Little Boy Lost

by Shane Dunphy

  When it became obvious that I had no real patience with making things out of wood, and that I found weaving simply too tedious for words, Tristan decided to try me on something different. Glen had been expressing a desire to try Airfix modelling for a while, and Tristan thought this might be something I would enjoy. I put it to him that I had never gotten much of a kick out of the endeavour when I was a kid, and therefore thought it unlikely I would now, but in the spirit of goodwill, I said I’d give it a go.

  Glen and I made our way into the biggest toy shop in town, and the red-haired youngster picked out a large plane. Now, it had a much fancier name than that, and there was a huge amount of information that came with it about what it had been used for in whichever war it had been used in, but as far as I was concerned, it was a big plane. The man in the shop informed us that everything we needed was in the kit, and off we went. Glen was anxious to get started as soon as we got back to the unit.

  ‘It’s a cool plane,’ he said. ‘I am reminded strongly of the plane in one of my favourite movies, Con Air, with Nicholas Cage and John Cusack. Although that was a passenger plane used to carry dangerous criminals, and this is a war plane used for dropping bombs in pre-decided military targets, but I think you see where I’m making the connection.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘There was a series of films made in the nineteen seventies featuring planes as central plot devices. I am, of course, referring to the spoofs made by the Zucker brothers, starring Leslie Nielsen and Lloyd Bridges, called Airplane. There were also a number of films of a more serious nature, which featured the acting skills of George Kennedy, called the Airport series. Now, these were classified as disaster movies – but I think they were quite successful.’

  Our modelling project proved to be something of a disaster. After our first session, we both had to be unstuck from the fuselage of the model – luckily Beth had foreseen this possibility, and had the correct materials to do the job. It took us two more periods of work to get the item finished, and certainly, the results did look vaguely like a plane, but probably not one that could have ever flown.

  ‘It’s not exactly what you’d call streamlined, now is it?’ Tristan asked. ‘And I don’t think we’re supposed to be able to see globs of dried glue.’

  ‘Shane says it’s an impressionistic view of a plane,’ Glen said, proudly.

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Tristan agreed. ‘Aren’t the wings supposed to be pointing in the other direction?’

  I was permitted to find something else to do during craft after that. I was a volunteer, after all.

  PART 5

  ‘Where Do You Go To,

  my Lovely?’

  Wild nights. Wild nights!

  Were I with thee,

  Wild nights should be

  Our luxury!

  Futile the winds

  To a heart in port,

  Done with the compass,

  Done with the chart.

  Rowing in Eden!

  Ah, the sea!

  Might I but moor

  To-night with thee!

  ‘Wild Nights’ by

  Emily Dickinson

  19

  Tristan was a pathological photographer. There was not a single occasion that did not, in Tristan Fowler’s mind, warrant getting out the camera and taking roll after roll of film to preserve the memory of it for those who may come afterwards. I have to admit, I found this entire process deeply irritating, but there was nothing for it but to freeze and smile on command when my new boss decided he wanted to catch me in a candid moment (I tried to explain that smiling for the camera made the shot slightly less than candid, but he would hear none of it).

  As a result of this, there was a cupboard in Tristan’s office full to bursting with box after box of photos, dating back to the time he and Beth were still working for the centre attached to the church. One evening after work, Tristan decided to go through his collection, with a mind to putting some of the shots into albums, or maybe even framing them.

  ‘They’re a history of the unit, after all,’ he informed me. ‘It’s a pity to have them all shut away like that.’

  The real problem with sorting through all the snaps and putting them into any kind of order was that they were thoroughly jumbled, with no markings whatsoever to suggest when or even where they had been taken. Day trips to various locales, sports days, birthday parties, dramatic performances, all these were bundled together with no categorization applied at all. The only thing for it was for Beth, Tristan and I to simply hold up picture after picture, while they each tried to establish a vague timeline.

  An hour later, I opened up a packet of photos, and the first one immediately caught my eye. It was of a group of people lined up against a wall, smiling inanely for the camera: a classic Tristan Fowler pose. What particularly attracted my attention to this shot was that among the group there was only one person I could recognize – Dominic. It was obviously taken several years ago – I guessed at the church-based setting – and Dominic seemed a little shorter and a little more slender.

  What really caused me to stop and stare, though, was the fact that Dominic, who must have been around twelve or thirteen years old, was sucking a child’s pacifier. I looked at the photograph from all angles to make sure that I was correct, and not seeing something else – a sweet or something – but I was not. Dominic was sucking a pink dummy.

  I held up the photo.

  ‘What’s the story here?’

  Tristan squinted across the table at the shot.

  ‘Well, I would say that needs to go into the pile over beside Beth.’

  ‘Why is Dom sucking a dummy?’

  Beth did not even look up.

  ‘He used to when he started with us. It took us nearly two years to break the habit. He loved his dodie, that’s for sure. Gave it up kicking and screaming. At times literally.’

  I could not believe what I was hearing.

  ‘But he was what – thirteen then? I mean, who in the name of God thought it was a good idea to give the kid a soother? That’s like setting him up to have the piss taken out of him!’

  Tristan looked at me over the rims of his glasses.

  ‘Do you think Dominic is stupid, Shane?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And do you think Leroy or his wife are cruel people?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then, why would you assume that Dominic would use his soother anywhere he would be likely to receive negative attention for it? Or that Leroy would permit him to do so?’

  ‘So he only had it here or at home?’ I said.

  ‘Precisely.’

  I considered that.

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  ‘Neither did we,’ Beth said, ‘which is why he doesn’t use it any more.’

  ‘But why did he in the first place?’

  ‘Have you heard of regression therapy?’ Tristan asked.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘As you know, then, when a child misses out on a stage of their development through abuse or neglect, psychologists will sometimes suggest that they revisit that period, even when they are much older. So you will have teenagers being bottle-fed and so on.’

  ‘I know all that,’ I said. ‘Dominic didn’t miss out on anything, surely.’

  ‘He did not. In his case he returned to a previous stage of development and stayed there. Dominic, in a lot of ways, is a two-year-old. He enjoys soft toys and the Teletubbies and a good soother.’

  ‘But he’s not two!’ I said. ‘It’s disrespectful to allow him to behave like that.’

  ‘To his parents, Dominic had gone back to being a baby,’ Beth said. ‘How do you refuse a baby the basic comforts it enjoys?’

  ‘That is one of the many tough parts of having a child with an intellectual disability,’ Tristan said. ‘While they grow up physically, mentally they reach a point and just… stop. But you’re absolutely right. We have to ensure they have the best chance available, and that
means they need to take on some of the trappings of adulthood. Dominic is as much an adult as he can be. The way he dresses, and sometimes behaves, are all age appropriate.’

  I looked at the photo again. There was something disturbing about it.

  ‘Poor guy,’ I said.

  ‘Nicely taken shot though,’ Tristan said, and went back to his sorting.

  20

  Three months passed. My life began to fall into a pattern: I would get up early and go for a run, have breakfast and then drive the ten miles to Drumlin. I was still living on the money from my gigging, so I didn’t diminish the amount I was doing, but I did cap the number at five per week. If I was not out playing, I spent my evenings reading, writing or watching old movies. Glen was constantly referring to some movie or other, and despite the fact that I considered myself something of a film expert, his knowledge left me standing. Through his informed ramblings, I educated myself.

  Lonnie started to come to Drumlin in the afternoons. Despite the fact that he was not half as frightened of the world as Aisling had suggested to us, nor nearly as aggressive (or rude) as he wanted to make out, he admitted begrudgingly that it took him the entire morning to pluck up the courage to come in to the unit. Despite our rocky beginnings, I found I liked him very much, and his acerbic wit and determination not to ever be seen as anything less than a full person endeared him to me even further.

  Yet there was a pain and a sadness behind the gruff façade that I sensed from time to time. Even when he was joking, or being purposely obtuse about something, I knew this was a defence mechanism. Very quickly, we all learned that his method of interacting was to adopt a role with each of us. Tristan he referred to as the ‘Captain’ – any request was met with a salute and a ‘Sir, yes, sir!’ Tristan went to great pains to inform him that he had in fact been a gunnery sergeant during his time in the military, but to Lonnie, he was always the captain.

  Ricki he called the ‘little lady’, and he always behaved in a ridiculously chivalrous manner towards her, opening doors, standing whenever she entered the room, bowing low, complimenting her at every turn. Ricki, for her part, lapped it up. The two seemed to have an immediate understanding and rapport that was lovely to see.

  He continued his adversarial attitude to me, but within a day or so I understood that it was now meant in fun. Lonnie grasped every opportunity to make fun of me or to get a dig in, and I made sure to strike back every bit as enthusiastically. He would stand on the table so everyone could see him, holding a guitar he had cut out of cardboard, a fake beard made of cotton wool stuck to his face, and pretend to be me, singing. I would ask him when he came in each afternoon if he had got dressed in the dark (he seemed to perversely choose the most bizarre combinations of colours and styles). But I also learned that he could be fiercely protective of those he cared about and this extended to me, too.

  One day, Glen and I were discussing the old, British-made Amicus horror movies. Amicus was a film company that operated parallel to Hammer, but at a considerably cheaper cost. Glen was speaking about a particular scene in one of the movies (Dr Terror’s House of Horrors), where a disembodied hand (which once belonged to Christopher Lee) is haunting Michael Gough. Glen started to act out the hand creeping through the air, when Lonnie came in. Seeing Glen stalking towards me, his hand like a claw, Lonnie assumed the worst, and before I knew what was going on had leapt up on a chair and launched himself at the hapless Glen, who was too stunned to even defend himself.

  Before any real harm was done, I grabbed Lonnie by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off. ‘Jesus, Lonnie, take it easy,’ I said, urgently. ‘We were just play-acting.’

  ‘I was being Christopher Lee’s hand,’ poor Glen said with feeling.

  Lonnie straightened his shirt (a ruffled, lime-green affair). ‘Yeah, well, I just didn’t want anyone else killing you before I got the chance,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my own plans in that department.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if you’re going to cut my throat, you’d better wait until I’m lying down, or you’ll never be able to reach,’ I said.

  ‘The taller they are, the harder they fall,’ Lonnie said. ‘But then, you’re not that tall, really.’

  ‘You can talk,’ I said. ‘You’re the only person in Drumlin who needs a high chair at meal times.’

  And so it went.

  With Lonnie coming in regularly, and Meg now a more constant presence too since her disclosure, Tristan decided he needed to increase the staff ratio. When I assured him again that I did not want to be put on the payroll, he placed an advertisement in the local paper.

  The result arrived to Drumlin a month later.

  Her name was Sukie Boyle. She was twenty-three years old, fresh out of college, and she was gorgeous: long blonde ringlets; bright blue eyes; a full figure; as pretty as a summer sky.

  That first morning, as we sat in our group for news, it was very difficult to remain focused on the task at hand. Sukie, for reasons best known to herself, seemed to think it appropriate to come in to work dressed as if she were going to a nightclub. She wore high-heeled shoes, a short skirt, and a top that left little to the imagination. Max, Glen, Dominic, and, admittedly, Tristan and myself, had to make a concerted effort to keep our eyes at face level. Or, rather, Tristan and I did. The others didn’t even bother.

  As the day went on, I saw Max acting out the same behaviour he had with me that first day, except this time he seemed to require lengthy hugs every few minutes, too. I shook my head in wonderment at how I could ever have fallen for Max’s routine, but I also remembered how nervous and uncertain I was when I started at Drumlin, and reasoned that Sukie must be feeling much the same way.

  At the end of that day, Tristan did a group exercise with us, which involved the person to your right reading you a list of objects they had in their shopping bag, and then you had to list as many back as you could, while adding one, which they had to remember the next time round. Everyone got a turn at reading and remembering, and Tristan kept moving the group about to mix up the pairs. When it came my turn to read, I found myself sitting opposite Sukie. I was about to start reading from the list in my hand, when she said, ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  I stopped, and looked at her.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You taught me sociology and child protection when I was in first year at college. It was quite a few years back, now.’

  ‘This was in the city?’

  ‘Yeah. You probably don’t remember. I had short hair, then, and glasses…’

  I tried to remember the classes I had taught, but I drew a blank.

  ‘I’m sorry. I must have seemed very rude when you came in.’

  ‘No, you’re grand. I was very quiet. I don’t think I ever actually spoke to you.’

  ‘Well, welcome to Drumlin.’

  ‘Thanks. Any hints or tips for a raw beginner?’

  I laughed. ‘Well, maybe one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re… um… not really dressed for the occasion, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘Am I not?’

  ‘You look lovely, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that, well, I suppose you might think about showing a little less?’

  ‘What?’ Her voice was getting shrill, and I was beginning to get a little shrill myself.

  ‘Jesus, this isn’t coming out right at all,’ I said. I decided the only thing to do was revert back into teacher mode. ‘Think of it like this: there’s no uniform here – you don’t have to wear a smock or a particular pair of shoes, but, in a way, there is a uniform. Now, supposing we were going for a walk today, which we do sometimes. Do you remember Froebel, from college?’

  ‘Sort of…’

  ‘He’s the guy who came up with the Kindergarten Method. Or Vygotsky?’

  ‘I hated him.’

  ‘Well, what both of those guys said was that getting a sense of where you come from is really, really important for you to know who you are. Also, there’s
a concept in the whole area of special needs. Have you ever heard of “maximum positive visibility”?’

  ‘I might have…’

  ‘It was originally put forward by Dr Barnardo, but I’ve heard others claiming it as their own. At any rate, it says that for a society to truly accept people with disabilities, they need to be seen going about their communities, accessing services, shopping, doing all the stuff that so-called normal people do. Here, we achieve that by going out as much as we can.’

  ‘Yeah, I get that,’ Sukie said.

  ‘Right. Well, with those stilettos you’re wearing today, I don’t think you’d get very far.’

  ‘I can walk really comfortably in these!’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But what kind of distance can you travel?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Not too far, I’d guess. Now, also, whether we like it or not, Dominic and Max and Glen and Lonnie, and even some of the girls, are sort of confused about their sexuality. You know that when you dress like you are right now, it sends out certain messages to members of the opposite sex. You are showing how attractive you are – in anthropology, it’s referred to as displaying.’

  ‘Yeah but –’

  ‘I’m not finished, Sukie. I know there are certain parameters around which you must act in civilized society. So does Tristan. I think Lonnie does, too, even though he sometimes chooses not to observe them. Max and Dominic, though, see, they can get a bit confused about things like that. Someone as… um… womanly as you are, looking the way you do today – it’s liable to lead them into hassle they don’t need.’

  ‘I seem to remember you preaching that women should be able to dress how they like, when you were teaching us the history of feminism.’

  ‘I’m all for dressing any way you please during your free time, Sukie. But when you’re here, you’re at work. That means you need to present a professional attitude. A mini-skirt and a tube-top might be professional dress if you’re a model or a dancer or an actress or something, but it’s not for a care worker. I mean, goddammit, hasn’t social care struggled to be seen as a profession anyway? We don’t need any more challenges to cope with, do we?’