Crying in the Dark

by Shane Dunphy

  She pulled over a notepad and scribbled down a number.

  ‘He’ll be there all day, and is looking forward to talking to you. It sounds like a really good opportunity. If I were you, I’d go for it.’

  I tore out the page and put it in my pocket.

  I phoned Benjamin when I got home later that morning, but he was not available. The phone rang an hour later, just as I was about to go to the gym. It was the administrator from the project.

  ‘Mr Tyrrell asked me to call you back. He wonders if you might be able to come out to see him?’

  I said that I would and wrote down the address.

  The project was based in a big, grey, stone house, built in the early part of the twentieth century. A bronze plaque on the wall said ‘Dunleavy House’. It was on a pleasant, tree-lined avenue in a quiet part of the city. Lawyers and accountants also had offices on the street, but some decent people probably worked there too. Across the road was a green area of well-tended trees and bushes with a pond in the centre. Inside, a lobby held a small desk, behind which sat a stern, grey-haired woman at a computer. A name-plate on the desk declared her to be Beverly Munro, Trust Secretary. She looked at me disapprovingly. Looking the way I do (like a refugee from the Grateful Dead), I get a similar response a lot.

  I introduced myself, told her why I was there, and in a few seconds Benjamin was standing in front of me.

  He was around the same height as me, with a slighter build, and greying, longish hair that had once been dark brown. He wore John Lennon-style, circular, wire-frame glasses and had a goatee beard. I knew that he was fifty-three years old, but he could have easily passed for ten years younger. He was dressed in brown corduroy trousers, a green shirt and a grey waistcoat. His eyes were his most striking feature: they sparkled with intelligence, good humour and warmth, but I could never pin down what colour they were. Sometimes they seemed to be brown with green flecks, but in a different light they could appear almost blue.

  They were as mercurial as his personality. I had never been on the receiving end of his temper, but during a previous work engagement I witnessed him verbally dismember a social worker who was purposefully stalling the foster placement of one of our children. She had, it turned out, favoured another child on her books, a child much more troublesome and far less suited to the family in question. Benjamin conducted an object lesson in the martial use of language, and in so doing reminded me that, while a gentle and sensitive man most of the time, he could be a formidable opponent and was not someone to get on the wrong side of.

  He cared passionately about the children in his care, and did not suffer individuals who were less dedicated to the cause than he was. While most managers worked from nine to five, it was not unusual for Benjamin to be still at whichever house he was running at midnight. This meant that he had risen to almost legendary levels within the Irish social-care system, his ideas actually being taught on third-level courses, but his personal life was effectively non-existent. He spoke to me once of a failed marriage in his youth, and he had no children, other than those he worked with, many of whom remained in contact with him long after leaving care. I knew from experience that Benjamin was as hard on himself as he was on his staff. He expected a hundred per cent commitment from everyone. If I decided to take the job, I would be working with a unified, dedicated team of people. Benjamin Tyrrell was the best, and he expected the best.

  ‘Shane, my boy. Good to see you!’

  He flung his arms around me. I laughed despite myself. I had forgotten how physically expressive he could be.

  ‘Ben, it’s really good to see you too.’

  ‘What happened to your nose? I had heard you’d finally started looking after yourself.’

  ‘It’s a long story I’d rather not go into just now. Tell me you have coffee brewing somewhere.’

  ‘I’ve got some gunpowder green tea. You’ll love it.’

  ‘I never really kept up the whole herbal tea thing, Ben. I’m back on coffee. Lots of coffee.’

  ‘Java will kill you. This way, you get the caffeine and a lot of stuff that is actually good for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, so I’m told anyway. I’m giving it a go. Let’s see if we can’t convert you.’

  He led me through the door and down a narrow corridor to a well-lit and comfortable office. A white teapot was on the desk, and he poured two cups.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me what you’ve been up to since I saw you last.’

  He turned his clear gaze upon me, and I found myself squirming under it. I suddenly wondered why I had come. I didn’t even know if I wanted what Ben was offering. I had messed up the job at the unit terribly, and had fled my last full-time childcare post because I just could not do the work any more – it hurt too much. My confidence was at an all-time low. I felt like a fraud.

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘Mmm. You’re working with young offenders at the moment, I hear.’

  ‘It’s just part time. I’m teaching at a community college. I’m on summer holiday right now, so I’m doing a few extra hours for the unit. They need the help. Staff turnover is high. It’s tough work.’

  ‘Do you want to come back to childcare?’

  He’d cut right to the chase. I was actually relieved.

  ‘I don’t know. I left it almost a year ago because … because I didn’t want to do it any more. I was getting too involved with some of the cases and my personal life was suffering. It probably wasn’t great for the children either. So I wrapped up what I could, and I got out.’

  Benjamin nodded and produced a tobacco tin from his breast pocket. He cocked an eyebrow at me to ask if I minded. I shook my head. He began to roll one.

  ‘And yet you’re back at the coalface.’

  ‘I saw an advertisement for temporary staff at the unit. I’d been getting itchy feet, knew that the holidays were coming up and, to be honest, I thought that kind of care work would be fairly light compared to what I had been doing. I didn’t think I would have to get very emotionally invested. Up to a point, I was right.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But that just isn’t how I function. Don’t get me wrong, there are some absolutely wonderful childcare workers there, and they are doing a brilliant job, but it’s not for me. The work seems to be more … I don’t know, more about containment. There is definitely therapeutic work being done; I just don’t think that I’ve been doing any of it.’

  ‘So you’re still uncertain as to what you want to do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I called you because a temporary post has just become available. It may continue and become longer term, I don’t know yet. In many ways, that will depend on you.’

  ‘You want to see how I perform?’

  ‘You could say that. Or another way of putting it may be that I want to see if you like it and want to stay.’

  ‘Well, which is it?’

  He laughed and crushed the butt. ‘Both and neither. One of my staff is leaving. She’s pregnant. The children we work with are often quite physical. I won’t have her putting herself or her baby at risk, so I have insisted that she remain desk-based until she’s ready to take her maternity leave. We have some programmes that could do with further development, and I’ve set her to work on that. You’re more than qualified for her job; you have plenty of experience and I know we can get along. This project is run under the auspices of a voluntary organization set up by a wealthy Irish-American, a Mrs Dunleavy, She left a generous sum of money when she died and wished it to be spent on the care of children in the city of her birth. Her executors set up this project. We work closely with the Health Executive, the ISPCC, the Department of Justice and countless other organizations involved in childcare and child protection.

  ‘Our job is fairly simple. When a child reaches a point where, for any combination of reasons, they have exhausted the resources of the available support services and are to be placed in a secure institution, we are called in. W
e work with children in mainstream residential care, on foster placement, and those who are still living at home with their parents, but they all have one thing in common: they are in severe crisis and have become unmanageable to their primary carers. Through therapeutic means, we strive to resolve those crises and restore order and good relations between the children and the adults who care for them, whether those adults be parents or care staff.’

  ‘Jane mentioned that you work primarily with children with special needs?’

  Ben nodded and smiled. ‘Indeed. The children we work with all have special needs. They’ve been through special schools, some have experienced a variety of foster homes and one child on our books was left on the steps of a church as an infant. He has never known anything but being in care. If you were to look through the files on these kids, you would see labels like “attention deficit hyper-activity disorder”, “Asperger’s syndrome”, “intellectual disability”, “challenging behaviour”, “childhood schizophrenia”, and I’m only scratching the surface. What it breaks down to is this: the children who are sent to me don’t fit in anywhere else. They’ve been diagnosed with a range of disorders, some clinical, some purely psychological, and they all exhibit an array of behavioural problems that make them unsuitable for mainstream care. This is a house of last resort. If we can’t help, it’s a secure institution: a high-support unit, a juvenile lock-up, a psychiatric hospital.’

  ‘The house of last resort. So there’s no pressure on the staff then.’

  ‘Ella – the lady you will be filling in for, if you decide to come on board – calls this “Last Ditch House”. It’s probably as good a name as any.’

  ‘What are the hours?’

  ‘This is the voluntary sector, so they aren’t nine-to-five. You’re expected to clock up thirty-nine hours a week, but they can be at any time. I will ask you to do some evening work and you’ll have to work the occasional weekend.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m used to it. The caseload?’

  ‘Because of the nature of the cases, it’ll be quite small, no more than three at a time. The work is intensive and short term. You’d see your clients daily for up to maybe a couple of months. If you hadn’t effected change by then, we’d either try a different worker, or accept that we couldn’t do anything and step aside.’

  ‘Salary?’

  ‘Standard childcare rates. We’re linked to residential. Team Leader scale.’

  A Team Leader is kind of a middle-manager in a residential childcare setting. A basic salary at this level is around £48,000 per annum.

  I was both intrigued and horrified. Ben seemed once again to read my mind.

  ‘It’s nothing if not interesting. You won’t be bored, I’ll tell you that Are you in?’

  I stood up.

  ‘I’m going to have to think about it. Can I ring you in a couple of hours?’

  He stood up and shook my hand.

  ‘Let me know by five this evening. You need to be sure this is right for you. But just remember: I want you on board. I know what happened in your last job. You did nothing wrong, and you responded to a very difficult set of circumstances in the only way you could have. I’ve spoken to Jane about how you’ve done at the unit, too. The doubts you’re experiencing are normal. We all go through them from time to time.’

  He squeezed my hand and smiled.

  ‘I look forward to hearing from you. I know you’ll make the right decision.’

  I left my car where it was parked and walked.

  The heat from the summer sun seeped through the back of my shirt and within fifteen minutes I had worked up a good sweat, although I was not going very fast. I was not headed anywhere in particular. The business sector gave way to residential neighbourhoods with mature gardens, where men watered their lawns and children played on brightly coloured plastic slides and in inflatable paddling pools. An hour later I was beyond this prosperous area and on the side of the dual carriageway, heading south. I was peripherally aware that in five or six miles I could loop back around and into the city centre again.

  I walked and I thought. Somewhere around four o’clock that afternoon, worn out and no closer to knowing what to do, I sat down at a small bar called Moynihan’s, near where I lived. The landlord, who knew me as a regular, judged from my demeanour that I was not looking for conversation and simply pulled me a pint without having to be asked.

  Besides the proprietor, the pub was empty. I sat and stared into space. Did I want to get involved in the kind of work Ben was proposing? Teaching was honourable, had its own challenges and allowed me generous holidays to experiment with childcare for a bit longer until I was really sure. There was a lot to be said for that. So why then did I feel so drawn back to the work? Why did I feel that I had somehow sold out by running away from it? Why did I have a hole inside me which I knew would not be filled until I had a caseload? I sipped the Guinness and felt it slide down my throat, cold, bitter and delicious.

  All Ben was suggesting was a two-month contract, which would take me up to the end of the summer holidays anyway. If it was going well, I could stay – if Ben would have me. If I felt I was out of my depth, I could simply call it a day and go back to the college. Ben had, with his usual forethought, left me with an escape route, one that could be navigated with no loss of face. I downed the pint in two deep gulps. I motioned for the landlord to draw me another, and went over to the old pay-phone in the corner.

  Ben did not beat around the bush.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Before I answer you,’ I said, ‘I have a question.’

  ‘Of course. Ask what you will.’

  ‘What is the success rate?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You told me earlier that the work was always based around brief, intensive bursts of therapy, and that if these were not successful, you stepped aside and accepted that you couldn’t effect change. What’s the success rate? How often do you not have to step aside?’

  ‘Ahhh.’

  The line went silent.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yes, yes. My, Shane, you do ask awkward questions. Don’t you know after all this time that success is hard to measure in this line of work?’

  ‘Ben, you’re avoiding the issue. How often do the children remain in their homes and, more to the point, how many end up in those secure institutions we’re trying to keep them out of?’

  ‘If your decision will be based on my answer, perhaps I can save both of us the trouble and withdraw my offer.’

  ‘It’s an honest question, asked purely out of professional interest. I deserve to know what I’m getting myself into.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re in?’

  ‘Looks like it does.’

  ‘Can you start tomorrow? I’ve got your cases all lined up.’

  ‘I’ll see you at nine. I still want an answer, though, Ben.’

  ‘I haven’t worked out a statistic, but I’d say we succeed about as often as we fail. It’s about “even-Steven”. Sorry I can’t give you a more encouraging figure.’

  ‘That’s about what I thought. I have a pint waiting for me. See you in the morning. Have the coffee on.’

  ‘You’ve made the right choice, Shane. Welcome to Last Ditch House.’

  2

  The following morning, Ben had the coffee on. He had, in fact, gone one better and ordered in some freshly baked breads. The offices smelt like a boulangerie. A small meeting room had been set up for the team, and we convened briefly before the working day began.

  The team was a small one. Besides Ben, four other workers sat around the table: two male, two female. Marian was about my own age, stockily built with short blonde hair and a quiet, thoughtful manner. Loretta was slightly older – I put her in her early forties. She was short, with a smiling, open face, dressed in a mannish way with a flat-top haircut left long at the back. Jerome was tall and gangly, clean-shaven and dressed in denim. Clive was a thick-set man with a confident manner and a r
eady wit, able to fill any gap in the conversation. I liked them all immediately, and was struck by Ben’s ability to form such a cohesive, fluidly functioning group.

  The team members gave a short run-down of their cases and how they were doing with them. I listened intently. When Clive, the last of the four, had given his report, and each person had made some short comments on what he had said, Ben pulled over a grey folder.

  I’ve allocated Shane three cases from the list of new referrals we discussed last week, based on the ranking we gave them. Shane will be working, initially at least, with the Walsh family, the Henrys and the Byrne children.’

  The names were greeted with murmurs of recognition and much nodding.

  ‘Okay. We’ll all meet in a fortnight to discuss our progress,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s go to work.’

  I stayed where I was, as did Ben, the folder still open before him on the desk. I refilled our coffee mugs and pushed my smokes towards him.

  ‘So, where is my first port of call?’

  ‘I’d like you to visit the Walshes this morning,’ Ben said, leafing through one of the files in the folder. ‘Interesting case. Two little boys: Bobby, aged six, Micky, aged four. Their mother, Biddy, is a widow. They live out in Haroldstown.’

  ‘Gangland.’

  ‘Yes. The father, Toddy, was killed in a shooting two years ago. He was well known to the police, and it came as no surprise. There has been steady social-work involvement – they were in there even before Mr Walsh met his untimely demise. Pre-school teachers reported fears of physical neglect, and there were concerns about emotional neglect after the death. Mrs Walsh seemed to find it very hard to cope.’

  ‘Okay, how does this involve us, though? It sounds like the kind of stuff that would stay on the Health Executive’s books for years.’

  Ben pulled on his cigarette and nodded vigorously. ‘Agreed. What sets this one apart is a rather peculiar little detail. Six months ago, Bobby informed his class at the daily news session that his daddy had come back. His teacher assumed that he meant Biddy had taken up with a new man, so she put little or no pass on it. However, it became clear that this was not the case. Micky had made similar comments at pre-school. They were indicating that Toddy Walsh had returned.’