The Girl Who Couldn't Smile Read online

  ‘Mmm. And our little water baby is one of your charges?’

  ‘Tammy, yeah.’

  ‘How has she been with you?’

  ‘You’d think she’d never ever set eyes on me before.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her, anyway?’ Lonnie asked.

  ‘No one seems to know,’ I replied, and told him what I had seen at Tammy’s house earlier that day.

  ‘I’d guess neglect might have something to do with it, then,’ my friend said.

  ‘To begin with,’ I agreed.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘About Tammy?’

  ‘About all of it,’ Lonnie said.

  ‘Finish decorating and then play it by ear.’

  ‘What I like about that plan is its simplicity,’ Lonnie said sagely.

  ‘Kind of foolproof, isn’t it?’ I agreed. ‘I also need to hire some extra staff, and that may be a problem.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, Susan and Tush have tried and failed to get any new people to stay,’ I explained, ‘and I am, in fairness, supposed to be getting these children to settle down and feel safe and comfortable in the place. If I cause even more changes – particularly ones that don’t last – I might end up making things worse.’

  ‘Bit of a mess,’ Lonnie said, deadpan. ‘One might even go so far as to say that you’ve been a total disaster.’

  ‘Thanks for the support.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Now, seeing as how I hauled my arse all the way over here on a very warm evening, is there any chance of you feeding me before I die of starvation?’

  ‘Well, since you put it like that …’ I said.

  We went inside.

  Dinner passed pleasantly, with no mention of work. Lonnie had seen very little of the world, but he was widely read and could talk on virtually any subject. This made him an enormously entertaining dinner companion. That evening I was treated to his theories about the latent homosexuality in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings (riddled with it, apparently), the real reason the French irritate so many people (how can a nation consider itself the pinnacle of art and culture when its greatest work of architecture is basically a bit of leftover scaffolding?), and whether or not Elvis was really dead (who cared?). When the plates were cleared away we took Millie for a short stroll through a pretty little wood near the cottage, where she spent her time chasing rabbits.

  ‘What do you think she’d do if she ever caught one?’ I asked Lonnie, as we watched the greyhound pounding helter-skelter after a bundle of grey with a white bobtail. As soon as it disappeared underground another (or maybe the same one) popped out of a hole ten yards to the left and Millie was off again.

  ‘I expect she’d break its neck, disembowel it and eat the viscera,’ Lonnie said, without a blink.

  ‘Not the baby?’ I said, aghast.

  ‘Nature red in tooth and claw,’ Lonnie said. ‘It’s instinct.’

  By the time we got back to the cottage it was starting to get dark. I lit a small fire (it wasn’t even slightly cold, but I always find a fire soothing and cheering), put some Miles Davis on the stereo and we sat nursing large whiskies.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Lonnie said.

  ‘I always find those words deeply disturbing,’ I said.

  ‘You should.’

  ‘All right, I’ll take the bait. What were you thinking about?’

  ‘You need staff at this playschool, right?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘How many do you need?’

  ‘One will suffice. For now, anyway.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  I took a swig of whisky. It was Teacher’s – not a single malt but very mellow. ‘That idea had never occurred to me,’ I said, mulling the ins and outs of the proposal. ‘You’re qualified, aren’t you?’

  ‘I did a course last year. Tristan insisted on it.’

  ‘And you have no criminal record.’

  ‘Correct. And a piece of paper to prove it. As you well know, I haven’t had much opportunity to get arrested in my uneventful life.’

  I sat forward on my chair and looked at Lonnie seriously. ‘Do you really want to leave Drumlin? I mean … it’s all you’ve really known since … well, since …’

  ‘Since you and Tristan found me,’ Lonnie said tersely. ‘Yes, I’m painfully aware of that. And it’s one of the main reasons I want to throw my hat in with you. I want to strike out a little.’

  ‘There are other ways,’ I said. ‘You could go to college, or take a holiday, or buy a cat. I appreciate what you’re offering but—’

  ‘Buy a cat?’ Lonnie spluttered. ‘Do you think I couldn’t help?’

  I heard the sharpness in his voice. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I owed it to him to be honest.

  ‘I do. I think you’d be a huge benefit to me and the other staff, and the children would be lucky as hell to have you. But I need to know for certain that you aren’t just jumping ship out of some misplaced sense of duty to me.’

  ‘Why the fuck would I do that?’ Lonnie said. ‘I don’t even like you.’

  ‘I’m being serious,’ I said, getting angry now myself. ‘If you want me to go to Tristan and request that you be released, you have to be straight with me.’

  ‘Okay.’ Lonnie drained his glass and poured more. He held out the bottle to me, but I shook my head. ‘If anything, you would be doing me the favour.’

  ‘How so?’

  Lonnie sat back and ran his hands through his hair. He was great at talking about anything other than his feelings – not unlike many of us, I suppose. ‘When I came to Drumlin I was what you folks call a “trainee”, a client, one of the people at the unit who needed help.’

  ‘When I arrived there I needed help too,’ I interjected. ‘Not a damn thing wrong with that.’

  ‘Yeah, but no one ever referred to you as disabled, or questioned your intellectual functioning, or tried to measure your social skills.’

  I thought about a way to tell him he was wrong. But he wasn’t. Finally: ‘No. They didn’t try to establish what was wrong with me.’

  ‘Now don’t get me wrong,’ Lonnie said. ‘The investigation wasn’t done in a way that was intrusive or insulting. Anyway, I’m used to it. I’ve been the subject of comment and conjecture all my life. I’ve tolerated questions and probing about everything from my capacity to understand complex decimals to the size of my dick since I was a child. Tristan was, at least, sensitive about how he measured and classified me.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s fair, Lonnie,’ I said. ‘No one tried to classify you.’

  ‘Oh, so there was never any discussion at staff meetings as to what kind of dwarfism I have?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘I know there was, Shane. Don’t try and bullshit me!’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘You are! What classification of dwarfism do I have?’

  ‘I don’t fucking care what sort you have!’

  ‘Tell me! Say it!’

  We were shouting now. Millie had woken up and was pacing nervily. Lonnie patted the couch beside him and she jumped up, resting her head on his lap.

  ‘You have achondroplasia,’ I said, hating the sound of the word.

  ‘What are the symptoms?’ Lonnie asked, absently stroking Millie’s head.

  What killed me as I recited the scientific terminology was that, yet again, he was right. Tristan had a thick file detailing Lonnie’s personal and medical history, including the specifics of his particular form of genetic abnormality. And I had made a point of visiting the medical section of the library of a local college where I taught an occasional class to see if I could learn anything extra. I told myself it was so I could help the angry little man, but it was nothing more than intellectual curiosity. And arrogance.

  ‘What are the symptoms, Shane?’ Lonnie repeated. ‘I know you’re well aware of them.’

  ‘It’s the most recognizable and the commonest form of dwarfism,’ I said slowl
y, trying desperately to maintain eye contact. Looking away would just aggravate my embarrassment. ‘It accounts for seventy per cent of dwarfism cases internationally. The physical manifestations are short limbs, but in some cases, like yours, abnormally long ones too.’

  ‘Flattered you noticed,’ Lonnie said, smiling.

  ‘Also there can be increased spinal curvature – like in your … um … shoulder. And distortion of skull growth.’

  ‘So how does one end up with achondroplasic dwarfism, then?’ Lonnie asked. He was not going to let up.

  ‘Achondroplasia is an autosomal dominant disorder caused by the presence of a faulty allele in a person’s genome,’ I said. ‘If a pair of achondroplasia alleles are present, the result is fatal. One, though, causes the disorder in a live birth. Achondroplasia itself is a mutation in the fibroblast growth-factor receptor – gene three, I think, but don’t quote me.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Lonnie said. ‘Explain how this mutated gene works.’

  ‘Well, it’s an inhibitor that regulates bone growth. In cases of achondroplasia, the gene is too aggressive, negatively impacting on bone growth. Tristan told me that it may be exclusively inherited from the father and becomes more common with paternal age, specifically males reproducing after thirty-five.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Lonnie said, as if he didn’t find it funny at all. ‘I never even knew the man who made me this way.’

  I reached over for the bottle and poured myself a stiff drink, which I downed in two swallows. I needed to wash the taste of the conversation from my mouth.

  ‘Why are you doing this, Lonnie?’ I asked. ‘How have I made you angry?’

  ‘I’m not angry with you, you big lug,’ he said. ‘What hurts is that every single one of you – my friends and colleagues – have dissected me in just the way you did there. I am, to them, a medical display. Something to be analysed and tested.’

  This was not going anywhere good.

  ‘The reason I’m so set on getting a job somewhere other than Drumlin is that I want an opportunity to work somewhere where all that baggage doesn’t exist, where I might actually be seen as a real person and not as an oddity – at least, no more so than I truly have to be.’

  ‘You’re not an oddity, Lonnie,’ I said.

  ‘Of course I am. My real complaint is that I’m so often seen as an oddity without a brain.’

  ‘It would be great to say that was never the case,’ I said slowly, trying to pick my words as carefully as possible, ‘but, in truth, it probably was at one time. But it’s not now. People see you – not your disorder, if you even want to call dwarfism a disorder. And let’s be honest, Lonnie, you don’t think of yourself like that.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘No, you bloody don’t!’ I said. ‘I know you pretty well, and all I’ve ever seen was you being proud of who you are. You don’t hide away – you even dress to attract attention, for fuck sake.’

  Lonnie tutted sadly. ‘And has it never occurred to you that this may be a defence mechanism? If people are talking about my crazy clothes, perhaps they’re not looking at my short, bowed legs or my simian, dangling arms or my hunched back?’

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. Of course it had occurred to me, but I had pushed the notion aside. I was fond of Lonnie, and the idea that he often felt lost, frightened and alone was more than I wanted to deal with. I preferred to believe that he was fixed – set on the road for a happy, healthy, fulfilled life. ‘What do you want me to say?’ I asked. ‘I consider you one of my best friends. When I look at you I don’t see a dwarf – I see a pig-headed, stubborn arsehole with lousy fashion ideas and a sense of humour that would make Roy Chubby Brown blush.’

  He grinned.

  ‘And I see someone with a whole lot of courage and a true, open heart,’ I finished.

  ‘Giss a job, then, you fucking hippie,’ Lonnie said.

  ‘On two conditions,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tristan has to agree to release you,’ I said.

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘You have to call me “boss”.’

  I dodged the shoe he flung in my direction, but he hit me with the CD case.

  10

  Imelda Gibb, the public-health nurse who had worked with Tammy and her family, was a matronly grey-haired woman in her late fifties. I met her in the canteen of the hospital she worked out of early on Monday morning. I sipped some of the disgusting coffee and chipped at a fruit scone that might have caused blunt-force trauma in the wrong hands. Imelda had a bowl of porridge. I admire porridge eaters. I know it’s ridiculously good for you, but can’t seem to develop a taste for it.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Dunphy?’ my companion asked. ‘I haven’t worked with Tammy recently. I deal with many children, as you, no doubt, are aware.’

  I had her contributions to the file with me, and riffled through them. ‘Tammy is in a crèche for children with special needs,’ I said. ‘She’s presenting with some unique behaviours.’

  ‘Such as?’

  I listed them.

  Imelda Gibb listened intently. ‘Is she autistic, do you think?’

  ‘It’s the obvious conclusion,’ I agreed. ‘But no. I don’t think she is.’

  ‘I have no other suggestions.’

  I pushed Imelda’s report across the table to her. ‘You wrote this after your second visit to Kylie and Dale’s home,’ I said. ‘What you saw there was enough for you to request regular contact over the next two months.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Imelda, the work I do isn’t always easy to explain,’ I said. ‘Often it’s just poking about, learning whatever you can, until you come across something you think might be useful. I have a picture of what Tammy is like now, but you know how she was as a baby.’

  ‘Why not ask her parents?’

  I laughed drily. ‘They aren’t really very communicative, just now.’

  Imelda grunted. ‘I suppose I could have guessed that. What do you want to know?’

  I was in. ‘When did you first meet her?’

  Imelda pushed her empty porridge bowl aside, and went and got the coffee pot. She replenished both of our cups (‘It’s dreadful stuff, but it’s hot and it’s got caffeine in it’), then sat down. ‘Kylie was known to Social Services before she had Tammy,’ she began. ‘There are literally entire cabinets full of reports and references to her family in the social-work department. As you are no doubt aware, when a person from that background has a baby, it sets off automatic alarm bells, and certain mechanisms click into motion. I am part of those mechanisms.’

  ‘Do you mind my asking what the … um … issues were that brought Kylie’s family to the attention of Social Services?’

  ‘The usual sort.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware there was a usual sort,’ I said.

  ‘Mostly neglect. There was an allegation of sexual abuse made against Kylie’s father, but it allegedly occurred outside the family and was never proven.’

  ‘And do you know anything about Dale’s family?’

  ‘As I recall, he had a police record – petty crime – but his family were not considered bad. He struck me as a young man who could have been quite intelligent if life had dealt him a better hand.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So you went to see Kylie and Tammy in the maternity hospital.’

  ‘I did. Dale was there too, when I visited. The child was fine. She was a little small, only a shade over five pounds, but not dangerously underweight. She slept most of the time while I was there, and cried very little when she did wake up. Kylie struck me as a little overwhelmed by it all, but Dale made up for that. He was extremely interested in everything I had to say. He asked lots of questions, made me show him how to hold the child properly, discussed the various benefits of different brands of nappy. I got the impression he had bought and closely read several mother-and-baby books.’

  ‘They don’t do many father-and-baby ones,’ I said.

&n
bsp; ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘It’s a turn of phrase, really, isn’t it?’

  ‘An unfortunate one, some might say,’ I said.

  She waved it off. ‘When I visited their home, I was struck by the fact that, though it was very well prepared for a baby, it was, to all intents and purposes, just a shell.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ I said.

  ‘They had hardly any furniture, there didn’t seem to be any food in the house that wasn’t for the baby, and Kylie – well, I have to say that she wasn’t coping. At all.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Dale was doing everything. Now, look, I’m not one of those women who feel that breast-feeding has to be forced on every single mother in some sort of awful guilt-trip. But subtle questioning showed that she had never even tried to make it work. Dale was bottle-feeding the child using formula. He had proper sterilizing equipment – I had no issue with that. I felt very strongly that Kylie had opted out of any role with the baby.’

  ‘But Dale was doing a good job?’

  ‘Oh, he seemed to dote on Tammy.’

  I scratched my head and looked through the papers I had brought. ‘And how was Tammy?’

  ‘Developmentally, I would say she was, if anything, a little advanced.’

  ‘Physically? Intellectually?’

  ‘She was only three months old, Mr Dunphy. Within the parameters I had to work with I would say she was a little ahead, but not abnormally so.’

  ‘She seemed happy? Healthy?’

  ‘Yes. I would have said so.’

  ‘So why did you recommend extended contact with the family?’

  ‘For Kylie,’ Imelda said. ‘I thought she needed support. I was of the opinion that she was profoundly postnatally depressed, and that Dale, while most certainly caring for the baby, was not really offering her a shoulder to lean on.’

  ‘Did you talk to him about it?’

  ‘He’s a man, Mr Dunphy,’ Imelda said, ‘and therefore unlikely to experience something like post-natal depression.’

  ‘Does masculinity mean a complete lack of empathy?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Imelda said, ‘I think it does.’

  Despite any lingering reservations I might have had, Lonnie started at Little Scamps two days later, and our family was complete. Susan and Tush scarcely batted an eyelid when he walked in – they had seen too much strangeness in the children to be fazed by a garishly dressed dwarf. Tush, to my surprise and, if I’m honest, pride, pointed out that we now had gender balance within the staff team, which was something I had never even considered.