The Girl Who Couldn't Smile Part 5

'Don't I?'

'No, you b.l.o.o.d.y don't!' I said. 'I know you pretty well, and all I've ever seen was you being proud of who you are. You don't hide away you even dress to attract attention, for f.u.c.k sake.'

Lonnie tutted sadly. 'And has it never occurred to you that this may be a defence mechanism? If people are talking about my crazy clothes, perhaps they're not looking at my short, bowed legs or my simian, dangling arms or my hunched back?'

I didn't know how to respond to that. Of course it had occurred to me, but I had pushed the notion aside. I was fond of Lonnie, and the idea that he often felt lost, frightened and alone was more than I wanted to deal with. I preferred to believe that he was fixed set on the road for a happy, healthy, fulfilled life. 'What do you want me to say?' I asked. 'I consider you one of my best friends. When I look at you I don't see a dwarf I see a pig-headed, stubborn a.r.s.ehole with lousy fas.h.i.+on ideas and a sense of humour that would make Roy Chubby Brown blush.'

He grinned.

'And I see someone with a whole lot of courage and a true, open heart,' I finished.

'Giss a job, then, you f.u.c.king hippie,' Lonnie said.

'On two conditions,' I said.

'What?'

'Tristan has to agree to release you,' I said.

'And the second?'

'You have to call me "boss".'

I dodged the shoe he flung in my direction, but he hit me with the CD case.

10.

Imelda Gibb, the public-health nurse who had worked with Tammy and her family, was a matronly grey-haired woman in her late fifties. I met her in the canteen of the hospital she worked out of early on Monday morning. I sipped some of the disgusting coffee and chipped at a fruit scone that might have caused blunt-force trauma in the wrong hands. Imelda had a bowl of porridge. I admire porridge eaters. I know it's ridiculously good for you, but can't seem to develop a taste for it.

'How can I help you, Mr Dunphy?' my companion asked. 'I haven't worked with Tammy recently. I deal with many children, as you, no doubt, are aware.'

I had her contributions to the file with me, and riffled through them. 'Tammy is in a creche for children with special needs,' I said. 'She's presenting with some unique behaviours.'

'Such as?'

I listed them.

Imelda Gibb listened intently. 'Is she autistic, do you think?'

'It's the obvious conclusion,' I agreed. 'But no. I don't think she is.'

'I have no other suggestions.'

I pushed Imelda's report across the table to her. 'You wrote this after your second visit to Kylie and Dale's home,' I said. 'What you saw there was enough for you to request regular contact over the next two months.'

'Yes.'

'Imelda, the work I do isn't always easy to explain,' I said. 'Often it's just poking about, learning whatever you can, until you come across something you think might be useful. I have a picture of what Tammy is like now, but you know how she was as a baby.'

'Why not ask her parents?'

I laughed drily. 'They aren't really very communicative, just now.'

Imelda grunted. 'I suppose I could have guessed that. What do you want to know?'

I was in. 'When did you first meet her?'

Imelda pushed her empty porridge bowl aside, and went and got the coffee pot. She replenished both of our cups ('It's dreadful stuff, but it's hot and it's got caffeine in it'), then sat down. 'Kylie was known to Social Services before she had Tammy,' she began. 'There are literally entire cabinets full of reports and references to her family in the social-work department. As you are no doubt aware, when a person from that background has a baby, it sets off automatic alarm bells, and certain mechanisms click into motion. I am part of those mechanisms.'

'Do you mind my asking what the ... um ... issues were that brought Kylie's family to the attention of Social Services?'

'The usual sort.'

'I wasn't aware there was a usual sort,' I said.

'Mostly neglect. There was an allegation of s.e.xual abuse made against Kylie's father, but it allegedly occurred outside the family and was never proven.'

'And do you know anything about Dale's family?'

'As I recall, he had a police record petty crime but his family were not considered bad. He struck me as a young man who could have been quite intelligent if life had dealt him a better hand.'

'Okay,' I said. 'So you went to see Kylie and Tammy in the maternity hospital.'

'I did. Dale was there too, when I visited. The child was fine. She was a little small, only a shade over five pounds, but not dangerously underweight. She slept most of the time while I was there, and cried very little when she did wake up. Kylie struck me as a little overwhelmed by it all, but Dale made up for that. He was extremely interested in everything I had to say. He asked lots of questions, made me show him how to hold the child properly, discussed the various benefits of different brands of nappy. I got the impression he had bought and closely read several mother-and-baby books.'

'They don't do many father-and-baby ones,' I said.

'Mmm,' she said. 'It's a turn of phrase, really, isn't it?'

'An unfortunate one, some might say,' I said.

She waved it off. 'When I visited their home, I was struck by the fact that, though it was very well prepared for a baby, it was, to all intents and purposes, just a sh.e.l.l.'

'I don't follow,' I said.

'They had hardly any furniture, there didn't seem to be any food in the house that wasn't for the baby, and Kylie well, I have to say that she wasn't coping. At all.'

'How so?'

'Dale was doing everything. Now, look, I'm not one of those women who feel that breast-feeding has to be forced on every single mother in some sort of awful guilt-trip. But subtle questioning showed that she had never even tried to make it work. Dale was bottle-feeding the child using formula. He had proper sterilizing equipment I had no issue with that. I felt very strongly that Kylie had opted out of any role with the baby.'

'But Dale was doing a good job?'

'Oh, he seemed to dote on Tammy.'

I scratched my head and looked through the papers I had brought. 'And how was Tammy?'

'Developmentally, I would say she was, if anything, a little advanced.'

'Physically? Intellectually?'

'She was only three months old, Mr Dunphy. Within the parameters I had to work with I would say she was a little ahead, but not abnormally so.'

'She seemed happy? Healthy?'

'Yes. I would have said so.'

'So why did you recommend extended contact with the family?'

'For Kylie,' Imelda said. 'I thought she needed support. I was of the opinion that she was profoundly postnatally depressed, and that Dale, while most certainly caring for the baby, was not really offering her a shoulder to lean on.'

'Did you talk to him about it?'

'He's a man, Mr Dunphy,' Imelda said, 'and therefore unlikely to experience something like post-natal depression.'

'Does masculinity mean a complete lack of empathy?' I asked.

'Sometimes,' Imelda said, 'I think it does.'

Despite any lingering reservations I might have had, Lonnie started at Little Scamps two days later, and our family was complete. Susan and Tush scarcely batted an eyelid when he walked in they had seen too much strangeness in the children to be fazed by a garishly dressed dwarf. Tush, to my surprise and, if I'm honest, pride, pointed out that we now had gender balance within the staff team, which was something I had never even considered.

The day Lonnie was to start I went into work early and baked some scones. I had scheduled the first of our staff meetings and wanted to make sure everyone was as comfortable and happy as possible. If we were to function as a unit we needed to be very relaxed and open with each other, and that meant meetings had to be seen as occasions of absolute equanimity and free expression. Ben Tyrrell, an old boss, had taught me never to underestimate the value of a few cakes at such affairs.

When my three a.s.sociates arrived I had the table in the kitchen laid out, and the whole place smelling warmly of baking.

When everyone was sitting comfortably, I kicked off the discussion. 'Okay,' I said. 'We've got a team in place and we're ready to start putting up murals. The kids have been as good as gold the last two days, with a few slight hiccups.'

'Sounds to me like we're winning,' Susan chimed in. 'At long last.'

'You'd think so, wouldn't you?' I asked. 'I mean, we have every reason to believe we've had a major breakthrough.'

'So why do you sound like you don't believe it?' Tush asked warily.

'He thinks they're biding their time,' Lonnie said. 'Waiting to see how we respond to things, gauging our weak spots.'

The eyes of the two women turned to Lonnie, who was spreading jam on a piece of scone. He didn't look up.

'That's kind of cynical,' Susan said. 'Aren't we meant to accentuate the positive and so on?'

'I'm all for that when it makes sense to do so,' I said. 'And right now I believe we'd be better off battening down the hatches and preparing for an onslaught.'

'I don't like the sound of that,' Tush said.

'Me neither,' I said.

Lonnie grinned at everyone. 'So when do the little darlings arrive?'

They arrived all too quickly, and we started the day with large circle time. Susan had flung the windows open and the sound of birds singing in the trees drifted in. With the walls fresh and white, the broken toys cleared out, the room seemed bright, airy and full of possibility. The kids sat in a ring, the staff dotted at various points among them.

'Good morning, everyone,' I said. 'I want to welcome you all here today, and to tell you that it is a special day. Can any of you tell me why?'

'It's my birthday,' Ross said, raising a crutch into the air as if it were an extension of his arm.

'It's not your birthday, Ross,' Susan said. 'You were born in November.'

'Happy birthday to me!' Ross sang, swinging his legs in time to the melody.

'Is it Christmas?' Mitzi asked, smiling sweetly.

'I think we might have mentioned to you that Christmas was coming,' I said patiently. 'I dare say you've noticed the ads on the TV, too.'

'Holidays are coming, holidays are coming,' Gilbert sang very quietly, but soon all the children (and Lonnie) had joined in merrily.

'No you still haven't got it,' I said, when the group had settled again.

'Little fella?' Jeffrey pointed at Lonnie.

'His name is Lonnie,' I said. 'And, yes, he is part of the reason today is special.'

'That little man is a midget,' Milandra said vehemently. 'Like in Willie Wonka.'

'A little Oompa Loompa.' Mitzi sighed. 'Daddy, can I have an Oompa Loompa all for my very own?'

'D'you want to hear me sing the Oompa Loompa song?' Lonnie said, as if he thought this was the most sensible suggestion anyone could possibly make.

I looked at him, agog. I had never encountered him being quite so tolerant before and, as with the children, I had a sneaking suspicion he was lulling me into a false sense of security.

'Yeah! Sing it!' Rufus said. 'Just like in that film!'

'You want to hear it?' Lonnie said.

'Yeah!'

'You all sure?'

'Yeah!' from all sides.

'Well ...' Lonnie stood up in his chair as if it were a stage. He spread his arms out, his legs together and his back straight, just like the Oompa Loompas in the cla.s.sic 1970s film.

The children cheered and whooped. Lonnie cleared his throat. 'Here I go ...'

All eyes were on him. Then: 'No.' Lonnie shook his head and looked unhappy. 'Sorry. I won't do it. Because it hurts my feelings.'