The Girl Who Couldn't Smile Read online

  ‘I spent much longer than that in college, Tush, and more than a year playing music in pubs not too long ago when the job started beating me up too much.’

  She smiled weakly. ‘It does beat you up, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Sometimes, yeah. And when that happens, it’s okay to take some time out. We have to look after ourselves or we’d get swallowed up, and there’d be nothing of us left.’

  That smile again. ‘Yes. Sometimes I think I might disappear altogether. It’s as if I’m being eaten up, a little bit at a time, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.’

  I knew that sensation. Most people who work in social care long term have experienced it. ‘It’s okay to ask for help, Tush,’ I said. ‘The very best resource any of us have in this game is our colleagues. Have you talked to anyone about how you’re feeling? Susan, maybe?’

  She turned and grinned at me. ‘I’m talking to you.’

  I grinned back. ‘Yes, you are.’

  I was making a mental note to set up regular staff meetings – several staffing issues required addressing, not least of which was that we needed at least one other person to cope with the children we had – when we heard Susan calling. I could tell by her tone that this was an emergency.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said. ‘You keep an eye on this bunch.’

  When I got inside, everything seemed normal and peaceful enough. The walls were nearly finished (Susan had been going at them vigorously with a roller) and I saw no signs of destruction or damage. Then I spotted Gus and Milandra.

  ‘I only took my eyes off them for a second,’ Susan said sheepishly.

  ‘Well, it looks as if that’s all it takes,’ I said.

  They were covered from head to toe in paint. It was like looking at two miniature ghosts.

  ‘Do we have enough white spirit?’ Susan asked.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that this paint is water-based, so all we need do is stick them in the bath,’ I said, trying not to laugh. ‘Some of the smaller tins will need spirit, though – we’ll need to be a little more careful when we get around to opening them.’

  ‘Gus painted me,’ Milandra said. ‘I’m a little white girl now.’

  ‘I’m a little white girl too,’ Gus chirped.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’ If this was the worst thing we had to cope with that day, we’d have got off lightly.

  8

  Thankfully, it was.

  By the time the bus was pulling up outside, the walls were completely covered with new paint, ready for us to adorn them with murals. Milandra’s and Gus’s clothes had been washed and dried, and though some of the paint remained in their hair, they were none the worse for it. The rest of the children had been, if not pleasant, then at least not wilfully obstructive. Mitzi had punched Gilbert in the gut; Jeffrey had wet himself; Ross had attempted to use one of his crutches as a pole vault in an attempt to leap over Arga, who was kneeling on the floor, and crashed into her.

  But all of those altercations were minor. In fact, I would go so far as to say that they were nothing I wouldn’t have expected in a standard crèche or junior class. I wondered if perhaps this was going to be an easy assignment after all.

  Experience (and common sense) had made me aware that children do not exist in isolation: every behavioural problem stems from some issue within a family unit or a trauma that had happened far away from the childcare centre. I wanted to look at the children’s homes and meet some of the parents. That evening I decided to do the home-time run.

  The bus driver, a huge bear of a man named Arnold, seemed to view the children with a mixture of amusement and mild tolerance. Janet and Bea, two housewives, were employed to travel with them. They supplemented their income by doing short runs to and from a number of centres and schools about the county. If they were surprised by my decision to come along for the ride, they didn’t show it.

  The trip took a little over an hour. Gilbert lived in what could only be described as a mansion. A Rolls-Royce was parked out front beside a Mercedes, which was apparently the family runabout. A young man, whom Arnold informed me was a servant, let the child in. He shut the door without looking at us.

  Rufus’s house had boarded-up windows and a front garden overgrown with weeds. When the bus stopped outside the gate, a woman who looked as if she had stepped from the pages of a John Steinbeck novel came to the door. I asked Arnold to hang on for a minute, and jumped down after the red-haired tearaway. ‘Mrs Ward? I’d just like a quick word.’

  The woman froze as if I’d threatened to slap her. ‘What?’

  Rufus had stopped at the door and was gazing at me, wide eyed.

  ‘My name is Shane. I’m going to be working with Rufus for a while at Little Scamps. I just wanted to introduce myself.’

  ‘He in trouble agin?’ the woman asked, apparently not having heard a word I had spoken.

  I laughed. ‘No, he’s not in trouble at all. I’m just doing a quick visit to all the children’s homes to introduce myself. I was wondering if perhaps some of the parents might like to get more involved in the crèche. We could use a little help from time to time.’

  ‘I’ll tell him to behave better, okay?’

  She seemed paralysed with fear. It was as if I was speaking a foreign language to her.

  ‘I’ll leave you to your work,’ I said. I had had my hand stuck out to shake hers, but she never acknowledged it. I got back on the bus.

  ‘Nice chat?’ Arnold asked me drolly.

  ‘If I weren’t such an optimist, I’d reckon she thought I was going to murder her,’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

  ‘Had a hard life, that one,’ Arnold said. ‘Husband drinks and knocks her about. Kids all wild as mountain goats. Never had more than a couple of pennies to rub together.’ He tutted. ‘She was a real beauty when she was a girl.’

  ‘Looks sixty now,’ I observed.

  ‘I’d say she’s forty. Maybe even less,’ the driver said. ‘Hold on to your arses, ladies and gentlement. Next stop, chez Milandra.’

  ‘He means my house,’ she announced, to no one in particular.

  Milandra was met at the door by her granny, a plump, smiling woman with blue-rinse hair.

  ‘I love her dearly, but she has her mother’s heart broke,’ the old lady said to me. ‘She’s as clever as a tack, and she’d buy and sell you, but I’m not jokin’, the child has a temper on her that’d scare Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘Well, there are certainly issues,’ I agreed. ‘But she’s still very little. Often it’s just about setting some clear boundaries and sticking with them.’

  ‘Ah, sure, I know all that. Haven’t I raised five children on me own?’

  ‘No small feat,’ I congratulated her.

  ‘Milandra behaves well enough for me – I don’t take any messin’ – but she runs rings around her mother. Terrorizes her.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘My daughter was always a gentle soul. And I think that children can smell fear.’

  Most of the parents chatted with me for a few moments, some obviously a little rattled that a man was now working at the crèche, but in the main I was met with friendliness. Arga’s parents agreed to help out when they were free, as did Julie’s, but even with these occasional extra hands, I knew I would have to talk to Susan and Tush about more staff. That day’s episode with the painted children clearly demonstrated that we couldn’t manage much longer with so few of us.

  Tammy’s house was the last stop. Set amid a tiny housing estate that bordered a salt marsh near the coast, it reeked of poverty and desperation. A low wall, which would have posed no challenge to a determined child, acted as a barrier to the wasteland. I could barely see the ocean in the distance, and the smell of salt and stagnating vegetation hung in the air. A lonely heron stood on one leg in the reeds, a soft wind off the sea ruffling its feathers.

  Tammy’s house was at the end of the row, tucked into a corner as if it were tryin
g to hide. The little girl shot out of her seat, like a cork from a bottle, hauled the door open and dashed for her home.

  ‘Who usually lets her in?’ I asked Bea.

  ‘Watch,’ she said.

  Tammy lifted a filthy, threadbare mat and produced a key. A grimy plastic chair stood beside the doorstep. She hopped up on to it and, standing on tiptoe, fitted the key into the lock. With great effort and determination she twisted it and, using her foot, pushed the door open.

  ‘I don’t fucking believe what I’m seeing,’ I said. ‘She does this every day?’

  ‘Yep,’ Bea said. ‘Sometimes her mother sticks her head out after the child goes in, but usually not.’

  ‘So she might well be going into an empty house?’ I said.

  Janet shook her head. ‘The parents are in there. When I started I saw what you just did and went and hammered on the door. Finally Tammy’s awful useless dad came out, grunted something unintelligible at me, and went back inside. Tammy had a black eye the next day.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said.

  The tiny girl had gone inside now, and the door was slowly closing behind her.

  ‘That kid is three years old,’ I said, more to myself than anyone else.

  ‘Goin’ on sixteen,’ Arnold said. ‘Homeward bound, ladies and gents. Hold on to your toupees.’

  Five o’clock: the crèche was empty and the shadows growing long in the echoing room. I was bone tired, but knew there was one thing I still had to do before going home for the night. I sat at the work table in the play room, its surface still tacky from being wiped clean, and opened the slim file Little Scamps kept on Tammy.

  Most early-years settings do not have much paperwork on the children, but I knew this one would be different – all the children were referrals from Child Services, and would have arrived with a fair amount of information accompanying them. As a rule I try to keep away from files because they contain opinions and conclusions drawn by other people, many of whom have had only the most cursory contact with the subject.

  One of the distasteful truths about childcare work is that relationships are not equal in any meaningful way: the adults are always in a position of power, in terms of size and authority as well as in knowledge of the lives of the children with whom they work. A child in a crèche will know a little about the various staff members – some will be more open than others about their private lives – but almost every child-care worker will know a huge amount about the family and friends of all the children in their care. Children talk, and their innocence prevents them censoring their commentary. It all comes out – Mammy drank too much wine last night and had a headache this morning so Daddy had to bring me into crèche; my brother has smelly feet; my uncle is in prison … Nothing is sacred. Workers are governed by rules of confidentiality, but the imbalance remains. I was aware of it, but helpless to do much to redress it. If I wanted to make any real headway with Tammy, I was going to have to learn a bit more about her.

  The file ran to about twenty pages, a quarter of which dealt with Tammy’s birth and early infancy. There was a section on intervention by a social worker that had come to nothing, and a letter from a woman who ran a playschool near Tammy’s home – it was she who was ultimately responsible for Tammy being in Little Scamps: she had written to Child Services when Tammy’s conduct became unmanageable. I leafed through various pages, making notes as I went. I saw words like aggressive and antisocial. I read that Tammy was intellectually subnormal and exhibited no social skills. Yet nowhere did I see any assessments having been carried out to back up these assumptions, and absolutely no evidence of anything having been done to tackle such serious issues. In fact, it seemed to me that a lot had been done to help Tammy’s parents while she had been allowed to stew in her own juice.

  After an hour I was left with three names: Imelda Gibb, a public-health nurse who had worked closely with the family when Tammy was very little; Fiona Thomson, a social worker who had stepped in when Imelda moved on; and Sonya Kitchell, who had managed the pre-school Tammy had attended before Little Scamps.

  Other than these names, my trawl through the file had taught me nothing I did not already know. I hoped the three women might be able to fill in at least some of the vast gaps in my knowledge of this enigmatic child. I stood up, stretched, and put the file back in its cabinet in the office. I thought I might take Millie for a walk after dinner – I needed air and space.

  9

  It was six thirty by the time I got home. I was renting a little cottage, a one-bedroom affair with a bit of garden. The owner, a semi-retired farmer who lived on a neighbouring hill, had helped me to put up an enclosure for Millie, a development my new canine friend viewed with distaste.

  As I pulled up in the Austin I could see her standing upright, staring directly at me, and as I got out of the car she began whining and growling at me in tones of complaint.

  I let her out and she tore around the garden three times, finally stopping on the front lawn to mark her territory. I noted with resignation that my previously verdant grass was becoming pock-marked with burned patches where similar displays had occurred, and went inside to make supper.

  In all the fluster of starting in Little Scamps I had neglected to do any grocery shopping, but a quick perusal of the freezer unearthed some diced beef, and the vegetable tray had a couple of dried-up onions and two shrivelled chillies. I stuck the beef into the microwave to defrost and then, with Millie following me in case I happened to drop anything edible, I went out to the garden to see if there was anything to offer to the pot.

  My efforts were rewarded with two bay leaves, some thyme and sage, a handful of spinach, a couple of oversized radishes and a smallish beet. Back inside I put a Niall Toner CD on the kitchen stereo and began to chop the herbs. Then I diced the vegetables. Millie kept a very close eye on all this activity, standing at my side, acutely aware that the slightest slip of my hand might send something tasty her way.

  Ten minutes later the cottage was filling with the scent of dinner cooking, and Millie and I were sitting out back, me with a bottle of beer, she with her favourite cuddly toy, a rather evil-looking stuffed rabbit. I’d like to say she treated it with affection, but all of Millie’s toys ended up shredded – the similarities between my dog and the children at Little Scamps were becoming disturbing.

  The secret to a good chilli is to cook it long enough for the beef to get really tender, but not so long that it all turns to mush. I have found that, if you cut the beef up quite small, an hour just about does it. If you put some bread in to bake about fifteen minutes after the chilli starts to simmer and keep a watchful eye on the clock, everything should be ready at about the same time. So I sipped my beer, listened to Niall singing about walking on water, and closed my eyes.

  I probably would have dozed – Millie’s breathing told me she was already asleep – if a voice hadn’t said, ‘I hope that’s our dinner I smell and not the dog’s.’

  Lonnie was perched on my garden wall. ‘Can’t you just come in the gate like a normal person?’ I asked, pleased to see him.

  ‘I’d be hugely insulted if anyone ever accused me of being a normal person,’ my friend retorted, jumping down to the grass and marching across it.

  Lonnie is just under four feet tall. He has a strong, handsome face with a pronounced brow and a shock of black hair that he wears quite long. He also has a pronounced hump on his right shoulder and dresses flamboyantly. When I first met him he favoured enormous hats, flowing trench-coats that would trail along the ground behind him and loud flared trousers. I have always assumed that this was primarily because he had spent most of his life locked away from prying eyes, ‘protected’ from mockery by a mother and maiden aunt who were embarrassed by his condition. Lonnie had passed the time reading fantasy novels, stories in which dwarfs were heroic and accepted, and his attire reflected this.

  Since becoming a member of staff at Drumlin (and seeing how other people dressed) Lonnie had tempered his fashion sen
se slightly, but still leaned towards bright colours and an almost punkish desire to clash whenever possible. Today he was wearing a loose shirt that was bright orange down one side and electric blue down the other. This was matched with pink and white checked trousers and canary yellow Doc Marten boots. If the fashion police ever came upon him, he’d soon be serving a very lengthy institutional sentence.

  ‘I’ve got a pot of chilli on,’ I said. ‘You want a beer?’

  ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Umm … Bavaria. It’s Dutch, I think.’

  Out of a bag he had slung across his shoulder he produced an amber bottle, some kind of Scotch – Lonnie favoured single malts. ‘I’m sure you’ll take a drop of this afterwards.’

  ‘I might force some down.’ I grinned. ‘Get a beer and a chair. Dinner’ll be half an hour or so yet.’

  When he was settled beside me he leaned down and scratched Millie behind the ears. ‘She seems to be settling in nicely. Has she house-trained you yet?’

  ‘I’m a slow learner. How are things at Drumlin?’

  ‘We’re just about managing without you. We say a prayer every morning for your safe return and for the welfare of the poor children left to your tender mercies.’ He took a slug of beer and nodded in satisfaction. ‘How are you managing in your new position?’

  ‘All right, so far,’ I said. ‘But I have a feeling that the children are sort of sizing me up. I don’t think the axe has really fallen yet.’

  ‘Do tell,’ Lonnie said, leaning back in his chair, so the front two legs were in the air. He had remarkable balance.

  I told him about my first couple of days at Little Scamps, about the staff’s exhaustion and the general chaos.

  ‘So your plan is to redecorate, and get the kids to help?’ he said, peeling the label off his beer bottle.

  ‘I can’t change the kids in one go,’ I said, ‘but I can change the environment.’