Little Boy Lost

by Shane Dunphy

  I was singing softly, and picking out the jaunty riff I had developed, when my reveries were interrupted by the jangling of my phone, which was sitting on the kitchen table. I caught it just before it went to voicemail.

  ‘Mr Dunphy?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘My name is Tristan Fowler. We spoke some time ago about your coming in to play some music for me.’

  ‘Um… yeah. I remember.’

  ‘Did you lose my card?’

  I considered letting him think so, then decided to be honest.

  ‘No. I just assumed you were being polite when you asked me. And, if I’m truthful, I never bothered to follow up on it.’

  ‘I see. Well, Annie is waiting very patiently for your visit. Music means a great deal to her, you see. Now, you might think she is a sweet simpleton who would not be able to recall someone new for more than a day or so, but please let me assure you that is genuinely not the case.’

  ‘I didn’t think that,’ I said. ‘I just got busy with other things and let it slip from my mind. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, when shall we see you, then?’

  ‘How did you get this number, Mr Fowler?’

  ‘You told me you play in the local pubs. I assumed your most local would be the one closest to where we met. I told them I was looking for your services, and they happily passed on your contact details.’

  ‘Resourceful,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you. Are you busy tomorrow morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How would half past ten suit you, then?’

  ‘Where are you based?’

  He gave me directions, which I scribbled on the back of an envelope.

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’m counting on your being there,’ Tristan said. ‘I’ll be telling my group first thing that you’re coming.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  I hung up, shaking my head. My bluff had been well and truly called.

  4

  Drumlin (Therapeutic) Training Unit was based in a small one-storey building that had once been a grain store, situated half a mile from a small town not far from where I lived. Tristan Fowler met me at the door, and brought me into a small office, the walls of which were covered with photographs of him and many individuals who were obviously his clients. Some of the photos had been taken at a variety of events with local politicians and celebrities.

  ‘Just to briefly explain to you what we’re about here, Shane,’ Tristan said when we were both seated. ‘Drumlin is a unit I established more than ten years ago now, especially for young people with mild mental handicaps.’

  ‘I didn’t think that term was used any more,’ I said.

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s not. I was using language I thought you’d understand.’

  ‘You don’t need to go easy on me,’ I said. ‘I think I can keep up.’

  ‘Fair enough. I noticed when I came here from the UK that there was a tendency to place individuals from right across the disability spectrum together, regardless of ability. So people who were actually only borderline, who were, in fact, pretty much able to do most things independently, but perhaps required a little support in one area, were placed in units alongside service users who were profoundly disabled.’

  I nodded. ‘Which didn’t do either of them any good.’

  ‘Exactly. What I saw happening was that those who were of a higher functioning either shot ahead of their less able colleagues, leaving them to languish, or all the attention was lavished on those of lower capacity, and the brighter lads and lasses would become angry and frustrated. Both scenarios led to terrible problems – violent outbursts, group conflict, or at the other end of the scale depression and withdrawal.’

  ‘So you sought funding to set this place up?’

  Tristan smiled. ‘Not exactly. I came to Ireland with my wife, Heddie, who is involved in the financial sector. I’m a social worker by profession, but I have a second degree in applied psychology, which I got when I was in the army. We built a house in Ballytober, just down the road from here, and I started doing some voluntary work a couple of days a week in a day-care centre that was attached to the church there.’

  ‘Very generous of you.’

  ‘Well, we had some land and initially I planned to do a little farming: raise some goats and some chickens, perhaps.’

  ‘How’d that go? I’ve got similar plans myself.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a sideline. But this has sort of taken precedence.’

  I grinned. ‘Funny how that can happen.’

  ‘When I saw how one of our lads, a young fella called Max, was doing really badly, I knew I had to do something. I mean, this kid was just full of anger and resentment.’ Tristan stood up, and took a picture down from among the gallery on the wall. It was a shot of a much younger Tristan Fowler (his hair was a little longer, and shot through with deep, sooty black) with his arms around the shoulders of a handsome brawny boy with the distinct features of Down’s Syndrome. ‘That’s Max. He was ruling the roost at home, and was holding the staff at the centre to ransom, too. Well, I took it on as a project to try and bring him round, but I soon began to see that in such an environment there was just no way to make any lasting changes. I’d guide him forward three steps but within a week we’d have gone back five. So I called together the parents of half a dozen of the kids I knew were the most in need of a specialist setting, and asked them if they’d come with me if I established just that.’

  ‘And the rest is history,’ I said.

  ‘More or less. We operated for the first five years without any funding other than what we could scrimp from those parents who could afford it. A local factory gave us a room to work out of, and I begged one of the hotels to let us use their swimming pool. St Fiachra’s school said we could use their gym once a week. I picked up some carpentry tools in a car-boot sale, and made workbenches and tables for our craft room. Staff were either volunteers, like my colleague, Beth, or were accessed through Community Employment Training schemes.’

  ‘Which meant they weren’t qualified,’ I added.

  ‘Last year the Health Services finally recognized what I do. We now get core funding, and the wages of my people are on a par with others at their level.’

  ‘That’s no small achievement,’ I said. ‘The downside, I’d guess, is that by paying you, the managers from Community Services think they can tell you what to do.’

  ‘They do try.’

  ‘I’ll bet they’ve tried to palm a few clients your way, too.’

  Tristan smiled ruefully. ‘They have.’

  ‘And I’ll bet they were all outside the mild range you have insisted on.’

  Tristan nodded. ‘Virtually every one.’

  ‘Taking state money is a little bit like selling your soul, sometimes,’ I said.

  The older man was looking at me with a curious expression. ‘You look like a musician,’ he said, slowly, ‘and I hear that you can certainly play. But I’m getting the sense you might have some experience in my area of expertise, too.’

  I waved away the comment. ‘Ah, I’ve done a bit of this and a bit of that in my time,’ I said. ‘Am I going to play for ye, or has this been a wasted journey?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Tristan said. ‘Follow me.’

  He led me through a short hallway into a large activity room, and there, already seated in a tight circle, was the group. I spotted Annie beaming among them.

  ‘This is Shane, everyone, and he’s going to play some music for us,’ Tristan said. ‘Why don’t you all introduce yourselves, so Shane doesn’t feel like a stranger?’

  While I unpacked my steel-stringed acoustic guitar and harmonicas, Tristan went about the circle of people. Some told me their names willingly, others had to be prompted to say anything, and still others, like Annie, would not say anything at all. With Tristan was a grey-haired attractive woman of about the same age, who
told me she was Beth Singleton, the assistant co-ordinator and medical officer for the unit. There were three other staff members: a girl in her mid-twenties, called Valerie Keating; a middle-aged man, who introduced himself simply as Baz and a matronly older woman named Millie Yardley. By the time everyone’s name had been given (or at least all those who wished to part with the information), I was seated and ready to go.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘As you know, I’m Shane, and I know lots of songs, but before I begin, maybe you could tell me what kind of music you like to listen to. Would any of you like to let me know what your favourite song is, or the singer you enjoy the most?’

  ‘Me, Beth,’ a very well-built and handsome youngster said, looking at the woman, and then giggling and covering his face.

  ‘What would you like to say, Dominic?’ Beth asked, trying to peep behind the boy’s hands. ‘What would you like to tell Shane?’

  ‘I tell ’im,’ Dominic said.

  ‘What would you like to tell him, Dominic?’

  The young man giggled again. During this time he had not made eye contact with me, or anyone else. ‘I tell him my favourite singer?’

  ‘Okay, Dominic,’ I said. ‘I’d love to know who your favourite singer is.’

  ‘I tell ’im, Beth?’

  ‘Go on, Dominic. We’re all waiting,’ Beth said, gently.

  Dominic raised his eyes to me, and I saw for the first time that, had he not had the eyes and posture of a nervous child, he would have been devastatingly handsome – beautiful, even. He had clear blue eyes, a porcelain complexion, straw-blond hair, and the physique of an athlete. He giggled nervously again, took a deep breath, and said, ‘My favourite singer is Daniel O’Donnell.’ The name of the well-known Irish easy-listening singer was uttered with deep pride.

  ‘Yeah, I like Daniel O’Donnell too,’ a tiny woman, who had told me her name was Ricki, agreed.

  ‘Me too,’ Max, the man Tristan had told me about, said.

  I was getting that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach I get when I know a performance is about to go down the tubes. I did not know one single song by Daniel O’Donnell.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Well, seeing as you all like wee Daniel so much, I bet you can sing me some of his songs. Right?’

  Max looked at me with some suspicion. ‘You are s’posed to sing for us,’ he said, dubiously.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I retorted, ‘but I will be looking for you to sing along, so I need to know how good you all are. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ricki agreed. ‘I think that’s only fair.’

  Before I had another word out of my mouth, Dominic, his eyes closed and his head on one side, was singing in a sweet, very tuneful voice:

  ‘Stand beside me, stand beside me

  For if I should lose you I just couldn’t get anywhere…’

  I found the key he was singing, and joined in on guitar. The rest of the gathering were singing along in no time, and I breathed a sigh of relief. My ruse had worked: the room was full of smiles and singing voices.

  5

  An hour later Tristan called a halt to the music. I had enjoyed myself thoroughly, and to my delight I soon discovered that there was a knowledge of much more than just the collected works of Daniel O’Donnell among my listeners. We touched on everything from the Beatles to Bruce Springsteen to Ella Fitzgerald, and ended on Woody Guthrie’s ‘This Land Is Your Land’, which was sort of the anthem of the unit. Being a huge Woody Guthrie fan, I was extremely impressed by this news.

  ‘Okay, lads,’ Tristan said. ‘Story time, next. Let’s get ready.’

  Everyone picked up the chairs they had been sitting on, and placed them back round a large table at the other end of the room. I followed suit, then began to put away my instruments.

  ‘That was very enjoyable,’ Tristan said to me.

  ‘I’m glad.’ I grinned. ‘Once we got over the Daniel O’Donnell stumbling block, it seemed to take off well enough.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Tristan laughed. ‘You handled that very well.’

  ‘It’s an old trick for dealing with requests I don’t know. Listen, thanks for asking me. I’ll get out of your hair.’

  ‘Well, thanks for coming along.’

  We were shaking hands when Ricki came over and whispered something in Tristan’s ear. It was hard to put an age on her; she could have been anything from twenty to fifty. She was perhaps only half an inch over four feet in height, and wore glasses with almost impossibly thick lenses. On her head was a shock of dark black curls, which were starting to grey about the temples.

  Tristan listened carefully. ‘Well, perhaps you should ask him yourself, Ricki.’

  The little woman nodded, and looked at me bashfully.

  ‘We were wonderin’ if you might like to stay for story time, and maybe then have a bit of lunch with us,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  I had not been expecting this invitation, and for a moment I didn’t know what to say. ‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ I said. I glanced over to a section of the big room where there were three bookshelves and an array of beanbags and stuffed chairs. The group were all gazing in my direction, awaiting an answer. I had enjoyed myself so far. I didn’t have anything else to do that morning – my plans did not go any further than possibly going for a run, which I could do later. And I always loved stories. ‘I’d be delighted to stay for a while.’

  Ricki held out her hand for me to take. ‘Come on, then. We’ve got lots of stories to get through, today.’

  Tristan laughed. ‘Well, that’s telling you,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring your stuff into the office. You’d better go on. Who’s going first, Ricki?’

  ‘Annie.’

  ‘Very good. I’ll join you in a moment.’

  Beth led me over to the others. I noticed for the first time that the room was divided up into six different sections. The centre was taken up by a long dining table, and then a large empty space, where the chairs had been arranged for our singing. There was the small library and reading area, where everyone was then gathered; on the opposite wall was a long woodwork area, with plenty of tools and half-finished pieces of work; there was a space where easels were set up, and I could see shelves with paints, pastels and other art accessories upon them; and there was a corner where many different kinds of old clothes were hung up, obviously for drama and role play.

  When we were all seated, the carer who was called Millie said: ‘Now, Annie, you have a story for us today?’

  Annie sat up very straight, and waited while all eyes fell on her. Finally, she said, ‘Boy. Him walkin’ out. Cryin’.’

  ‘Why is he cryin’, Annie?’ someone asked.

  Annie swallowed and took a deep breath. I could see that this was not an easy process for her, and required a huge effort in terms of concentration and energy. ‘Wants Daddy,’ she said.

  ‘My daddy dead,’ Max said.

  ‘My daddy pickin’ me up at four o’clock,’ Dominic said.

  ‘Daddy gone,’ Annie said. ‘Him cryin’. Wants Daddy. Daddy gone.’

  ‘Where is this little boy out walking, Annie?’ Millie asked. ‘Is he in a town?’

  Annie shook her head. ‘Trees. Sky. Stars. Wind. Cold.’

  ‘He’s out in woods – a forest, maybe?’

  Annie nodded emphatically.

  ‘And it’s night time.’

  More nodding.

  ‘And he’s all alone, and he wants his daddy?’

  ‘Is he a small boy, like my brother?’ a boy with alarmingly red hair said.

  Annie shook her head.

  ‘Is he a little boy, or a big boy?’ Valerie, the other staff member asked.

  Annie held her hand high above her head.

  ‘He’s a big boy, then,’ Beth said.

  ‘Dominic,’ Annie said.

  ‘Big like Dominic,’ Valerie said.

  ‘No, Dominic,’ Annie said, firmly.

  ‘I. Am. Dom – in – ic!’ Dominic said.

 
; ‘Yes, he’s like Dominic,’ Valerie said, trying to work out what Annie was trying to tell her.

  ‘No,’ Annie said, the exasperation telling in her voice. ‘Him Dominic.’

  There was a chorus of oohs and ahhs from everyone.

  ‘So the lost boy is Dominic,’ Beth said.

  ‘Her talkin’ ‘bout me,’ Dominic said, giggling heartily.

  ‘So why is he out at night, all alone, crying for his daddy?’ Valerie asked. ‘Dominic’s daddy would never let anything bad like that happen, would he?’

  ‘No one there,’ Annie said, quietly. ‘Dark. Cold. All alone.’

  I listened, particularly moved by the tone of Annie’s voice: she was saying these words as if she knew exactly, from close personal experience, what they meant.

  ‘I don’t think I like this story,’ Max said.

  ‘Well, do you have a story for us, then?’ Tristan said. He had just come back into the room, and pulled over a beanbag to join the group.

  ‘Yeah,’ Max said. ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘What’s your story about then?’

  Max beamed all over his face, quite obviously delighted to be the centre of attention. ‘My story is about a giant robot,’ he said.

  ‘That sounds like an interesting story, all right,’ Tristan said.

  I found that I was only half listening to Max, though. My attention was still very much on Annie, and the haunting image she had painted in her simple yet dark story. While Max described his metal monstrosity, the girl sat, her lips still moving as she continued to recount her story to herself. I could not help but wonder how it ended.

  More than a year would pass before I found out.

  6

  Over lunch, Tristan told me a little about some of the clients who made up his little group.

  ‘Max and Annie you know about,’ he said. ‘Dominic was something of a conversation piece this morning, which is unusual, as he’s fairly quiet these days, but let me assure you, he didn’t used to be.’

  While we talked, Beth Singleton cut bread and buttered it, diced up an avocado, laid out some freshly cut smoked ham and poured coffee. I was more than a little embarrassed to be waited on in such a manner, but Tristan seemed to accept it as the norm. Everyone else about the table had their own packed lunches, and got on with the business of eating, chatting and joking enthusiastically.