by Shane Dunphy
‘Are you firing me, or saying that there’s a position here for me if I want one?’
‘I do believe I am offering you a job.’
‘I’ve heard that there are easier ways to make a living.’
‘Naw. This is where it’s at. Glamour, excitement, wage packets stuffed to bursting at the end of the week …’
‘I suppose you have my cases lined up already.’
‘Wanna hear about them?’
‘No. Buy me a pint instead. We can talk about them tomorrow.’
He stood up. I held the door as he walked out.
‘Suppose I should get you a set of keys cut.’
‘Suppose you should.’
And I pulled the door of Last Ditch House closed for the night.
Afterword
My previous book, Wednesday’s Child, dealt with three, standard child-protection cases. They were all unique and special, and the children involved were all exceptional people, but social-care workers who have read the book have all recognized elements of those stories in cases they have been involved with (in fact, one social worker in a region of Ireland I have never visited, let alone practised in, was absolutely convinced I was writing about one of her cases, despite the fact that I have never met her or the family to which she was referring).
Crying in the Dark does not deal with the usual. I purposely set out to focus on four cases with details that were slightly out of the ordinary. They are stories I tend to use to illustrate points when teaching, as they each hold a fundamental message about children and how amazingly resilient they are, and about just how strange this work can get. Because it can get strange at times.
The story of Micky and Bobby Walsh happened exactly as I describe it here. They really did believe they were meeting their dead father down the back of the garden, and that line drawing I have reproduced is pretty much what they drew for me. All the odd things that occurred in that house did happen. Was I encountering supernatural forces? I have spent years asking myself that question. When someone tells you that there is a ghost in a house, whether you believe them or not, you begin to interpret things in ways you normally would not. I am a social scientist, with several degrees to my name, but I am human, and as open to suggestion as the next man. I am quite happy to believe (and in the dead of the night, this is what I tell myself) that what I experienced were a few freak weather conditions, a wobbly stool and a couple of deeply distressed little boys. As for branches that weren’t there scratching at windows, well, all houses have their own idiosyncratic noises, don’t they? I’ve left it open: you decide. Suffice it to say that, after we visited the grave and those two amazing children said their goodbyes, the visitations stopped. Bobby and Micky are two happy, well-adjusted adolescents now, and their house looks a lot less like a shrine than it once did.
Mina and Jacob did not remain a couple (wouldn’t it have been lovely if they had), but she is now working in a job she loves outside the workshop system, and has a long-term partner.
Do people like Karl Devereux really exist? Yes, they do, particularly in the field of youth and community work. I have, in fact, been in community centres completely run by ex-prisoners. This should not come as a real surprise. These men and women have paid their debt to society (personally, I don’t believe that prison should be about debt collection, but that’s another story), and have life experiences that can be invaluable to young people who may be immersed in gang culture or living on the periphery of organized crime. These people have true insights into the workings of aspects of society the rest of us cannot have. I come from a working-class background, but I’ve never been beaten or abused or starved. Individuals like Devereux – men who choose each word they speak with care, because in prison, a slip of the tongue can get you beaten up or killed – have, and they bring that experience with them into their interactions with young people, and meet them on a level the rest of us cannot.
Larry and Francey were not feral children in the strictest sense of the word, but they certainly had feral aspects (those of you interested in reading more about feral children should have a look at Douglas Candland’s book Feral Children and Clever Animals, published by Oxford University Press). Their father was sentenced to four years in prison, and he served around a year and a half of that. Their mother never served one single day of a custodial sentence, despite the fact that she was the motivating force behind the abuse, and that all the reports and evidence furnished to the court stated this clearly. Unfortunately, female perpetrators of abuse usually slip through the system, primarily because our society still does not recognize them as a real threat. Men abuse, the accepted wisdom states. Women are victims.
I ran into Sylvie Lambe fourteen months ago, purely by accident. I scarcely recognized her, but she knew me straight away and bounded over, full of confidence and good humour. She is a tall, strikingly beautiful young woman in her twenties now, who has left her past far behind her. My initial reticence about putting her in the care of a religious order was, thankfully, totally misplaced. She now works as part of an outreach programme with the Sisters, and has developed a deep spirituality: when I met her, she was just back from a pilgrimage to Lough Derg. She is still a single mother, but Gloria is a constant source of joy in her life, and the right man, she told me, would have to win over two women. We reminisced about old, darker times, and I was humbled by the fact that she harbours no bitterness. After ten minutes or so she gave me a hug, promised to keep in touch, and was gone into the bustle of the city streets. I knew I wouldn’t hear from her until she accidentally wandered into my life again. I was outgrown a long time ago. And that is okay. The work I do is about facilitating growth, and that means charting the trajectory of a life for a time, and then watching it flame away into the ether, creating a new and beautiful course all of its own – strong, independent and free.
Acknowledgements
Thanks are to due to many people who were instrumental in the writing of this book:
Jonathan Williams, my agent, was once again the first person to read the text, and his editorial comments, support and friendship have been a huge benefit to me over the past couple of years. Jonathan, you have made me a better writer.
All the staff in Gill & Macmillan have been enthusiastic, warm and nurturing: Fergal, Sinéad, Dearbhla, D and everyone else, many thanks.
Darren Giddens, who advised on early drafts, has been my friend since we first happened across one another in a classroom in Waterford Regional Technical College in 1991. Thanks for everything, Darren.
John Connolly, a great writer and a true friend, was good enough to read a first draft and offer much needed support during a moment of doubt. Thanks for your time and encouragement, John.
Andy Irvine, who has been an inspiration to me for many years (for his wonderful social conscience as much as his remarkable musicianship), kindly gave permission for the use of As I Roved Out. Cheers, Andy.
This book was written in a variety of locations, mostly during the generous breaks we teachers get during the year. Particular thanks are due to Phil, Ted, Gráinne, Fergus and Edel, in whose home in Meath, closeted away in the living room, I wrote quite a bit of the text and consumed copious cups of tea. My little sister, Tara, and her partner, Gerry, also welcomed me into their Dublin apartment one Hallowe’en, during which time Mina Henry made her first appearance in print.
My students (and there are too many of you to mention), as well as being a constant source of inspiration and friendship, have been so incredibly supportive of me since this whole business began, that I simply do not have the words to express my gratitude. I have received letters and cards from past students, words of encouragement and congratulations at every turn. I don’t deserve you all. Thanks.
Deirdre, Richard and Marnie have the job of living with me on a daily basis, a job that becomes quite challenging when I’m reaching the final stages of a manuscript. I love you all, and thank you for putting up with the impatience and moods.
All
the children, all the stories described in this book, are real. The experience of working with each of you has enriched my life. Thanks are owed to every one of you.
I wish to dedicate this book to two men who probably had more to do with forming me as a childcare worker, and indeed a teacher, than anyone else. There are liberal sprinklings of each of them in Ben Tyrrell, and they are mentors I return to constantly for advice and wisdom, never going away empty-handed. John and Damien, this book is for you.
THE BEGINNING
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First published by Gill & Macmillan 1007
Published in paperback in Penguin Books 2007
Copyright © Shane Dunphy, 2007
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ISBN: 978-0-141-93551-5