Free What Daddy Did by Donna Ford Page B

loathsome, cruel little liar – and exactly the sort of child Nellie would never fall for.
     
One thing Helen had done well in terms of her mothering was to raise that boy to be nasty – because of that, my stepmother never saw the colour of Nellie's money when she died. Back then, when I was chastised and beaten for blowing this golden opportunity for her, I was saddened – not by the loss of money, but for the loss of such a wonderful person in my life. What I didn't see then was that, actually, Auntie Nellie had left me an inheritance, and it was far greater than money could ever buy.
     
I had the gift of goodness bestowed upon me through this lovely woman. I also benefited in far greater a way than Helen would ever have known, and that was through the books that Auntie Nellie had left for my Dad.
     
These books were kept in the boys' room, which had an adjoining door into my bedroom (originally the boxroom). My bed ran alongside this door, and on the other side of it was my elder half-brother's bed. I knew about these books that Auntie Nellie had left because I was given the job of putting them away in the press. As I put them away, I hatched a plan to sneak some into my room. I had to wait until there was enough noise in the living room, usually when they were all having tea, then I'd open the door just enough so that I could squeeze through. Then I'd quickly – and as quietly as I could – get the book I'd earmarked and sneak it back into my room, putting it under my mattress. The whole time my heart would be racing with the fear of getting caught and also with the excitement of managing to get one over on Helen.
     
These books saved me because they offered me an escape. When people talk about never underestimating the power of the written word, I feel that I am a living example of that. I learned so much through books as a child. Mostly I read novels – Little Women , What Katy Did , Oliver Twist , David Copperfield – but sometimes I would be so scared of being caught that I'd grab the first one that came to hand. Occasionally, I'd end up with a gardening book, and once I got Patrick Moore's Sky at Night ! No matter what book I got, I read it, or sometimes I just looked at the pictures. Now and again I would use the plain piece of paper at the front of these books to do little drawings, usually of the story I was reading. I suppose it is because of my love of books and the importance they played in my childhood that it seemed the most natural progression in the world for me to write a book and tell my own story.
     
I often wonder why Helen kept these books. I can't remember her reading much herself. Most of these books from Auntie Nellie were classics, the kind you would expect a retired teacher like her to have. The light was poor in my bedroom but I always managed to get a chink of it somewhere, usually by the door. When I felt it was safe, I would crouch down by the door, holding the book to the light, and I'd read and read. All the time, I'd be listening and watching for someone coming. If someone did come, I'd have to quickly run and put the book under my mattress and get back into my 'position' – hands by my sides, sitting upright in bed or standing with my face against the wall. Through these books, I educated myself and obtained hope. I gained a very different perspective on life from the one I was personally experiencing.
     
For many years, losing Auntie Nellie was a great source of pain. I couldn't recall the memories of her without hurting. Now, however, with the freedom I have achieved from bringing all the dark horrible things that went on into the light, I can also enjoy the memories of Auntie Nellie. I no longer blame myself for losing her as I did back then, and I can look back on what she gave me rather than what I lost. The same can be said of my Dad's sister, Auntie Madge. For years, I mistrusted her because she was friendly with Helen, but when I look back now I realise that she, too,