The Step Child
Authors: Donna Ford,Linda Watson-Brown
TWO
: This Little Family – January 1961–July 1964
FOUR
: The Little Witch – 1964–1965
FIVE
: My Little Life – 1964–1967
SEVEN
: Auntie Nellie – 1965–1967
EIGHT
: Gordon’s Revenge – 1967
ELEVEN
: What Ugly Little Girls Deserve … 1969–1970
THIRTEEN
: Helen’s Departure – 1970
FOURTEEN
: Moving on … 1973–1976
WHEN I STARTED THIS BOOK
, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted. But I knew I wanted to tell my story.
As a little girl I had no voice. No one ever listened to my cries for help. I eventually stopped asking for forgiveness. I stopped asking for reassurance. I stopped asking for food. I stopped asking to go to the toilet. I stopped asking if I could get dressed to keep warm. Words didn’t bring help or comfort – they brought only anger and hatred. Just as I stopped asking for things, I also stopped hoping. The social services turned a blind eye to my life. The school seemed blinkered to bruises, and bones sticking out from starvation. I was not just a child without a voice – I was the invisible girl too.
My life is different now. I have three children whom I have reared with love and respect. I have tried to instil in them a good sense of who they are. They are always listened to and their opinions are valued; they do not live with fear or guilt. In spite of the abuse I suffered as a child I have gone on to achieve my personal goals of being a good parent and nurturing my artistic talent, allowing me to earn a living from something I truly love to do. I can enjoy healthy, balanced relationships based on trust.
I am lucky because I am happy. This is my vindication.
My reasons for writing this book and telling my story are numerous, but my main one is to give that child – that me from that time – her voice. Although my story is horrific, I hope it will bring some encouragement that we can survive child abuse, and move on to become caring, thriving, balanced adults – not because of what is done to us, but despite it. It is a terrible way to learn to be a good parent, but for too long society has denied not only what happens to victims of abuse but also what becomes of those children when they grow up.
I don’t know what you will make of my story, or indeed if you will care. But I hope it makes you think about your role as an adult in the life of any child whose path you cross. Every child has a right to be loved, nurtured, respected and educated. Not abused, not beaten, not starved, not used as an object. The child abuse statistics haven’t changed much since I was a child. I am one of those statistics. I’ve waited 30 years for justice and to tell my story, and here it is. Now I can close those chapters of my life and move forward.
This is the story of a little girl … and a wicked stepmother.
Like all stories which start that way, the little girl was good – but was always told she was evil; while the stepmother had more badness in her than anyone could imagine.
But the little girl could imagine. She knew exactly how malevolent the stepmother was. She was the one who lived a life so terrible that the grown-ups couldn’t even bring themselves to open their eyes to what was going on.
This book is about what happened to that little girl and that wicked stepmother.
It is for the woman that little girl became – a woman I now call a friend.
It is for the daughter of that woman – who was told reworked stories of Snow White with her mother at the centre of them.
It is for all the other little girls and boys out there who are still living lives like this. And whose stories we are still not listening to.
November 2005
Edinburgh, 1967
My name is Donna Ford.
I am eight years old.
And I am a really, really, really bad little girl.
I’M BAD AND I’M
ugly and I deserve all the things that happen to me. I’m an evil little witch. I can’t remember any of the bad things I do; I can’t remember any of the evil that I spread; but I know it must be true because my stepmother keeps telling me. She tells me every time she slaps me. She tells me every time she punches my stomach. She tells me every time she kicks me when I’m lying on the floor.
I’m standing here today and I’ve been bad again. Maybe I said a bad word. Once I said ‘bloody’ and then I had to get beaten. Maybe I looked at my stepmother in an evil way. Sometimes I look like she thinks my real Mummy must have looked and then I have to be punished. It’s hard to tell what I’ve done this time, but there must have been something. I must have done something to deserve it. And that will be why I’m standing here. In our bathroom. In my vest and pants.
It’s so cold. I’ve been here since this morning, and although I don’t have a watch or a clock to tell the time, I know that it’s been a while because it’s getting dark now. I know that the others – my stepmother, my stepbrothers – have had a morning snack and some lunch and something else to eat after that, and now I can hear them getting dinner ready. I won’t get out to eat dinner – and I wouldn’t have had anything for lunch either. I don’t get much to eat because I’m so bad. Maybe if I get out when they’ve all gone to bed, I can sneak into the larder and get a handful of cornflakes. That would be bad though – and I’d get punished if I get caught.
The cold is biting into me now. I hate this room, hate this bathroom. I spend so much time here, days like this, one after the other. When I do something bad, something she doesn’t like, she screams at me and sends me here. I have to take off all my clothes, but if I’m lucky I get to keep my vest and knickers on.
I have to stand completely still. Sometimes in the bath, sometimes on the floor. Sometimes facing the window, sometimes facing the wall. She says that she will know if I move at all, even if I move an inch. And she would know that – she knows everything. The weird feeling starts in my legs. My toes get very, very cold, so cold that I can’t really feel them. Then, even weirder, the cold doesn’t start shooting through my legs straight away. That’s what you’d expect, isn’t it? You’d think that the cold would spread up and up and up, but it seems to take a break. It gets my toes all frozen up, then stops, then starts on my fingers. It’s only once all my toes and fingers are icy that the rest of me starts to feel it. My nose. My cheeks. My legs. My arms. The space on my tummy where my too-short vest doesn’t meet my too-small knickers. I get all goose-bumpy, and then even the goose-bumps are too cold to stay.
I’ve tried lots of ways of not feeling so bad when she sends me in here. I just wish I could find something that works. Sometimes I try to think of nothing, to just make my mind go completely
blank. Other times, I make up lists in my head, or invent a world from a book I’ve read, or use my eyes to trace patterns in the cracks in the wall. One day, I tried to listen to absolutely everything that was going on in the rest of the house. I could hear them all talking and laughing and just getting on with things. I could hear normal family stuff going on – meals being made, the kettle boiling, the radio being switched on and off. But that wasn’t a good day. It dragged on forever. Every little thing I heard seemed to sound louder and last longer than it would if I wasn’t standing here in this freezing cold room. I just have to wait on the seconds and minutes and hours passing, and then hope I’ll be told to go back to my room without making her even more angry at me.
