The Girl Who Couldn't Smile

by Shane Dunphy

  I watched Milandra off and on for the rest of the day, but I should have been watching Tammy. In all the kerfuffle I had forgotten about her penchant for vengeance. She appeared to have taken Milandra’s abuse of Risso as a personal affront. I was attending to a towering Lego construction with Jeffrey and Julie when I heard what sounded like two cage fighters going at it. Whirling about, I was in time to see Tammy bludgeoning Milandra to the floor. I remember thinking, Milandra’s twice the size of her! But I didn’t have time for more than that because Tammy was kicking her victim in the head.

  Susan got to them first and picked Tammy up under her oxters – the child continued to kick the air, even after Susan had whisked her away. I picked Milandra up to see if she was okay, and received a smack in the ear.

  ‘I’ll fuckin’ kill that little bitch!’ Milandra howled.

  ‘She’s fine,’ I said, putting her back in her chair, where she started to bawl again – I couldn’t tell if it was in temper or misery. In retrospect, it was probably both.

  I would love to be able to report that Milandra cried for a time and then came back into the group having learned something about herself.

  Sadly, she didn’t.

  She screamed and screamed, then threw the chair at Julie, who happened to be walking past, almost taking the child’s head off. Susan restrained her for half an hour, before letting her go and informing her that she could come and play when she felt ready. Milandra stayed where she was.

  It should have occurred to me to take away the chair at that point and give her a beanbag instead, but I was engrossed in helping Arga and Gilbert paint a picture of Tom Kitten. And Milandra was very quiet for a while, so I assumed she had burned herself out and fallen asleep. I was wrong: she was plotting her next step.

  Music – in a more organized forum than Mitzi’s vocal stylings – had become a regular part of the programme since I had introduced the ukulele and ‘The Elephant Song’. The last period before lunch that day was music, and I tried to vary the instruments I brought in to keep the children’s interest up. Today I had my mandolin, and the children were armed with percussion instruments we had made – mostly washing-up liquid bottles filled with lentils, rice, chick-peas and any other objects that made a loud rattling sound.

  I’d found songs that either told a story or involved some form of progression worked best, so I had dusted off my collection of ballads and counting songs – anything that didn’t involve death, adultery or incest, more difficult than you’d think with folk music.

  I had, and by then it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise, discovered that songs with a rural or agricultural bent resonated with the children, which gave me a focus in my search for material. Pete Seeger had released several albums of game and activity songs back in the 1950s, and I had found them incredibly useful.

  On this occasion we were singing a song that had become a great favourite: ‘Fox Went Out On A Windy Night’. It dates back to at least the fifteenth century (a manuscript containing the lyric and some baroque notation from that period survives in the British Museum), and tells the story of a wily old fox who heads into town to steal a farmer’s geese and chickens. It has easy, repetitive choruses and plenty of characters for the children to enjoy, and as the story progresses, there are quiet sections (when the fox is in the pen with the birds), noisy ones (the farmer’s wife leaping out of bed), sound effects (the farmer blowing his horn to alert the neighbours that a fox is on the prowl) and so on.

  What I loved most about singing songs like this with the children was that they took them so seriously. While they were not all farmers’ children, they all knew farmers and had heard adults discussing the threat foxes posed to the local chicken population. Here was another example, just like Peter Rabbit and Samuel Whiskers, of a story they could grasp very easily and get involved in.

  So we were completely distracted when Milandra struck again.

  When I was singing with the children I conducted them by giving directions. Once we had done a song two or three times, this was hardly necessary, but I did it anyway, because I enjoyed it. We had reached the verse:

  John he ran to the top of the hill,

  Blew his horn both loud and shrill.

  The fox said: ‘I’d better flee with my kill,

  For he’ll soon be on my trail-o, trail-o, trail-o.’

  The fox said: ‘I’d better flee with my kill

  For he’ll soon be on my trail-o.’

  ‘He’s running up the hill now,’ I said, playing a tight tremolo on the mandolin to denote running footsteps. ‘Show me how he’d run up as fast as he can.’

  The kids – even Mitzi – jumped off their chairs and jogged on the spot, their home-made shakers giving off a great racket.

  ‘All right, now he’s blowing the horn – he wants to tell everyone that the old fox is on the loose and after their chickens and geese. Give me a loud, loud horn sound!’ I moved to high G on the mandolin and bent the string, giving a whooping, wailing note.

  The children all hollered – ‘Aaaoooaaah’ – putting their cupped hands around their mouths and marching up and down like soldiers.

  That was when Milandra chose to throw her chair through the glass panel of the front door.

  With all the other noise that was going on, the sound of the glass shattering and the metal legs of the chair clattering on the floor outside shouldn’t have been as loud as they were, but I jumped, Tush screamed and several children got such a fright they began to cry.

  Milandra stood where she was, a look of victory on her face. ‘Can I come back to the group now, you dirty fuckers?’ she asked.

  30

  The crèche was empty. I sat in the silent space and wondered what in the name of all that was good and holy I, or any of us, could do to get through to Milandra. I felt I had failed her and the rest of the children, as well. Little Scamps had become a pleasant place to be of late, but out of the blue Milandra’s rage had re-emerged, and it was not making for a very relaxed atmosphere. Gilbert in particular found such outbursts unnerving, and they brought out his latent violence, too. If we didn’t do something to stem the flow of aggression, I would have no choice but to take drastic measures – like admitting that Milandra had us beat, and requesting that her parents remove her from Little Scamps.

  That was a course of action I did not relish, mainly because I thought Milandra deserved better, but it also felt like I was admitting defeat to Tony. Hadn’t he said that I couldn’t control my charges? Maybe he was right.

  As it was, we had decided it would be best for Susan and Lonnie to bring her home as, once again, she was not safe to put on the bus. We reasoned that my presence would just aggravate things. I hoped Lonnie would give Tony a run for his money if they encountered one another.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Who the hell was this?

  ‘Yeah, come in,’ I called, unsuccessfully trying to hide the annoyance in my voice.

  The door swung open and Tristan Fowler came in. ‘Thought I’d drop by to see how you’re doing.’

  ‘I’m doing shit, thanks for asking,’ I said.

  ‘That good, eh?’ my boss and friend mused.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Fancy a pint? Tell me all about it?’

  ‘You’re on,’ I said.

  Maybe I did want a little company after all.

  I locked up and we drove to my place, parked the cars and went to my local. I talked about Milandra and her parents, the vitriol that seemed to hang about her, like a swarm of invisible insects – we couldn’t see it, but the hum and vibration were definitely detectable.

  Tristan considered my story. The pub was dark in the late winter evening, a fire burning in the hearth, a few people in for a quick glass of something on their way home from work. We each had pints of Guinness in front of us. I wanted a cigarette, but not so badly I would have killed for one. Which was an improvement.

  ‘What did I tell you about social-care work back when we firs
t met?’ Tristan asked.

  ‘You told me lots of things,’ I said. ‘You need to be more specific.’

  ‘You can’t approach any problem head on,’ Tristan said, pretending I had not spoken. ‘People – children – they’re not like that. You have to think your way around some kind of corner, most of the time.’

  ‘How do I do that with Milandra?’ I asked. ‘She tends to favour the head-on approach, as far as I can see.’

  Tristan took a deep swallow of his stout. ‘Does she? Do you think her actions today were really about rats? Come on, man – you’ve more sense than that.’

  ‘So what were they about, then?’

  ‘Okay, let’s treat it like a jigsaw puzzle. Help me to examine the pieces. What do we know about Milandra?’

  I counted the details on my fingers – they didn’t amount to much. ‘She’s five years old. Her mother, Felicity, is Irish, blond, very pretty, works part-time in an estate agent’s, as far as I know. Her dad, Tony, is Nigerian and is an executive at some sort of global communications company. Milandra speaks three languages I know of, but seems to favour her African heritage and Yoruba. I always get the feeling she speaks English to us because she has to. She has formed no real attachments at Little Scamps – if I had to name one person she looks to more than any other, I’d say Susan, but it’s a matter of degrees. Her parents seem to dote on her, although I got the impression Felicity is worn out with her, and that Tony might be encouraging her behaviour – he called her his “warrior” when I brought her home, as if he was praising her for raising hell. I was prepared to accept that her strop had been down to low self-esteem before that, but since meeting her parents and seeing how they are with her, I’m not so certain.’

  Tristan nodded. ‘It’s a complex one,’ he said. ‘Let’s try and break the issue down into its component parts. First, there could be a cultural element.’

  ‘She’s Irish, Tristan,’ I said. ‘Even speaks Gaeilge fluently, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You tell me her dad is raising her very much as an African princess. That her wish was to have a doll in her own image. I did some work in the UK among recent immigrants from Yoruba villages. Among their culture the most important thing is the survival of the parents, as the family – meaning the children – cannot survive without the parents being healthy. Often they will get the lion’s share of whatever food is available, to the detriment of the children. What if, in this instance, Tony is putting Milandra into the alpha female role, subjugating the mother, giving the child an unbalanced sense of entitlement?’

  I was confused. ‘Why would he do that? It doesn’t make sense in light of what you’ve just said.’

  ‘Because the child is so obviously his descendant. Felicity is white – she’s even blond, for God’s sake. Milandra is his line, the sign of his virility, his masculine power. The Yoruba value strength and dominance. He’s encouraging her to display that. She has learned to try to instil fear in those around her. What did Tony do when he met you? He went into your personal space, used his height to intimidate you.’

  ‘It worked!’ I laughed. ‘Look, all you’ve confirmed for me is that Milandra is learning her behaviour at home. That, my friend, is not cultural. I’ve known plenty of white parents encourage their children to be little shits. It still leaves me with the same question: how do I overcome the learned behaviour so she’ll settle down in the crèche?’

  ‘She’s of normal intelligence, you say, maybe even above normal.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Okay. What it comes down to is how well Milandra can understand the situation she’s in. At her age, she bases her concept of how she should behave on the conduct she sees around her. A five year old relies heavily on what she sees her parents and the significant adults in her life doing.’

  ‘And her parents are the most important significant adults in her life,’ I shot back.

  ‘Yes indeed, but as her care workers, you spend a huge amount of time with her. Some theorists, people like Piaget, for example, suggest that teachers can greatly influence a child’s moral development by giving them tasks that offer a chance to solve various problems and reach useful answers, rather than trying to indoctrinate them with patterns of behaviour. Get them to do the work for themselves, in other words.’

  Jean Piaget was a Swiss psychologist who had massively influenced our understanding of children’s intellectual development.

  ‘I thought I’d been doing that,’ I said. ‘We’ve been doing loads of activities that look at moral issues and discussing the ins and outs of them – hence all the Beatrix Potter stuff.’

  Tristan thought that one over. ‘Fair enough. Maybe your problem, then, is that Milandra doesn’t see herself as one of the group. Why should she adopt your code of behaviour if she isn’t really one of you?’

  I couldn’t argue with that. It was something I had considered but I had been unable to find a suitable way to address.

  ‘We’ve gone out of our way to make her welcome in the group,’ I said. ‘The birthday party was just one example. I can’t think of anything we haven’t done.’

  ‘Maybe you’re over-compensating,’ Tristan said. ‘If you treat her too nicely, single her out, it may make her feel even more vulnerable. Can you think of a piece of work that might involve the whole group, but still has individual pieces of activity, that might instil a sense of place and belonging for everyone?’

  I knew he had something in mind. ‘Tell me.’

  He did. And I thought it just might work.

  31

  I stood in Mulligan’s, a small supermarket and the main grocery store in the village, with Julie, Arga and Gilbert. The manager, a fat, moustachioed man in a suit that almost hid his outrageous paunch, was telling the children how long there had been a sales outlet at this location. Julie stood quietly, holding my hand, her tiny frame wrapped in a dark brown duffel coat. Gilbert, his blond curls encased in a red woolly hat with a white tassel, held my other hand. Arga was on Gilbert’s other side.

  ‘So, you see, there have been Mulligans in this village, on this very spot, selling reasonably priced groceries and select hardware products to the good people of Brony for nearly one hundred years.’

  Arga started to clap uncertainly so we all joined in. Mr Mulligan beamed from ear to ear, which made him look like a happy panda.

  ‘Do you know, I had no idea there was a school for handi— – for special – for children like that in the village?’ Mulligan said, as he walked us out.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘It’s very hard for parents to find a childcare place for kids with unusual requirements. What usually happens, like in the case of Little Scamps, is that the health services set up places specifically to deal with that need.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a wonderful idea,’ the large man said, beaming. ‘Aren’t they lovely little kids? And so well mannered.’

  ‘Mmm. They’re on their best behaviour, right now, but yes, they’re great,’ I said, grinning down at the trio of angelic faces.

  ‘You know, I had a cousin with – what d’you call it? He was like that little girl there.’

  ‘Down’s syndrome,’ I said.

  ‘That’s it. Sure it was a long time ago – I’m nearly sixty, would you believe?’

  I would have believed it, but I feigned surprise.

  ‘Well, he was around the same age as me. I used to play with him when my aunt came to visit. We were great friends. Then one day he was gone. I didn’t find out till years later that they’d put him in a home. I never saw him again.’ The big man looked at Julie with a soft expression. I could tell he was a long way away, recalling a childhood friendship cut brutally short. ‘You call in any time,’ he said, slapping me on the back so hard he nearly winded me. ‘And bring your friends there. If I can help you in any way, don’t hesitate to ask. Mulligan’s Groceries and Hardware Supplies has always been to the fore in helping out the local community.’

  I thanked him and led the children
across the street. I held up my phone, which had a fairly basic camera, and clicked a photo of the shop’s façade. Then I squatted so I was at the kids’ level.

  ‘I want you all to get a really good picture of the shop in your heads,’ I said. ‘Where is it on the street, first of all?’

  ‘Blisko pub, obok apteki,’ Arga said. ‘Near pub, next to …’ She stopped, trying to find the word. ‘… chemist.’

  ‘That’s right. And what colour is the outside?’

  Julie pointed to her trainers, which were bright yellow. The colours weren’t an exact match, but they were close.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, high-fiving her. ‘It’s yellow. And where is Little Scamps from here? How do we get back to it?’

  Gilbert turned to look back down the street. ‘That way,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘How far is it?’ I asked. ‘How long would it take me to find my way there?’

  ‘Short,’ he said. ‘Short time to get there.’

  ‘Would it be as long as, say, an episode of Zach and Cody?’ I asked, referring to a kids’ show of thirty minutes duration that they all watched. When children have only a cursory sense of time, it’s good to have something they can easily grasp to compare it to.

  ‘No. Not that long,’ Gilbert said.

  ‘All right, then, would it be as long as the ad break in the middle of Zach and Cody?’

  This was around three minutes, by my reckoning, and would tally with about how long we would have to walk if we went fairly slowly, and the kids rarely walked fast unless it was to get to the bathroom or to eat something.

  ‘Yeah, that long,’ Gilbert said, a vague smile breaking across his strange, beautiful face.

  ‘Well done, you lot,’ I said, getting the three of them in a group hug. ‘I’d like you all to remember everything we’ve learned, because I want you to put it all into the amazing map we’re going to make. Your part is going to be Mulligan’s Store, and I want it to be just the best, most amazing work you can do. You gonna do that for me?’