The Girl Who Couldn't Smile (9 page)

‘Okay.’ I laughed. ‘This is the last bus to Little Scamps from the Enchanted Wood tonight. I hope you have a ticket.’

Tammy grunted, which I assumed meant ‘Yes’.

‘Let’s go, then.’

And off I went at a trot.

When we got back to the crèche I got the little girl a change of clothes from the spare sets we kept in case of emergencies, then made us both a ham and cheese omelette. When we had eaten, I dug out Tammy’s file and found her mother’s telephone number. It was a quarter to nine, a good five hours after Tammy usually arrived home, and I had a lot of explaining to do.

I sat in the office, watching the child as I waited for my call to be answered. She had taken up her position in the book corner,
Peter Rabbit
propped open in her lap. She was poring over the first page, her finger following one of the lines of text almost as if she was reading it. I smiled. Children let the adults around them know they’re ready to read by mimicking reading behaviour – I had seen children I had worked with previously ‘reading’ to their dolls and teddy bears, reciting the stories their parents had read to them, or even making up new ones.

The call rang out. I tried again. And again. Kylie had not set up the message minder or voicemail on her mobile, so I couldn’t even leave the news of Tammy’s whereabouts on that. There was no number for Tammy’s dad so I decided to just bring her home. I called Lonnie first.

‘Lonnie, it’s Shane.’

‘So it is. You made it down out of the tree, I take it, or am I speaking to you from atop the canopy?’

‘I’m back at Little Scamps, which you very well know because the number will have come up on your phone.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘Did you, by any chance, take a run by my place to check on Millie?’

‘She’s right here beside me. Would you like to say hello to her?’

I heaved an inner sigh of relief.

‘No. She has a terrible phone manner. Next question: did anyone call Tammy’s parents?’

‘Of course they did. Su spoke to her mother.’

‘Su?’

‘Yes. She likes to be called Su.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You just don’t communicate with your staff.’

I was starting to think he was right. I had been so taken up with sailing in and saving the day I had all but forgotten about establishing relationships with my fellow staff members. Lonnie, in his funny, self-effacing way, had won just about everyone over. Now that Tammy was safe and I was back in the relative safety of Little Scamps, I felt unspeakably ashamed of myself. ‘Look, I know I’ve been a dork, Lonnie. I’m sorry, mate.’

‘You don’t deserve me. Or Tush and Su. Or Millie, for that matter.’

‘I know. Look, what did Kylie say?’

‘As I remember, Su reported that the bitch was already half cut and didn’t give a fiddler’s fuck. But I’m just paraphrasing.’

‘Great. What am I supposed to do?’

There was silence for a moment. Then: ‘You take her back
to her family, and we deal with it in the morning. Listen, Shane, Little Scamps is ultimately Tristan’s responsibility. Maybe we should be talking to him about things. The situation in the place is … complicated, to say the least. I mean, let’s face it, Tammy is not in a good place and Mitzi – that kid is fucked up, man.’

‘Is that your professional assessment?’

‘You’re the guy with the letters after his name,’ Lonnie shot back.

‘I’m going to take this little one home, then, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I assume it’s okay if Millie sleeps over?’

‘We’re already in our jammies and are about to put on facemasks and do one another’s hair.’

‘I thought so.’

‘All right, then – drive safely.’

‘I will. And, Lonnie?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks for everything today. You had my back, even though I didn’t always have yours.’

‘Heavy is the burden carried by the manager, my friend.’

‘You can say that again.’

He didn’t. He hung up.

I have not been blessed with a natural sense of direction, and even though I had been out to Tammy’s home once before, I had not been driving and therefore hadn’t been paying very close attention to the route the bus took. It therefore required several attempts, and some prompting from Tammy in the form of nods, grunts and pointing, to find my way to the odd little semicircle of houses adjoining its tidal swamp.

A half-moon hung amid scudding clouds in a sky pockmarked with glistening stars as I carried the tired child up to the front door. The wind hissed and whispered through the high reeds, and bats dive-bombed insects that clustered around a skeletal tree near the low wall.

By the coast, the air was even colder and heavy with mist, and I was anxious to get Tammy, tough nut though she was, out of the elements. She’d had enough adventures for one day – and I knew I had.

As I had feared, repeated knocking did not elicit a response. Through a glass panel beside the door I could see a light down what I presumed to be a hallway, but I was painfully aware that this did not mean anyone was at home. Kneeling down, Tammy still under my arm, I called in through the letterbox:
‘Hello, it’s Shane, from Little Scamps – I have Tammy here, and she really could do with getting to bed!’

Deeply frustrated and getting annoyed again, I hammered on the door. I heard the booming echo throughout the rooms, but it died away and we were left only with the whooshing of the wind through the bushes and whin trees behind us.

‘I don’t think anyone’s in there, Tam,’ I said at last, feeling utterly deflated.

The child shook her head in what might have been pity, hopped off my hip, reached down under the grimy doormat and took out a key. She handed it to me, motioning at the lock with a knowing nod.

‘I don’t think I should just go on in,’ I said wearily. ‘It’s not my house.’

Tammy hopped up on to the plastic chair I had seen her use before, and held out her hand for the key.

I passed it to her.

A second later we were inside. I knew as soon as I was standing in the hallway that the house was not empty – it didn’t have that edgy, uncomfortable feeling empty houses have. Tammy took my hand and led me down the hallway. The place smelt of cigarette smoke and cheap beer, like pubs used to before the smoking ban. Somewhere above us I could just make out the American punk band Green Day playing on tinny speakers – the song, I knew, was called ‘Basket Case’. It seemed appropriate.

The room at the end of the hall was a kitchen and Kylie, Tammy’s mother, was propped up at a rickety table, a can of lager in front of her, a cigarette burned down to the butt smouldering in her hand. She was asleep. Tammy patted her elbow and she stirred into awareness.

‘I’ve brought Tammy home,’ I said, when her eyes were focused on me.

‘She’s late,’ Kylie said shakily. ‘She missed her dinner.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘I fed her before we drove out.’

‘I know you,’ the woman said, her eyes narrowing. I recognized the expression – Tammy used it sometimes.

‘Yes. We met out at the lake that day. I found Tammy in the water and brought her to you.’

‘Oh – yeah. You want your towel back?’

I had to smile at that. ‘No. Please accept it as a gift.’

She snorted. ‘Needs a wash, anyway.’

There wasn’t much to say to that. I tried to assess the situation: Kylie was drunk, but far from incoherent, and it seemed likely that Tammy would be going straight to bed anyway. I didn’t think much could happen to her between the time I left and her arrival at Little Scamps the following morning. I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and said my goodbyes.

‘I’m going to head on,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Tammy. Apologies again, for keeping her so late today.’

Kylie dismissed me with a wave, and took a hefty gulp from her can. I left the two of them in the kitchen, and went back out to my car, feeling I might murder someone for a cigarette and wondering if I had made a bad day even worse by abandoning Tammy to the tender mercies of her mother.

I slept little that night, tossing and turning, the events and revelations of the day going round and round in my head as the hours dripped by. At five thirty, the sun already fully over the horizon, I showered and dressed and, a travel mug of coffee in hand, went out to the Austin.

I knew Tristan Fowler to be an early riser, and felt Lonnie’s suggestion that I consult him was a sound one. His house was a half-hour drive away, and with no traffic on the road in the early morning I made it in twenty minutes.

As I had suspected, Tristan was out the back of his property, in the field where he kept his small collection of livestock. He had some chickens, a donkey and a couple of goats, and as I approached he was scattering seed for the clucking birds.

‘You’re up and about unusually early,’ he said, when I leaned on the fence he had constructed to keep the animals in.

‘Maybe I’ll catch a worm,’ I said.

‘Maybe you will. How can I help you?’

‘All is not well at Little Scamps,’ I said. ‘Actually, it’s pretty shit.’

‘Tell me.’

I explained about the events of the previous day, how badly things had gone, and how I felt I had only aggravated things. ‘I’m going to be absolutely honest, Tristan,’ I finished. ‘I think I’m the wrong man for this job. You should have picked someone else, because it looks to me like I’m going to run that setting into the ground if I’m allowed to continue as I am.’

Tristan had finished with the hens and was pouring some feed from a bucket into a kind of trough for the goats.

‘What are you saying, Shane?’ he said. ‘Do you want to throw your hat at it? Come back to Drumlin?’

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘This is really not my area. I’m not good at it.’

‘And what do I do with Lonnie? Will he come back with you?’

I sighed.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. ‘Do I detect some dissent?’

‘No. Yes. I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I’ve been having some … issues, I’d suppose you’d call them.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Seeing Lonnie working at Little Scamps – and doing very well, might I add – hasn’t been easy for me.’

‘Why do you think that is?’ Tristan asked.

‘I don’t know. It’s weird.’

‘How so?’

‘I think I’m jealous.’ I said. ‘And maybe even a little resentful.’

Tristan nodded. He opened a small gate in the fence and came out to me. ‘Lonnie Whitmore has made a transition not a lot of people make,’ he said, walking slowly back towards the house. ‘When he came to us, it was as a member of our client group. And while many might suggest that it is not politically correct to say so, the truth is that when we found him in that house, he
needed
to be a part of the client group. When I was certain he no longer needed help in that way, I began to give him responsibility and offer him tasks that suited a care worker at the unit, and I got him some training. I’m glad I did. I think he might be quite a talented worker.’

‘He is,’ I agreed glumly. ‘He might be better than me.’

‘Perhaps,’ Tristan said. ‘I know Lonnie’s your friend, but you have to admit that, in the beginning, he was sort of a project for you.’

‘That’s a hard thing to say,’ I said, feeling quite wretched.

‘Indeed. But it’s true,’ Tristan said. ‘Here was a case the like of which you had never seen before, and you were fascinated. I wondered, back at the beginning, if I should warn you off.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

Tristan pondered. ‘I thought you might help one another.’

That knocked me for six. ‘How so?’

‘Loneliness runs both ways.’

We walked for a few minutes in silence.

‘I mean it,’ I said at last. ‘I’m advising you leave Lonnie right where he is, and take me back to Drumlin. I’ll be more use where I’m comfortable.’

‘I’m not going to do that,’ Tristan said.

‘Why the hell not?’ I asked. ‘I’m handing you my
resignation
!’

‘And I’m not accepting it,’ Tristan said. ‘You’re finding the job much tougher than you expected. You’ve discovered that working alongside Lonnie and seeing him flourish and spread his wings is difficult too. Drumlin offers a protective bubble – the challenges of running a busy crèche can magnify existing problems.’

‘That’s for bloody sure,’ I said sulkily.

‘And have you considered that your jealousy or resentment is not necessarily just because Lonnie’s doing well but because others are seeing him as you have – as a person – and you’re protective of that? You and Lonnie have a bond. Sometimes it’s intrusive to let other people in on that.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Maybe.’

Tristan nodded sagely. ‘Go into work today,’ he said. ‘I know you have plenty of ideas as to how you can sort out the issues in Little Scamps. Put a couple into action. Be proactive.’

‘I’ve tried to be. I’m just alienating the staff and driving the kids to distraction.’

‘Grow up, Shane,’ Tristan said. ‘Talk to your people. Ask them, don’t tell them. If something you’ve tried doesn’t work, adjust your technique. Look to the individual needs of the children, then try to respond to them. Come on, man, you’ve been doing this work a long time. You’re getting a bit long in the tooth to be throwing temper tantrums.’

‘Well, thanks for your sensitivity and understanding,’ I said.

‘Shane, I am very, very fond of you,’ Tristan said, grabbing me in a bear hug. ‘But sometimes, you can get just a little caught up in navel-gazing.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I think.’

I arrived at the crèche early and spent an hour rearranging furniture in the main playroom. Everything had been taken out to facilitate the painting project, and for the past two days we had lived in the kitchen and the outdoor area. Now I felt we needed somewhere as a central operating point again. Anyway, we didn’t require quite so much space to work on the murals – they didn’t pose such a risk of paint-splatter and spillage.

On my way to work I had stopped at a twenty-four-hour supermarket and bought a couple of boxes of good breakfast cereal, some bread and a few cartons of juice. I also picked up some card, sticky tape and markers. I was ready for the day, and felt slightly better about myself – at least I was being proactive.

I explained my plans to Susan, Tush and Lonnie when they arrived, and they all agreed to give my ideas a go. While yesterday’s débâcle had presented us with some challenges, they were not so great we hadn’t been able to deal with them – Susan said I deserved a chance to redeem myself. And, of course, my latest scheme posed no threat to life or limb.

When the bus pulled up outside, the tables had been set for
breakfast. A large brightly coloured box with a slot in the top and a pile of brightly coloured cards sat in the middle among the plates of toast and jars of jam and marmalade.

The kids stood in their tight cluster when they came in, faced for the third day running with a major change. We had discussed as a staff group that we could not keep presenting them with such overwhelming upheavals – the stress would do more harm than good. I assured my colleagues that this would be the last. And I had a very good reason for it, anyway.

‘Tammy gets no lunch, other than the one we provide,’ I said, ‘and she’s not getting breakfast either. That means the first food she’s consuming every day is around twelve thirty in the afternoon. How can we possibly expect her to learn anything when she doesn’t know where the next meal is going to come from?’

‘She knows we’ll feed her,’ Tush said. ‘We always do.’

‘Have you ever talked to her about it?’ I asked. ‘Reassured her?’

‘No. I didn’t want to embarrass her or anything.’

‘I know you didn’t,’ I said. ‘Look, you’ve been doing a great job – the food you’re giving the child is probably what’s keeping her going. I just think we need to formalize it a little. And it’s not just Tammy who has problems with food.’

‘Rufus,’ Susan said. ‘He steals food from the other kids now and again. And I know he comes in hungry a lot. Particularly on Mondays.’

‘Then there’s Mitzi,’ Lonnie said. ‘Although her difficulties with food are of a slightly different nature.’

I nodded.

‘There’s something to be said for teaching her a little bit about sharing,’ Tush said.

‘This could turn into an all-out massacre,’ Lonnie said, looking at the laden table. ‘Mitzi seems to feel it’s her duty
to cram as much into herself as she possibly can in as short a time as is humanly possible. And God help anyone who gets in the way.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But Tammy and Rufus have a right not to be hungry. I don’t think it’s fair to single them out, and the only way to prevent that is to extend breakfast to everyone, regardless. I have no doubt in my mind that Mitzi eats a hearty meal before she gets on the bus in the morning, and in a way we’re only compounding her obesity by presenting her with more food. But I don’t know how to get around that, just now. Maybe we could think about it, and see if we can’t come up with some ideas.’

We shepherded the children to the table and sat them down.

‘From now on, we’re going to start the day with breakfast,’ Susan said. ‘And while we eat, we’ll have a chat about any news we have, about what we’re going to do during the day, and anything else anyone would like to talk about.’

‘Mealtime is all about coming together, talking and sharing,’ Lonnie said. ‘So – who would like cereal?’

To my delight the children took to the idea enthusiastically. Soon we were all happily eating, there was an easy hum of conversation, nobody was punching or puking on anyone else and I waited for somebody to notice the second part of my plan. It didn’t take long. Gus, his mouth full of cornflakes, suddenly pointed with his spoon at the gaudily decorated cardboard box with its accompanying cards.

‘What’s dat ting dere?’

‘Ah, that’s something very special,’ I said, winking at him. ‘I think you’re going to like it.’

‘Whassit for?’ Ross asked, standing up and jabbing at the item with a crutch, thumping Tammy’s head accidentally as he did so.

‘Let Shane explain,’ Susan said, carefully manoeuvring Ross’s appendage back down and shushing Tammy, who was looking at her unwitting attacker with balled fists.

‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘Everyone needs to listen to this because it affects all of you. That box is what I call a “Kindness Box”.’

‘A what?’ Milandra said. ‘That sure sounds like a goddam stupid pussy box to me!’

‘What does it do?’ Gilbert asked. ‘Is it a magic box?’

‘Maybe there is kindness inside it,’ Mitzi said, as Tush wrestled a jar of jam from her hand – she had been scooping the contents out with her fingers and noisily sucking them clean.

‘Mitzi’s sort of right,’ I said. ‘There will be kindness inside it, and we are going to put it there.’

That caused some bewilderment, which was expressed in the children’s chatter: what could Shane possibly mean? Could something like kindness be put in a cardboard box? I decided that the subject was worth exploring, so I raised my hand.

‘All right, all right,’ I called, trying to be heard above the din. ‘One person at a time, please. I want to hear what everybody has to say.’

Despite my best efforts, this caused an even greater clamour, as every child in the group (even those who were technically non-verbal) strove to be the first person to speak. I was at a complete loss as to how to get any kind of control without resorting to all-out shouting. Once again, Lonnie rescued me. He had come prepared, and as the group descended into its by now familiar chaos, he produced an old metal tray from beneath the table and struck it with a spoon. It made a fine old noise. Every mouth in the room closed, and every head in the room turned to look at him.

Lonnie stopped. ‘When everyone talks together, that’s sort of what it sounds like to me,’ he said, giving another couple of raps on the tray. Arga put her hands over her ears. ‘It’s not a nice sound, is it, Arga?’ Lonnie asked, rolling her
r
perfectly. ‘I bet you don’t like it either, Jeff, do you?’ Jeffrey shook his head. ‘I think it would be much kinder to everyone if I didn’t make this sound again. Wouldn’t you all say?’ Nods came from almost all quarters. Milandra and Mitzi were the two withholders of agreement. I wondered if they actually enjoyed discord so much that they had liked Lonnie’s clanging. Lonnie, however, chose to ignore them and talk to the rest of the gang. ‘If you think about it, isn’t it so much better if we take it in turns to talk? Then everyone gets heard and understood.’

There were murmurs of agreement.

‘Thank you, Lonnie,’ I said. ‘Now, I think Mitzi was speaking.’

‘Yes, you should all listen to me, children,’ Mitzi gushed.

‘What did you want to say about the Kindness Box?’ Tush said.

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘I could go and take kindness any time I wanted. All for me.’

‘But can you put kindness in a box like that?’ Susan asked.

Rufus put his hand up timidly.

‘Go ahead, Ru.’ She nodded at him.

‘Kindness is doing something nice for somebody else,’ he said. ‘Like having a nice breakfast for us when we come in. That’s kind.’

I’m not ashamed to admit that I felt a warm glow. It’s one of the things I love about child- and social-care work: just when you think you’ve messed up badly, something small happens to lift you off the ground again. That morning, I needed all the back-patting I could get.

‘Yes, it is,’ Susan said, smiling at me. ‘So, how do you think we might put something like that in the box?’

‘Maybe ideas of how we could be kind to one another,’ Ross said.

‘Mmm,’ Lonnie agreed. ‘But see, if I told you how to be kind to me, gave you ideas for things I liked – well, is that as good as when you think things up yourself?’

Arga whispered something to Lonnie, who listened carefully and nodded.

‘Arga says that being kind is when you do something for someone else without being asked to do it,’ he shared with the group.

‘Will I tell you how the Kindness Box works?’ I asked everyone.

I’d stolen the idea wholesale from another childcare worker and writer, the brilliant Torey Hayden. I have adapted it a little bit to suit Irish children (Torey was working in America when she invented the concept), but the principle is exactly the same.

‘Here’s the deal,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be watching very carefully from now on to see how kind you all are to each other. Every time I see somebody doing something kind for another person, I’m going to write down what I see and put it in this box. But I know that you’re all very kind people, and there will be lots and lots of kind things going on, so I’m going to need your help. If
you
see one of the group being kind, I want you to come and tell me or Lonnie or Sue or Tush. I know some of you can write a little, and if you want to write down what you see, well, you do that and put it in the box, or if you need help, any of us will give you a hand to write down your little bit of kindness.’

‘We’re going to fill this old box right up with kindness,’ Tush added.

‘Every day we’ll open the box before we go home and see what’s in there,’ I said. ‘Every person who has some kindness in the box gets a prize.’

‘Yeah!’

‘Cool!’

‘I’m gonna put loads of things in that box!’

Expressions of excitement and approval abounded. I held up my hand again. The chatter continued. Lonnie picked up the tray. Silence. He didn’t even have to hit it.

‘Very good,’ I said. ‘Now, I’m really pleased you like the idea of the Kindness Box, but there’s just one rule and it’s an important one.’

All faces were rapt and attentive. I couldn’t help smiling. The box was working its magic already, and not one single message had been put in there yet.

‘The rule is this,’ I said. ‘No one can put in an act of kindness they did themselves.’

‘What?’ Gus asked, puzzled.

‘You can only put in kind things
other people did
,’ Lonnie clarified.

There were moans and groans from one end of the table to the other.

‘That’s the rule,’ I said. ‘The thing is, everyone is going to have to be really kind to their friends to make sure they get into the box.’

‘Yeah,’ Ross grumbled. ‘Now I’m gonna have to be
really
nice to everyone.’

After the previous day’s disastrous events, I was fascinated to see how this new development would work. I hoped we had hit on something that would harness the spirit I knew these youngsters had buried deep inside – and that maybe some of that kindness might infect me, too.