WYNFORD: Susie only really started learning in her late twenties — and I’m talking basic social skills here, not just learning to read and write. Until the age of five she seemed a very bright, able child, but when she went to school it was like hitting a brick wall. Within a couple of months we realised that what should have been easy wasn’t, and after a couple of years her teachers were saying: “I’m sorry, but Susie is extremely slow.” Nobody could explain anything to us, and meanwhile Susie was quickly disappearing into a world of her own.

As the other children passed her by, the whole family dynamic changed. We had to be less positive with the other children because their successes only highlighted Susie’s problems. When she was nine, she was diagnosed with dyslexia, but by then she had isolated herself completely from the other three. There were times when I could see she was intelligent, and I’d get so cross and frustrated with her — which only increased her unhappiness and my guilt.

I didn’t understand Susie — and you couldn’t get close to her. It was as if she was hidden behind frosted glass. She was slow to get her words out, and when you’ve got four children crawling over you, the one that is slow doesn’t get heard. I still bear enormous, indescribable guilt about that, and when I think what she must have been feeling, I am reduced to tears.

The truth is, I couldn’t cope. I’m a dad who is used to making things happen. I was born into a house with no electricity and no inside toilet, but my mother had huge initiative and she passed that on to me. What I wanted was to create all the possibilities for my children that I wasn’t able to have. But with Susie I was helpless. By the time she was 18, she wanted to live on her own, and so I bought her a flat and gave her money. But she was so depressed she attempted suicide on three occasions. She took pills and cut her wrists, and she really didn’t want to wake up, I’m certain of that. I remember sitting beside her bed in the hospital feeling utterly desperate. To see your child in that state and not be able to help is soul-destroying. It was the darkest, bleakest time of my life. The only thing that eases my conscience is that I would have done anything in the world for her.

All the experts told me: “You can’t cure dyslexia.” Well, hang on — who decides that? It really angered me. When you’re trying to keep your daughter alive, you’ll do anything. Then, on a business trip, I found a book in which an American psychiatrist, Dr Harold Levinson, described all Susie’s symptoms and linked them to an under-functioning cerebellum. I was on the brink of selling my business; I had time and money on my hands and an enormous amount of guilt. And guilt was the driver. I flew a multi-disciplinary team over from America to look into the research, but it was a doctor friend, Roy Rutherford, who realised that we were looking at a jigsaw made up of studies from all over the world. The work was all there, but it had never been pulled together.

He then led a team who devised a series of repetitive tasks designed to stimulate the cerebellum.

It still seems too good to be true. But we have solid, independent research all saying the same thing: it works. The programme stimulates the cerebellum to create new neural pathways that speed up the processing of information, helping with learning, language and motor skills. We’re now convinced that we can even help children with autism. With Susie, the effect was instant: it was as if suddenly the fog cleared.

A mum whose child had been at a special school, who was told her son would never take exams, contacted me recently to tell me that he’s now reading law. A bit of me says, “Why didn’t I help Susie earlier?” because life could have been very different. But Susie is happy now, and that’s enough. She has friends, she’s reading for pleasure, she’s studying English and maths and learning at the rate of three years every year. And I’m close to her. She understands me and I understand her. But the guilt over the desperate years is still there, and the only way I’ll lose it is to get this programme to every adult and child who needs it. I’m a tough guy and I take tough decisions, but every time I talk to a parent it brings back to me the hopelessness of having a child you can’t help.

SUSIE: As a child, I always felt that I was different — an outsider in my own house. I spent all my time in my bedroom on my own, watching TV. I could tell you anything about EastEnders or Coronation Street, but I knew nothing about my own family.

After my dyslexia was diagnosed, Dad took me everywhere and anywhere trying to get treatment. I had loads of extra help at school and was told I’d get an extra 20 minutes in exams — which was a joke. I wasn’t anywhere near able to take exams. At 12, I was still learning “cat” and “dog”.

I didn’t resent my brothers and sister until they left school, and then I remember crying and saying to Dad: “Why can’t I leave home like them? Why can’t I go to university?” There was nothing my dad could do. He’d say: “Sue, you’re very special and we all love you.” But I didn’t feel special. I felt I had a massive wall in front of me, blocking me out of normal life.

I was conscious that Dad was a successful businessman. He had two planes and a yacht. We lived in a big country house and, materially, we had everything we wanted. But it didn’t mean anything, because I was dead inside.