What Daddy Did (30 page)

I hired a private detective to try and find out any little thing about my mother, yet still nothing turned up. She had gone, disappeared it would seem off the face of the earth. Did she change her identity? Did she die? What on earth happened to her? I don't know – and may never know – the answers to these questions. What is evident is that she had a family – three little children – that she just decided she no longer wanted to be a mother to.

I can't remember ever having a mother. My earliest memory is of living in an institution with many other children in the same position as me, with families who visited sporadically. I had no real sense of who I was or where I belonged. Bizarrely, it was Helen herself who brought the question of my own mother into my head. It was from her that I first heard any reference to my 'real mother'. It was not in any way a nice reference as it came in the form of her screaming abuse at what a whore Breda was and how I was her 'bastard' child, but it made me start missing my Mummy. I can recall watching Helen lavish love and attention on her firstborn, singing and cooing to this little boy, while, in complete contrast, she would shout and scream at me and hit me. What I felt from her was utter hatred. I wonder now if her hatred of me stemmed from her jealousy over my mother.

When I was little and suffering abuse, I would cry for this elusive Mummy. I would weep and sob and wish that she would come and take me away, and love and protect me like other mothers did their children. On a few occasions I asked my Dad about his ex-lover, but he was always reluctant to give me any information other than that she was Irish. This fact was backed up by the records left behind by my Mum – Irish rebel tunes such as 'The Wearing of the Green' and 'Danny Boy' on black plastic vinyl. Dad would occasionally play these on the old record player. This would often cause an argument, with Helen accusing him of missing 'the cow'. My Dad would, of course, deny this, claiming only to enjoy the tunes.

I no longer miss her. I wouldn't know what to say now if I was ever to meet her. I would still like the opportunity to find out more about my heritage and medical history – birthrights that many take for granted. I would even like to give her the opportunity to tell me her side of the story because, like us all, she too has a story to tell. But it seems as if fate has decided it is a story I will never hear.

THE LIFE AND EXPERIENCES
I described in
The Step Child
– and now in this book – are not the sum total of all that has happened to me. Like everyone, my story can't be distilled into a few easy chapters. Unlike most people, the story of my childhood was a horrific one, but few stories end at childhood. As I left my wicked stepmother and her world behind, I did not enter a fairy-tale life. The past has left its mark on me – the years of starvation as a child have left me with an eating disorder; the years of beatings on an almost daily basis have left me with constant and agonising back pain; the years of sexual abuse have left me afraid of intimacy and at odds with my own sexual feelings; and the years of loneliness and neglect have left me constantly seeking connections, making me vulnerable and susceptible. Exploring what happened to me as a child, and trying to understand the after-effects, brings with it a freedom – the memories no longer haunt me. To get to that point, I have had to delve into not just my years with Helen Ford, but also my teenage and adult lives, where additional horrific memories have surfaced since my first book was published.

People often ask me how I am so strong and why I am so forgiving. I am strong because I have to be. I must sink or swim – and I choose to swim. I know that what I endured as a child damaged me and had a direct influence on my adult relationships, but I have only just discovered that by exploring the past and the damage I can deal with it once and for all. As for forgiving, I feel that it isn't my place to forgive the people who committed the crimes against me. Can they forgive themselves? Do they sleep at night? Does the violation of a child and the twisted methods used by these people warrant forgiveness? Why should I, as a person whose whole life has been contorted by the sick yearnings of a very disturbed group of people, forgive? Could you? I've lived my adult life trying to understand my sexual needs and those of the partners I've been with. For most of the time, my life has been clouded by very bad memories, memories of men forcing me as a young girl to pleasure them while constantly telling me that I liked it. Do you know what? I never, ever liked it. I hated it. It wasn't normal. It isn't normal. It's sick and perverse and it was only ever about them.

I was always vulnerable as a child, and I was put in that situation by Helen. Although I don't often think about what she did to me and why she did it, I see it all much more clearly now than when I was standing in the High Court in Edinburgh facing her. Back then, in 2003, I was still that little girl she had tormented and abused. I was so scared of facing her, and when I did she managed to make me feel just as frightened as when I was a child. But now – sitting here safely, having reclaimed my birth name for the first time in many years – I can see Helen Gourlay Ford for exactly what she was, for what she was doing to us and what she herself was getting from it. I have no desire whatsoever to concern myself with what made her like that. Wouldn't it just be so easy to blame it on childhood traumas? Wouldn't it be so easy if she could just say that she was abused as a child? That would be so wrong – so insulting to everyone who was ever hurt as a child but who has fought to be a good person and break the cycle.

Dangerous men and women lurk everywhere. The world is a difficult place for children who aren't protected and loved, and we must all – whether parents or not – look out for little ones, always. I have already told of how Helen left our lives that New Year, but she had also left my father for a few weeks shortly after the birth of Karen. I was overjoyed but missed Karen terribly. The house was buoyant and my Dad seemed all right about Helen's departure – apart from when he'd had a drink, when all he spoke about was getting her back. My Dad constantly made excuses for her. He would say she had 'women's troubles' and use the phrase 'when your Mum gets back', never knowing what wrath would be brought down on me had I ever dared to call her that.

In files dated 10 February 1971, the social worker's report on a home visit states: 'Mr Ford explained that his wife was not at home; they had had a row and she left three weeks ago taking the baby with her.' In this same report it states: 'Donna was one of the reasons for the increasing number of rows Mr and Mrs Ford had been having. Mrs Ford complained that Mr Ford never punished Donna.' That was a laugh.

My Dad was going out quite a bit to Middleton's pub and to the bowling club at that time. On some of these nights he brought a friend back, a local guy with a wife and two children. Henry was a really nice man and so lovely to me – to start with. He brought me sweets and made sure that my Dad got to bed when he rolled home drunk from the pub. This helped me a lot as that was my responsibility in Helen's absence.

My Auntie Nellie had given us a piano some time ago that was gathering dust in the boys' room. One night, my Dad came back from the pub and said that 'Uncle' Henry was going to start giving lessons – to me, only me. I was delighted as I really wanted to learn to play the piano. I had plinked it a few times but the thought of being able to play real tunes on it was so exciting.

A little while after this announcement, my Dad came back from the pub during afternoon closing hours with Henry. They sat chatting for a while and then my Dad, as always, fell asleep. 'How d'you fancy a piano lesson then, Donna?' Henry asked over the sound of my Dad's snoring. I jumped at the chance. Helen had been away for only a little while and here was the evidence that things could change – for the better, I assumed. Henry gave the boys some money to go and get sweets then took my hand to follow him into their bedroom to begin the lesson. I was absolutely brimming with excitement as he sat down at the piano. He was a small, balding man who always seemed to be ready to burst out of his shirt at any minute. He had a huge beer belly and always smelled a bit of body odour which he tried to mask with aftershave – unsuccessfully.

'Jump up here onto my lap,' he said as soon as he sat down. 'You're too wee to sit on the stool.' So I did.

As you read this, I want you to remember that Helen had only been away from my life for a couple of weeks and I was experiencing freedom for the first time. I had been eating food and there had been no parties since she left. Things were the best they had ever been, and here was a man who was always nice, helping to teach me how to play the piano.

But I'd no sooner jumped on his lap, eagerly hitting the keys, than his hand shot straight between my thighs. I tried to jump down but his left hand went around my waist and I just couldn't get away from him. He kept saying 'pretty girl, pretty girl' to me. I can't remember now how I did get away or how long we were there. I just remember the stinging pain and the humiliation of the whole situation. This man came and stayed over at our house for two weeks at one point after falling out with his wife, and although I tried at all costs to avoid him I didn't always manage it. He is probably in his seventies now. I know where he lives. I have friends who know him and know where he drinks. Maybe if he reads this he too will know who he is. I have survived it but I do wonder how many lives he wrecked in pursuit of his pleasure, and how many more people he violated. How does he sleep at night?

After a little while – far too little – Helen came back and things resumed as they had been before she left. During the time she was away, I had a small glimpse of how things might be if she stayed away, despite the abuse I was still suffering. My Dad didn't lock me up in my room or make me stand for hours in the bathroom – and there were no parties. It was like a holiday away from her. I just wished that she would stay away.

I believe that it is so important to tell your story, no matter how difficult it is or how long it takes to be heard. Now is the time to tell the tale of what happened to me as I tried to find the woman I wanted to be, the woman who was hidden within the child locked in the cellar. I need to reflect on how far I have come. I know that the negative relationship experiences I have suffered are a direct link from my past, and that I must rebuild myself by looking at what happened to me and then moving on. I have had to let certain memories into my life – but it is now time to let them go. The search for my mother turned up no new leads, and the publication of my first book led only to negative responses from my remaining family. So – where do I go now?