Wednesday's Child (12 page)

Our waitress approached.

‘Good. Here’s the food.’

Gillian’s face dropped, but I ignored it.

The waitress dumped plates, bowls, cups, cutlery and bottles of water unceremoniously onto the table and stalked back to her post. I arranged things in front of us. The soup was a rustic, home-made vegetable soup. Its aroma wafted up at us from the deep bowls. I picked up my spoon and sampled the fare. It was hot and pleasant, if a bit bland, but I knew that enough protein, vitamins and nutrients would be in it to do her the world of good if I could get her to keep it down for any length time at all. A puréed soup would take very little time to digest, so a lot of it would go straight into her system.

Gillian was looking into the bowl with an expression approaching horror on her skeletal face. I looked at the soup spoon that sat on the table before her and reached over and took it. I gave her instead the teaspoon that had come with my coffee. Expecting her to use a soup spoon was simply ridiculous. She looked up at me and tears welled in her eyes and dribbled silently down her cheeks. I grinned at her
reassuringly, knowing that this was a huge challenge for her. There was no pretence to hide behind, no bravado any more. I patted her gently on the hand.

‘Slowly. One spoonful at a time. Little sips.’

She nodded, sniffed and picked up the teaspoon. She sat with it in her hand for a moment, looking at the steaming food. Then she dipped the spoon into it, the tip of the utensil just breaking the surface, and took it back out lightly coated with soup. Not exactly what could be called a spoonful. Her face had an expression of such utter distaste etched onto it that I felt truly sorry for her, but I did not relent.

‘Go on, Gillian.’

She looked at me, still crying silently, and smeared some of the puree onto her lower lip. I saw her tongue dart out and lick off the offending material. We had begun.

I chatted about trivialities throughout the meal, every now and again coaxing her on. I ate, but hardly tasted what I was eating, my attention focused completely on her and her progress. I knew that she was never going to finish what was in the bowl, not today, but I was committed to sticking with it for as long as was feasible. I knew that eventually she would be able to stomach no more, and that I would know when that time had arrived. I felt admiration creep over me again for this child. She was trying so hard, struggling to overcome this terrible thing. Her will was amazing to witness.

When she had consumed around half of what was
in the bowl, she let the spoon fall on to the tabletop. We had been sitting in the café for close to an hour. She picked up her water glass and gulped a few mouthfuls. Her face had taken on a greenish tinge, and I knew that critical mass had been achieved.

‘You want to go to the bathroom.’

She nodded vigorously.

‘I’m letting you go today, like I said I would.’

More nods. She was beyond the power of speech, the urge to purge herself of the soup like a physical pain.

‘The next time I come out with you, you keep the food down. I want you to promise me you’ll try. We’ll work on this together, and y’know, I think we might just be able to beat it.’

‘Okay. I need to go now.’

‘Go on then.’

In her urge to get to the toilet, she didn’t even bother to close the bathroom door. Sounds of gagging and something splashing into the toilet water could be heard clearly. The waitress looked around with the same bored look and returned to her reading. The old woman seemed to be asleep and made no show of having heard a thing. I sipped my water and waited. After a few moments there was the sound of a tap running, then Gillian reappeared, looking sheepish and wiping her mouth on a piece of toilet paper.

‘Feeling better?’ I asked.

Her eyes seemed to be full of tears again, but I
wasn’t sure whether that was from vomiting, or if she was actually crying.

‘I couldn’t help it. I wanted to keep it down, but I just had to … y’know …’

‘Yeah. I know. You’ll do better next time.’

‘I’ll try. I ain’t promisin’ nothin’.’

‘All any of us can do is try, Gillian.’

‘It’s hard.’

‘I know. You okay? We have to get you to that bus.’

She nodded.

I took money from my pocket to pay for the food, and then we walked slowly to the bus stop. Nothing was said during the short walk, and she climbed on to the bus without saying goodbye or even looking back at me. Words were not necessary. I knew what she was thinking, because I was thinking it as well.

There was a long road ahead of us, and neither of us knew if we were equal to the challenge.

Connie’s school looked as if it had been built in the early 1970s – it had that ‘bungalow bliss’ design to it. As I made my way to the Principal’s office, I was struck by the lack of religious adornment on the walls. I noted posters that encouraged students to ‘just say no’, to contact various agencies in the event of unplanned pregnancy or to eat more fruit and vegetables. A solitary crucifix, high above the school secretary’s desk, seemed to be the only nod at Catholicism. Having been in Gillian’s convent school with its stained glass and portraits of nuns and saints, it was quite a comparison. This school was obviously very different.

The Principal, a Mr Thomas, was in his late thirties. He had been in the job since the previous September, and was full of enthusiasm for his new post and dedication to the students. He was dressed in a cheap grey suit with the ugliest necktie I had ever seen.

‘A present from my wife,’ he explained when he noticed me looking at it. ‘It’s hand-painted.’

I nodded in commiseration.

His desk was a jumble of papers and books, some of them piled precariously. I could just about see him around one of these constructions as he took his seat.

‘So you want to talk about Connie Kelly.’

‘Please.’

‘Well, she’s a great kid. I’ve got her last set of results here somewhere.’

He poked through a bundle of loose papers and produced a black ring-binder. The act of pulling this to the surface caused one of the towers to collapse. He smiled sheepishly and arranged the detritus back into some kind of order.

Connie’s grades were indeed excellent. She had achieved ‘A’s in everything except Irish language studies, and in that she had scored a B plus. The teacher’s comments on her report cards were all complimentary but vague, seeming to be based on a glance at her grades rather than any real knowledge of her as a person:
Good student
.
Working hard
.
Always punctual
. I finished reading them and commented: ‘She’s doing great academically. Do you know her at all?’

‘I taught her English when she was in First Year.’

‘How did she come across in class?’

‘I don’t believe I ever heard her speak up over the year I had her, unless I asked her a direct question.’

‘How did that strike you?’

‘Many students are quiet, Mr Dunphy.’

‘Shane, please.’

‘Shane, every class has those students who are willing to speak up, who will draw attention to themselves – both for positive and negative reasons – and those students who prefer to sit quietly in their places and work. Connie belongs to the latter group. She is
a very accomplished student, but a very shy young lady.’

‘Does she mix well with the other members of her class?’

‘Well, you’ll have to talk to Ms Duff about that. She is Connie’s Year Head, and will be able to tell you much more than me.’

‘I’d appreciate that. One further question, if you don’t mind. Have you had many dealings with Connie’s family?’

‘In the three years Connie has been here, there has never been any representation from her family at parent/teacher meetings. I am aware of the Kellys, obviously, but we have not taught her siblings at this school, and I have never met her mother or father.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘My predecessor may well have met them when Connie came here initially, but that would have been before my time.’

‘Thank you for your help, Mr Thomas.’

‘I’ll call Ms Duff.’

Ms Duff was a narrow-lipped, tightly wound woman in her forties. She sat with her hands clenched in her lap and looked nervous throughout our meeting. I was beginning to realise that any new information about Connie would not be gleaned from the teaching staff.

‘Connie is a wonderful girl, Mr Dunphy. Hardworking, conscientious, supportive to her fellow students.’

‘I’ve been told that her closest friends are students with special educational needs.’

‘Yes. The two girls she is closest to both face certain challenges. Connie has been instrumental in assisting them in their work. It is most unusual to see such altruism in a young person.’

‘So she spends time with these girls to help them, rather than spending time with her other friends.’

‘Well … I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘You just said that Connie was being altruistic by spending such a lot of time with the girls you mentioned. Altruism suggests sacrifice for no personal gain. I must assume then that Connie is giving up spending time with her other friends – friends of a similar academic ability – to help the students who need such assistance.’

‘Well perhaps altruism was the wrong word.’ Ms Duff wrung her hands, her discomfort apparent.

‘Does Connie
have
any other friends, Ms Duff?’

‘I don’t know … I’m sure she must have …’

‘Who does she sit beside in class?’

‘Jessica Tobin usually …’

‘Is she one of the kids we’ve been discussing?’

‘Yes.’

‘She associates with Jessica and this other girl …’

‘Lizzie Kinsella.’

‘Between classes, in the yard, that kind of thing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does that seem odd to you? There is, of course, absolutely nothing wrong with Connie spending
some time with Jessica and Lizzie. It’s admirable and decent. But to spend all her time, to never want to be with anyone else … that’s unusual. At least, I think so.’

Ms Duff said nothing and appeared to be on the verge of hyperventilating.

‘Could I see her now please, Ms Duff? You told her I was coming?’

‘I’ll get her from class.’

‘Thank you, Ms Duff. You have been most helpful,’ I lied.

Connie was a small, portly, mousy-haired girl with thick glasses. The uniform of this school was grey, with a blue shirt and green tie. She looked at me unblinkingly and neither said hello nor offered me her hand. Connie did not seem bothered by my presence. She didn’t seem to be glad I was there, or happy, or sad or angry or excited. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that
she
had special educational needs. She was like a
tabula rasa
.

‘Do you know who I am, Connie?’ I asked.

‘You’re a social worker.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m a childcare worker. That’s very different.’

‘It’s not. You’re from the Health Board. You’d like to take me into care. You can call yourself anything. You’re all the same.’

This was all spoken with a pleasant smile and a sweet tone. Just good pals talking about day-to-day stuff, shooting the breeze.

‘Is that what you think?’

‘It’s what I know. I’ve had social workers coming and going all my life. I don’t mind.’

‘I’m not sure what to say to that, Connie. I mean, I haven’t come out here to try and take you into care. It never even occurred to me—’

‘You were out in the house a few days back, right?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Mammy took a knife to herself, right?’