The Girl Who Couldn't Smile Read online

  The Girl Who

  Couldn’t Smile

  Shane Dunphy

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  ‘She’s only a pup, not that you’d know to look at her,’ Barney, a farmer who lived a short distance away from me in the village, said, as we surveyed the black greyhound that was rushing around the ancient yard, chasing a barrel-bodied yellow Labrador.

  ‘She seems very energetic,’ I agreed. ‘Why are you getting rid of her?’

  ‘I never wanted another dog in the first place.’ The old-timer sighed. ‘Only took her in ’cause I ran her over, and when no one claimed her, the vet was goin’ to put her to sleep. She needs walking and loads of attention. I’m afraid all I’m interested in of an evenin’ is sitting in front of the fire with a mug of tea. I’m too old for all that class of high jinks.’

  I nodded and watched the mutt, who was now down on her belly, slowly edging her way towards a scruffy thrush that had perched on a sprig of ragwort. I remembered reading somewhere that greyhounds were initially hunting dogs, and here was the evidence – they are hounds, after all.

  ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘I call her Millie,’ Barney said.

  ‘Does she answer to it?’

  ‘When it suits her. She’s smart enough in fits and starts.’

  ‘I wish the same could be said of me.’

  I got up and went across the broken concrete. Millie completely ignored my approach, still focused on the bird, which was utterly oblivious to her. I crouched down and said, ‘Bang.’

  The thrush took off in an explosion of feathers and air. Millie jumped up and loped around for half a minute, apparently letting the thrush know that this was her territory and he’d better not forget it, then sat down again, panting heavily. I reached over and ruffled her ears. She was black all over, with some white on her paws and underbelly and a white tip to her tail. I had never seen a greyhound pup before. She was not unlike a black furry snake with four long legs. I scratched her stomach – she rolled over and bared it for me. ‘Well, you’re a pretty girl, aren’t you?’ I asked her.

  Millie didn’t say anything, but I knew she agreed.

  Barney sidled over. ‘You two gettin’ along, then?’

  I grinned. ‘What does she eat?’

  ‘I’ll get you the bag of stuff. Costs a fair whack, but greyhounds have delicate metabolisms.’

  ‘They would.’ I sighed.

  Millie proved to be just the companion I was looking for. It took a few days to get her settled into the little cottage I rented, and I had a night or two of crying to contend with (I refused to have her in my bedroom when I discovered it would mean sharing my bed with her) but she soon got used to her own blanket on the kitchen floor. And there was so much to see around the small village I had come to call home that we were never short of interesting and challenging walks.

  I had been living the rural life for two years. I’d been working in child protection for the Dunleavy Trust, which was dedicated to helping children in crisis, and had fled the city after a series of tough cases. Since then, I’d made my living playing music in pubs and for the occasional folk club. I had also volunteered at the Drumlin (Therapeutic) Training Unit, a daycare centre for adults with intellectual disabilities; in recent months the help I’d been giving had turned into a paying job.

  Drumlin was a really special place. I had worked before in settings where ‘integration’ was the order of the day, but never before had I seen it so powerfully applied. Many of our clients had endured very tough experiences – they’d been forced to live in awful institutions or put up with being ignored or ridiculed by society at large. In Drumlin, everyone was treated with respect and compassion, informed by the belief that each person is valuable and important in their own right.

  I had held off making my role at Drumlin official until I’d felt ready to take on the responsibilities of a full team member. After all, I had left the city to avoid the pressures of a job that was taking over my life. But Drumlin was a breath of fresh air. Tristan Fowler, who ran the place, was incredibly experienced and charismatic and had made me feel that my talents and opinions were genuinely needed – although, of course, the place wouldn’t fall apart without me.

  In truth, my time at Drumlin had been as much about healing my own wounds as it had been about helping anyone else. And it had worked. I now felt that I could be useful. I stopped hiding, and returned to the fray.

  When Millie and I got to know one another, Drumlin was on a short summer break. My home was in a tiny hamlet set amid a network of narrow country roads that ran for ten miles in every direction. The nearest town was a twenty-minute drive away. And that was how I liked it.

  On a warm sunny afternoon in late July Millie and I, with my friend and colleague from Drumlin Lonnie Whitmore, were having a picnic by one of the many lakes that dot the countryside in that part of Ireland. The locals were very proud of them. I had complained to Lonnie when we first met that navigating the myriad narrow roads of the midlands was nigh on impossible because lakes took priority on signposts while towns often didn’t warrant a mention. Lonnie, characteristically acerbic, had told me to stop moaning and buy a map. I’d taken his advice.

  That day several other groups were gathered here and there about the banks of Ballyfurbo Lake. Some, like us, were stretched out on the grass that spread for half an acre or so in front of the lough and sharing a meal, while others kicked footballs or tossed frisbees to dogs. Millie was acutely aware of the other dogs, standing stock still on point, looking purposefully at them, wagging her tail and whining in frustration when they failed to respond to her overtures.

  Lonnie, ironically, had quite the other problem: he was receiving the usual stares and comments from almost everyone who went past. We had both become used to ignoring the catcalling and uncomfortable glances. Lonnie was a dwarf, and one who was completely comfortable in his own skin. If people were disturbed by his appearance, then that was their problem, so far as he was concerned.

  ‘Don’t you ever just make a few sandwiches?’ Lonnie asked, as he picked up a barbecued chicken wing I had packed. There was also home-made ciabatta, a pot of lemon hummus, a salad Niçoise, a flask of coffee and some iced cranberry green tea.

  ‘Are you complaining?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘No. This is great. It’s just that when you said we were going to have a picnic, I imagined something a little less … elaborate.’

  ‘If a task’s worth doing …’

  ‘Yeah, all right, Delia Smith. Pas
s me some more of that bread.’

  When all the food had been either eaten or packed back into the boot of my old Austin, Lonnie and I strolled along the edge of the lake. Millie ranged here and there ahead of us, her nose almost in the water as she scuttled about, startling a mallard or moorhen every now and again.

  ‘I hear there are big changes afoot at work,’ Lonnie said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You know Tristan’s held out against accepting money from the Health Services all these years.’

  ‘I do.’ Drumlin had run independently since its inception, based on goodwill and whatever funding it could raise itself. Tristan had grudgingly agreed to take money from the state in the past, but always found that, in return, he was expected to hand over much more control than he was comfortable with or to accept a client who was totally unsuitable for the centre.

  ‘Well, a little bird told me,’ Lonnie continued, ‘that he’s accepted some money from the Church.’

  ‘The Church?’ I spluttered. ‘That makes no sense. I mean, Tristan hates religion. Won’t even allow it to be discussed in the unit.’

  ‘I know. But you have to remember, when he had no premises to work out of, the local convent came to his rescue. I think he can make the distinction between the bad things religious orders have done in the past and the good they can do now if they put their minds to it.’

  I thought about the implications of this piece of news. ‘So how will his accepting a grant or a donation make any difference to you and me?’

  ‘Well, the way I hear it, he’s accepting a lot more than just money.’

  ‘Just one minute, Mr Secret Agent,’ I said, laughing. ‘What do you mean “the way I hear it”? Who’s telling you all this stuff?’

  ‘The way I hear it,’ Lonnie continued, as if I hadn’t said a word, ‘is that the Sisters of Mercy, from whom he has accepted financial assistance, run several community settings in the area. Tristan will be taking over responsibility for one of them.’

  ‘And what are these centres, exactly? Homes for the elderly? Drop-in centres for teenagers?’

  Lonnie shrugged. ‘Dunno. We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’

  Millie started barking. For a second, I couldn’t see her, or work out where she might be. The lake opened up to our left, reeds poking through the shallows, branches of trees and bushes overhanging it like the fingers of giants. Millie was usually a quiet dog: when she barked, it meant she was either excited or distressed.

  ‘She’s over there,’ Lonnie said, nodding towards a bank of scrub.

  My friend could move remarkably quickly for his size, and I was constantly amazed by how agile he was – he had taken off across the soggy ground, heading towards a bunch of reeds from which Millie’s barking seemed to be coming. I followed, assuming she had come across a swan’s nest or perhaps an angry bull heron, determined to defend its territory.

  I was wrong.

  When I rounded the reeds, I found Lonnie standing up to his knees in the water, Millie’s collar firmly in his grasp. She was still barking, her whole body trembling, trying to escape from Lonnie. Around five yards out into the water, clinging to a branch that overhung the lake, gazing wordlessly at the man and the noisy dog, was a small child.

  I blinked and shook my head. I could hardly believe my eyes. She was probably two or three and seemed to have a head of blond curls, but they were plastered to her skull with water. She was wearing a blue T-shirt.

  ‘What do we do?’ Lonnie asked nervily.

  The child watched us with huge dark eyes. I waded out into the water a little. I was wearing red Converse high-tops, and the water was seeping through the fabric. ‘Hey, honey,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I get you in from there? I think you’re a little out of your depth.’

  The child made no sound or movement. I sloshed out past Lonnie and Millie. She watched me coming. Just as I got to her, she let go of the branch and disappeared into the dark water.

  ‘Shit!’ I plunged my hand into the lake. For a second I couldn’t find her and panicked, but then I felt a small, pudgy arm, and hauled the dripping child out. I expected her to take a gulp of air or start crying, terrified after her near-drowning, but she did neither. Instead, she sank her teeth into my arm.

  I yanked her loose, but she immediately tried to fasten on to my hand, so I flung the thrashing water-sprite over my shoulder – it would be difficult for her to gain purchase on anything other than my shirt there – and waded back to shore.

  ‘Maybe you should toss her back,’ Lonnie said, in a bemused tone, as she fought for freedom.

  ‘I’m considering it,’ I muttered.

  We’d walked a good distance around the lake, perhaps a kilometre away from where most of the families had been, and by the time we got back, most had packed up and gone. There were one or two little groups still around the wide green area, but if there was any hue and cry about a missing child, it was very quiet. We paused and looked about the expanse of grass, hoping to see someone who appeared to be even slightly alarmed. We were disappointed.

  ‘Only one thing for it,’ Lonnie said. ‘We’ll have to go door to door.’

  She belonged to the fourth group we encountered. They hadn’t noticed she was missing, and seemed utterly unconcerned that she had almost drowned.

  ‘Um… she’s just a little upset,’ I said, depositing the sodden child on the rug the young couple were sprawled upon. They were probably in their early twenties. She had long, dishwater-blond hair pulled tight back, and wore what looked like a pair of not altogether clean pyjamas and beige imitation Ugg boots; he, sporting a shaved head, was clad in a scuffed leather jacket, a stained white T-shirt and khaki combats. Their picnic appeared to consist of a six-pack of Dutch Gold lager and a supermarket own-brand bottle of vodka. Some empty fromage frais tubs showed a modicum of consideration for the child.

  ‘Just leave her there. She’s a little fucker for wanderin’ off,’ the young woman said, her voice noticeably slurred.

  ‘Do you have any dry clothes?’ Lonnie asked. ‘The heat’s already goin’ out of the day.’

  The woman narrowed her eyes at him, as if she had only just noticed he was there. ‘Are you a gnome or somethin’?’ she asked, pronouncing the g. I sighed inwardly.

  ‘I’m more of a goblin,’ my friend said, deadpan. ‘We love the water, you see. Gnomes only live around woods and in gardens.’

  ‘Really?’ the woman said, seemingly fascinated.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Lonnie continued. ‘You got any way to bring the little one home?’

  ‘I have me van,’ the man said, gesturing towards a rusted Hiace some twenty yards away.

  The child was eyeing the adults, edging off the mat, her focus the nearby reeds. I angled myself to intercept an escape attempt. ‘And do you think you’re okay to drive?’ I asked. ‘Looks like you put away quite a bit of booze there.’

  It was the man’s turn to bristle. ‘I don’t reckon that’s any o’ your business.’

  I shrugged. He was right, but I wasn’t happy to leave the little girl in the state she was in.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I said, and jogged over to the car. I kept a towel in it in case Millie decided to run through puddles. I had just washed it, so it was perfectly clean. I went back to where Lonnie stood, and handed the towel to the man.

  ‘This’ll keep her warm until you’re ready to leave.’

  He took it and reached for another can. The child, whose name I still did not know, took off in the direction of the lake. The woman laughed and made no move to go after her.

  ‘I’ll get her.’ Lonnie sighed. In two deft movements, he had the little girl under one of his arms.

  ‘You need to keep an eye on her,’ I said sharply. ‘The lake gets deep very quickly.’

  ‘Yeah yeah. ’Bye now,’ the man said.

  ‘Come on,’ Lonnie said, and clicked his tongue at Millie – she had lain down and seemingly gone to sleep during the exchange.


  I had a last look at them as I turned the Austin onto the road. Through a break in the hedge I saw the man lying flat on his back, the bottle of vodka, in one hand, balanced on his chest. The woman was sitting, her arms wrapped around her knees, my towel draped about her shoulders. The little girl was nowhere to be seen. In the five minutes since we had left them, she had made off again. I decided to put the family out of my head and go home.

  2

  On our first day back to work after the summer break, Tristan called me into his office. Somehow I knew I was about to learn how accurate (or not) Lonnie’s prediction about the future of Drumlin had been.

  At nine thirty the clients were scattered about the open-plan workspace, drinking tea and chatting about what they’d got up to on their holidays. I was setting out the chairs for the morning news session – the first daily activity: it gave everyone the chance to say what was going on in their lives. It might involve a discussion of the highlights from the previous evening’s episode of EastEnders, a debate about the local elections or even a heartfelt venting because someone had been discriminated against or bullied – a common feature of our clients’ lives.

  I was counting the chairs to make sure I had remembered everyone when Tristan stuck his head round his office door and nodded at me. Satisfied that no one would be left standing, I ambled over to him.

  Tristan was a tall, well-built man in his fifties with a shock of grey hair. His office, though small, was immaculately tidy: every picture was precisely hung, every file alphabetically ordered, all pens organised by colour and use. He had been in the army for many years, hence his attention to detail. Now he did not beat about the bush.

  ‘There’s been one rather dramatic change at Drumlin since I last saw you.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘We’ve acquired a new unit.’

  I said nothing. I’ve sometimes found that keeping my mouth shut serves me best.

  Tristan continued: ‘I needed some capital – which was nothing unusual in light of my determination to retain our independence. The agency who chose to contribute asked that I – we – take a hand in running a small crèche in the village of Brony. It caters for children with developmental delays and behavioural problems.’