my own way because that is right for me. I know there are many wonderful organisations out there that offer excellent counselling services, and people must look at all of their options and choose what is right. For me, though, writing is my method of healing. I write the memory down, and by doing that I am able to think about what went on, and I am able to see that I am away from all that now. I can apportion blame where blame is due. I can look at how it has affected me personally, and ultimately I can move on.

And moving on is something I want to do so very badly.

AUNTIE NELLIE WOULD BE SO
proud of me, I just know she would.

Auntie Nellie was my Dad's aunt, technically my great-aunt, a title befitting such a magnificent lady. In
The Step Child
I told the story of Auntie Nellie and how she was my greatest influence back then, the only light in some very dark days. I still sometimes comfort myself with memories of how she would take me out once a month to Jenners for high tea, and to Marks and Spencer's to buy me school uniforms. Nellie had been a headmistress and was a fine, gentle, elegant, well-travelled lady. She introduced me to books and education – she was the greatest inspiration of my life.

I lost her through no fault of my own when Gordon made me steal her purse and put all of the blame on me. Nellie couldn't forgive that because, for her, stealing was such a heinous crime. She died without knowing the truth about what really went on, but I have never forgotten her and her teachings. I carry her with me always.

Many of the women I admire and respect in my adult life have an element of Auntie Nellie in them; they are sophisticated, cultured and unmistakably good people. It may seem odd that Helen allowed me the privilege of contact with Auntie Nellie, but she did it for one reason and one reason alone – the reason that was always most important to her – money. Auntie Nellie had a house in the Clinton district, a smart Edinburgh suburb. She had plenty of money and would be leaving it as an inheritance to someone. Helen probably assumed that it would be left to me as Nellie was always fond of me. She also no doubt assumed that I wouldn't see a penny of it, as she and my Dad would have full access to it. However, Helen didn't want to leave anything to chance, so she usually sent her eldest son, Gordon, with me when I went to visit. Presumably, she thought she was covering all bases, and that Nellie would become fond of Gordon too, and leave money to both of us. Only a mother could be so blind. Helen had turned Gordon into an obnoxious, loathsome, cruel little liar – and exactly the sort of child Nellie would never fall for.

One thing Helen had done well in terms of her mothering was to raise that boy to be nasty – because of that, my stepmother never saw the colour of Nellie's money when she died. Back then, when I was chastised and beaten for blowing this golden opportunity for her, I was saddened – not by the loss of money, but for the loss of such a wonderful person in my life. What I didn't see then was that, actually, Auntie Nellie
had
left me an inheritance, and it was far greater than money could ever buy.

I had the gift of goodness bestowed upon me through this lovely woman. I also benefited in far greater a way than Helen would ever have known, and that was through the books that Auntie Nellie had left for my Dad.

These books were kept in the boys' room, which had an adjoining door into my bedroom (originally the boxroom). My bed ran alongside this door, and on the other side of it was my elder half-brother's bed. I knew about these books that Auntie Nellie had left because I was given the job of putting them away in the press. As I put them away, I hatched a plan to sneak some into my room. I had to wait until there was enough noise in the living room, usually when they were all having tea, then I'd open the door just enough so that I could squeeze through. Then I'd quickly – and as quietly as I could – get the book I'd earmarked and sneak it back into my room, putting it under my mattress. The whole time my heart would be racing with the fear of getting caught and also with the excitement of managing to get one over on Helen.

These books saved me because they offered me an escape. When people talk about never underestimating the power of the written word, I feel that I am a living example of that. I learned so much through books as a child. Mostly I read novels –
Little Women
,
What Katy Did
,
Oliver Twist
,
David Copperfield
– but sometimes I would be so scared of being caught that I'd grab the first one that came to hand. Occasionally, I'd end up with a gardening book, and once I got Patrick Moore's
Sky at Night
! No matter what book I got, I read it, or sometimes I just looked at the pictures. Now and again I would use the plain piece of paper at the front of these books to do little drawings, usually of the story I was reading. I suppose it is because of my love of books and the importance they played in my childhood that it seemed the most natural progression in the world for me to write a book and tell my own story.

I often wonder why Helen kept these books. I can't remember her reading much herself. Most of these books from Auntie Nellie were classics, the kind you would expect a retired teacher like her to have. The light was poor in my bedroom but I always managed to get a chink of it somewhere, usually by the door. When I felt it was safe, I would crouch down by the door, holding the book to the light, and I'd read and read. All the time, I'd be listening and watching for someone coming. If someone did come, I'd have to quickly run and put the book under my mattress and get back into my 'position' – hands by my sides, sitting upright in bed or standing with my face against the wall. Through these books, I educated myself and obtained hope. I gained a very different perspective on life from the one I was personally experiencing.

For many years, losing Auntie Nellie was a great source of pain. I couldn't recall the memories of her without hurting. Now, however, with the freedom I have achieved from bringing all the dark horrible things that went on into the light, I can also enjoy the memories of Auntie Nellie. I no longer blame myself for losing her as I did back then, and I can look back on what she gave me rather than what I lost. The same can be said of my Dad's sister, Auntie Madge. For years, I mistrusted her because she was friendly with Helen, but when I look back now I realise that she, too, in her way, was also giving me something.

Auntie Madge was the baby of the family, the only girl among three brothers. She was unmarried – a spinster, as they called any woman who was unmarried in those days. A small lady, she wore glasses and looked a lot like my Dad. She was always immaculately groomed with neatly coiffed hair and smart Jackie Kennedy style clothes. Her shoes and bags were always matching, and she wore gloves and a hat. She worked as a secretary and was quite independent.

My earliest memories of her are in the flat in Easter Road. I remember one occasion when she visited and I was sitting upright in the bunk bed in my vest and pants with my hands by my sides. I don't know why I was there, but I must have been 'bad' and on a punishment. What I recall is Auntie Madge coming through and reading me a story. This was a revelation as nobody ever read me stories.

Then there were times later on in my life, after Helen left, when Madge invited me up to her smart new house in Murray burn, a new housing scheme, and tried to teach me about grooming. I can see that little house now in my mind. It was so smart and clean with flowery curtains and a soft sofa. The radiogram would be playing 'Telstra' by the Tornados; she loved her music, the Shadows being a particular favourite. We'd sit on her sofa and she'd show me how to do my nails, how to file them and buff them before applying clear polish. She lathered Pond's cold cream on her face every day and Pond's vanishing cream once a week. Auntie Madge, like Auntie Nellie, was a million miles away from the only woman I had known – Helen.

I would have liked to have found out more about Madge. I wish I could have sat down and talked to her about her family, about how she and my Dad and their brothers grew up, but sadly she died when I was in my twenties. The last thing I heard about her was that she had crippling arthritis and was on gold injections to relieve the symptoms. I didn't really know her that well – I didn't see her every week or anything like that – but what I did know of her left an impression on me. She was independent at a time when a big question mark hung over the head of any woman who was not married in their twenties; she was selfsufficient and a respectable, kind woman; and she was my Dad's sister. I wish she had seen something in me that might have made her want to help.

Granny Ford was the mother of Auntie Madge and my Dad. She was also a positive influence for me, even though my memories of her are even fewer and sketchier. I can look back and see us visiting her in her little cottage in Ashley Terrace. I'd play in her garden while she cooked mince and tatties, and I'd hear the ticking sounds of the cuckoo clock that my Dad brought back from Germany when he was in the army.

She had neat grey hair, curled and pinned, and her penny was always tied around her waist. She hugged me and sang to me. When I was around eight and still in the flat in Easter Road, she died. My Dad was bereft. It was the only time I ever saw him cry. Apparently, Granny Ford fell in her bathroom, having suffered a stroke, and bumped her head, causing her death. I didn't go to the funeral as children just didn't go to them in those days. She, like Auntie Nellie, just left my life.