What Daddy Did (4 page)

My memories of my time in Barnardo's start to have more colour as time went on. A young girl began to accompany Dad on his trips. I know now that she was the one who had helped out and taken us to nursery. However, I didn't have any memories of those days so, to me, she was a stranger. I know now that my Dad was planning to make her his wife. I know now that she was my tormentor. Her presence on those visits is a bit blurry because she never paid any attention to me. She'd sit by my father's side, looking around, never smiling, never interacting with me at all, but, as time went on, I got used to her.

I was only about four years old when she appeared one day, not only with my Dad, but with a baby in her arms too. It was a little boy, and Helen was a changed woman around him. She laughed and gurgled at him; she blew raspberries and sang him songs. She looked happy. I had been told that this little boy was my baby brother, and I was small enough myself to just accept that. He may have been a link between me and my father, but it was purely biological – that tiny boy would turn out to be my tormentor, just like his mother.

Apart from noticing Helen and the baby, the next most vivid memory I have of Don Ford is when he came to collect me from Barnardo's and take me home to live with him, his new wife and their son. It was July 1964. I was five years and one month old and I was so excited because I was going home with my Daddy! That time with him is one of the nicest memories I would ever have of us being together. As I waited at the window of the children's home, looking out with my little suitcase at my feet, there was a moment full of hope and unspoken love. My Daddy was coming for me; he was taking me home. We would be a family and everything would be perfect, just like it was in story books.

I would never feel that pure optimism and brightness again at any point of my childhood. Nothing bad had happened to me at that stage. I lived in a children's home, but I knew no different. I looked forward to my Daddy's visits, but now I was bursting with delight at the thought of having him in my world full time. The people in Barnardo's had looked after me well – as well as they could manage given the circumstances – and I had no reason to expect that my world would be anything other than what I hoped for.

I'd learn.

I held my Daddy's hand as we journeyed all the way from Alloa on two trains and a bus to our home in Edinburgh. It would never get better than that trip. I would have stayed on those trains, that bus, for ever, clasping his fingers in mine all the while if I had known even a fraction of what lay in wait for me.

The Daddy who chatted with me and told me all about the sights on our way home, who told me that I was going home to a new Mummy and baby brother and that everything would be lovely, rarely emerged again in all the years we were together. Since I left home as a teenager, and since I have reflected on my life, I have asked myself the same questions over and over again: where did that man go, and why did he change? As my abuse became worse and worse, why did he let things go on? Did he really see nothing? Did he just ignore it all for an easy life, or was he too under the control of Helen? He never gave me any answers. As I journeyed to womanhood, I was left to piece together a picture of that man, my father, and his role in my childhood. Who was my Daddy?

MY EARLIEST MEMORIES OF BOTH
Adrian and Frances are from when we were in the children's home together. As we were different ages, we slept in separate dorms but we would meet up in the play room, dining room or sitting room. Even then, there were lots of other children around. My recollections of how we interacted then are not strong. I have only fleeting glimpses in my mind of us being together, and that was on the occasions when my Dad and Helen visited us with baby Gordon. It was 1964 when I returned home to live with my Dad and his new wife. A year later, Adrian and Frances returned. These are the memories that are the strongest for me.

I knew that they were returning because there had been a lot of talk about it during the run-up to them coming 'home'. I was really looking forward to it because I was already feeling quite isolated in the house. Helen only had time for her little boy and there was never a nice word from her. On the contrary, she had already started beating me and sending me to my room for long periods of time. I thought when my big sister and brother came home she would stop. I also believed that I would finally have someone to play with as I wasn't allowed to play with Gordon in case I hurt Helen's precious boy. I certainly wasn't allowed to play with his toys.

On 5 March 1965, Frances and Adrian were brought home by my Dad. During the first week or so of their return, our Auntie Madge, Uncle Alec, Uncle George, Granny Ford (all from my Dad's family) visited, as did some of Helen's family, and it seemed as if things could be happy. Indeed, things were a little better for a while. I thought that my prayers had been answered and that Helen was really going to change. However, I soon found out that it wasn't for our sakes that she was being nice. I know now that it was all about her. Helen proudly showed us off and received bucketloads of praise for taking us all on.

I clearly remember walking along Easter Road one day. Helen was pushing the pram with her little boy sitting in it, while Adrian and I held on to the chrome handle on either side of her. Frances was walking along beside me, holding my other hand. As we went from shop to shop, people would stop and talk to Helen and admire us all, telling Helen that she was doing brilliantly and that she was a saint for taking us all on. Little did anyone know what she was really like behind closed doors.

I don't remember exactly when things started changing but before long it seemed as if there was a turnaround in Helen's attitude to all of us. I expected it, as I knew what she had been like before they came home, but they were not at all prepared for her cruelty. I have no memories of fun and play; I just remember the beatings and punishments.

What I find most shocking is that this young woman, who was barely 21 years old and hardly mature herself, had been given responsibility for three vulnerable children. My own daughter is this age now. When I look at Claire, who is a wonderful person, and think about any 21-year-old being given such control in the way that Helen was, I shudder. I know this would be highly unlikely to happen now, but it did to us, and I do have to point the finger at the people who ultimately had control over our fates. We were in the care of the local authority because our needs were not being met, yet we were sent to live with a young woman who had not been properly vetted; to a house that had one small bedroom and a living room with a scullery. We were so vulnerable and this woman played on our vulnerability. I cannot understand her motives for wanting to take us all on, and I cannot help being cynical about what they might have been, given what we were to endure.

Reading through my files, I found that there were many issues about money from the time my mother left. Apparently, she'd left many debts. I also know that while we were in Barnardo's, a contribution towards our keep had to be paid by my Dad to the authority concerned. One document states:

We shall require Mr Ford to contribute at the rate of 8/- per week each for the older boy and girl and 10/- per week for Donna . . . covered by the family allowance.

Of course, when we went to live with them not only did my Dad and Helen then receive the family allowance for us, but they were also paid for the 'fostering' of Adrian.

Whatever her reasons for taking us on, financial or otherwise, it was clear that Helen was very resentful of the responsibility we brought, and that she didn't like us. My sister and I were often attacked by her for our looks. I know now that I was a pretty little girl (although it has been a long, hard journey to realising that) and so was my sister, but Helen did everything in her power to make sure that we thought we were horrible. We were told that we were ugly over and over again, and one of Helen's favourite methods of physical abuse was to grab me by the hair and ram my face up against the mirror. In time to each thrust into the glass, she would shout: 'Look at you! You are so ugly! Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!' It's hard not to believe this sort of thing when it is drummed into you time and time again.

In particular, I was so happy to have my big sister home to stay. Frances was beautiful. She had the longest dark hair and the prettiest face – in fact, she reminded me of Snow White. It wasn't long after she returned from Haldane House that Helen sat her down in the living room on one of the wooden dining chairs. She calmly placed a bowl on Frances's head and cut off all of her beautiful hair. She butchered my big sister. I remember crying as I swept the hair up and held it, touching its softness and darkness as I put it in the bin. Helen's face was a picture of smugness and contentment as she looked at Frances – she had managed to transfer some of her own ugliness onto my beautiful sister.

I loved Frances so much. She would hug me and play with me, and when I cried would wipe the tears from my eyes. Adrian was different – he looked confused most of the time and was both shy and nervous.

We had a social worker who visited us every four to six weeks. Prior to these visits, Helen would sit us down on the settee in a row. She would point at a little brass ornament of three monkeys which sat on the mantelshelf and she would say to us, 'That's the three of you. See no evil, speak no evil and hear no evil. If the social worker asks you if you're happy, you tell her yes! If she asks if I am good to you, say yes!' She would stand behind the social worker as she spoke to us and glower at us with what we called the 'evil eye'. We really stood no chance. We were powerless to question this woman's actions towards us. Although Helen's strictness was observed, it wasn't investigated further. In one report from those days, the social worker writes:

Mrs Ford is quite strict with the children . . . There is a tendency for the three older children to stand to attention.

It was noticed then that we were treated differently from Gordon, but it wasn't followed through.