The Girl Who Couldn't Smile

by Shane Dunphy

  After lunch we had planned to go for a walk up the village to a little stream to fish for frog-spawn. There was a pond in a field behind the crèche, and Ross thought it would be cool if we had some tadpoles in it. The village slanted upwards in a sort of shallow hill, and Mitzi refused to walk.

  ‘You can take me in the wheelchair, possum,’ she whimpered at me. ‘I would love to come, but I cannot walk.’

  I went to get the chair, only to find Tammy sitting in it, swinging her legs extravagantly. She wasn’t smiling – in all my time with her, I never saw her smile – but there was a look of something on her face. Triumph, perhaps?

  ‘Out you get, Tamster,’ I said. ‘I need the wheelchair for Mitzi.’

  Tammy slowly slid out of the chair and followed me as I wheeled it across the room to where Mitzi was sitting on the floor, near the Messy Area. I stopped halfway.

  ‘We have a problem,’ I said. ‘The tyres are flat.’

  ‘Then blow them up, precious,’ Mitzi said.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘The petrol station across the road doesn’t have a tube that fits these tyres.’

  Tammy watched us both expectantly.

  ‘Look, it’s not far, Mitzi,’ I said. ‘You’re going to have to walk. You can take breaks if you need them.’

  I will not describe the temper tantrum that followed. Suffice it to say that Mitzi did walk. Eventually.

  When she finally waddled out of the door, swearing under her breath, I knelt down in front of Tammy. ‘How’d you do it?’ I asked her.

  She surveyed me with huge eyes.

  ‘I know you let the air out of the tyres,’ I said. ‘I’m not mad. How’d you do it?’

  Tammy opened her hand. There was a rusty nail in it – she must have used it to depress the nozzle on the air fitting.

  ‘You’d better let me have that,’ I said. ‘If you cut yourself on it, you’ll get blood poisoning.’

  She handed it over, and we went to look for frog-spawn. Tammy had paid Mitzi back – she was not, it seemed, someone to cross.

  21

  The kids were making their way out to the bus, all sucking red-and-white-striped sugar-free dentist-approved environmentally friendly lollipops, their prizes for so many unsolicited acts of goodwill. Susan, Tush, Lonnie and I were seated about the table, idiotic grins on our faces.

  ‘It’s only one day,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget that. Yesterday was awful.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Susan said. ‘Those kids behaved like human beings today, for the first time. It wasn’t just that nobody ended up in hospital – they were actually nice to be around.’

  ‘I gave Gus a tissue to wipe his nose this afternoon, and he said, “Thank you”.’ Tush burst into what might have been laughter or tears – it was impossible to tell.

  ‘All because of a fucking cardboard box,’ Susan said.

  ‘Don’t diss the box,’ Lonnie said, only half joking. ‘It’ll hear you.’

  I was about to start tidying up the last few bits of art material when the door opened and a woman I recognized as Rufus’s mother came in.

  ‘I needs to speak to him,’ she said, motioning at me with a nod.

  Without a word the others took themselves off to various far-flung corners of the room so we could talk.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Ward,’ I said, thinking my visit must have had a positive effect after all, and she had come to volunteer to help. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  The woman looked as though she was about to faint from nerves. She glanced unhappily at Lonnie and the women, but followed me towards the table.

  ‘No, thank you. I needs to talk to ye about my Rufus.’

  I motioned at a chair and sat down myself. ‘All right. How can I help you?’

  ‘He’s got some quare ideas these last days. Strange notions.’

  I nodded. ‘Okay – could you be a little bit more specific?’

  Mrs Ward was struggling to express herself. ‘I had to slap him last night, and my husband gave him a right hidin’. He said it was you told him to do it.’

  ‘To do what, Mrs Ward? I want to be of assistance, but I really don’t understand.’ I was at a loss. Rufus had been very well behaved, and had shown no signs of being upset or angry.

  ‘The rabbits,’ the woman said, pointing at a picture of Peter Rabbit we had put on the wall.

  ‘Yeah, we’re sort of working on a project at the moment,’ I said. ‘Rufus seems to be very interested in it. He’s been asking questions, and doing lots of artwork …’

  ‘He says the rabbits are his friends,’ Mrs Ward said, her voice trembling. ‘Talkin’ and playin’ games. He says we should mind them. He wouldn’t go lampin’ with his da. And he wouldn’t eat his dinner, even though I told him there was no rabbit in it.’

  My stomach lurched. I had not expected this. Despite the easy availability of rabbit in Ireland, it is rarely used as a food source now. I didn’t think my Beatrix Potter project would have a negative impact on anyone’s dietary habits. But, of course, for many families among the travelling community, rabbit was still a staple.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I never told him not to eat rabbit …’ But I knew how what I had said would have been interpreted by the children.

  ‘His da is talkin’ about not lettin’ him come here no more,’ Mrs Ward said. ‘What can I do? I know the lad needs to come, but if he don’t shape up …’

  ‘I’ll talk to him – I promise,’ I said, my mind reeling. ‘He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s actually doing what he thinks is right.’

  Mrs Ward looked at me as if I had three heads. ‘Sure that ain’t for him to decide,’ she said. ‘We’re his parents, me and John Joe. We tell him wha’s right.’

  I nodded. ‘Don’t punish him, please,’ I implored. ‘I’ll make certain you have no further difficulty in getting him to eat or do any of his other chores. He’s a good kid – he learns fast.’

  She paused, surprised at that statement.

  ‘Do he?’

  ‘He does. I think he’s very bright.’

  It was as if she suddenly grew six inches, and years dropped away from her face. ‘My boy?’

  ‘Rufus, yes. He’s so interested in everything we do here, and he already has some literacy skills. Did you know that?’

  This was met by a blank expression.

  ‘Um … reading … writing …’ I said. To illustrate my point, I went over to the library corner and picked up the KB. It took me around thirty seconds to find one of Rufus’s notes. I pushed it over to her, assuming that, if Rufus could already read a little, she could too – some travellers have been ill served by the education system.

  ‘Cos Ross shared his cake with me,’ Mrs Ward read haltingly. ‘Rufus.’

  ‘We’re trying to teach the children about kindness,’ I explained, showing her the box and some of the other notes.

  It was as if the box worked its magic all over again. Mrs Ward went through the notes with me, laughing and chatting, asking how Rufus interacted with the other children, and marvelling at the notes – there were many – that commented on his kindness to others. I felt myself relax: the stress and anxiety this woman had exuded when she walked into the room had had little, if anything, to do with me or Little Scamps. I imagined there was probably a history of unpleasantness between Mrs Ward and people who worked in classrooms. To try and explain that this was a crèche, not a school, would have been pointless. I was just delighted I had accidentally found some common ground with her – a shared interest in her son.

  She stood up to leave, her face still lit by a smile.

  ‘I’ll make sure Rufus understands about the rabbits,’ I said, offering my hand, which she shook.

  ‘All right, then,’ she said.

  She stopped at the door. ‘You said before you wanted parents to come in and help from time to time.’

  ‘We do. I mean, that would be great if you or your husband …’

  ‘He wouldn’t come near the place!�
��

  ‘Well, you then …’

  She pushed the door wide. ‘Maybe I will,’ she said. ‘The odd time, like.’

  And she was gone. I wanted to whoop and cheer, but I wasn’t sure if I had actually done anything to bring about such a positive change, so I settled for silently waving my fist in the air in victory.

  Tristan Fowler had been right: by setting aside my self-consciousness and focusing on the job, I had taken some real steps forward. It was to be the first of several occasions during my time in Little Scamps where his guidance proved invaluable.

  Fiona Thomson, the social worker who had taken over with Tammy when Imelda Gibb had moved on, sat opposite me in a café in town. She was a petite redhead with a garish fashion sense and a keen sense of humour. I liked her immediately.

  ‘How long did you work with the family?’ I asked, when we had coffee and a slice of cake in front of us.

  ‘About a year and a half, all told,’ Fiona said.

  ‘Why’d you get taken off the case?’ I asked.

  ‘Tammy was placed in a crèche, and the powers that be felt Dale and Kylie could manage on their own.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  Fiona was maybe thirty years old, not exactly pretty but with a warm, intelligent face, sprinkled with freckles.

  ‘I thought they were a very, very messed-up family. You’ve read the report?’

  ‘I used to do child protection,’ I said. ‘I know that reports like that just point out the main issues but that the devil is in the detail.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘Fill me in,’ I said.

  ‘Jesus, how long have you got?’

  ‘As long as I need,’ I said.

  ‘When I started out with Kylie and Dale, Tammy was still very little. The initial reason for my doing home visits was to offer a listening ear to Kylie, because the public-health nurse seemed to feel she was depressed. I’d done that kind of work before, and I have a nursing background.’

  ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘Well, it was easy to see how the PHN might have thought Kylie was depressed. But I have to tell you, I’m not so sure she was.’

  ‘She had rejected Tammy, though, hadn’t she?’ I asked. ‘Dale was doing everything.’

  ‘Yes. And he was glad to,’ Fiona said, taking a bite of chocolate cake and chasing it with a sip of coffee. ‘It was like he was so delighted to have this little thing, his flesh and blood, that he didn’t want Kylie to take any responsibility. He’d say, “Kylie ain’t the motherin’ sort.” I mean, how could she behave any differently? On the rare occasion she actually did pick Tammy up, the child would screech and Dale would step in right away, a satisfied grin on his face. It was sickening to watch.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Well, Dale wasn’t working, but he did go out occasionally. I suppose you’re aware of his and Kylie’s love of booze?’

  ‘It was one of the first things I noticed about them.’

  ‘Well, he goes to this shitty pub not far from where they live. When he went for his thrice-weekly piss-up session, I’d try and get Kylie to bond with the child. It was an uphill struggle. I wish I could say otherwise, but the woman just wasn’t interested. There was nothing there. Tammy was getting on for six months by then, and I was starting to despair of ever effecting even the most superficial relationship between the pair of them.’

  ‘And did you?’ I asked. ‘From what I’ve seen, they’re not exactly bosom buddies now.’

  ‘Well, it was kind of a matter of necessity,’ Fiona said. ‘Things went pear shaped between Tammy and Dale.’

  ‘Wasn’t Tammy still a baby?’ I asked, aghast.

  ‘She was. You see, it started to become obvious that things weren’t right with her.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Can you be very specific about that? When, precisely, did you notice something was up with her?’

  Fiona shook her head. ‘It’s hard to be specific. It was gradual. There were some things she just shot ahead at developmentally. She walked very early – she was nearly running by the time she was eight months old – and was climbing well before a year. She had wonderful manual dexterity – she could use a pencil perfectly long before she should have done, and I swear to you, I believe she knew her colours and a lot of letters and numbers. It was the way she responded to them.’

  ‘But in all the time you were with her, she never spoke,’ I said. ‘Even though she seemed so bright.’

  ‘That was the real problem,’ Fiona said. ‘Dale put hours into trying to get her to talk. He read to her, sang her songs, played games. Nothing. She just wasn’t having any of it. Now, she lapped up the attention, and seemed to relish all the activities – it wasn’t that she was unhappy, not then. It was just like she’d decided she wasn’t ready to speak yet, and nothing was going to make her until she was good and ready.’

  ‘But she’s still not speaking,’ I said. ‘Not only is she not speaking, she’s not making any effort to communicate with anyone. Do you know that I have never seen that child smile?’

  ‘Dale brought her to the doctor when she was two,’ Fiona said. ‘The doctor put it to him that the little girl might be disabled in some way – maybe autistic or intellectually delayed.’

  ‘How’d he take it?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Not well. I was there when he got home. He screamed and ranted, hit Kylie, walloped Tammy, said that no blood of his would be a retard. He suggested that Kylie might have been putting it about a bit – that Tammy was some other bloke’s baby.’

  ‘Harsh,’ I said, ‘though not impossible, I suppose.’

  ‘Not helpful, either,’ Fiona said. ‘He washed his hands of her. In the time I was there – and it was not long after that because she was placed in the playschool – he never spoke to her again. And she never looked at him either. It was like they were dead to each other.’

  ‘And Kylie?’

  ‘Bizarrely the whole kerfuffle seemed to bring something alive in her. She didn’t exactly become Mother of the Year, but she did start to pay a bit more attention to Tammy. I told the senior social worker that I was still needed in that house, but you know what child-protection caseloads are like. They couldn’t spare me on a case that was then, officially, under the jurisdiction of the intellectual-disability department.’

  We paused for a few moments in companionable silence. The cake was gone, and we sipped what was left of our coffee.

  ‘Tammy is completely shut down,’ I said to Fiona at last. ‘If I’m to help her at all, I need to get through the pretty thick walls she’s constructed, and I simply do not know how.’

  ‘Wish I could help,’ she said, smiling sadly. ‘I’d guess that her father might be your best asset, but I doubt he’ll ever get over the shock of finding out his little princess isn’t perfect.’

  I thought about that one. ‘Or maybe he needs to learn that she is perfect,’ I said.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Fiona said.

  22

  Saturday afternoon. It was a warm day and I was preheating the oven to bake so the kitchen windows were open. Mississippi Fred McDowell was playing on the stereo and I had just finished setting out the cake ingredients. Milandra was five on Monday, and I have a very simple policy when working in childcare settings: no one’s birthday slips by without a fuss being made, not even those of people who threaten to punch anyone who mentions the celebration of their nativity.

  Lonnie had agreed to come over to help with the baking, an offer that was something of a double-edged sword. My friend was a frightening experimental cook, who simply refused to take direction, though he was remarkably enthusiastic and had an insatiable appetite for knowledge of any kind. He seemed to feel that his bizarre forays into the culinary arts were all for the good of gastronomic science so I generally tolerated the small explosions, oddly coloured smoke and difficult-to-remove crusts that were left on my pans when he was done. He was, after all, fun to have around, so I w
rote off the damage as a sacrifice I would just have to make.

  Millie yawned loudly at my feet. She had developed a talent for getting in the way whenever I tried to move about the kitchen, able to time her movements to coincide exactly with my own: when I chose to cross from the cooker to the sink, there she would be, sprawled right across the room. I would step over her, check the oven, then make a move for the fridge – and, as if by magic, my dog would now be pressed tight against its door, gazing at me innocently. If Millie hadn’t been quite as daft as she was, I’d have been convinced she was doing it to annoy me.

  ‘Hello, the house!’ Lonnie called, from somewhere below the kitchen window. I turned from pondering the evil machinations of my angelic-looking greyhound to see Tush’s face smiling prettily in at me from the garden.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ I said, heading for the door to let them in. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d mind,’ Lonnie said, shuffling in behind her. ‘Tush called over to go for a stroll, and I’d forgotten I’d agreed to babysit you for the afternoon, so I figured she could come along and lend a hand.’

  ‘The more the merrier,’ I said.

  It was just as well Tush had joined us for it became clear almost immediately that baking a cake for Milandra was not going to be straightforward.

  ‘Well, I figured we’d go for chocolate cake,’ I said, when we were gathered around my worktop. ‘Everyone likes chocolate, after all.’

  ‘Everyone except Milandra,’ Tush said. ‘She hates it.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, appalled. ‘How could she hate chocolate?’

  I looked ruefully at the dark chocolate I had bought for the cake.

  Lonnie was standing on a chair, riffling through one of my cupboards. ‘Marmite?’ he said, holding up a large jar. ‘How about a Marmite cake?’

  Tush chewed her lower lip, clearly perplexed. ‘I don’t think she’d like that either,’ she said. ‘Actually, I don’t think anyone likes Marmite.’

  ‘Does it seem reasonable I would have it in my larder if I didn’t?’ I said.