The Step Child (29 page)

In later years, I can accept that he had an incredibly mundane life. I know it can’t have been easy having the responsibility of so many children, but my Dad just seemed to give up on everything. People thought he was so good for taking Karen on – and I do think he made the right choice there – but he also delegated to me the responsibility of looking after her, running the house and making sure he always had a settled life. While everyone in Easter Road praised Don Ford to the rooftops, they didn’t seem to notice the 11-year-old mini-mum who was holding it all together.

My memories of him are very physical, very vivid. He was unable to get around easily due to the damage done to his feet after an accident he had had falling off a ladder, and I have an incredibly clear memory of him sitting on his chair with his trouser legs rolled up and his feet in a basin of hot water. His chest was in a bad way too, due primarily to his chain-smoking. No matter how little money we had, there was always enough for my Dad to get his full-strength Woodbine, Capstan or Embassy Regal. Most times, he’d buy packets of 10, but if times were really hard, one of us would be sent to the little Polish shop in Bothwell Street to buy one or two ‘singles’ for him. Every morning, before he could even stand up, he’d cough and splutter and spit. His day started with copious amounts of tea and a lit fag that never seemed to go out. To me, it just looked like one never-ending cigarette and cuppa. When things were really tight, he would break up all his dog-ends to make another smoke. By the time I was coming into my teens, my image of my Dad was that of an ill, coughing, smelly old man who rarely moved from his chair, which was surrounded by his copy of
The Sun
, an ashtray, a pen, fags, Bluebell matches, a beer can, a stained cup of tea, and a spare cup for him to spit in.

Dad’s illness and complications got progressively worse – he ended up with curvature of the spine and severe lung problems. These conditions added to my overall feeling about him – I never respected the man, but I did pity him. By the time I left home a
few years later – as soon as I could – all I could think about was my ‘release’. I was delighted to move away from my past, from the Ford family, from Easter Road. When I was first engaged, one of my main thoughts was that I would soon have a new name. It’s only now, writing this, that I can even face my legacy and call myself Donna Ford once more. However, that engagement also brought me to a crisis point. All major events, such as weddings, births, Christmas, make me think of family – I’m no different to anyone else in that sense – but the thoughts are bittersweet. I can’t rewrite the past, irrespective of how some relatives would like me to, and neither can I ignore what I came from. But when I started to plan my wedding, I was faced with the prospect of becoming someone who was in charge of her own destiny. What would my father think of that if he knew? What would he think of me doing so well? I was feeling so positive that I really believed I was strong enough to see him again, tell him about my happiness, and maybe even invite him to the wedding.

I had already told a version of my past to my future in-laws, in which I omitted a lot of the detail and concentrated on the fact that my father and I had a ‘strained’ relationship. My family-to-be meant a lot to me. They were kind people and had given me the sort of family security I had only ever dreamed of as a child. When I gave them the sanitised story of Don Ford and me, they immediately suggested that we all go out for a meal together, including my father. It was agreed that we would go to the Doric Tavern in Edinburgh for an engagement celebration. I should have known better. I spent so long getting ready for that occasion. I suppose I wanted him to see how happy I was, how well I was, and to congratulate me, while at the same time recognising what he and his choices had put me through. I was proud of my fiancé, Robert, and of his parents, Bob and Flora. But my Dad was another matter. I hated every minute of that evening. From the moment I walked in, I knew it would be a disaster. I was too ashamed of him, and the pain of the past was
too great to put behind me. I couldn’t wait for the night to end. We barely spoke – all he cared about was the booze he was throwing down his throat, and I knew he only looked at my prospective in-laws as a free meal. There were no kind words, there was no reconciliation. I felt sick to the stomach as I left the Doric and knew it would take a lot before I would be willing to risk another encounter.

Some months later I received a phone call at Bob and Flora’s house. I was so happy that day. I was painting a wardrobe for Robert’s nephew’s birthday and he was standing behind me, leaning on my shoulder lovingly. ‘Do that bit now, Auntie Donna!’ he would shout as we worked on the jungle scene we had created together. All I could focus on was how right these people felt for me – they appreciated me; they encouraged my artistic leanings; I was part of a normal, loving family group. I heard the phone ring, but didn’t think it would be for me until Flora called up to say my sister was on the line. I had given the number to Karen in case she ever needed to get me urgently (in the back of my mind there was always a feeling that she might need my help one day, she might need to get away quickly). ‘Donna,’ she said. ‘It’s Dad. He’s had a stroke.’ The words didn’t come as a surprise. This man had been slowly killing himself for years – it had to catch up with him one day. ‘He’s in the Royal Infirmary, Donna. Are you going to see him?’

What could I say? I didn’t want to visit. I didn’t want to reopen old wounds. But maybe he was dying; maybe this would be my last chance. After much deliberation, I decided I did have to go. For me, not for him. I didn’t want another regret to eat away at me in later years.

The day of my visit dawned. I suppose I wasn’t really prepared for what I was moving towards, or what it would involve
and stir up for me. The man who had put me in a children’s home, taken me back again to a life of hell, married my torturer, turned a blind eye to what was done to me for years was now dying in an Edinburgh hospital and there were things I needed to know. That morning I was in a state of total confusion – I couldn’t bear the thought of being associated with my father and yet, I had to get something out of this before it was too late. My life was so nice now, and I didn’t want this past life with its dark memories and horrible secrets to spill over into it, tainting and tarnishing.

When I got to the Royal Infirmary, I spent a long time outside. The building itself seemed to scream depression and failure at me. Edinburgh’s main hospital has now moved to another site at Little France, where it is surrounded by green fields with a view of the nearby Pentlands, but the old building was dark, dirty and ominous. The labyrinth of corridors meant that visitors had to spend a long time searching for wards and patients. As I entered the building, the stench of the place made me feel claustrophobic. Finally, I found the ward I was looking for. I walked in and saw him, stared at him as he lay there with his eyes closed. He was propped up because of his breathing difficulties, with his pyjamas on. His face was thin and drawn. He was rasping with each laboured breath. My father smelt old, even though he wasn’t. There was a stink coming from him of something terrible and decaying, as if his body was finally getting rid of the years of muck he had poured into it. If he hadn’t opened his eyes, I would probably have just left. He slowly opened the heavy, yellowed lids but said nothing. No words of comfort or greeting, not even my name. I went into ‘coping’ mode. ‘Hi, Dad,’ I breezed. ‘How are you then?’ The untruths so well known to every hospital visitor tripped off my tongue. ‘You’re looking well, much better than I imagined.’ Lie. He looked awful. A man facing death. A man whose body was wrecked and who couldn’t even bring himself to care. ‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’ Lie. The place was full of
identical old men, ignored by staff unless a ‘situation’ occurred in what was basically a waiting room for the morgue. ‘I’ll just get this all sorted then we’ll have a nice chat.’ Lie. We had never managed a nice chat with each other in all our lives together – it was unlikely to begin now.

I had taken the ritual bottle of squash and some flowers with me. As I busied myself arranging them and tidying up his bedside locker, I made small talk as if I had seen him only the day before. There was no one else there, no one else to take some of the burden, so when the doctor appeared at my Dad’s bedside, I was the one he informed. ‘Are you Mr Ford’s daughter?’ he asked. I had to agree – this wasn’t a time to start arguing about the nausea I felt every time our familial link was made. ‘Your father is very unwell,’ he continued, emphasising the relationship with every phrase he uttered. ‘He has suffered an aneurism – but that isn’t all that’s wrong. He has chronic bronchitis. He has emphysema. He is suffering from malnutrition. He has been told that most of this, if not all, is completely self-inflicted. Miss Ford …’ I shuddered at that name again, ‘If your father does not stop smoking, we will not be able to treat him. He must make some effort on his own behalf now. He has a choice.’

Choice. That word again. I didn’t know whether my father had always been very good or very bad at making choices. He could certainly ignore things that were staring him in the face – and now it was his own death he had to face up to. Maybe this would do it. Maybe this would be enough to make him take responsibility for his own actions – and if he could do that once, perhaps he could move on and tell me what I needed to know. I was vaguely aware of the doctor still talking as this all rushed through my mind. I came back to the conversation just in time to panic.

‘Miss Ford? Did you hear me, Miss Ford? I was asking whether you were in a position to care for your father.’

‘What? Me? No, no – I couldn’t! I just couldn’t,’ I shouted.

He looked at me as if I was completely over-reacting. And, of course, in his eyes, with the limited information he had, I was. ‘Really, Miss Ford, all I mean to impress upon you is the fact that if you could take him home and look after him, your father would stand a much better chance. It isn’t a particularly difficult task, if that is your concern.’

I couldn’t take this any longer. My father was lying there, oblivious to everything, while this stranger suggested I break my life again to put him first. It was all too much for me, and I became almost incomprehensible. I began to blurt out all manner of things – I screamed that there had been too much trauma in the past, that the doctor couldn’t possibly understand, that there was a history I couldn’t deal with. I went on and on as that poor man looked at me as if he wished he had done anything but sign up for rounds that day. He finally left, shell-shocked, and said we could talk about it another time. As he walked away, my father opened his eyes and looked at me.

‘That windbag finished then?’ he rasped. I nodded. ‘Do us a favour then, hen – get us a fag.’

I left that day feeling absolutely wretched. I went back to visit him four or five more times but nothing was changing. He felt the world owed him something and that he need take no responsibility for his own actions whatsoever. I felt constantly guilty. I couldn’t be the daughter he wanted – I couldn’t erase the past – and as long as it was all there, unspoken, between us, we couldn’t have anything near to a ‘normal’ relationship. I went through the motions each time – brought grapes, arranged flowers, made sure he had tissues, fluffed his pillows – but it was all a charade. On top of the guilt was a feeling of increasing anger towards my father. He lay there demanding so much, so much petty stuff, when he gave so little.

One day, I decided I’d had enough. I had something to say – he must have known what it would be – and I wanted some
answers. Every time I saw him, the past hit me like a mallet. I was back to having nightmares, and even the loving support of my new family couldn’t protect me from the memories which were rearing up again towards me. I had kept myself so busy for so long, as if filling my life could stop my mind from wandering into areas I knew could destroy me. Now I knew just how ineffectual it had all been. I went into the Royal Infirmary that day and did my usual fussing around my father’s bedside. I watched him, his bones shining through his skin in his too-big hospital pyjamas. He was skinny and ancient to me. His eyes looked huge through his glasses, and he was getting closer to death every day. I knew I was going to say something, but I didn’t know when, how or what it would be. As I unnecessarily rearranged the wilting flowers in the glass jar yet again, I span around to face the old man in the hospital bed.

‘Why didn’t you stop her, Dad?’ I whispered as the tears streamed down my face. ‘Why didn’t you stop her?’ He wasn’t looking at me – had he even heard me? I couldn’t stop, it all came up, no spaces, no thinking, just one, long, joined-up bundle of all the things I wanted to know. Things I had always wanted to know.

‘Did you know what she did to me did you know what went on did you know about those men what they did what I suffered the assaults the rapes the abuses the torture the starving the way she treated me worse than a dog did you know Dad about the parties and what did she tell you when you came home and you must have smelled the booze and noticed the mess and known what she was doing and did you see me getting thinner Dad and did you believe her when she said I was a witch and why Dad why Dad why?’