Wednesday's Child by Shane Dunphy Page B

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 spendingsome 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