The Girl Who Couldn't Smile (11 page)

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 wrote 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.

Tush took the jar from Lonnie, who returned to foraging. ‘What’s in Marmite, anyway?’

‘It’s a yeast extract,’ I said, returning my attention to the much more sensible ingredients I had before me. ‘Some sort of by-product of the brewing process.’

‘Okay,’ Lonnie said, from the depths of the press. ‘I’ve got some pickled gherkins and an unopened jar of salad cream. Don’t either of you tell me we can’t do something with those!’

An hour later we were no further forward. Tush admitted she had never heard Milandra express a fondness for cakes of any sort. I wondered aloud if she had been raised on Nigerian desserts, and we spent another hour researching African food online. Other than fruit, the Nigerian diet seemed to focus almost exclusively on the savoury end of the gourmet spectrum. I did, however, come across a recipe for a very simple dish called Colour Cake, which seemed to be a basic Madeira mix with food colouring added. I was more or less set on this when Tush threw another spanner in the works.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘the kids are all so picky and difficult when it comes to eating, you’ll never keep everyone happy.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, closing the laptop. ‘I want to make a cake, not force them to eat broccoli.’

‘I know. I’m just pointing out that even very simple things can turn into an episode with our little angels.’

I sat back, the urge for a cigarette inserting itself into my skull like a drill.

‘Maybe if we made some small cakes with the Marmite and the gherkins in them …’ Lonnie said hopefully. ‘So the kids could just try them.’

I sat up suddenly.

‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘We’ll do a cupcake mountain.’

‘A what?’ Tush asked.

‘A cake that’s made up of lots of different fairy cakes. We can do half a dozen different flavours – or more, if you like.’

‘That way, everyone will find something they like,’ Tush said, seeing where I was going with the idea.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘We can do some of these Colour Cakes, but some chocolate, some vanilla, some strawberry …’

‘Some Marmite, some sardine …’ Lonnie said. I wasn’t sure he was joking.

As it turned out, he wasn’t. We did the cakes in three batches, as my oven had only two shelves. In one consignment Lonnie produced his off-the-wall creations. When they came out of the oven, they smelt distressingly good, and looked just like ordinary cakes. Lonnie proudly pointed out marmalade and pickle, anchovy and caper, Marmite (even Lonnie had to admit that he could not come up with a flavour combination that worked on that one, so had decided to allow the central ingredient to speak for itself), and Nutella with onion. Tush and I nodded approvingly, and went back to decorating the others with butter icing, hundreds and thousands and chocolate sprinkles. The finished articles looked delicious, so I boxed them up and set them aside for Monday’s festivities.

When Tush had gone, Lonnie and I took Millie for a walk in the fading evening light.

‘You and Tush getting friendly, mate?’ I asked, as we strolled through the village.

‘I suppose we are,’ he said. ‘It was her idea to meet up.’

‘Did you think that maybe she hadn’t intended to spend the afternoon with me too?’

Lonnie shrugged. ‘Why not? You’re my friend.’

‘Yeah, and I can’t help but wonder if Tush hadn’t planned on you and she getting to … uh … to know one another better. Do you get what I’m saying?’

‘Yeah, well, of course …’ Lonnie spluttered. ‘Actually, no. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

We climbed a gate and followed the by now galloping Millie across a field peppered with bluebells.

‘I’m saying I think Tush likes you.’

‘Well, I surely like her. Don’t you?’

‘Of course I fucking do, Lonnie, but I think she
likes
you.’

‘You’ve just said that.’

I stopped and looked him dead in the eye. ‘I think she wants to be your girlfriend. And if you try to dodge that by pretending to be stupider than you actually are, I’ll strangle you and leave you for the buzzards.’

Lonnie snorted and continued to walk after the dog – a vague black smudge at the other end of the field. ‘Don’t be daft. Why would Tush want to be with a creature like me?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m as puzzled about that as you are. But I suppose it might have something to do with the fact that she thinks you’re smart and funny and confident and, Christ, maybe even a bit good looking.’

‘Shag off,’ Lonnie said. ‘You’re not making sense.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Tush is beautiful, that’s why.’

‘And a beautiful girl could never be even slightly interested in Lonnie Whitmore?’ I shot back.

‘A beautiful girl is never going to be attracted to a dwarf,’ he said.

‘I gotta tell you, Lonnie, I think you’re wrong,’ I said. ‘Tush is into you, and if you’d just open up, you might see I’m on the money.’

Sonya Kitchell was stick thin with long, Joni Mitchell-style straight ash-blond hair hanging halfway down her back. She was dressed in flared blue jeans and a mustard yellow woollen jumper. It was eight in the morning, and I knew the children she worked with in her crèche, Tiny Flowers, would be arriving within the next half-hour.

‘I’m not sure I should be talking to you at all,’ Sonya said, squinting at me over the top of her mug of camomile tea.

‘A simple phone call would have verified who I am,’ I said. ‘And I’m not asking for anything terribly confidential or sensitive. I’m simply trying to establish how Tammy ended up in the state she’s in now – chart the trajectory of her behaviour, if you like. I thought you might be able to help.’

‘It’s not really normal for a man to work in a playschool.’ Sonya sniffed.

‘What’s normal got to do with anything?’ I asked, trying to sound light and conversational, even though she was beginning to annoy me. ‘Look, Sonya, we’re on the same side here. I want to help this little girl. Do you want to help me do that? Because I can go and you need never see me again. I can request a full written report through Social Services, which
will take up much more of your time. You don’t want to do it that way any more than I do.’

‘S’pose not,’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Tammy was around two years old when she started coming to Tiny Flowers,’ I said. ‘According to her file, her placement here was requested by Child Services. I’ve been told that in many ways Tammy was very bright, maybe even a bit advanced for her age, except in terms of speech. What was her behaviour like when she found herself among other children?’

‘Initially she was very distant,’ Sonya said. ‘But that is hardly unusual when children first come to an early-years setting. I thought she’d settle down in a day or so.’

‘Did she?’

‘No. She resisted every attempt my staff and I made to involve her. All she wanted to do was perch in the book corner and flick through the books. When we brought her back out to the group she at first ran away, then turned on the other children. She spent a lot of time sitting in the time-out chair, let me tell you.’

‘What did you do to try and manage her behaviour?’

‘Time out.’

‘Anything else?’

‘That’s the method we use here.’

I nodded. ‘Did you see any improvement?’

‘She is an incorrigibly ill-mannered little girl. Her behaviour proved too disruptive for the other children. And her aggression became far more pronounced. She put little Luke Hancock in the hospital – broke his nose! I can’t have that in Tiny Flowers. That’s not what we’re about.’

‘Do you have any thoughts on what might be causing Tammy’s anger?’ I asked. ‘I mean, it’s not what you’d call standard behaviour for a child of her age.’

‘Her parents refused to come in and talk to me about it,’ Sonya said. ‘I did talk to Fiona, the social worker, on one occasion, but she just said there were some problems within the family. It’s not my job to investigate such matters. I asked for Tammy to be moved – and, thankfully, she was in the end.’

I grinned, although I felt no real warmth for Sonya. I could understand that Tammy had made her life quite unpleasant for a while, but I felt she had done very little to help the child. ‘Anything else that might help?’ I asked.

‘That little girl belongs in an institution,’ Sonya said. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to trot along now. I think I hear the bus outside.’

‘Well, thanks for your time,’ I said.

I had a picture now, at least, of where Tammy had come from. I just wasn’t sure it helped me very much.

Tammy and Arga were fighting like tiny Tasmanian devils. The only thing I could think to do was to scoop the pair of them up and carry them away from the rest of the children – who were not behaving much better that morning: the weekend seemed to have killed some of their ardour for the KB. In fact, the atmosphere in Little Scamps that morning was not one bit pleasant – I feared we were balanced on a knife-edge, but clung to the belief that Milandra’s impending party might set things back on track.

I hauled the two scuffling children down to the reading area, where we had a circle of beanbags, and unceremoniously dumped them on the large, soft cushions. Arga immediately went for Tammy with her hands bared like claws, and I was forced to get between the pair, receiving a nasty scratch across my forehead for my trouble.

‘Okay, you two,’ I said, my voice firm. ‘That is absolutely enough.’

Tammy made a kind of hissing sound and tried to barge past me to get at her antagonist, and Arga screeched something in rapid Polish: ‘
Wyrwę sobie oczy, ty suko!
’

‘I’ll tear out your eyes, you bitch,’ Lonnie called, from the dress-up corner, where Mitzi was stationed, trying on outfits for the party – she’d said she wanted to look beautiful, and who were we to argue?

‘I don’t want you talking like that, Arga,’ I said.

She snarled at me like a wild dog, then folded her arms in a huge sulk.

‘Look at the pair of you,’ I said, sitting down between them. ‘We’ve got a party coming up later on. You don’t want to be fighting for that, do you?’

Tammy looked at me, wide eyed. I found it interesting that, while Arga seemed genuinely upset by the altercation, she appeared to view it as a sort of science experiment. She seemed interested to see what might happen next.

‘Now I want you both to say sorry,’ I said.

‘
Nr!
’ Arga bellowed.

‘No,’ Lonnie translated.

‘I think I got that one, Lonnie,’ I called back.

‘What do you need me for?’ my friend retorted. ‘You’re practically fluent.’

Tammy sat watching us.

‘If you apologize, you’ll both feel better. How can we have a party if everyone is trying to kill everyone else? That’s no good.’

‘
Uderzyła mnie!
’ Arga seethed.

‘She hit me,’ Lonnie interjected. ‘Or had you worked that one out too?’

‘Tammy, did you hit Arga?’ I asked, looking down at the tiny blond child.

She stared at her grimy, scuffed trainers, playing with one of the laces, twirling it about her finger.

‘Did you, Tam?’ I pressed. ‘You know that’s not a good thing to do.’

With lightning speed, Tammy let loose with a remarkably powerful punch to the bridge of my nose. It felt as if I had been kicked by a Shetland pony: tears sprang to my eyes and my hand flew to my face.

‘Oh,’ Arga said, pointing at Tammy, who sat right where she had been, watching my reaction with keen interest. ‘
Jesteś teraz w tarapatach! Jesteś zła, zła dziewczyna
.’

‘She’s giving out to her,’ Lonnie said, wrestling with Mitzi, who was trying to eat a glove. ‘Fill in the gaps yourself.’

I was hurt and annoyed. In my career in social care, I have been thumped, battered, kicked, burned and spat upon in just about every way imaginable. I do not resent it – it is very much a part of the job, and I am prepared to write it off against all the very powerful benefits the career offers. That said, I have never got used to being walloped in the face. I certainly don’t like it, and I was in no doubt that, this time at least, I had not deserved it. I had not been rude to Tammy, my tone had been neutral and understanding – I had not even been cross with her.

I knew that if I stayed where I was, I would say something to the child I might later regret or, at the very least, have to apologize for, so I scooped Arga up in my arms and left Tammy where she was.

‘Let’s go and play with the doll’s house,’ I said, as we crossed the room.

‘
Wszystko w porządku?
’ Arga asked, stroking my cheek gently.

I had no idea what this meant, but I did as Lonnie had suggested, and filled in the gaps. ‘I’m fine, honey. Yes, she did hurt me, but I’ll survive.’

‘
Ona jest zła dziewczyna
.’

‘Maybe she’s just having a bad day,’ I said.

I sat Arga on a chair in front of the rather bruised doll’s house we kept in a part of the room I was starting to think of as ‘Lilliput’ – there was a model of a town, some toy cars, a farm with plastic animals and the aforementioned house. Susan had told me that it was something of an antique, donated by a local woman whose children had grown up and moved away. She had said she wanted it to go to people who would love it as much as she had. Either the poor woman had not really liked it or she had made a mistake: the house looked as if it had been hit by a severe tornado, which was pretty close to what had happened since its arrival at Little Scamps.

Arga was looking at me with such concern on her little face that I had to laugh.

‘Do you understand a word I’m saying to you?’ I asked, brushing her hair back from her forehead.

She gazed back, frowning.

‘Say … sorrrry …’ she said.

I had no idea if these were the first English words she had ever spoken, but they were the first I had heard her say. I hugged her tight. ‘I wonder if anyone ever said sorry to you. Because the world hasn’t always been a nice place for you, has it?’

‘Say sorrrry,’ she said again, pressed into my chest.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Arga. Thank you.’

‘Thanks … joo,’ she said, looking at me with grave seriousness.

‘Come on,’ I said, turning her to look at the house. ‘Let’s have a game. What shall we play?’

‘
Księżniczka!
’ Arga said, clapping her hands.

I couldn’t see any blank to fill in for that one, but Arga helped me by picking up a doll that was dressed like a princess,
and began a commentary in Polish as the doll moved about the house. I watched her, trying to follow the story she was attempting to tell me. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Tammy, standing a little away from us, watching closely. I was tempted to call her over, but was reminded by my smarting nose of why I had moved in the first place. I decided to ignore her, and see what happened.

Nothing happened.

Arga continued playing her game, occasionally handing me a doll and directing me through mime or gentle pushing in what she wished me to do with it. After twenty minutes or so it was time for outdoor play, and Arga, her scuffle forgotten, hugged me quickly and shot out of the door with the others. Tammy remained standing where she was.

‘Time to go out now, Tam,’ I said.

She gazed at me, unmoving.

‘You mad at me?’ I asked.

A curt nod.

‘Well, if anyone has a reason to be angry, it’s me. You hurt me quite badly.’

Tammy ran over and hugged my legs. My heart melted. I picked her up and gave her a cuddle.

‘That’s your way of telling me you didn’t mean it, isn’t it?’ I asked her.

Another nod.

‘Will we go outside now?’

She shook her head.

‘So what do you want to do?’

She pointed at the books in the reading corner.

‘You want a story?’

Nod.

‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll read you a quick one and then we’ll go outside to play. How’s that?’

Tammy agreed, and we sat down among the beanbags again.

‘What do you want to read?’

Tammy handed me one of my own favourites –
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
by Eric Carle. It’s a wonderfully simple tale of a caterpillar that comes out of his egg one Sunday, spends the week eating his way through various different foods, after which he spins a cocoon and turns into a butterfly. The story is, of course, about growing up and the changes everyone goes through, but the illustrations are so beautifully rendered and such fun that children and adults alike disappear into it effortlessly.

I opened the first page, which featured a chunky, multicoloured image of the eponymous caterpillar and the book’s title. I was about to read it when a thought occurred to me.

‘You know,’ I said, Tammy snuggled up against my arm, ‘in storybooks, the pictures often tell us what the words mean.’

Tammy’s eyes were fixed on the picture. She jabbed the page with her finger as if to say, ‘Come on, read it!’

‘I’ll bet you can’t show me which word says “caterpillar”,’ I said.

Tammy looked up at me, an odd expression on her face – she was trying to read
me
. I just smiled innocently. Come on, Tammy, I thought. Show me what you can do! Without pausing, she pointed at the correct word. I felt my heart begin to beat a little faster.
She could read!
This child who, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be intellectually disabled might in fact be gifted. I reminded myself that picking out one word did not a competent reader make.

‘That’s absolutely right, Tammy,’ I said gently. ‘Well done.
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
. That’s what this book is called, isn’t it?’

She nodded, but I thought I detected suspicion in her
demeanour now. I turned the page and looked at the text. I didn’t read it: ‘In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf.’ The accompanying picture showed a richly hued nighttime scene, with a delicate-looking, semi-transparent egg perched on a broad, curved leaf.

‘Which word says “moon”, Tammy?’ I asked.

Her eyes on my face, a look of sullen rebellion on her own, Tammy put her finger on the word ‘egg’ and tapped it three times. I almost laughed. Something told me that if she really was unable to read, and the success of our first try had been a happy accident, she would have chosen a different word. The one that had the most letters in it, and therefore stood out (as ‘caterpillar’ had) was ‘little’. ‘Egg’ had fewer letters, but was the other subject of the sentence. Tammy, I firmly believed, was playing with me. But I couldn’t prove it, and she was telling me very clearly that she was not going to read for me any more, that day at least.

‘Why don’t I just finish the story and we can go outside?’ I said.

And that was precisely what happened.