The Girl Who Couldn't Smile (19 page)

‘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.

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.’

‘Problem is most of the cars they’re buildin’ now don’t run like this baby does. If there’s somethin’ wrong, you just plug ’em into a computer. Makes people like me sort of … obsolete.’

‘I don’t like modern cars,’ I said truthfully. ‘They’ve got no personality.’

‘Well, I can’t argue with that,’ he said. ‘There, I think that’ll do it.’

He handed me back the screwdriver he’d been using.

‘That’s it?’ I asked.

‘Just needed tightenin’ up.’

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘No. Thanks, but no. The chance to get me hands dirty and work on a little beauty like this – call it quits.’

‘Can I buy you a drink, then?’

He pondered that for a second. ‘All right. Seein’ as how we’re here.’

The barman seemed relieved to see we had settled our
differences
, and greeted us warmly. Dale took a pint of lager and I had another Coke.

‘Dale, I don’t want to cause another row,’ I said.

‘Don’t then,’ he said, with a hard expression.

‘I’m concerned about Tammy.’

He sighed deeply and drank a huge gulp of his beer. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘Well, if you’re not working, why not come in to Little Scamps now and again, spend some time with her?’

‘I’m not even sure that girl is mine,’ he said quietly.

‘I see her in you,’ I said. ‘Very much, around the eyes.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ve heard that before,’ he said.

‘So help me to help her. I think she’s very bright. I’ve seen her make some real progress in the last few weeks. If she felt you were behind her, I think she might make that extra leap.’

Dale took another slug of his drink. ‘When I was a kid,’ he said, ‘I remember an aunt, on me mother’s side, having a baby that wasn’t right. Handicapped, y’know?’

I nodded.

‘I remember me da takin’ me aside and tellin’ me that we would not be mentionin’ that particular cousin. “There are no spastics or dullards in this family,” he told me. This man was my da – my hero, understand?’ Dale said.

I nodded again.

‘My ma brought me to see the kid. It was a girl. Looked just like any baby to me. She was cute. I said it to me da when I got home, told him I thought she was a lovely little thing – I couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. Well, he gave me such a box across the ear! Floored me, he did. “Show no weakness!” he said. “That sickness is in your blood, and you need to stay strong to make sure it doesn’t get out.”’

Dale drained his glass and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. ‘Seems to me he was right. The sickness got out. Poor Tammy.’ He stood up and left.

Poor Dale.

‘Why can’t we do a Christmas n’t’v’ty play?’ Gus asked.

‘Well, it’s getting a little bit close to Christmas to start thinking about that,’ I said. ‘We wouldn’t really have time to practise.’

Gus was lying on the floor among the detritus of the art area. He was in the way (I was reminded of Millie in my kitchen) and Tush and I had to step over him to get the
various
odds and ends we needed to finish the posters advertising our Christmas party. We were inviting all the parents and any of the local shopkeepers who were interested to join us for tea and cakes before we broke up for the holidays – the past few months had been good and we wanted to mark it in some way. Gus was in danger of getting trodden on, but he seemed so depressed I hadn’t the heart to move him.

‘My brudder is doin’ a n’t’v’ty play in his school.’ He sighed dejectedly. ‘He says I can’t do one cos all the kids in my crèche is retards.’

‘You know that isn’t true, Gus,’ I said. ‘Nobody here is a retard.’

‘I tole ’im that, but he said they was, an’ that I’m a bit of
a retard too. Mammy shouted at him and gave him a slap in the head, but he still said it. He din’ take it back neither.’

Tush was listening carefully, her tongue stuck out from between her teeth as she glued one of the children’s
cardboard
Christmas parcels to her poster.

‘Well, maybe we can do a nativity play, Gus,’ she said.

‘Um … how are we going to manage it, Tush?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, tell ’im.’ Gus sat up, looking much perkier all of a sudden.

‘The kids put on plays almost every day, don’t they?’ Tush said. ‘I bet they can come up with some kind of Christmas story fairly quickly. The costumes aren’t a big deal. We can perform it when the parents come in.’

‘That’s on Friday. This is Monday,’ I said.

‘Great,’ Tush said, smiling. ‘That gives us four days to rehearse.’

Gus let out a whoop and blitzed his way around the room, shouting, ‘We’re doin’ a n’t’v’ty play! We’re doin’ a n’t’v’ty play!’

Lonnie and Susan looked up at us, bemused. All I could do was shrug. It looked as if the decision had been made.

Tush’s confidence that the children could formulate a
recognizable
Christmas story proved to be somewhat misplaced. Coming up with a story was no problem – they were all full of stories. The issue was that the stories tended to change
significantly
every time the kids acted them out, and that they usually bore no relation to Christmas or to the gospel telling of Joseph and Mary arriving in Bethlehem to find no room at the inn.

I was beginning to despair. I didn’t mind the kids
presenting
a ramshackle drama for their parents – no one expects perfection from pre-schoolers, let alone pre-schoolers with special needs – but I thought it important that the children
demonstrate at least a loose comprehension of what Christmas was about.

Gus was the most coherent member of the group. He insisted that a ‘n’t’v’ty’ play
had
to have ‘Jophus and Mary’ in it, and that the baby Jesus had to put in an appearance, although the mechanics of this seemed to evade him – he had gone so far as to suggest that Lonnie might play this important figure, and come on to the stage at the end of the performance singing ‘Happy Birthday to Me’.

It was Rufus’s dad, Bill, who presented us with the answer to our problem. I had sent a note home with Rufus inviting Bill to pop in to see how well the tree he had donated was doing. On the Wednesday before our scheduled performance Bill arrived, looking nervous and a little embarrassed, but unable to hide his delight at how lovely his gift looked.

A mug of strong tea in hand, he paused to watch Ross as Joseph, Milandra as Mary, and Jeffrey and Tammy as
shepherds
, all dressed in towels and other strips of material, being fed lines by Tush.

‘Is this the baby the angels told us about?’ Tush hissed.

‘Is dis de … angel … de baby said was … here …’ the kids mumbled, looking here and there and shuffling their feet in utter disarray.

Bill shook his head in amusement. ‘Y’know, when I was a lad, they used to do a nativity play in the grotto at the back of the church every year,’ he said. ‘Some of the local farmers would bring an ass and a goat and that. It was lovely.’

‘Yeah?’ I said, not really listening, wishing I had never let Tush talk us into this disaster.

‘Ye should do that. You and the lads,’ Bill said. ‘I can get the animals off me mate Johno.’

‘What?’ I asked. ‘Um … hold on a minute … how did it work, these plays?’

He told me, and I realized that this might just be the lifeline we needed.

It was so simple, but so beautiful.

That Friday evening, surrounded by a group of proud parents and delighted local business people, and not a small number who had come along to see a play, we created a
living
, breathing crib, a nativity scene with a heartbeat.

The script was provided directly from the Gospel of Luke, and we decided that Tush should read it, and the children act out what she read. The text is so rich in detail and the action so iconic it gave them plenty of work to do. So, on that crisp, frosty evening, as dusk settled, we made our way to the old church just off the village’s main street. We’d had tea and a wonderful variety of food, mostly supplied by Mulligan’s, in the crèche, and although the kids’ artwork and various other accomplishments were on display, the only thing discussed was the play.

Bill had already set up the stage for us, cordoning off an area with bales of hay where the donkey and the goat were tethered happily. A box filled with straw did admirably for a crib. When the audience and actors were assembled Tush, looking fairly angelic herself with cheeks rosy from the cold, stepped up to the microphone the parish priest had provided, and began to read lines written two thousand years ago.

‘“Now it happened in those days that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that everyone in the world should be counted. All the people went to write their names on the list, everyone to his own city. Joseph went up from Galilee to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, to enrol
himself
with Mary, because they were going to be married, and she was soon going to have a baby. It happened, while they were there, that the day came that she should give birth. She
brought forth her first-born son, and she wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a feeding trough, because there was no room for them in the inn.”’

Each line was intoned slowly, and the children acted out their parts to perfection. When it came time for Jesus to be laid in the manger, Milandra, as Mary, produced from behind the box a doll, wrapped in cloth. I peered over to see which one it was, because the face was very definitely black. To my amazement, in the light of the candles that illuminated the scene, I realized her baby Jesus was none other than the doll Susan had given her for her birthday – still with no legs and only one arm.

I looked over at Susan. She had tears in her eyes.

Felicity and Tony stood front and centre and, despite our previous antagonism, I saw nothing but love and pride in the man’s eyes. Mitzi’s parents had come to see the
performance
, too, and there was no doubt that they had set aside any philosophical or theological issues they might have had about Christmas. When their daughter sang ‘Silent Night’, they could have burst with pride. The only parents, in fact, who were notably absent were Kylie and Dale. Tammy played her role as a shepherd with her usual stoicism, neither particularly enthusiastic nor doggedly disruptive. I felt awful for her – every other child had at least one parent in
attendance
. But if she was disappointed she never once let on, and accepted the audience’s applause calmly.

We went home that night full of good cheer – and why not? Despite the fact that the performance had ended with a rendition of ‘The Elephant Song’, everyone decreed that it was the most authentic nativity play they’d ever seen.

I drove home to Wexford on Christmas Eve to spend the
holidays
with my family. I ate and drank far too much, watched the same old movies for the millionth time (can you
ever
truly see
Casablanca
too often?), and walked Millie along the beach at Kaat’s Strand, where she charged into the foam like a thing possessed, only to lurch right back out again when she discovered how cold the water was.

I had invited Lonnie to join me, but he had turned my offer down flat – he said he had made other arrangements, though he refused to tell me what they were. I suspected they involved spending the day alone on the mountain, probably watching the same movies as me but with something peculiar he had prepared for himself to eat instead of the traditional fare. I didn’t force the issue. Lonnie was entitled to his pride and dignity – he had spent enough of his life trying to
preserve
them.

On New Year’s Eve at around ten o’clock it started to snow, and didn’t stop. I sat in the living room in my father’s house and watched it build up on the green in drifts of pure, unblemished white. Before long children were out in the frigid night air building snowmen and having snowball fights.
When I went to bed I left the curtains open and watched the huge, fat snowflakes drifting downwards until sleep claimed me.

I expected that we’d have snow for a day or so, after which a thaw would set in and everything would get back to normal, but Jack Frost had other ideas, and as the days crept
dangerously
close to the date for me to return to work, the weather didn’t break. In fact, the forecast on 2 January informed us that the temperature in Wexford that night was only a couple of degrees warmer than it was at the North Pole.

The following day I called Lonnie. ‘We’re snowed in,’ I said.

‘No shit. I am actually speaking to you from an igloo. I went out for a walk, and when I came back the house was buried. I had no choice but to fashion a shelter out of ice. It was a matter of survival.’

‘Can you try to be serious for just one brief moment? How bad is it up there?’

‘It’s pretty bad. But some of the farmers are venturing out on tractors and whatnot. One or two of the roads have been cleared.’

‘Little Scamps is due to open tomorrow. Should I try and make it up to ye?’

‘
Can
you make it up is a more pertinent question?’

I thought about that. ‘According to the news the main roads are more or less passable. And the Austin is a really good car in snow. It’s got a low centre of gravity.’

‘Nice to know it’s good for something. Look, if you make it, I’ll go in with you. Don’t have anything better to do.’

‘How was Christmas?’ I asked him.

‘It was okay,’ he said.

‘Where’d you go?’

‘Oh – you know – I was around.’

I sighed. ‘You were on your own, weren’t you?’

‘Not completely.’

‘Oh? Who were you with, then?’

He paused for a second, obviously deciding whether to tell me or not. ‘Tush called around.’

‘On Christmas Day?’

‘Yeah. And on Stephen’s Day. And we spent New Year’s Eve together too, if you must know.’ This last sentence came out in a rush, as if, now that he had started talking, he couldn’t stop.

‘You fucking
dog
!’ I said. ‘You kept that one on the down-low, didn’t you?’

‘Well, you know how quiet and unassuming I am,’ he said. ‘Introverted, some might call me.’

I laughed. ‘I want to hear all about it when I see you. I’m going to try and do the drive today – in fact I’m going to leave as soon as possible, while the daylight holds.’

‘All right,’ Lonnie said. ‘Go carefully. Call me when you get in.’

The drive was a nightmare. Ireland is known for its
temperate
weather (which means it rains a lot, but never usually gets very hot or particularly cold). As a result when we do get extreme weather, the entire country shuts down.

Most of the main roads had been cleared and the going was good, but I lived within a maze of tiny, winding, narrow roads that couldn’t even be called secondary in a fit of
dubious
generosity. The Austin does go like a dream on snow and ice, but even with its dogged grip on the road surface, there were still times when I was convinced I was going to end up in a ditch or, worse still, in the back of the car in front of me.

I stopped for petrol at a forecourt somewhere in the middle of my journey. I was tired, suffering from caffeine
withdrawal, and Millie needed a run around – dogs will sleep most of the time on long journeys, but there comes a time when even the laziest mutt needs some air.

I was leaning against the bonnet of my car, sipping from a Styrofoam mug of coffee while Millie snuffled around the grass verge, when a van I thought I recognized pulled in at the pumps. A young man, shaven headed and wearing an oily-looking leather jacket, got out and started to fill up with diesel. It wasn’t until Kylie got out of the other door and walked past me into the shop that I realized who they were.

Kylie didn’t recognize me, either, and it wasn’t until I said, ‘Hi,’ when she was on her way back that she spotted me at all.

‘Oh. Hello,’ she said, clearly uneasy around me, out of her comfort zone as she was.

‘Did Tammy have a good Christmas?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Kylie said, hugging herself against the cold. ‘Quiet, wasn’t it?’

‘My family tend to be fairly noisy,’ I said. ‘She with you?’

‘No, one of my neighbours has her. Dale had to go and see a friend,’ Kylie said.

Dale had seen me too, now, and made no effort to hide a scowl. ‘I’m goin’ t’ use the jacks,’ he shouted over, and made a beeline for the toilets.

We were quiet for a few moments, uncomfortable in each other’s company.

Finally I said, ‘Tammy is an amazing little girl.’

‘Do you think?’ Kylie asked.

‘I do. She never ceases to surprise me. I think she’s an incredible kid.’

Kylie didn’t seem to know what to do with that. ‘Do you have kids?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Haven’t been blessed with them yet.’

She nodded, as if that explained a lot. ‘If you did, maybe it’d change your mind about certain things.’

I sipped my coffee and said nothing. Millie had ranged a little bit beyond what I considered a comfortable
distance
, and I whistled for her to come back. She ignored me for a second – she was chewing something she probably shouldn’t – then started to make her way slowly towards the car.

‘Havin’ kids is tough, y’know. Dunno how me ’n’ Dale’ve stayed together through it all.’

‘You’re lucky to have a relationship like that,’ I said.

‘We’re a team, so we are.’ She paused. ‘Sometimes I think havin’ Tammy made us stronger. Other times I think she tore a huge chunk outta me heart.’

‘Kids’ll do that,’ I said.

‘I wanted to have an abortion,’ Kylie said. ‘Just fuckin’ get rid of the thing.’

The thing, I thought. This is Tammy she’s talking about.

‘But Dale wouldn’t hear of it,’ she continued.

‘Good for him,’ I said. ‘Lot of men wouldn’t give a damn.’

Dale came out of the toilet block and started to walk in our direction. Kylie glanced at him and shuddered, as if
waking
from a deep sleep. ‘I’ll see you,’ she said, and got back into the van.

I let Millie get a little more air, then followed suit.

The entire trip usually took three hours and lasted six. I was exhausted and very grumpy by the time I finally unlocked the door to my cottage, muttering obscenities about having to stand in the cold while Millie scouted about for somewhere suitable to relieve herself. I texted Lonnie to let him know we had landed safely, then lit the fire and made a hot whiskey. With
Rio Bravo
on TV and my dog snuggled up beside me
on the couch, life seemed a lot friendlier. And I only wanted a cigarette a little.

I left early the next morning to pick up Lonnie, assuming that the mountain road would be treacherous, but in fact it was fairly clear – the farmers who used it on the way to tend their sheep must have made a point of keeping it gritted.

‘Happy new year,’ my friend said, as he hopped in.

‘Back at you,’ I said. ‘You need any wood or coal or
anything
? We can pick some up on the way home.’

‘No. I went into the village with Tush yesterday and we stocked up.’

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, but his face was obscured by the enormous fur-lined hood of his coat, and I couldn’t see if he was grinning.

‘Lonnie, you’re going to have to tell me what happened.’

‘No, I am not,’ he said, and I was sure I heard a laugh in his voice.

‘You owe me that much. Come on – I invited you to my father’s place for Christmas. Who else is going to inflict you on their family? Huh? Is that not worth something?’

‘All right, all right,’ he said, and he was definitely laughing. ‘She called over on Christmas Eve. We … um … talked.’

‘Talked?’

‘Yeah. You know – about our relationship. And stuff.’

‘And did you decide anything?’

‘Well …’ Lonnie paused. How much did he feel
comfortable
telling me? ‘I will say that Tush and I are together.’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked, more out of devilment than anything else.

‘It means that we’re going out as boyfriend and girlfriend, all right?’

‘I see. And are you both … you know … I mean, did you …’

‘A gentleman does not kiss and tell,’ he said.

‘I see,’ I said, enjoying winding him up. ‘You know what that means, of course, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘It means that you have something
to
tell.’

‘Listen, this conversation is over,’ Lonnie said, crossing his arms with great finality.

I drove on for half a mile, neither of us speaking. Finally I said, ‘Lonnie?’

‘What?’ he barked.

‘Congratulations, man.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, and the smile was unmistakable in his voice this time.