The Girl Who Couldn't Smile (3 page)

The children sat at the table in the kitchen, sulky and annoyed. We handed round juice and banana bread: I had warmed it in the oven and cut it into fingers. There was also some toast and jam for those who wanted it. When everyone was munching we started ‘large circle time’, a meeting for everyone at which we would plan the day. I knew from talking to Susan and Tush that such a gathering had not been attempted for a very long time at Little Scamps – keeping the kids away from each other was usually seen as desirable – but this was something we all wanted to change. In most crèches and pre-schools the day was punctuated by large and small circle times to give every child the opportunity to talk about what was going on. What’s the point in making a collage unless everyone has a chance to have a look at your work and tell you how good it is? I’ve seen centres where such moments of appreciation never happen, and children are left with a sense that most jobs are pointless. I didn’t want Little Scamps to be one of those units – children have to feel they have a voice, and that when they use it, someone will listen.

That first meeting, though, wasn’t really about that. The children I was faced with knew very well they had voices.
The problem was that absolutely nobody could listen to them because there was so much background noise and dangerous activity. I wanted to get the children used to dealing with one another and the staff through a medium other than violence, and food was a good way of doing just that. Most people naturally chat at mealtimes – food makes us sociable, amenable. I hoped that would be the case at Little Scamps.

‘Okay,’ I said, nursing a mug of coffee. ‘Let’s talk about what’s going to happen today.’

‘Why you here?’ Ross asked, punching Gilbert, who immediately began to wail.

‘Me don’ like you,’ Rufus chimed in over the resulting ruckus. ‘You go ’way.’

‘I’m here because you need some extra grown-ups at Little Scamps,’ I said, as Tush tried to hush Gilbert. ‘If you don’t have more staff, the place will have to close. There are laws about how many grown-ups have to be in a crèche with the children – it’s called “ratios”. If the ratio is wrong, the place is shut down. Would you like that, Rufus?’

He had bright red hair and his nose ran constantly. He eyed me with unconcealed distaste, his mouth full of toast. Then he spat at least half of it at Julie, who started to whinge as she picked gobs from her hair. Rufus was oblivious. He continued, ‘You go an’ we get somebobby else.’

‘We’ve tried to get several other people to work here,’ Tush said gently, moving around to help Julie clean herself up. ‘Do you remember Mary, the blond lady who was here three weeks ago?’

‘She smelt nice.’ Mitzi sighed.

‘Well, she stayed for just one morning, and then wouldn’t come back,’ Susan said.

‘M’landra hitted her on the head with my lunchbox,’ Gus said, smiling at the memory. ‘It maked a pop, so it did.’

‘And do you remember Dorotia?’ Tush said. ‘She was Polish, just like Arga.’

‘
Arrrrga
,’ the child said. She grabbed Milandra’s hair and tugged enthusiastically. Milandra squealed at an alarming pitch – I’d had no idea a human being could make a noise like it. Arga didn’t either, it seems, for she let go immediately and gawked at her victim in amazement.

‘She was pretty. So pretty,’ Mitzi purred, apparently unfazed.

‘Yes, she was,’ Susan said. ‘Do you remember she had that lovely long plait, right down her back?’

‘She was a long-haired Polack motherfucker,’ Milandra growled, picking up her plastic mug and pouring its contents over Ross’s head. He did not flinch – he picked up a slice of toast, spread with butter and jam, and stuck it firmly to his attacker’s cornrowed hair.

‘Well, why do you think Dorotia stopped coming here after two days?’ Tush asked, deciding to ignore this latest assault – Milandra didn’t appear too concerned about it.

‘Me,’ Jeffrey said, raising his hand.

‘Go on, Jeff,’ Tush said.

He pointed at Julie, who was looking angelic – if that’s possible when one is covered with semi-masticated toast.

‘What did Julie do, Jeffrey?’ I asked.

‘Pull – her – hair –’ he blurted, just before Gus smacked him in the back of the head with a roll of kitchen towel we had left on the table for the children to wipe their hands. It didn’t hurt so much as surprise Jeffrey, but he wailed anyway. Susan tutted at Gus, who hooted with laughter.

‘Julie decided that it might be a good idea to use Dorotia’s plait as a swing,’ Susan said to me. ‘That last day, every time the poor girl turned her back, Julie would leap from a table or chair and launch herself at it. I know Julie’s tiny, but it must have hurt.’

‘We suspect she was put up to it,’ Tush said, glaring at Ross, ‘but obviously Julie’s not talking.’

Julie made a kind of bubbling sound and smiled at me. It was hard to imagine this delicate little creature as anything other than sweet and docile. There was obviously another side to her.

‘Then there was Una,’ Susan said, rocking the still inconsolable Jeffrey on her knee. ‘Lasted an hour. She was a rather … um … well-endowed lady, and Tammy kept punching her breasts. No warning, she would just run over and wallop her in the boob. Freaked Una out completely.’

‘You forgot Ruth,’ Tush said. ‘The kids kept puking on her.’

‘Puking?’ I asked, amazed.

‘We pukeded on her,’ Gus said, mimicking someone being sick.

‘I don’t know how they did it, but they took turns throwing up all over the girl,’ Tush said, shaking her head in disgust. ‘By the end of the day she was covered from head to toe. We’d got her one change of clothes but we just didn’t have any more for her.’

‘So you see,’ Susan said to Rufus, ‘we’ve tried lots of people. They decided not to work here because you were all so mean to them. And Shane might still choose not to stay. But you really need to give him a chance.’

‘He’s precious,’ Mitzi cooed. ‘Such a precious child.’

‘Where our stuff gone?’ Ross asked, rolling toast into doughy balls and setting these in a row on the table in front of him. ‘Why you gots all them paints?’

‘We’d like you to help us paint the room the way you’d like it,’ I said.

‘Him a painter fella?’ Milandra asked.

‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Tush said.

‘Hey, hairy boy,’ Milandra snapped – and was hit on the forehead by one of Ross’s toast balls, which he had flicked with great precision.

‘I presume you’re talking to me,’ I said, trying not to smile.

‘Yeah. You. You a painter guy?’ Milandra asked, as she rubbed the red spot on her face, eyeing Gus with undisguised venom.

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I’m pretty damn terrible at painting. But I bet some of you are really good at it.’

‘Me good,’ Jeffrey said.

‘I’m good at painting,’ Gilbert said, in a wavery voice. ‘Mammy says I’m very good at painting.’

‘He hardly ever speaks,’ Tush hissed in my ear.

I nodded, but continued talking to the children, who seemed to have declared a brief truce.

‘See?’ I said. ‘I bet all of you could add something beautiful to the room. We could make it really special if we pitched in and did our best.’

There were general murmurs of assent. I held my breath. No one threw a mug or screamed abuse.

‘Can we paint now?’ Ross asked.

‘Well … yes, you can,’ I said.

And so we began.

The rest of the morning passed without any major problems. The first task was to paint over the existing surfaces with a base colour, upon which we planned to make a mural to which we would all contribute. The job did not require any great skill or dexterity – the paint could, quite literally, be thrown on. My intention was to do this as quickly as possible so the kids wouldn’t become bored, and we could get on with the far more interesting task of doing the actual pictures and scenes that would make the finished product. I was acutely aware that this could not happen that first day, as the initial coat of paint needed time to dry, and was hoping that the children’s destructive side would carry them through – that the pleasure of chucking paint at the wall would sustain their interest. Thankfully, it did. The sheer novelty of it, combined with being allowed to do what would previously have been frowned upon, won the day.

We worked solidly for the first hour, then Tush and I took some of them outside to play. To my surprise, Milandra and Gus chose to stay at their posts with Susan, which we agreed to, on the condition that Susan called us if there were any problems.

Little Scamps had a pleasant enclosed play area behind the main building. There were various pieces of equipment (swings, a see-saw, a climbing frame, a sandpit) and ample room for running and jumping. Tush and I kept a close eye on things, but the children expressed no desire for us to get involved in their activities. This was unusual – children usually crave the attention and approval of adults. There was also little interplay between them – they seemed mainly to entertain themselves. We had to separate a minor altercation, but in the main things were quiet and calm.

Seeing that we were in for an easy ride, I perched my behind on one of the swings and beckoned Tush to join me. It was a beautiful morning, and I enjoyed the feel of the sun on my face. I had been trying to give up smoking, and while I had suffered mercifully few physical withdrawals, I didn’t know what to do with my hands during the lulls I would previously have filled by lighting up. The swing offered a convenient substitute.

‘How do you think we’re doing?’ I asked, when she was seated alongside me.

‘I’m bowled over,’ she said.

Tush was a pretty girl, but seemed to be constantly in a state of nervous exhaustion. I had noticed that she rarely made eye contact when she spoke, and thought that the swing would make conversation easier for her. ‘How so?’ I asked.

‘I can’t remember how long it’s been since we had a morning like this one,’ she said, leaning back to make the swing move. ‘It’s been so … peaceful!’

‘I’d love to be able to claim credit for that,’ I said, ‘but it’s purely down to the fact that we dropped two major changes on the gang in one go – me, and the painting.’

‘Maybe,’ she mused. ‘I kind of think they want to change, though. It’s like they’ve been waiting for an opportunity.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘My boss, Tristan, always says that a child who is acting out really just wants to know that the adults around him care enough about him to make him stop. I think that’s probably true.’

‘So maybe we can make these children see that we care,’ Tush said, her eyes closed as the swing moved lazily in the mid-morning heat.

‘Maybe. It’d be nice to think so.’

‘You want to hear a secret?’

I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me. ‘Sure.’

‘Sometimes I hate working at Little Scamps.’

‘So why don’t you leave, get another job?’

She sighed a deep sigh, as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. ‘I spent three years getting a degree in early-childhood studies, then another year doing a course in special-needs education. That’s four years in college.’

I said nothing. Even I could do those maths.

‘What kind of an eejit would I be if I ended up working as a waitress after all that time studying? My parents would kill me.’

‘I spent much longer than that in college, Tush, and more than a year playing music in pubs not too long ago when the job started beating me up too much.’

She smiled weakly. ‘It does beat you up, doesn’t it?’

‘Sometimes, yeah. And when that happens, it’s okay to take some time out. We have to look after ourselves or we’d get swallowed up, and there’d be nothing of us left.’

That smile again. ‘Yes. Sometimes I think I might disappear altogether. It’s as if I’m being eaten up, a little bit at a time, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.’

I knew that sensation. Most people who work in social care long term have experienced it. ‘It’s okay to ask for help, Tush,’ I said. ‘The very best resource any of us have in this
game is our colleagues. Have you talked to anyone about how you’re feeling? Susan, maybe?’

She turned and grinned at me. ‘I’m talking to you.’

I grinned back. ‘Yes, you are.’

I was making a mental note to set up regular staff meetings – several staffing issues required addressing, not least of which was that we needed at least one other person to cope with the children we had – when we heard Susan calling. I could tell by her tone that this was an emergency.

‘I’ll go,’ I said. ‘You keep an eye on this bunch.’

When I got inside, everything seemed normal and peaceful enough. The walls were nearly finished (Susan had been going at them vigorously with a roller) and I saw no signs of destruction or damage. Then I spotted Gus and Milandra.

‘I only took my eyes off them for a second,’ Susan said sheepishly.

‘Well, it looks as if that’s all it takes,’ I said.

They were covered from head to toe in paint. It was like looking at two miniature ghosts.

‘Do we have enough white spirit?’ Susan asked.

‘You’ll be pleased to hear that this paint is water-based, so all we need do is stick them in the bath,’ I said, trying not to laugh. ‘Some of the smaller tins will need spirit, though – we’ll need to be a little more careful when we get around to opening them.’

‘Gus painted me,’ Milandra said. ‘I’m a little white girl now.’

‘I’m a little white girl too,’ Gus chirped.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’ If this was the worst thing we had to cope with that day, we’d have got off lightly.

Thankfully, it was.

By the time the bus was pulling up outside, the walls were completely covered with new paint, ready for us to adorn them with murals. Milandra’s and Gus’s clothes had been washed and dried, and though some of the paint remained in their hair, they were none the worse for it. The rest of the children had been, if not pleasant, then at least not wilfully obstructive. Mitzi had punched Gilbert in the gut; Jeffrey had wet himself; Ross had attempted to use one of his crutches as a pole vault in an attempt to leap over Arga, who was kneeling on the floor, and crashed into her.

But all of those altercations were minor. In fact, I would go so far as to say that they were nothing I wouldn’t have expected in a standard crèche or junior class. I wondered if perhaps this was going to be an easy assignment after all.

Experience (and common sense) had made me aware that children do not exist in isolation: every behavioural problem stems from some issue within a family unit or a trauma that had happened far away from the childcare centre. I wanted to look at the children’s homes and meet some of the parents. That evening I decided to do the home-time run.

The bus driver, a huge bear of a man named Arnold, seemed to view the children with a mixture of amusement and mild tolerance. Janet and Bea, two housewives, were employed to travel with them. They supplemented their income by doing short runs to and from a number of centres and schools about the county. If they were surprised by my decision to come along for the ride, they didn’t show it.

The trip took a little over an hour. Gilbert lived in what could only be described as a mansion. A Rolls-Royce was parked out front beside a Mercedes, which was apparently the family runabout. A young man, whom Arnold informed me was a servant, let the child in. He shut the door without looking at us.

Rufus’s house had boarded-up windows and a front garden overgrown with weeds. When the bus stopped outside the gate, a woman who looked as if she had stepped from the pages of a John Steinbeck novel came to the door. I asked Arnold to hang on for a minute, and jumped down after the red-haired tearaway. ‘Mrs Ward? I’d just like a quick word.’

The woman froze as if I’d threatened to slap her. ‘What?’

Rufus had stopped at the door and was gazing at me, wide eyed.

‘My name is Shane. I’m going to be working with Rufus for a while at Little Scamps. I just wanted to introduce myself.’

‘He in trouble agin?’ the woman asked, apparently not having heard a word I had spoken.

I laughed. ‘No, he’s not in trouble at all. I’m just doing a quick visit to all the children’s homes to introduce myself. I was wondering if perhaps some of the parents might like to get more involved in the crèche. We could use a little help from time to time.’

‘I’ll tell him to behave better, okay?’

She seemed paralysed with fear. It was as if I was speaking a foreign language to her.

‘I’ll leave you to your work,’ I said. I had had my hand stuck out to shake hers, but she never acknowledged it. I got back on the bus.

‘Nice chat?’ Arnold asked me drolly.

‘If I weren’t such an optimist, I’d reckon she thought I was going to murder her,’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

‘Had a hard life, that one,’ Arnold said. ‘Husband drinks and knocks her about. Kids all wild as mountain goats. Never had more than a couple of pennies to rub together.’ He tutted. ‘She was a real beauty when she was a girl.’

‘Looks sixty now,’ I observed.

‘I’d say she’s forty. Maybe even less,’ the driver said. ‘Hold on to your arses, ladies and gentlement. Next stop,
chez
Milandra.’

‘He means my house,’ she announced, to no one in particular.

Milandra was met at the door by her granny, a plump, smiling woman with blue-rinse hair.

‘I love her dearly, but she has her mother’s heart broke,’ the old lady said to me. ‘She’s as clever as a tack, and she’d buy and sell you, but I’m not jokin’, the child has a temper on her that’d scare Jack the Ripper.’

‘Well, there are certainly issues,’ I agreed. ‘But she’s still very little. Often it’s just about setting some clear boundaries and sticking with them.’

‘Ah, sure, I know all that. Haven’t I raised five children on me own?’

‘No small feat,’ I congratulated her.

‘Milandra behaves well enough for me – I don’t take any messin’ – but she runs rings around her mother. Terrorizes her.’

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘My daughter was always a gentle soul. And I think that children can smell fear.’

Most of the parents chatted with me for a few moments, some obviously a little rattled that a man was now working at the crèche, but in the main I was met with friendliness. Arga’s parents agreed to help out when they were free, as did Julie’s, but even with these occasional extra hands, I knew I would have to talk to Susan and Tush about more staff. That day’s episode with the painted children clearly demonstrated that we couldn’t manage much longer with so few of us.

Tammy’s house was the last stop. Set amid a tiny housing estate that bordered a salt marsh near the coast, it reeked of poverty and desperation. A low wall, which would have posed no challenge to a determined child, acted as a barrier to the wasteland. I could barely see the ocean in the distance, and the smell of salt and stagnating vegetation hung in the air. A lonely heron stood on one leg in the reeds, a soft wind off the sea ruffling its feathers.

Tammy’s house was at the end of the row, tucked into a corner as if it were trying to hide. The little girl shot out of her seat, like a cork from a bottle, hauled the door open and dashed for her home.

‘Who usually lets her in?’ I asked Bea.

‘Watch,’ she said.

Tammy lifted a filthy, threadbare mat and produced a key. A grimy plastic chair stood beside the doorstep. She hopped up on to it and, standing on tiptoe, fitted the key into the lock. With great effort and determination she twisted it and, using her foot, pushed the door open.

‘I don’t fucking believe what I’m seeing,’ I said. ‘She does this every day?’

‘Yep,’ Bea said. ‘Sometimes her mother sticks her head out after the child goes in, but usually not.’

‘So she might well be going into an empty house?’ I said.

Janet shook her head. ‘The parents are in there. When I started I saw what you just did and went and hammered on the door. Finally Tammy’s awful useless dad came out, grunted something unintelligible at me, and went back inside. Tammy had a black eye the next day.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ I said.

The tiny girl had gone inside now, and the door was slowly closing behind her.

‘That kid is three years old,’ I said, more to myself than anyone else.

‘Goin’ on sixteen,’ Arnold said. ‘Homeward bound, ladies and gents. Hold on to your toupees.’

Five o’clock: the crèche was empty and the shadows growing long in the echoing room. I was bone tired, but knew there was one thing I still had to do before going home for the night. I sat at the work table in the play room, its surface still tacky from being wiped clean, and opened the slim file Little Scamps kept on Tammy.

Most early-years settings do not have much paperwork on the children, but I knew this one would be different – all the children were referrals from Child Services, and would have arrived with a fair amount of information accompanying them. As a rule I try to keep away from files because they contain opinions and conclusions drawn by other people, many of whom have had only the most cursory contact with the subject.

One of the distasteful truths about childcare work is that relationships are not equal in any meaningful way: the adults are always in a position of power, in terms of size and authority as well as in knowledge of the lives of the children with whom they work. A child in a crèche will know a little
about the various staff members – some will be more open than others about their private lives – but almost every
child-care
worker will know a huge amount about the family and friends of all the children in their care. Children talk, and their innocence prevents them censoring their commentary. It all comes out – Mammy drank too much wine last night and had a headache this morning so Daddy had to bring me into crèche; my brother has smelly feet; my uncle is in prison … Nothing is sacred. Workers are governed by rules of confidentiality, but the imbalance remains. I was aware of it, but helpless to do much to redress it. If I wanted to make any real headway with Tammy, I was going to have to learn a bit more about her.

The file ran to about twenty pages, a quarter of which dealt with Tammy’s birth and early infancy. There was a section on intervention by a social worker that had come to nothing, and a letter from a woman who ran a playschool near Tammy’s home – it was she who was ultimately responsible for Tammy being in Little Scamps: she had written to Child Services when Tammy’s conduct became unmanageable. I leafed through various pages, making notes as I went. I saw words like
aggressive
and
antisocial
. I read that Tammy was
intellectually subnormal
and exhibited
no social skil
ls
. Yet nowhere did I see any assessments having been carried out to back up these assumptions, and absolutely no evidence of anything having been done to tackle such serious issues. In fact, it seemed to me that a lot had been done to help Tammy’s parents while she had been allowed to stew in her own juice.

After an hour I was left with three names: Imelda Gibb, a public-health nurse who had worked closely with the family when Tammy was very little; Fiona Thomson, a social worker who had stepped in when Imelda moved on; and
Sonya Kitchell, who had managed the pre-school Tammy had attended before Little Scamps.

Other than these names, my trawl through the file had taught me nothing I did not already know. I hoped the three women might be able to fill in at least some of the vast gaps in my knowledge of this enigmatic child. I stood up, stretched, and put the file back in its cabinet in the office. I thought I might take Millie for a walk after dinner – I needed air and space.