The Girl Who Couldn't Smile

by Shane Dunphy

  ‘See, this is your problem,’ I said. ‘You over-think everything. She’s not talking about marrying you, mate. She just wants to go out for a bite to eat, have a drink, maybe, see a movie. Would it be so weird for you to let your guard down and just have some fun once in a while?’

  ‘Maybe it is,’ Lonnie said. ‘Maybe I don’t know how.’

  ‘Well, you’d better learn fast,’ I said. ‘Because life is going to pass you by, and you’ll still be stuck in your little house on the mountain, with it falling down around your fucking ears, all by yourself. How do you like the sound of that?’

  ‘Millie would still love me,’ he said.

  ‘She really isn’t the smartest dog in the world,’ I agreed.

  33

  Making the map had achieved what we’d hoped, and given the children of Little Scamps a feeling of place and a sense of belonging. They were, without doubt, and for the first time, a unit. Christmas was to cement the new status quo in ways I could never have foreseen.

  The children were as excited about the approaching holiday as any other kids. The walls were hung with posters and images of Santa Claus, reindeer and sleigh-bells, and Arga insisted we get a tree. This was no great difficulty as Rufus’s dad, Bill, sold them from the back of a truck near the south end of the village. We all trooped down and there was great discussion about which was the most appropriate one for us. When the correct one was chosen – a surprisingly poor specimen, with huge patches devoid of foliage – Bill flatly refused to accept any payment.

  ‘Never would’ve sold that one anyway,’ he said. ‘Sorry-lookin’ yoke.’

  ‘That’s why we want it,’ Ross said. ‘It’s just right for us. We’ll make it look better. Wait and see!’

  The effort that was put into decorating the tree was something to behold. Arga declared that there were to be no decorations bought, we had to make all of them ourselves. We spent two days making paper chains, baking star-shaped gingerbread cookies, shredding tin-foil into our own glitter and cutting out cardboard angels, Santas and presents for the kids to colour in.

  When Gus and Arga, who seemed to be managing the decoration process, declared that there were enough adornments on the tree, Milandra noticed that there wasn’t an angel on top. ‘Ya gots t’ have an angel, everyone knows that,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t got one,’ Jeffrey said. ‘Want … me … draw … one?’

  Tammy went to the toy box. She returned with Old Man Bear, the oldest and most beloved toy in the crèche, which Mitzi had once considered decapitating. ‘Look what Tammy’s got,’ Milandra said. ‘Here’s our angel. Can we make clothes and wings for him?’

  The kids all agreed that Old Man Bear was, indeed, an ideal angel, and Susan thought she might be able to sew some beautiful clothes and wings for him. Tammy was soon glowing with all the praise she got for her idea.

  By home-time that evening, the tree had its angel. And it was, without doubt, the most perfect tree for our group.

  The Kindness Box was still a weekly feature of the children’s lives – something we now did on a Friday evening rather than every day, but still an item on the timetable to be looked forward to. There were usually only three children who wrote notes themselves: Milandra, Rufus and Ross. Gus could manage bits and pieces of writing, but nothing too challenging. Good deeds suggested by the other children had to be scribed by the staff, and after three or four readings of the box’s contents, I was able to recognize the etchings of each calligrapher.

  It came as a surprise when, one Friday near Christmas, I found a note in a strange hand among the others. It read, in a very neat but very tiny script: ‘Rufus – for making a lovely card for his friend.’

  I read the note to the group, and they applauded Rufus, who smiled and nodded, humility seeping from every pore.

  ‘Who did you make the card for, Rufus?’ I asked.

  ‘He made one for all of us,’ Milandra said. ‘We all gots one.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Who wrote this note, then?’

  Shrugs and head shakes all around.

  ‘Someone must have written it,’ I said.

  Still no one claimed it.

  I never found out who wrote that note – but I did see Tammy sitting in the corner, gazing at a home-made Christmas card. It was only later that it occurred to me that it might have been the only thing anyone gave her that year.

  Christmas is my favourite time of year – I’m an absolute sucker for everything that goes along with it. Generally I’m a musical snob, but at Christmas I tune into a cheesy station that plays carols and novelty Christmas pop non-stop, and listen pathologically. I believe that the true smell of fellowship and good cheer is the aroma of mince pies baking in the oven. I can’t get enough of it. In the complex world of childcare, however, Yuletide brings complications and difficulties. One of the problems wears a red suit and pilots a sleigh drawn by magic reindeer.

  The profound philosophical issue Santa poses for some childcare workers is the inherent deception central to his existence. The bitter truth is that there is no merry old elf flying at super-human (or should that be super-reindeer?) speed across our skies delivering presents on Christmas Eve. Many of our children get precious little in their stockings, and I’m always hyper-aware of that when discussing the Father Christmas myth. The expectation Santa fosters can be undeniably cruel. Yet there is also something irresistibly beautiful about the image. He is the universal personification of goodwill and charity. Some bemoan the loss of spirituality from the Christmas season – I find myself welcoming it. Not the ludicrous, orgiastic spending, but the democracy it creates: Santa should be non-denominational. Too many children of all races and creeds need him. If that has somehow sped Christmas towards the consumerist hell it has become, then so be it.

  The biggest issue I have with Kris Kringle, however, is my oath never to lie to children. About anything. This came to a head at Little Scamps as December wound towards its inevitable conclusion. Susan pulled me aside as I was laying out the breakfast things one morning, looking anxious.

  ‘I got a call from Jeffrey’s mother last night,’ she told me. ‘Apparently Mitzi told him there was no Santa during the bus ride home. He was very upset, but she’s managed to talk him down. We’re going to have to have a word with Mitzi. If the news gets out, we’ll have a riot on our hands.’

  ‘Mitzi’s been a lot better lately,’ I said. ‘I’m sort of surprised at her.’

  ‘In this instance, I blame her parents,’ Susan said. ‘Fucking hippies are so right on, they don’t even want to observe Christmas. When I called them about it, they informed me that, as far as they’re concerned, the season of goodwill is all a capitalist scam, designed to anaesthetize the masses.’

  ‘They’re entitled to their opinion,’ I said. ‘They might even be right.’

  ‘You can’t go around wrecking every other kid’s childhood because of some wacky left-wing nonsense you’re enamoured with,’ Susan snapped, and went to get the cereal bowls.

  The conversation began almost as soon as we had sat down for breakfast. Jeffrey was in high dudgeon, obviously feeling badly treated. Mitzi was uncharacteristically in a foul mood too. She usually hid her darker emotions under a sickly blanket of simpers and smiles. Not today.

  ‘Me talk,’ Jeffrey said, raising his spoon as soon as we were settled.

  ‘Go ahead, Jeff,’ Tush said. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Mitzi hurt me,’ he said.

  ‘Did she?’ Tush said. ‘Mitzi, do you want to tell us what happened?’

  ‘I did nothing,’ she said, looking quite hurt herself. ‘You say such bad things, Jeffrey the mongoloid. Bad, bad words.’

  ‘That’s a bad word, Mitzi,’ Tush said. ‘We do not use words like that at Little Scamps.’

  ‘You. Fat!’ Jeffrey said, jabbing his finger at her. ‘Tell me no Santy.’

  This last statement caused furore. All the children started speaking at once. I had to bang my spoon against my juice g
lass to get some order, and even then Gus continued to shout at Mitzi.

  ‘Gus, you have to wait your turn,’ I said. ‘Jeff is speaking now, and Mitzi deserves the chance to tell her side too.’

  ‘Her tell me no Santy,’ Jeffrey said again. ‘Make me cry.’

  Mitzi was playing with her breakfast. She had lost a lot of weight in the past few months and, though still overweight, was nowhere near the size she had been when I’d first met her. Her overall conduct had improved considerably, too, the casual sadism more or less disappearing. It was as if her instinctive musical flair had given her an identity – she didn’t need food to lift her spirits any more.

  ‘Mitzi, did you tell Jeffrey that?’ I asked.

  ‘My mam and dad say that,’ Mitzi said. ‘They say, “Mitzi, we don’t go for that crap.” No Father Christmas. No presents. Christmas Day same as any other.’

  ‘And it is quite all right for your mam and dad to believe that if they want to,’ I said. ‘But Jeffrey’s parents believe something different, and it’s also fine for them to celebrate Christmas and enjoy it in their way.’

  ‘There is really a Santa, isn’t there, Shane?’ Gus asked, looking at me with such worry and apprehension that I was frozen to the spot.

  Here was the question, the one I had been dreading. To lie or not to lie.

  ‘Well, isn’t it nice to think so?’ I said carefully, hating myself for using such cheap news-speak.

  ‘My older brudder tolded me there wasn’t no Santy, and my mam shouted at him good,’ Gus said sadly, picking up his toast. ‘But I wondered about it since then. What if there isn’t?’

  ‘What do you want to believe?’ Susan asked him. ‘In your heart, what do you think is the truth?’

  ‘I think it’s true,’ Ross said. ‘I even think I heard him once, the sound of them bells. I was half asleep, ’cause I tried to stay awake to get a look at ’im. Think I nearly did, too.’

  ‘I went to see him in the toy shop,’ Milandra said. ‘He smelt of cigarettes. I don’ tink it was the real Santa.’

  ‘Them ones in the shops ain’t real,’ Gus said. ‘Even I know that.’

  ‘Him real!’ Jeffrey said, almost hyperventilating with fury. ‘Mammy says!’

  ‘You know how we decorated the tree?’ I asked.

  Nods.

  ‘And you know how we’ve been singing carols and Christmas songs? And they make us feel so good and happy? Even Mitzi?’

  More nods.

  ‘And how we’ve read lots of Christmas stories and poems?’

  All eyes were on me.

  ‘For me, Christmas is about those feelings. It’s a time when people are all just a little bit nicer to one another. It’s a time when we all want to be with our families and the people we love, and when we try to think of how we can make those people really happy. And Santa is the person who we think of when we feel that way.’

  ‘Christmas is baby Jesus’s birfday,’ Milandra said. ‘My daddy said.’

  ‘Yes, it’s the time we celebrate Jesus’s birthday,’ I said. ‘And any of us who are Christian should be thinking about that, too. But I reckon most people, for right or wrong, think of Santa first.’

  ‘He’s right, y’know,’ Gus said, shaking his head like a little old man.

  ‘Now, if so many people can act better, and if this time of year makes us do good things, and feel warm inside, then I’m happy to believe in Santa, and in magic,’ I said.

  ‘So you believe in him, then?’ Gus asked hopefully.

  ‘I do,’ I said.

  And it wasn’t a lie.

  I decided to take one last stab at Tammy’s parents. I had drawn a complete blank with Kylie, so I decided to take Fiona Thomson’s advice and see if I might not be able to open up some sort of line of communication with Dale. He was a mystery to me. I had never really spoken to him and knew little about him other than that he had a moderate criminal record. Fiona had said he drank at a pub near the little estate where he lived, so one evening I took a spin out that way to see if I could find it.

  As a musician, I’m reasonably familiar with most of the hostelries near where I live, and I had heard of the pub that had to be Dale’s watering-hole – the Herring Gull – but had never been in there. It was a small, run-down place, set in the middle of nowhere. Dale must have walked the three and a half miles to it from his house – good for sobering him up afterwards, I supposed.

  I parked the Austin in one of the spaces outside the pub and went in. It was around seven o’clock and there was only one elderly man sitting at the bar supping from a large bottle of Guinness. The barman, a bearded man in his early fifties, looked up as I entered, seemingly surprised to see a new face. I doubted he got much passing trade – this was a local pub, if ever there was one.

  ‘I’ll have a Coke, please,’ I said. I noticed a dusty piano in the corner and flipped open the lid. It was reasonably in tune.

  ‘Me da left that,’ the barman said, bringing me over my drink. ‘Hasn’t been played in years.’

  ‘Mind if I keep myself amused for a few minutes?’ I asked. ‘We always had an upright piano at home when I was growing up, and I miss it.’

  ‘Can you play?’ the barman asked. ‘Every now and again one of the lads has one too many and starts clattering the keys, and it sounds bloody awful.’

  I played a gentle sequence of jazz chords. ‘That good enough for you?’ I asked.

  ‘Play on, young man,’ he said, gesturing at the instrument. ‘As it happens, there’s no one to disturb in here just now, anyway.’

  I’m not really a piano player. We did have an old Hohner upright in the living room when I was a kid, and I taught myself to vamp chords and knock out the odd melody, but it would be stretching the truth to say I’m accomplished. I enjoy messing about on the keys, though, and can usually get something approximating to music from my efforts.

  Ten minutes later the barman came back with another Coke. ‘On the house,’ he said. ‘You’ve a nice touch.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I grinned.

  ‘What brings you in here, if you don’t mind my asking?’ he ventured. ‘We don’t get a lot of strangers, particularly of a Monday night.’

  ‘I’m looking for someone, actually,’ I said. ‘Guy by the name of Dale?’

  ‘Dale Seavers?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’ll probably be in for one or two soon enough. Friend of yours?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘What’s he up to, these days? He working?’

  ‘No. And it’s a damn pity,’ the barman said. ‘He’s a talented mechanic. There isn’t a car on the road he can’t take apart and put back together again better than what it was.’

  ‘That a fact?’

  ‘It is. You sit tight. He’ll be in. Do you know “Sonny”?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  I played the old ballad for him, and even sang one or two verses. We were just finishing when Dale came in, grinning from ear to ear to hear the music. The smile dropped from his face rapidly when he saw who was behind it. He turned tail straight away and went right back out the door.

  ‘I thought ye were friends,’ the barman said, but I was already running after Tammy’s father.

  ‘Dale, come on, man, I just want a quick chat,’ I called.

  He was heading up the road, his head bowed, hands deep in his pockets. He stopped, turned and stalked back towards me. ‘What right have you to invade my privacy like this? This is my local, my place – don’t you ever come here again, d’ya hear me?’

  ‘I’ve tried going to your house, Dale,’ I said. ‘You’re either not there or you’re unavailable.’

  ‘I’m lookin’ for work,’ he said. ‘Goin’ out of me fuckin’ mind sittin’ round the house with Kylie.’

  ‘You’re a mechanic,’ I said.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Idle gossip,’ I said, smiling. ‘I hear you’re pretty damn good.’

  ‘I am,’ he said, pride starting to kick in.<
br />
  A thought occurred to me. ‘I’ve been getting a sort of knocking sound in my engine lately,’ I said. ‘Think you might take a look at it for me?’

  Dale scowled. ‘I don’t want no fuckin’ charity.’

  ‘Listen, I’m not about to offer charity when it comes to my vehicle,’ I said. ‘I’m fairly particular about it.’

  Dale looked over my shoulder at the Austin. ‘That’s yours?’

  ‘1981 Austin Allegro, third series, mint condition, all original parts,’ I said.

  He walked past me and looked at it, a smile spreading across his face. ‘You don’t see many of these any more,’ he said. ‘How does she run?’

  I unlocked the door and turned the ignition. The motor purred to life immediately.

  ‘I don’t hear no rattle,’ he said.

  I pushed my foot on the accelerator, and the banging could easily be heard.

  ‘I’d say that’s your drive shaft,’ Dale said, his hand resting on the bonnet. ‘But I’d have to have a quick look to be sure.’

  I switched off the engine and popped the bonnet.

  Dale reminded me of a musician in the way he touched the components of my car. As soon as he began to work on it, I knew my beloved Allegro was in good hands. I had a small tool kit in the back, but he told me any mechanic worth his salt should be able to work with a can of oil, a couple of screwdrivers and a wrench. He explained everything he did, and answered all my questions directly – I have very little mechanical ability but understood him easily. He was a good teacher.

  ‘How’d you learn about cars?’ I asked him.

  ‘Me da was a builder, but he was one of those fellas who could fix anything. He taught me a lot, and when I was fourteen I got a part-time job over the summer in a garage his brother, my uncle, owned. That was that. I knew I’d found me a job. Left school as soon as I could.’

  ‘Well, it’s good when you find what you love to do. Lot of people never do.’