by Shane Dunphy
One thirty. I had killed a few hours reading the morning paper, drinking coffee and walking on the beach. Now I was feeling bright, full of sea air and ready for another tilt at Kylie. I knocked.
When she answered she looked a little less green about the gills, but was still wearing her night clothes and smelling strongly of alcohol. ‘What the fuck do you want?’ she barked.
‘Can I come in?’ I asked. ‘I won’t take up much of your time – I just want to talk to you about Tammy.’
‘What do you want to tell me about Tammy that I don’t know?’
‘I—’
‘Or have you come to lecture me about not lookin’ after her right?’
‘No, I—’
‘Maybe you want me to come and help out in that fuckin’ crèche. I heard some of the tinkers are doin’ that.’
‘Well—’
‘Just fuck off right back to where you came from,’ Kylie said. ‘Do your job, mind Tammy durin’ the week, and leave me and my family alone the rest of the time. Okay?’
The door was slammed again. Tammy was not watching from the window, but she had probably heard every word from wherever she was hiding in the house. I went back to the Austin and drove home, feeling more than a little deflated.
29
‘What is it with your crazy kids and rats?’ Arnold the bus driver said to me, the following week. He had come in to collect his wages, and seemed utterly perplexed. ‘I drive a lot of kids to a lot of places, and I’d say I pass half a dozen rats every day,’ he said. ‘But I have never encountered children who get excited every time we come across one of the bloody rodents. What are you teaching them here?’
‘Are they better behaved? Easier to manage?’ I asked.
‘They are, as it happens.’
‘Then wouldn’t you say a love of rats is a small price to pay?’
Arnold walked out thinking about that one.
I talked to my colleagues about the effect Samuel Whiskers was having on the kids during a break later that day.
‘They’re into rats now, apparently,’ I said to Lonnie. ‘How can we capitalize on that?’
‘I know I’m small, but I do not know any rats,’ Lonnie said stiffly. ‘And I am offended at the suggestion.’
‘Umm … I know a rat,’ Tush said.
I looked pointedly at her. ‘I’m not referring to ex-boyfriends here, or any solicitors or politicians you might know,’ I said. ‘I mean whiskered, long-tailed things that look like big mice.’
‘I have a pet rat,’ she said.
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Risso. I’ve had him since he was little.’
‘What do you call a baby rat?’ I asked.
‘They’re pups,’ Tush said.
‘You are full of surprises, aren’t you?’ I said.
‘Do you feel comfortable bringing your pet in here with this bunch?’ Susan said. ‘Does … uh … Risso bite at all?’
‘No, he’s very tame,’ Tush said. ‘I think it’ll be okay, so long as the children are gentle with him.’
‘What if he escapes and takes up residence under the floorboards?’ Lonnie said, shuddering. ‘I don’t want to get captured and turned into a pudding.’
‘Are you a little rat-phobic, perhaps, my dear Alonzo?’ I asked.
‘I’m just being practical,’ Lonnie said, but he skulked off looking unhappy.
The next day, Little Scamps had a visitor.
Tush kept him in her car until breakfast had been cleared away, then brought in his cage with a towel draped over it. ‘I need you all to stay very quiet and not to make any sudden movements,’ she said to the children. ‘I have a friend in here
I’d like you to meet.’
‘Is it a fairy?’ Mitzi asked.
‘Is it a Smurf?’ Ross asked. ‘I bet it’s a Smurf.’
Tush swept the towel away, and there, sitting on his hind legs and sniffing the air keenly, was a good-sized brown rat. The revelation was met with utter silence by the children, who didn’t seem to realize at first what they were seeing.
‘This is Risso the Rat,’ Tush said. ‘He’s around two years old, which makes him quite old for a rat – he can probably live until he’s three, so long as he doesn’t get hurt or sick. He is a Brown Rat, which means he is one of the most successful animals on the earth – did you know there are more brown rats on this planet than any other animal? Even people?’
The children were still completely silent, gazing fixedly at the cage and its occupant.
‘Can you take him out, Tush?’ Gus asked. ‘I wants to see him.’
‘No, leave it in its cage,’ Milandra said. ‘I don’ like him. He’s a fuckin’ creepy animal. My dad says rats is dirty and has d’seases.’
‘That’s true, Milandra,’ Tush said. ‘Wild rats do carry some diseases that are quite nasty, and their fleas – little insects that live in their fur – can have horrible sicknesses on them too. But, you see, Risso has never been in the wild. He was born in a pet shop, and I was given him as a present when he was still a baby. I make sure he gets all his injections and that he never has fleas or worms in his tummy, or anything that might make him ill. It’s quite safe to take him out and stroke him. But only if you want to.’
It was agreed by consensus that Risso would come out of the cage and that anyone who was afraid or uncomfortable could go outside with Lonnie (who volunteered for the task), while the others could play with him and ask more questions. Needless to say, Milandra, Mitzi and Julie chose to go out, while the boys and Tammy stayed to meet Tush’s friend.
Risso proved to be as gentle as Tush had said he was. The children outdid themselves in gentleness, too. The rat was passed around without the remotest hint of anxiety or calls for anyone to hurry up, and Tush was asked some very interesting questions.
‘What does he eat, Tush?’ Gilbert said.
‘Well, he’ll eat almost anything,’ Tush said. ‘But he prefers things like sunflower seeds and corn. He loves cheese, but I wouldn’t give it to him every day because he’d get fat.’
‘Just like Samuel Whiskers!’ Ross said.
‘Just like that,’ Tush said, keeping a watchful eye on how Risso was being handled.
‘He brainy?’ Jeffrey asked.
‘Very,’ Tush said. ‘Rats are reckoned to be almost as clever as dogs. When rats live in the wild, they spend their time in groups, a bit like dogs do, and every rat has a role and a job. Rats look after one another – they clean each other, they play together and they’re very clever at finding food. I’ve seen Risso there work out how to get the lid off a jar of nuts – it took him ten minutes or so to do it, but once he did it, he never forgot how. So he’s really clever.’
The kids were allowed to play with Risso for about half an hour, then Tush decided it was time he went back into his cage.
‘I’m going to leave him in the nature corner today,’ she said. ‘And I’m trusting you all to behave well around him. Risso is a living thing, so you have to be nice to him, just like you would to one another.’
We all got up from our chairs, and it was then that I saw Milandra standing in the doorway watching us.
‘You shouldn’ be havin’ childrens playin’ wit a dirty rat,’ she called.
‘We discussed this, Milandra,’ I said, walking towards her so we wouldn’t be shouting across the room. ‘Risso is not dirty. You kids have been talking about rats since we had the story at Hallowe’en. This was a chance to learn about them.’
‘I’m tellin’ my daddy.’
‘You do that,’ I said. ‘I have no problem with you telling your parents about anything we do here. There are no secrets at Little Scamps.’
I was purposely keeping my voice light and positive, even though I felt a coil of anger in my gut. From the moment I had met Milandra’s father, I had known this would happen – that I would be played off against him. Where there are behavioural problems, it’s essential that all adults show a united front around ch
ildren. Displaying antagonism and discord leads to even greater problems.
‘My daddy don’t like you,’ the child said. ‘He says you ôkùnrin ábökùnrinlò.’
‘I don’t know what that means, Milandra,’ I said. ‘You know I don’t speak Yoruba, sweetie.’
‘Iss a bad name,’ she said. ‘D’you like my daddy?’
I had been waiting for this, too. I’ve experienced similar conversations with children whose parents had abused them. ‘Do you think my daddy is a bad man for doing that to me?’ is a common question, and one that carries a lot of risk if one is not forewarned. The last thing you want to do when dealing with a child who is already confused and numbed from physical or emotional turmoil is insult their parents, even where that parent hurts their child on a regular basis. Blood is a powerful bond, and even children who are being brutalized continue to love their parents. Sometimes the appropriate response requires some verbal contortion.
‘I’m sure your daddy is a wonderful man,’ I said, smiling warmly.
‘You ’n’ him fighted when you brunged me home that day,’ Milandra said tersely.
‘Yes, we had some words,’ I said – she had been there, so there was no point in denying it, ‘but I know he was worried about you so I’m not going to be hurt or upset about it.’
‘He says you do bad work here.’
‘He’s entitled to his opinion,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s get ready for drama.’
She went with me to get the others, but I knew we were in for trouble. It was only a matter of time before it erupted.
I didn’t have to wait long. Drama was usually a period of unbridled fun where the children were encouraged to let their imaginations run riot. In the beginning I had directed the action by suggesting a story or theme for the kids to improvise around, but within a fortnight they began arriving into the crèche with their own ideas and issues to explore, and I saw that the most sensible thing to do was let them at it.
Today, of course, they wanted to act out the story of Samuel Whiskers. Except now he was to be called Risso Whiskers, in honour of our guest.
‘When we is done wit de practisin’ Tush can take him over and sit him on her knee to watch us,’ Rufus said. ‘Would dat be okay, Tush?’
‘I bet he’d love to see the play,’ Tush said.
There was no need to rehearse for very long. Tom Kitten had been climbing up chimneys and discovering under-floor kingdoms almost every day since we had told the story, and copies of the pictures from the book had been stuck on the wall around the dress-up area like a story-board so the children could refer to them at their leisure.
The kids had made masks for themselves – rats, cats and a dog-face for John Joiner, who was depicted in the book as a terrier – and they used brown and grey pieces of material to denote fur, tied about their shoulders as cloaks.
They followed the Tale’s plot loosely, but the dialogue could get quite creative, and on more than one occasion Tom (usually played by Ross) produced an imaginary gun and effected his own escape in a manner Quentin Tarantino would have admired. During another performance Samuel Whiskers and Anna Maria (played by Gus and Mitzi) decided to abandon the idea of a pudding, and just roasted the poor kitten as he was, allowing no time for an escape, cutting the story short. But, as Mitzi pointed out, the baddies have to win sometimes.
Since Mitzi’s vocal talents had emerged, songs were included in most activities. They bore little relevance to the action and tended towards 1960s pop – we were regularly treated to ‘California Dreamin’’ or ‘San Francisco’. The other children were remarkably indulgent of her, and even tried to sing along, even though they had never heard any of these anthems of peace, love and understanding before.
Milandra made her move during Mitzi’s solo. She had refused to get involved in the show, and was sitting between Tush and me, her arms folded across her chest in an almighty strop. Risso was perched on Tush’s knee, to all intents and purposes watching the drama just like the rest of us, his little black eyes fixed on the performers, whiskers twitching merrily.
Milandra waited for Mitzi to finish today’s musical choice, an utterly bizarre version of Bob Dylan’s ‘Mr Tambourine Man’ (it was word perfect, but the melody meandered between nursery rhymes, traditional Irish jigs and reels). As the child went into her now customary curtsy, Tush let go of Risso, upon whom she had a gentle hold, to clap. It was at that moment that Milandra grabbed and threw him across the room.
It seems certain she intended to smash poor Risso against the wall, but luckily he fell short. Tush did not react for a second, seemingly stunned by such wanton cruelty, but Tammy did. She had been standing at the side of the performance area, a kitten mask crooked across her forehead. As Risso soared over her head, Tammy moved with uncanny speed, and was beside him as he crash-landed on the floor. Seconds later, she was standing beside Tush, the rat trembling in her hands.
‘Thank you, Tammy,’ Tush said. She took her pet and put him back in the safety of his cage.
‘Okay, Missy,’ I said to Milandra, taking her gently by the arm. ‘You and I are going to have a little chat.’
‘You take your fuckin’ hand off me right now, ôkùnrin ábökùnrinlò!’
‘I’m just making sure you come with me and that you don’t make a dash for the door,’ I said. ‘And you are coming with me, Milandra. You can mark my words on that.’
I steered her into the office and sat her on the desk, so she could be seen from outside – I wasn’t having her saying I hurt her or did anything inappropriate, and I wasn’t at all confident that she was beyond making such allegations.
‘Milandra,’ I said. ‘That was a really, really mean thing you just did. Tush brought in her pet today so you could see it and learn about something new. Whether you like Risso or not, he belongs to Tush and he is a live animal, who can be hurt and frightened. You had no right to touch him without her permission, and you absolutely had no right to throw him.’
‘My daddy tole me a only good rat is a dead rat,’ Milandra shouted. ‘He said when he was growin’ up if they seed a rat, they squished it.’
I put my head into my hands. How was I supposed to work with this child when my efforts were consistently thwarted? What could I say to her, when she was simply acting on the wishes of her father? I had no idea, but I did know that I had to do something. Whatever she was being taught to do at home, there were some basic rules and boundaries at Little Scamps. One of those was that everyone – even rats – was entitled to feel safe. Neither Milandra nor her father was permitted to compromise that.
‘Tush explained very clearly to you, and I know you understood her, that Risso is not a wild rat, and therefore does not carry disease and is quite clean. Lots of people have pet hamsters, mice and gerbils, and they are all vermin, too, but I doubt you would have tried to kill one of those if Tush had brought one in.’
Milandra growled something in Yoruba, an expression of sheer hatred on her face.
‘You can be angry with me all you like,’ I said. ‘One thing we are allowed in Little Scamps is to own our feelings. It’s quite okay to be angry. It’s not okay to hurt anyone, and that includes pets. Now, I want you to think about what you just did. I’m going to make a space for you in the main room – you won’t be by yourself – and I want you to stay there until you feel you are able to join the group again without being mean or spiteful to anyone.’
‘I ain’t stayin’ anywhere,’ Milandra spat. ‘You can’ make me. I’ll get loose an’ I’ll smash the place.’
‘You won’t, because I won’t let you.’
‘I fuckin’ will, you sumbitch. I’ll fuckin’ kill you an’ all those udder rotten ol’ kids.’
I picked Milandra up and carried her, kicking and screaming a loud string of multilingual obscenity, into the main room. Holding her under my right arm, I used my left hand to place a chair in an unused corner by the front entrance. I sat her on it, then stayed while she made some futile attempts to bolt,
first in one direction, then another.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re going to stay here until you’re feeling better.’
‘I won’t! I fuckin’ won’t!’
She was practically hysterical. Finally she sat down on the chair, put her head on her knees and howled. I watched for a few minutes, then left her to rejoin the others.
‘Time out?’ Susan asked, referring to the method of behaviour management I was using. ‘Didn’t expect you to opt for that.’
‘Why?’ I asked, Milandra’s screeches punctuating the normal chatter of the room like a fog horn.
‘Not very politically correct,’ she said. ‘Smacks a bit of punishment, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m out of options,’ I said, watching Jeffrey and Gus playing an elaborate game with the toy cars and the model town. I was vaguely aware that my own voice was getting just a bit shrill. ‘I’m the first one to advocate reinforcing good behaviour rather than punishing bad, but what do you do when there isn’t any positive behaviour to reinforce? I can’t have her holding the place to ransom and then have a little chat with her in the hope she might decide to be nice. There have to be repercussions for her actions. And maybe by trying to talk her through what she’s done wrong, we’re actually rewarding her bad behaviour – we’re giving her undivided, one-on-one attention every time she acts out. Maybe some time on her own might be what she needs. Oh, Su, I don’t know. I’m struggling here.’
She gave me a hug and laughed – it seemed that Milandra’s conduct had somehow made her feel a bit better: the child’s reaction to everything was unreasonable.
‘Welcome to the real world,’ she said. ‘There is no harm whatsoever in trying to do it like the textbooks say, but the time always comes when you have to go old school.’
I sighed and rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand. ‘So why do I feel like shit, then?’
‘Because that’s how it feels sometimes,’ Susan said, and hugged me again. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. Maybe you will too, when you finish beating yourself up about it.’
