Wednesday's Child Read online

  Andi drove a bright red Mini. We headed out of the town towards the village where Gillian O’Gorman went to school.

  ‘I’m afraid that I don’t know a whole lot about this kid,’ I admitted.

  Andi nodded, fiddling with the radio until she found a station playing traditional Irish music. She whistled along through her teeth, tapping the steering wheel in an off-beat rhythm.

  ‘I play the bongo drum, y’know,’ she said, looking at me from the corner of her eye.

  I looked at her in bemusement. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  She nodded again, battering the steering wheel some more and whistling without much tunefulness.

  ‘I bet your neighbours love that. Not to mention any people who may be unfortunate enough to live with you.’

  ‘Oh, Muriel doesn’t mind. She plays the harmonica, so we get on fine.’

  I had to laugh at the mental image of Andi (I imagined her house-mate as a similar hippy type) sitting up into the small wee hours of the morning playing terrible traditional music to one another and smoking joints made of home-grown hashish.

  ‘Well that’s nice. I’m glad you have each other to entertain. What do the respective boyfriends think of all the racket?’

  She snorted through her nose.

  ‘I don’t have a boyfriend. I have Muriel. She’s my life-partner.’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Good for you. Was it her harmonica playing that attracted you to her?’

  She guffawed aloud at that, thumping me good-naturedly on the shoulder.

  ‘Andi, as fascinated as I most certainly am at the concept of a pair of trad-loving, hippy musicians, I am meeting one of my clients in around ten minutes, and I’m at something of a loss. My only memory of her file is that it was fucking huge and that she has almost every imaginable problem. What exactly are we walking into out here?’

  ‘Now that is a big question.’ Andi pulled a pouch of tobacco out of a baggy pocket in her parka and tossed it into my lap. ‘Roll me one of those.’

  I proceeded to make her a roll-up, realising for the first time that I would be working with a gang of nicotine freaks. Andi had switched into professional mode and was giving me the edited highlights of the O’Gorman file.

  ‘The O’Gormans have been known to the social work department for years. Libby, the mum, is a single parent, a manic-depressive and probably borderline schizophrenic. The dad disappeared years ago, and Libby won’t talk about him. Sinéad, whom you’ll meet (she’s one of Melanie’s clique), was the social worker on the case.’

  I finished awkwardly rolling her the smoke and passed it over. She lit it from the dashboard lighter and continued, the cigarette dangling from her lips as she spoke.

  ‘I have to hand it to Sinéad, she worked like hell with that family. She was out in the house with them day in and day out, and it looked like they were making some headway. But then, as always happens, Libby stopped allowing her entry. We were worried, so we went to the guards, and Gillian ended up being taken into care for a brief period. That was a disaster, because she kept running away. It wasn’t a secure unit – they just didn’t have the facilities to cope with her. Libby would be waiting for her in the town and they’d hitch to Dublin and book into a shelter there. This happened loads of times. It was a fucking joke. We couldn’t stand over having anything to do with the case. We handed it to psychiatric services and pulled out. It nearly killed Sinéad.’

  I sat there watching the countryside scroll by.

  ‘And Gillian now?’

  ‘Well, you’re right, she’s almost like an encyclopaedia of disorders. She’s anorexic – I don’t know how bad, I haven’t seen her in months, but she had to be constantly watched when she was in the residential unit. She self-injures. She’ll cut if there’s a sharp implement available. If not, she’ll fashion one out of tinfoil or a sharpened piece of wood. If that’s not available, she’ll throw herself downstairs, bounce off furniture, smash her head into the wall, pull out chunks of hair … whatever she can manage before she’s restrained. She has been sexually abused on at least two occasions I know of – not familial abuse, that’s at least one thing the family doesn’t do to one another. She has a seriously warped relationship with her mother. It’s almost like Gillian doesn’t exist in and of herself; she’s an extension of Libby. They actually occasionally speak in unison, like something off a TV horror movie. It’s freaky.’

  We were pulling into the schoolyard. Andi rolled down the window and tossed out the butt of the roll-up.

  ‘I don’t want to sound self-obsessed or gender fixated, but how is she with men? Has she been close to any outside the family?’

  Andi was opening the door and getting out, reaching into the back and grabbing a shoulder bag.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. But then, she’s never been particularly close with any women outside the family either. I think you’re on as good a footing as I would be in similar circumstances.’

  ‘At least she’s met you before.’

  ‘Yup. Frankly, I’m glad to be just along for the ride. Wouldn’t be in your shoes for anything. You know you’ve got all the shit cases, don’t you?’

  I looked at her disconsolately as we walked toward the door of the school building.

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Oh yeah. I actually asked for you to get one of mine. The McCoy kids? I think you’re meeting them tomorrow. I gave you them.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Ooo … nasty case. Alcoholism, neglect, suicide … really shitty case. Nice kids though.’

  ‘They’re all nice kids!’

  ‘No they’re not. You know that as well as I do. We just tell ourselves that so we can do the job.’

  ‘Well thanks for that, Andi.’

  ‘Ah, no problem, babe.’

  The school appeared to have been built some time around the 1900s. It was old, grey and crumbling, a long, three-storey rectangle with a tower reaching above it, attached to the end. The corridor was lined with paintings of nuns, landed gentry from the area and biblical figures, all looking sternly down on us as we followed the sign towards reception. Teenaged girls in purple uniforms – straight skirts, woollen knit jumpers, cream shirts and purple ties – passed us every now and again, the vacant glances of the hormonally besieged and dermatologically challenged assailing us on all sides. There was the ambient sound of the school all about us: the voices of the teachers raised above all else; the murmur of students; the scrape of chalk on the blackboard. We arrived at reception and told the mousy secretary who we were. She nodded and muttered something into the mouthpiece of an archaic-looking black phone.

  ‘Sister Assumpta will be down to you in a moment. Would you take a seat please?’ She spoke so quietly that I had to strain to hear her. We turned and moved to a row of chairs by the wall.

  ‘These places always make me feel nervous,’ Andi muttered.

  ‘Catholic guilt?’ I asked, glancing up the stairwell opposite us to see if the good Sister was on her way.

  ‘Don’t think so. I was raised neo-pagan. I just always get the impression that they’re looking down on me or something when I’m in these kinds of schools. Like I should be apologising.’

  ‘I believe that is Catholic guilt; you just don’t know it yet. I think it’s a latent Irish thing, whether you’re actually Catholic or not. It’s built into us all,’ I told her as a tall, erect woman dressed in dark colours made her way down the stairs. ‘Of course, if you really are pagan, you’re damned lucky that you don’t spontaneously burst into flames coming into a Catholic girls’ school. Do you have 666 tattooed anywhere?’

  ‘Shut up, you arsehole,’ Andi retorted, glancing nervously up at the stained-glass window and moving out of a beam of rose-coloured light from one of the panes.

  As she got closer, I saw that the tall woman had grey close-cropped hair and a face creased with laughter lines. I had to admit that she most certainly did not look as if she was about to preach
at us about anything. She smiled broadly as she approached and I was struck by her height. She had to be at least six feet tall. She extended a hand to me.

  ‘Welcome, welcome. I am Assumpta.’

  ‘Dunphy. Shane.’ I smiled back, standing and shaking the proferred hand, startled at first at the power of her shake. ‘You know my colleague, Andi Murphy?’

  ‘I do indeed. Welcome Miss Murphy. Well, I won’t pretend that I’m not glad to see you both.’ She was already moving back towards the stairs, her hand still on mine. She spoke in that quiet, purposefully gentle way that nuns seem to adopt. ‘Our little Gillian is in something of a state, and I have become extremely concerned for her.’

  ‘Could you tell us what happened, Sister?’ Andi asked as we climbed the stairwell.

  ‘Well, it blew up today because of a disagreement between Gillian and one of the other girls. Now, I don’t blame Gillian at all. The other young lady is a known bully and has been trying to provoke Gillian for several weeks. I’m afraid she came off much the worse for it, though. Gillian has left claw-marks all down her face.’

  I looked at Andi, who shrugged. If this was all we had been summoned for, it would be something of a waste of time. A child with a background like Gillian’s was bound to have occasional episodes of aggression, especially if purposefully provoked, and, rightly or wrongly, I generally took it that a reasonably well-trained teacher should be able to deal with the odd physical outburst. It was an occupational hazard within the teaching profession.

  ‘Was there anything else, Sister?’ I asked.

  She heaved a sigh and smiled, although her eyes when she turned them toward me were filled with sadness.

  ‘There is much else. Maybe you should just see her.’

  *

  Sister Assumpta’s office was at the top of the tower. It was a large, circular room that offered a view of the entire village and much of the land that lay around it. We waited while the nun went to get Gillian from class. She was gone a few minutes, and I was putting a book by Hemingway, Islands in the Stream, back on its shelf, marvelling that any nun could be a fan of the hard-drinking, sexually voracious adventurer (and then wondering why the hell not) when the door opened and Sister Assumpta came in, followed by a child. I had to do a double-take, because this child did not look fifteen. At first glance I would have taken her for ten. Then I realised what I was seeing. Andi was standing by the window. Her mouth hung open, but she had the sense to say nothing.

  Sister Assumpta pulled out a chair for the child and looked over the back of it at us, the pain evident in her eyes. Gillian was in what must have been close to the final stages of anorexia nervosa before it became terminal. She weighed around 56 pounds and I wondered how much of that was oversized clothes and attitude. Her hair was thin and stringy. Her skin had achieved an almost transparent state such was its pallor. Her eyes were bloodshot and sunken in her head, twin pinpoints of anger, fear and paranoia. Her cheekbones jutted out of her face like blades and her shoulders were obvious precipices through her shirt and jumper. I could see all the bones of her knees clearly, and her shoes and socks had long since become too big for her.

  ‘This is Gillian, Mr Dunphy,’ Sister Assumpta said.

  I looked down at the emaciated creature who also had me locked in a vice-like gaze. I realised as I looked more closely that the girl was shaking. I didn’t know if it was from weakness or nerves. I glanced over at Andi for a moment, but saw that there were tears welling in her eyes. She turned back to face the window, and I was left momentarily the sole focus of my new client.

  There are times when you have no time to think, when you just have to rely on training and instinct. I have long since realised that thinking by and large just gets me into trouble, so I’ve developed a kind of trip-switch in my head. It goes when I reach a point of over-load or when what I’m faced with is so dire that reason is just useless. The switch trips, power gets re-routed and I’m on pure auto-pilot. I let intuition take over and just trust that somewhere in my memory bank is an answer, a course of action that won’t cause me to fuck up entirely.

  This was – obviously – one of those occasions.

  A number of stray thoughts flitted across my consciousness. Gillian was obviously scared. She couldn’t have been more than five foot two, and was a frighteningly undernourished weight. She was an adolescent faced with a big, adult male with long hair and a beard whom she had just been told was to be her new childcare worker. I was also aware that anorexia, at this advanced stage, causes an effect in the individual similar to that of a sedative. It releases endorphins into the system that create a natural high. Endorphins are a bit like morphine. Gillian was probably in an altered state, and liable to respond to me in any number of ways – outright panic, unfettered joy or utter apathy. I also noted that she was seated while I was standing. The first thing I did was to adjust that. I squatted down on my haunches and stayed at the distance I was at.

  ‘Hey, Gillian,’ I said as gently as possible while trying desperately not to sound patronising. ‘I’m Shane. I’ve been asked to work with you.’

  She was sucking breath in and out rapidly. I was worried about hyperventilation. In her weakened state, I thought it was very likely. I needed to keep her calm and focused on me. I edged a microscopic bit closer and smiled at her gently.

  ‘I’m here because the Sister was getting worried about you. Andi brought me out.’ I nodded in the direction of Andi, who was turned back around to face us, her eyes red but clear.

  The girl glanced briefly over at Andi, then shot her attention right back on to me.

  ‘I hear you had a bit of a row today.’

  No response.

  ‘It’s no big deal. You’re not in trouble or anything. I hear that you were kind of pushed into it. Not that attacking someone is always the best way to deal with stuff, but sometimes we all lose the head.’

  The same silent stare. The shakes were lessening. It seemed they had been caused by nerves. As I spoke, I infinitesimally edged forward.

  ‘I think that what the Sister and the other teachers are most worried about, Gillian, is the fact that you maybe haven’t been eating much lately.’

  A slight reaction – a twitch of the lips – barely noticeable.

  ‘Could we talk about that? I’m not gonna make you do anything you aren’t comfortable with, and I know that right now, eating probably makes you feel very uncomfortable, but we need to talk about it, okay?’

  She looked over at Andi again, then a quick glance over her shoulder at the Sister.

  ‘I know that if I were to tell you that I was going to fix you up something to eat, and that I wanted you to eat it, it would make you feel sick to your stomach. It would be like I was trying to poison you. Does that sound about right?’

  A ferocious nodding of the head. She was listening now.

  ‘So right off, I am not going to try to make you eat today. We will have to get to that, but you need a little bit of help before we try it out. I’m here, and I know you won’t believe this right away, but I’m here completely for you. My only job is to listen to what you have to say, and to make time for you and to try and help you to have it easier at home and at school and with any other part of your life you want to talk to me about.’

  She looked puzzled at that statement. I doubted that anyone had ever stated the job description of the community-childcare worker so baldly to her before. The truth is, there is no specific job description – it depends on the worker and the region, but as far as I could ever understand, that was it. You represent the child and are the specific liaison between the child and any other official agency they are in contact with.

  ‘So, do you want to talk about how you’re doing today? Andi and I came out because we heard you were having a tough time, and that maybe you needed some help. I’m here. Andi is here in case you felt a little scared talking to me, seeing as we never met before. Would you like it if I asked Sister Assumpta to just let us hang for a few minutes?’


  A barely perceptible nod. But a nod for all that. I was in.

  ‘Sister, could you leave me and Andi with Gillian? You can keep the door open and wait outside, but you see, my job is to be here just specially for Gillian, and I need her to tell me how I can help her right now. Would that be okay, Gillian?’

  A small nod. More obvious this time. I know it may seem like I’d been wading through treacle with this girl, but this was actually alarmingly swift progress. I felt the tension begin to ease from me. I let emotion flood back in, and did a quick internal check of how I was doing. This was a trick I had developed while still a student. We tend to be very aware of how we are making the children we work with feel, how they are responding to us, but we often forget to examine how they are making us feel. As a human being, you need to constantly reflect on your own emotional landscape. I quickly did just that. It had been a tough day so far, but I was still more or less intact. I was struck by the child’s courage, and knew that I was responding to it. She had been in a physical confrontation earlier in the day, an incident that must have exhausted her, and now she was being hassled by a stranger from the Health Board, an organisation that had probably caused her little more than grief in the past. It was remarkable that she was dealing with me at all. I was aghast at her physical condition, and was struck by a deep sense of anger that she had been neglected to the point that she was like this. I was also drawn to her eyes. There was a deep inner strength and a real humanity in those eyes. And a well of pain. She was hurting. It seeped from her like pus. I could feel it as an electrical pulse, this child’s hurting.