Will Mummy Be Coming Back for Me?, page 2
‘I din’ rape ’er! I on’y felt ’er up a bit.’
I stood.
‘Where ya goin’?’
‘It’s long after my clocking off time,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to sit around and be lied to when I could be at home. I’ll see you, Jason. I’d like to say it was nice of you to look me up, but I’m not sure it was.’
‘No – don’ go. I’m sorry. Okay, what I done was bad. I know it was, okay?’
I sat back down. He relaxed again, when I did. My presence seemed to soothe him. His disturbed me deeply, but I could not allow him to see that it did.
‘How come you din’ know me?’ he asked.
‘It was a long time ago, Jason. I’ve worked with a lot of kids since then, in a lot of places. You look very different.’ ‘We was tight, though, you an’ me. Wasn’t we?’
I closed my eyes, and felt the years drop away like dry leaves, and for a moment the tiny cell was no longer there, and it was a summer day in a city far away, the air rich with possibilities.
THEN
1
Waterford, 1991
I was free.
It was a strange feeling, that sense of utter abandonment. I was, for the first time, a fully qualified childcare worker. I had passed my exams, served my time on a variety of placements, and was clutching my results in my hand as I sat on the grass outside the main building of Waterford Institute of Technology on a spectacularly sunny June afternoon. I had not exactly distinguished myself academically, but I had passed with honours, and was well pleased with myself.
Darren, my best friend and associate, was lounging on the lawn beside me. Students milled about the campus, many carrying bags and suitcases as they said goodbye to their classmates – some for the holidays, some for the last time. Darren, too, had successfully negotiated the final examinations, and was about to embark on a life in child protection, as well. He folded his own results sheet and put it in the pocket of his jeans.
‘Fancy a pint?’
I nodded. ‘It’s cidery weather.’
‘It is, that.’
The bar in Waterford Institute is called The Dome (because it has one perched atop it), and it was thronged with students that afternoon, many celebrating, a few drowning their sorrows. Darren secured our drinks – pints of draught cider – and brought them out to the beer garden. I rolled us two cigarettes from a pouch of Samson tobacco, and we sat and watched the world going by.
Darren and I had only known one another for the three years we had been studying, but we had developed a deep friendship in that time, and neither of us felt the need for constant inane conversation. Companionable silence was often what we were happiest with.
We were into our second drink when a man pushed his way through the crowd and approached our table. He was wearing expensive-looking cord trousers and a brightly coloured T-shirt. A stranger to the college might have mistaken him for a student, but he was in fact a senior lecturer in the Social Care Department. His name was Denis O’Shea, and he was the kind of teacher who divided students right down the middle – you either loved or hated him. He was a charismatic person with a powerful ego and steely determination to distinguish himself in his field, and that summer afternoon he was in an expansive mood. When he sat down, he offered no greeting, and Darren and I surveyed him languidly. ‘You both look happy,’ Denis ventured. ‘Or am I mistaking drunkenness for good cheer?’
‘We’re not drunk yet, Denis me ol’ boy, but we do intend to get there,’ Darren said, taking a long draught of his pint. ‘You are very welcome to join us, but if you so much as attempt to talk shop, I will cheerfully throttle you.’
Denis winked at us slyly. He had a flair for the dramatic. ‘I won’t mention the telephone conversation I just had, then.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you come to bring us good news or bad news, Denis? Because anything other than good news today will only lead to the pummelling Darren just mentioned, so think carefully about your answer. We’re pleasantly mellow here, and you are not to ruin it.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ our former lecturer said, reaching for the tobacco pouch. ‘You buy me a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
It was Darren’s round, and he shook his head and stood up. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘I’ll have a lager.’
‘Same again for you, Shano?’
‘I’ll force another down.’
Denis finally got around to filling us in on his news when we all had full glasses.
‘A new residential childcare centre is opening in the city. It’s more or less fully staffed, except for one thing: the Health Board requires a quota of male careworkers. Which means there is one position as yet unfilled.’
‘Which is where we come in,’ I said.
‘Do either of you want it?’
‘What kind of kids?’ Darren asked.
‘They’re quite young. Smallest is five, I think. There’s four of them in all.’
Darren and I looked at one another. ‘Teenagers are kind of my speciality,’ Darren admitted. ‘I don’t have a huge amount of experience with tots.’
‘I’ve done some pre-school work,’ I admitted. ‘But the fucking city, Denis. I live here. My family are all in the South East.’
‘Do you want a job, Shane?’
I nodded. ‘Is there anything else I need to know?’
‘They pay cash money, and they have a vacant position.’
‘I’ll give them a call. Who’s running the show?’
‘A woman called Terri. Here’s the number.’ He took a crumpled sheet of paper from the pocket of his waistcoat and passed it over to me. I took the details, and didn’t think about it again for two days.
2
I was hung over. The end-of-term celebration had gone on the rest of that afternoon, and well into the night. I was making a humble living as a musician playing for the busloads of tourists who passed through Waterford, and had a gig the following afternoon. An enthusiastic group of Americans had insisted on buying me, and the folk group I was playing with, drinks for the entire evening. The gig had turned into a spontaneous sing-song, and the landlord of the pub had surreptitiously locked the door, pulled down the blinds and allowed us to while away the night until the wee small hours. I had got ridiculously drunk all over again, and was now suffering for my bad behaviour.
I was lying in bed, wishing the room would stop spinning long enough for me to climb off when someone banged on my bedroom door.
‘Go away,’ I moaned.
‘Phone,’ Darren shouted in. We shared a flat on the Waterford Quays.
‘Tell them I moved to Tasmania.’
‘Okay.’
It was four in the afternoon before I surfaced. As I sat on the couch trying to force some water down, Darren handed me a scrap of paper with a number scribbled on it in his spidery handwriting. ‘She called again around an hour ago. Someone called Terri.’
I nodded, but was immediately sorry I had, and stopped.
I awoke from a doze with a start at six. The old-fashioned black phone that sat atop our portable TV was jingling loudly.
‘I bet it’s for you,’ Darren said, picking it up. He listened for a second. ‘Yeah, he’s just arrived back from Tasmania.’ He held out the receiver. ‘Terri again.’
I struggled to sit up. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi. I’ve got you at last.’ The accent was jubilantly Australian.
‘You certainly have.’
‘Denis O’Shea told me you were interested in a job that has recently become available.’
‘Yeah… I suppose I am…’
‘You suppose?’
‘No – I apologize. Of course I’m interested.’
‘Hey, I don’t want to force this on you…’
‘No. I’m all ears. Tell me about the job.’
‘Let me go one better, and invite you to come up and meet me and the kids tomorrow. Unless you have other plans, of course.’
‘I should be able to arrange something.’
‘Good. We’re on Threadgold Place. Near the park. The house is called The Crow’s Nest, you can’t miss it. Now, I suggest you take some aspirin, drink a couple of gallons of water, and go back to bed.’
The line went dead.
Darren looked over at me. ‘She sounds nice,’ he said.
‘She sounds Australian,’ I said, walking stiffly over to put the receiver back in its cradle.
‘Australians are nice,’ Darren offered.
‘I think this one might just be too clever for her own good,’ I muttered, and, taking a bottle of water from the fridge, stomped back upstairs to bed. If Terri was to be my new boss, I might as well start taking her instruction.
3
The Crow’s Nest was well named: the building was tall and thin, seemingly containing four floors and looking as if it might topple over in the light breeze at any moment. It was set in its own grounds, which looked like they took up around half an acre, and these were dotted here and there with mature trees, each of which was home to many talkative crows. I surveyed the house from the small park and playground directly across the road, which also echoed with the sounds of cawing rooks and jackdaws. As I watched, a boy and a taller girl of indeterminate age ran from the open front door of the house, and tore helter-skelter around the side. A tall woman with straw-blonde hair emerged from the house moments later, and ran after them. Both she and the kids looked happy and relaxed. It was a good sign.
I had done some work in residential childcare during my college course. As part of our training, we had been expected to work full time in three separate care settings, one of which had to be a residential placement. Residential is the most intense and emotionally tough type of childcare there is, for the simple reason that you are having a true living experience with the children you are caring for: you get up with them in the morning, put them to bed at night (and get up with them in the middle of the night, if needs be), deal with mundane things like homework and dental visits, and more exceptional things like seeing psychologists or bringing them to prison to see incarcerated parents.
I had thoroughly enjoyed my time in res. It had been an experience I was not really looking forward to, as my previous jobs had all been nine-to-five (in theory at least), and as someone who was used to having my evenings free for music or socializing, the thought of antisocial hours, sleepovers and night shifts did little to enamour me to it.
However, it was not long before I realized this kind of work had its own rewards. Being on-site over two days at a stretch meant that I got to see work through with specific children, watching them grapple with the various dilemmas or demons they were facing, and come out the other end. I had the pleasure of reading bedtime stories, of planning birthday parties, of picking out Christmas presents, of attending parent–teacher meetings – as someone just out of my teens, these were all new experiences for me, and ones I took to with great gusto. This was childcare as I had never really experienced it before. I had previously been more in the role of teacher and facilitator, but here I was taking a much more prominent position in the child’s life.
That wasn’t to say that there were no downsides to this methodology. If a child was having a bad day, or decided to give you a hard time, you were stuck there, right in the firing line, for twenty-four hours or more with no escape route. I also learned rapidly that a sleepover often involved very little sleep. I had had nights when some child or other woke every hour, meaning I slept not one wink.
But these were minor concerns. I found the overall experience joyous and revelled in the sense of team spirit and camaraderie of working so closely, not just with the children, but with my colleagues also. I discovered in residential care a sense of community and a feeling of belonging that I had often craved. Here was a job, a role and a place where you were part of something greater than yourself, and where the work was hugely important. I knew, in a real sense, that we were changing people’s lives.
When I look back at myself as I was then, with the cold eye of someone who has passed through much – professionally and personally, and had the benefit of years of reflection and self-analysis – I realize that I was, first and foremost, dangerously underqualified for the job I was proposing to take on. I foolishly believed that my three work placements at college had prepared me for anything I might encounter, and that I was already battle-hardened and initiated into the worst the work could throw at me. When you add to that a ridiculously arrogant personality, and the firmly held conviction that I was just about the best childcare worker there was, you have a recipe for disaster.
If I had known then what I know now about the following twelve months, and the fallout that would come to find me eleven years later, I would have walked away there and then, without looking back.
But, of course, I didn’t. I crossed the road, and walked through the open front door of The Crow’s Nest.
The house was just as impressive on the inside. The hallway was long and ornate, with a curving, wooden staircase leading off it. The walls were painted in bright, clean colours and decorated with paintings by the children, all professionally framed. Doors led off to a living room and a playroom, and at the end was a large, well-lit kitchen. A high counter with bar stools divided a dining area from the cooking space, which had an artfully designed gas-cooker and oven.
I hallooed and called, and finally a freckled, curly-haired girl in her mid-twenties came down the stairs, and met me in the hall.
‘You must be Shane,’ she smiled. ‘I’m Sarah. I’m to be your work partner.’
‘I… um… I haven’t actually been given the job yet…’ I said, shaking her hand.
‘Oh.’ Sarah pretended to look abashed. ‘Well, I’d better let Terri talk to you. She’s out in the garden with Mark and Ellen. I’ll call her in.’
Sarah brought me into the kitchen, and sat me down at one of the high stools, then disappeared out of a patio door. She returned with the tall blonde woman I had seen from the park.
‘Here he is,’ Sarah said. She was leading the two children by the hand, and they eyed me warily. I couldn’t blame them. Darren often said that at this time I was going through my ‘Serpico’ phase, which meant that I looked like a member of the Grateful Dead: my beard was thick and full, and my hair hung halfway down my back.
Terri, on the other hand, did not appear to be fazed one iota. ‘Hey,’ she said, extending her hand. Close up, I was a little taken aback by her. She was breathtakingly beautiful, in that classic ‘surfer chick’ kind of way. She was probably close to six feet tall, and her long, almost white, blonde hair, flecked with bits of grass and leaves, was loose and wind-blown from the game of chase. She wore a loose fitting T-shirt and shorts, and leather flip-flops on her feet. She looked healthy and strong and very much someone to be reckoned with. ‘I see you made it. I’m not gonna bullshit you, mate, I didn’t think you’d show.’
I laughed nervously. ‘I didn’t exactly outdo myself over the phone,’ I admitted. ‘You caught me immediately after finishing my exams, and there was a bit of partying to be done. I suppose I got caught up in that.’
‘Ah, forget about it,’ she said, walking over to the fridge. ‘I’m having an iced tea. It’s an Aussie thing, most of you Irish aren’t into it.’
‘Ah sure, I’ll give it a go,’ I said.
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. You can put some sugar in yours, if you like.’
She placed a frosted jug and two glasses on the counter and sat down opposite me.
‘Shane, I need a male staff member, and I’m not going to pretend you’re the first person I’ve spoken to about it. In fact, you’re the sixth. I’ve employed three others in the past month, and none of them have worked out.’
I took a swig of tea. It was cold and delicious. I nodded my appreciation. ‘What happened with them?’
‘The children here are… challenging.’
‘Aren’t they supposed to be?’
‘They are, but challenging is a relative term.’
I grinned. ‘I think I can take it.’
Terri threw her head back and laughed. ‘Oh, Shane, they’ve all said that. Tell me as much in a fortnight’s time.’
‘Okay,’ I said, not sure how to respond. Her voice seemed to be teetering uncomfortably on the edge of hysteria.
‘All right, I suppose we should do some kind of an interview. Come on out into the garden and we’ll do a little Q and A.’
The patio doors opened up on to a large back garden. I noted that it had been left as simply lawn, a wide, open space with no fancy adornments. A stone patio held a good-sized wooden table with a blue parasol and comfortable chairs. The sun was blasting from a cloudless blue sky, and I was glad of the shade from the umbrella. Terri produced a tobacco tin from the pocket of her shorts. She began to make a roll-up. I followed suit.
‘Can you cook?’ Terri asked, licking the gummed edge of her cigarette paper.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t mean can you do beans on toast and sweet-and-sour chicken using a jar of sauce. Can you really cook?’
I lit both cigarettes with my Zippo. ‘Terri, I can cook like a sonofabitch, given the opportunity.’
‘Plenty of opportunity here. The reason I’m labouring the point is because it’s a skill that is lacking in the rest of the team. I even brought someone in to try and teach them, but they don’t seem to want to learn.’
‘So you’re still stuck in the “spaghetti bolognese stage” then?’
‘Afraid so.’
One of the major problems in a lot of residential care settings is the food. Because staff are dealing with the day-to-day problems of the children in their care, which are often quite serious and time consuming, cooking something nice tends to be a lesser concern. As a result, the fare served up to both staff and children in group homes is, to a large degree, quite awful. Spaghetti bolognese is the classic residential meal, usually swimming in grease and with the pasta overcooked to the point of being sludge. Shepherd’s pie is another regular menu item, with the mashed potato topping complete with nice, al dente lumps and the mince filling lovely and watery. I had also, even with my short experience at that stage in my career, enjoyed frozen pizza (with the middle still good and icy), chicken curry that more closely resembled thin soup and oven chips that were so hard and brittle they could have been used as bullets by the armed forces.
