The Girl From Yesterday (18 page)

I’d chosen a section from the American writer James Patterson. His books are compulsive, fast-paced and contain short, punchy chapters. The book I had chosen,
Cross
, utilized few lengthy words, and I thought Gladys would do well with it. To my surprise, though, she struggled. Looking over her shoulder, the words that were tripping her were words she had read with ease in the magazine. Finally I cut in.

‘Do you know what’s happening?’ I asked.

‘I’m fucking up big style,’ she said.

‘You’re allowing yourself to be intimidated because it’s a book. You read all these words with no problems five minutes ago. The only difference is that now they are contained between the covers of a book.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Try again.’

She did a lot better, though she was still very jumpy. Finally, I dictated a short piece, no more than three sentences, and got her to write it down. When she was finished I looked at her work, and knew immediately that my suspicions had been correct. But there was no time to discuss them, as I could already hear the first of Gladys’s peers coming up the corridor.

‘Can you grab a drink after class and I’ll chat to you about this,’ I said, tapping the page.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I can do that.’

The evening flew by – we were talking about different cultures and how the childcare worker must be aware of things like diet, language and religious festivals, not to mention being generally inclusive in terms of imagery on posters and in books as well as in toys and equipment. We had a good old discussion, and before I knew it the group were filing out. Gladys hung about until they were gone, and then led me to a little pub at the top of the town which was mostly frequented by old men playing cards.

‘So,’ Gladys said, looking really nervous. ‘Can I be fixed?’

‘You don’t need fixing,’ I said. ‘There are three things I want to say to you. Number one, and this is as important as all the others, you have to start believing that you
can
do things. Just because some old asshole told you once that you can’t or won’t succeed doesn’t make it so. Stop being scared of books. A word is the same whether it is in a book or a magazine or a comic. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think you have a condition called dyslexia. See in the piece you wrote for me? You’ve written several words back to front, or you’ve got the letters pointing the wrong way around. You haven’t done it a lot and judging by how well you can read, I think it’s a very mild case. I’d like to show what you’ve done to an educational psychologist, just to have it confirmed.’

‘Uh – okay. If you say so.’

‘I also wonder if you might have a condition called dyspraxia. It causes people to be disorganized and to lose concentration. This could be why you used to get in trouble at school. Did you seem to be very clumsy then?’

‘I was always tripping over stuff.’

‘Yeah. That’s probably it. Again, we’d have to have you properly assessed, but I think we’ve nailed it.’

‘Oh my God. Dyslexia. I don’t know what to think.’

‘Don’t get bogged down by the label. You’re still you.’

‘And you think I can read well?’

‘You read well tonight.’

I held out the James Patterson book.

‘I offered you a book to read a few months ago and you ran out of the room as if I’d pulled a gun on you. I’m asking if you’d like to borrow this one. You don’t have to read it all. But maybe try a few chapters and tell me what you think.’

She took it and looked at the cover.

‘I’ll give it a go,’ she said. ‘What’s it about?’

‘A psychologist trying to catch a serial killer.’

‘Bit of light bedtime reading then,’ she said.

‘Would you prefer something on flower arranging?’

She put the book in her bag.

‘Hell no!’

I was engrossed in an article on Garshaigh’s recreational park, which had been built right after Ireland received independence from Britain in 1922, when the phone on my desk rang.

‘Yeah. Shane Dunphy.’

‘Shane, this is Nathalie Lassiter at the primary school. I’d be obliged if you could call over today at some point that’s convenient.’

I looked at my watch. I was on a deadline for the piece I was writing, but it was close to finished. Another hour would do it.

‘What are you doing for lunch?’

‘That would be fine. Can you come to the school? This is a rather sensitive matter.’

‘I’ll be there. See you soon.’ And we hung up.

She met me at the door, looking worried.

‘I have checked out your credentials, Shane,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘It’s been happening a lot lately,’ I said. ‘Have I done something to cause you concern?’

‘No. I want to hire you.’

‘I have a job, Nathalie. And I’m not qualified to teach at primary level.’

‘No, you misunderstand me. I want you to act as a consultant. A rather serious child protection concern has arisen and I regret to say that, while the school does have child protection policies, they are somewhat out of date.’

I sat down. Like before, she had a tray containing coffee and, this time, sandwiches, on her desk. I poured for us both.

‘I’d be happy to help out,’ I said. ‘Payment is not really necessary.’

‘I’d prefer to keep this very much by the book,’ Nathalie said. ‘If you were a parent I could put you on some committee or other, use your expertise that way. But you’re not, and there are barriers to your sitting on any of our committees, anyway.’

‘Oh?’

‘Let me begin at the start of all this. Please, eat while I talk. I know I’m taking up your lunch break.’

I took a sandwich, which I could tell had been sent over from the café where Carla worked. It suited me fine.

‘I don’t know if you’re aware, but the Blaney children – Emma and Dom – have been sent here as of the start of this week. To minimize stress, I have placed them in the correct class groupings for their age, but for a couple of hours a day a remedial teacher is working with them. They are really delightful children, Shane. Very sweet, very loyal, but as I am sure you would expect there have been some behavioural issues. Dom has gotten into quite a few fights, and has hurt one boy very badly. And, God help me, Emma is a climber. Her teacher came in to the class yesterday to find her – literally – swinging from the light fitting. I have no idea how she got up there.’

‘Emma is quite the acrobat,’ I agreed.

‘Their academic levels – for every single subject – are remarkably low. Neither child can read at all. Dom can count to ten, but beyond that is a new frontier for him. It is as if they never received any schooling at all. I must draw the conclusion that they didn’t.’

‘I know that social services are aware of all these things,’ I said. ‘You will probably be asked to attend what is called a multi-agency case conference within twelve months of the kids starting at the school, but that will be to share general information, and get a sense of how other professionals are experiencing the kids.’

‘That’s not the only problem, though.’

‘I see.’

‘The best thing for me to do is to call in Kyla. She’s the remedial teacher I mentioned.’

Nathalie picked up the phone, dialled a number, waited.

‘Kyla, would you mind joining us now, please?’

Moments later a short mousy woman with thick glasses, wearing a tweed skirt and a brown cardigan over a blue polonecked top, came in.

‘Kyla, this is the gentleman I told you about. You can speak freely in front of him.’

The little woman sat on a chair beside mine.

‘Mr Dunphy.’

‘Shane, please.’

‘Shane, I have been teaching now for close to twenty years, and I am not prone to exaggeration. I have worked with difficult children for most of that time, and in terms of language and general conduct, the Blaney kids are nowhere near as bad as some I have had in my care. But I am morally bound to share with you exactly what they said.’

‘I’m listening,’ I said. ‘Please use the language they did, and don’t try and make it palatable or polite – I’m used to this sort of thing. I have a fairly high tolerance threshold.’

Kyla took a deep breath, as if in her head she was approaching the distasteful task at a run.

‘We were doing some role-play – some drama. I like to get the kids to act out stories after we’ve read them; it helps to imprint the structure of the books into the children’s memory.’

‘Good idea,’ I said.

‘Thank you. We had just read
Jack and the Beanstalk
, and Emma was reciting the giant’s chant, you know, about how the giant will grind Jack’s bones to make his bread. Suddenly she stopped, looked at me, and asked what did the rhyme mean.’

‘She’s a bright girl,’ I said. ‘But I expect the language puzzled her.’

‘Quite. Well, I told her that the giant, being a big bad monster, planned to
eat
Jack if he caught him.’

‘How’d that go down?’ I asked, already knowing in my heart what the answer was going to be.

‘Emma nodded, as if she had expected as much. Then she said: “Like when Bad Daddy makes me eat his pinkie.” ’

‘His finger?’ I said.

‘No. She showed me on a doll exactly what she meant by the term. And that was just the beginning. Once she started talking, it was as if she couldn’t stop. Dom sat impassively at first, looking as if he did not approve of this confession, but after five minutes or so, he started to add his voice to the choir, too. I have written it all down, Shane. You can read it at your leisure. Suffice it to say that those children have been forced to endure every type of human debasement. And not just with the father. Jim, the eldest boy, has, according to Emma and Dom, been replacing his father in the marital bed when Tom is away overnight.’

I nodded. Part of me had expected this, but a larger part had hoped it wouldn’t come to pass. Neglect and beatings were quite bad enough. This just kicked it all to another level.

‘You say you have everything recorded – written down?’

‘Yes. I signed and dated it, also.’

‘Nathalie, you need to write up your side of things too. Your impressions of the children. Do you still have any details of Jim’s time here?’

‘I already dug that out.’

‘We need to take this to social services. Do you want me to act on your behalf?’

‘No, I’ll do it,’ Nathalie said. ‘Could you just read over the reports and see if we’ve got all the detail they’ll need? I can give you this room for as long as you need.’

I thanked her and took the bundle of paper.

As the two women were leaving me to my work, I called Nathalie back.

‘You mentioned an obstacle to my coming on to one of your committees, to cement my role,’ I said. ‘What did you mean?’

She waved the question off.

‘Doesn’t matter now. It was just your not having a child at school here. They like school business, particularly sensitive stuff, kept within the families, you know?’

‘Okay,’ I said and thought no more of it for a day or two.

It was a testament to Sid’s professionalism that a case conference was called rapidly. As the school’s designated consultant, and, I believed, out of respect to my former role as a child protection worker, I was invited to attend.

The meeting was held in the local community centre, not far from the newspaper’s offices. Around the table was Sid and his boss Josephine Welch, Doctor James Sounding, the family doctor, Nathalie and Kyla, George Taylor, who had Jim and Winnie at his school, and myself.

Josephine, for whom I had retained no fondness since our last encounter, chaired the gathering. She began by giving a brief family history, mentioning Jim’s earlier brush with social services and the by now famous court case. She outlined the children’s ages and then handed the baton to Sid, who gave a concise report on his and Josephine’s visit to the house.

‘It was clear that the children were dirty, hungry and very nervous. It did not take long to establish that they were not receiving any educational training, despite their mother’s insistence that they were, and I could see patterns of bruising on both Dom and Jim.’

Doctor Sounding was up next. The doctor admitted that he had been the family’s GP for his entire career, but had really only seen Dora just before each of the children’s births. He had been asked to carry out a medical examination on each child by social services, and in most of the children’s cases this was the first time he had encountered them. The doctor stated that each child was physically small, probably due to malnutrition. He spoke of scarring and bruising on all of the siblings, these marks being indicative of regular and severe beatings. He had ordered X-rays to be carried out, as he suspected that there were old bone breaks that had healed over time.

‘Due to the information that has come to light since then,’ he nodded at Kyla, ‘I will also be recommending a full examination by a sexual abuse assessment team, and screening for sexually transmitted infections. These children have been appallingly badly treated, and I, personally, feel deeply ashamed that I did not take a greater interest in their welfare. All the signs were there; we simply chose to ignore them because it made our lives easier.’

George Taylor had little to add.

‘Jim and Winnie are academically very far behind. Jim has a cursory understanding of the most basic literacy and numeracy, but at the level of a child in the junior cycle of primary school. He is progressing quickly, however. I think the lack of practice is mostly to blame. He will never be an A student, but I think he may even pass the Leaving Certificate with the right support. He is a quiet, dour young man, but there has been no real trouble. Winnie, however, is very problematic. She is profoundly illiterate and innumerate, and she exhibits signs of serious emotional trauma. She is verbally and physically abusive to children and staff alike – I frankly am uncertain as to whether my school can absorb her. She may need a special placement.’

Josephine said nothing, but made a note of this.

‘Any disclosures, Mr Taylor?’

‘None. The children barely communicate at all.’

I was asked then to relay my part in the whole business, and I recounted our picnic at which I saw the bruises on Dom and the art-work exercise when Bad Daddy was first introduced to me.