What Daddy Did (32 page)

IT WOULD BE FOOLISH TO
say that I wasn't affected by what happened to me as a child because it is widely recognised that sexual abuse in childhood has a lasting effect. There are many symptoms, some of which I have experienced myself, such as anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares and flashbacks. For some people, sexual abuse leaves them with shame, self-hatred and depression. The betrayal of trust that we experience as children can leave us feeling uneasy in relationships as adults. Some people may cope with these feelings by overuse of drink or drugs. Others may overeat or starve themselves, or self-harm to express the terrible pain and confusion sexual abuse leaves us with. But
it is
possible to get over these feelings. For me, I can overcome a lot of these effects by talking about them – on my terms.

Talking about it breaks the secrecy and allows us to let out the hurt and shame. It helps us see who is really to blame, and rebalances our thoughts about the thing that happened to us that we had no control over. Talking about what happened to me has been the most valuable way of overcoming the anxiety and fear I was left with. I spoke a lot with my good friend Linda, who has helped me write my books. I had spoken to a policewoman about much of it when I gave a statement to the police, but Linda was really the first woman friend I poured my heart out to. I am so grateful that I chose her, and for her sensitivity, because through being able to talk about it and be supported, I have managed to exorcise many of my demons.

Since the publication of my book
The Step Child
, many people have written to me and said how brave I am for speaking out. I don't think I'm brave. I spoke about it because I always knew that what had happened to me was wrong, and I truly believe that if we do something bad, one day we will be punished for it. When I was a little girl I thought I was bad because that is what I was told. However, as I grew up and realised that people liked me and that I was a good person with good values, I knew that I had to tell my story. I have had to do this no matter how shocking it has been to others, or how painful it has been for me, because being able to talk about it has relieved me of some very terrible memories and dark moments.

If memories have been stirred for you while reading this, please tell someone. Be careful though, because the person you choose will affect how you feel about your own story. Find someone whom you trust with this knowledge. You have to know that this person will be respectful of your story and guide you in the right direction, in the same way Linda has for me. If you are struggling with issues from your past I would suggest that you look for the best professional help out there. I put my past away when I left home because it was too awful to face and too terrible to talk about; and, to be perfectly honest, I just didn't think anyone would believe me anyway. But burying the past is not the right thing to do because you don't know when it is going to affect you. In the relationship I had with what I call my 'abusive' partner, I didn't see the warning signs until it was far too late.

If you take anything from this book, please let it be not to leave things too late. You owe it to yourself.

It all seems to have come full circle. By telling my story I have faced up to so much of my own life. The horrors I experienced as a little girl didn't stop when Helen Ford left my Dad, nor did they stop when I became a woman. That day, not so long ago, when I went to see Paul's new flat with him will never leave me – but I can grow stronger from it.

As we approached the basement together, I was overwhelmed by the smell: the sweet, acrid, musty smell of an old tenement. That smell was enough to transport me back to around the time I was nine, to one of the very few occasions I was allowed out by Helen. Although I wasn't involved in the games being played by the other children, I was just happy to be out in the fresh air. Sometimes Helen would do this – she'd send all of us out all day, tell us not to leave the street, and to come as soon as we were called. At those times, there would be no food and I wouldn't dare go in and ask for anything, not even the toilet. I often wondered then what she was doing and why she sometimes had this bizarre change of heart. Now I believe it may have coincided with visits from the man she was having an affair with.

The memory that came back to me that day was from the school summer holidays. As usual, I was sitting in my bed when I heard Helen shouting: 'You! Get out of that bed and get dressed! NOW!' I did as I was told, then she opened the bedroom door and gave her usual spiel about not coming back until I was called and not leaving the street. I was so delighted to be allowed out that I flew out of the door as if I had wings. I liked this occasional opportunity to get out because there was always the chance I could pick up a sweetie or something on the street, and if I went in the back greens, I could pick up stale bits of bread that had been thrown out for the birds. I was as excited as could be.

The day passed quickly as I had my imagination to rely on. Before long, I realised that I had been out all day and most of the kids had gone indoors for their tea. I was sitting outside the stairway one door down from our house, drawing with some chalk that one of the girls had left behind, when I saw him.

He was walking up the street.

I didn't know his name. I just knew he was one of the men who had often come into my room.

I was absolutely terrified and, as I looked up, he spotted me. Helen's words were still ringing in my ears and I knew that there was no way I could go into the house. I wouldn't dare. I ran into the stairway and down into the basement. It was dark and the back green door was locked as it often was, so I hid by the coal cellar door. I could hear all the noises from the flats and I could smell all the dinners being cooked. My heart was racing. Had I managed to evade him? Had he even noticed where I had gone?

I crouched down as small as I possibly could in the dark corner by the cellar door, then I heard a noise. His footsteps were coming down to the basement. As he approached the bottom of the stairs, he started calling my name softly, almost in a whisper. I could smell him – drink and fags and a sort of workman smell. God, how I hate that smell.

As he approached me, still calling 'Donna' in a quiet voice, I stood up and tried to run past him. He was quicker than me. He grabbed me and put his hand over my mouth, telling me to be very quiet. When he finally took his hand off my mouth, I tried to pull away. 'I have to go,' I said to him. 'Helen will want me home!' He knew I was lying. Helen couldn't have cared less. 'Shh!' he said. 'It's all right. Helen will be fine.'

Looking back, I can't help but go over my options – I wish I had run up the street instead of into the stairway. The man had a jacket in his hand, a sort of blue workman's jacket, and he laid it down on the basement floor. I knew then what he intended to do. I knew there was no getting away from it – or was there? Just as he laid the jacket down, we both heard one of the flat doors open above us. The man immediately pulled me towards him and put his hand over my mouth again. I heard the clip-clopping of shoes descending the stairs before they finally went out the front door. As it slammed shut, the man pushed me down roughly on top of his jacket.

It felt like there was something in his pocket. I could feel it digging into me.

I closed my eyes tight shut and tried to block out what was going to happen next. He prised my legs open and started trying to force his penis into me. It hurt so much. The smell of him was nauseating. The sounds of him grunting and that of a television in the distance were all making my head spin. I tried to think of everything I could to take away all of this, but I just lay there and let him do what he wanted as I'd done so many times before with so many men.

When he was finished he got up and, after zipping his trousers closed, he handed me a hankie from his pocket and told me to wipe myself. 'Remember our secret,' he told me as he left. As he walked up the stairs I realised I was crying – but I was bleeding too. I felt so wretched. I didn't know how long I'd been down in that basement. It seemed like hours. I just sat there, crying softly, clutching my knees and wondering – as I always did – what I had done to make me so bad and deserving of all these nasty things.

So, going back to that place – physically as well as emotionally – did bring the terrifying memories out yet again. I have no idea how many of these memories are still there or whether they will ever surface. All I know is that I have dealt with this one now. I have brought it out into the light, and when I visit Paul's flat in future, I shall think of the lovely garden, the bright sunny rooms and my boy's optimistic outlook on the future, not my past.

TIME HAS PASSED SO QUICKLY
. It's February 2008 and I'm sitting here, writing this, surrounded by my children. I'm in Paul and Ayumi's flat, just a stone's throw away from the home I grew up in, so close to where all the bad things happened, where I spent my childhood days wondering whether I'd be fed or abused.

It's a wonderful contrast. Here sit my three children, laughing and happy with the security of knowing that they love each other and that I would rather die than harm a hair on their heads. As I look at Paul, Claire and Saoirse, I realise that the mantra I adopted for myself –
It's never too late to have a happy childhood
– has been a healing thing for me. Through them, I've enjoyed the wonder of childhood, of knowing what it feels like to run free and to play, to have adventures, to be excited about Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and all the other wonderful aspects of a happy childhood that I myself could only dream of.

My two older children are now young adults. As I listen to them discussing the plans they have for their futures – Paul and Ayumi's forthcoming wedding and trip to Japan, and Claire's nursing course – I feel so very proud of my achievements. Saoirse still has all of this to come, but in the meantime she chats excitedly about our forthcoming house move and having a garden again, after such a long time living in a flat. 'We'll make a den,' she says, 'in the trees at the bottom of the garden, just for us, Mum.'