Wednesday's Child by Shane Dunphy Page 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 Iwasn’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.
     

5
     
    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 isa 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