The Girl Who Couldn't Smile (10 page)

At three o’clock that afternoon I was in the office sifting through a mountain of notes the staff, and indeed some of the children, had written and placed in the Kindness Box – Tush had started referring to it midway through the morning as ‘the KB’ and it had stuck. I was utterly amazed at what had happened in Little Scamps that day. The box had proved powerful when I’d used it previously, but I’d held out no great hope for these children. I figured it might keep them going for perhaps a morning before they got bored and returned to all-out aggression. I had suspected some of them might behave themselves when one of the adults was close by, but continue their reign of terror when they thought no one was looking.

To my absolute shock, none of these things occurred. Instead, almost all of the kids went out of their way to outdo one another in acts of generosity, thoughtfulness and decency. I picked up a page at random. Written in Lonnie’s precise hand I read:
Rufus, when he put his fire engine away so Ross didn’t trip on it – Gus
. I picked up another.
I saw Tammy give the football to Julie so she could have a turn – Arga.
Another:
Jeffrey could have catched Milandra when we was 
playing chase, but he letted her go so she could still play
. It went on and on. There were at least forty messages. Things had gone off without a hitch. Almost.

For it to work, every child had to be represented in the KB, but this had been a far more challenging proposal than any of us had suspected. While kind acts were coming at Tush, Susan, Lonnie and me thick and fast, there were two individuals who doggedly refused to participate in all this unexpected goodwill: Milandra and Mitzi.

Milandra wasted no time in declaring to all and sundry that she was not going to be kind to no girly-arsed kids, and no one had better try being nice to her either so they could get some shitty prize. This did not dissuade her compatriots, as the notes had shown (although I did wonder if Jeffrey had decided not to catch her out of fear rather than any desire to do her a good turn), and I’d had to be extremely observant to spot any actions that might be suitable for entry in the KB. In the end, I settled on:
Milandra went a whole ten minutes without saying a rude word
. In fact, it was closer to eight, but I didn’t think rounding the figure up would do any harm.

Mitzi proved even more difficult. She had no argument with kindness in general, but believed all such activity should be directed in her favour – she had no intention of doing anything that benefited anyone else. This meant that her food snatching, sneak bullying and all-round nastiness continued unabated, accompanied, as usual, with a cloying smile. Sporadic monitoring throughout the day produced not one eye-witness account of her doing anything that came within an ass’s roar of basic human courtesy, let alone kindness. Hers was the only name not in the box. I picked up a blank card and a pen. I had to put something in that identified (and, hopefully, encouraged) some kindness in Mitzi. I chewed the end of the Biro, watching her through
the glass window. She was sitting at the very far end of the room, an old teddy bear lying face down across her knees. Everyone else was at the table, drawing pictures of Peter Rabbit, to be copied on to the wall in mural form. Mitzi had refused to join them, looking for someone to carry her over – a demand that was ignored. As I watched, she picked up the bear, looked at it with a dour expression, then gripped it firmly around the neck, clearly intending to rip its head off.

I knew from watching the children play that this worthy old bear was a particular favourite. Other toys had been torn, smashed or mangled but it had somehow been spared the worst viciousness. My heart dropped as Mitzi considered her act of butchery. A toy that managed to be so loved in a place like Little Scamps deserved better.

We sat there, Mitzi and I, she at one end of the room, me at the other, each locked in our private deliberations. Finally, as if she simply decided it wasn’t worth it, Mitzi tossed the bear aside, a look of disgust on her face, and began to pick her nose. Laughing to myself, I took up my pen again:
Mitzi: for deciding not to tear Old Man Bear’s head off
.

I didn’t know if this was a true act of kindness or an expression of laziness. And for once I didn’t care.

It wasn’t all sweetness and light that day. Mitzi’s desire to continue with her ill will seemed, at some points, almost like a vendetta, and even the children tired of it. I came into the entrance hall, a short passageway between the front door and the main activity room, at around eleven thirty to find Tammy sitting on the floor, Gilbert wrapped in her arms, sobbing loudly.

‘Hey, what happened?’ I asked, kneeling down beside them.

Tammy, of course, was silent. Gilbert finally blurted out: ‘Mitzi hurted me.’

I could see livid marks on his arm, the imprint of someone’s teeth. Mitzi, I knew, was an inveterate biter. ‘Okay, champ,’ I said, rubbing his back. ‘I think you’ll survive. It was a very mean thing to do, though, wasn’t it?’

Tammy continued to cuddle him, and when they finally returned to the group, she watched Mitzi very closely.

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.

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.