I had no intention of using the children as some kind of cheap labour force, and I was well aware that pre-schoolers have a concentration span that extends, at most, to forty-five minutes, but on average that will get you through twenty minutes of any game before you need to do something completely different. That time could be cut in half for children with intellectual disabilities. I was also acutely conscious of the health and safety issues involved in getting a group of small children to work with paint.

At the centre of all this lay an important issue: the children had been calling the shots. The adults were there, as far as the children were concerned, to get them food, clean up their mess and provide a s.p.a.ce for their uproar. They treated Tush and Susan with the contempt that they reserved for one another and seemed to hold no one in high esteem. A major part of this lesson was about mutual respect. I was going to sell it to the kids as selfishness: won't it be nice for you to have a room you helped paint? By doing nice things for ourselves, we learn to be nice to others.

At any rate, that was the idea.

The children stood just inside the doorway, apparently puzzled by the scene before them. No one moved. As I had suspected, with their familiar environment taken away, the group seemed ill at ease and uncertain how to behave. Past experience with children had taught me that every collective will have one or two leaders to whom the others look for pointers as to what they should do. I wasn't sure if that would apply here children with intellectual disabilities have varying levels of social skills but it became obvious very quickly who the alpha dogs in the pack were.

I glanced at Tammy automatically: she was the only child I felt I knew, and the one I wanted to know more about. Yesterday had left me with no real sense of any of the others. I had seen them as a cl.u.s.ter of miniature, faceless troublemakers, so my main impression was still of that odd, silent child. That was about to change dramatically.

Now that things were quiet for a moment and I had, for a short time, the upper hand, I could look at the children who were temporarily in my care. There were ten, including Tammy and Ross. I knew from the higgledy-piggledy files Susan kept that the two children with Down's syndrome were Jeffrey, a four year old with jet black hair and a barrel-like body, and Julie, aged three, so small and pixie-like that she looked as if a gust of wind might blow her away. There are varying levels of the disorder, but many people with Down's go on to hold down jobs and lead perfectly normal, happy lives. The main problem they face is that employers often refuse to accept them as the capable, articulate souls they are. Down's children develop at a different rate from others, speaking and walking later than their peers. Jeffrey could make fundamental, two-word sentences but Julie was still getting by with grunts, and pointing when she wanted something.

Rufus was five and lived on the local travellers' site. His family had been forced to settle in a small local-authority housing estate due to Ireland's policies on nomadic living, which had made the traditional traveller lifestyle virtually impossible. It was difficult to say if Rufus had intellectual problems, but he was severely neglected and backward in development.

Gilbert was three and came with a bundle of nervous tics and rigidly established routines that suggested he was either autistic or suffered from a severe anxiety disorder. He was a beautiful child he had a ma.s.s of blond curls and huge blue eyes but was angry and aggressive. Everything frightened him, but while fear sent most children scampering for a safe haven, Gilbert always resorted to fighting, tears streaming down his face, clutching any available implement as a weapon.

Mitzi was six, the oldest in the group. She was sociable enough when the mood took her but morbidly, frighteningly obese: walking was beginning to pose a problem for her, and her parents, pseudo-intellectuals who, bizarrely, ran a local organic farm-shop, just refused to limit her intake of sweets and fried food. Mitzi would settle herself in one spot in the room and remain there for the rest of the day. She seemed happy to use whatever toys were within easy reach, but was not beyond grabbing another child and forcibly taking from them whichever toy they happened to have about them. Mitzi appeared indolent, but she could move with remarkable speed when she wanted to.

Gus, at five, was the joker. He had been born with mild cerebral palsy and walked with an exaggerated roll of the hip. His balance was poor, and although his arms and hands were unaffected, he found it hard to grasp anything for more than a second or two. Every time I looked at Gus he was tumbling head over heels, dropping a bag of blocks, spilling his juice (usually over one of his friends), breaking a toy or looking for something he had lost. It had been suggested that he also had dyspraxia, often referred to as 'clumsy syndrome', but with the cerebral palsy, it was almost impossible to diagnose accurately. Despite all this, Gus was a good-natured child, and the only one at Little Scamps who seemed happy to be there and to like the other children. He was always smiling, even when he had hurt himself. It was impossible not to warm to him he had a great spirit.

Arga was Polish, the adopted child of two local teachers. With strong Slavic features, she looked around four or five, but we were not sure exactly how old she was. She had been found in a flat complex in Krakow, apparently abandoned by her family. She had been living on whatever she could scavenge from a nearby rubbish dump, and the construction workers who found her seemed to believe that a pack of wild dogs had kept a watchful eye over her. How long she had lived like that was anyone's guess, but she had rallied when she was rescued. She had developed a small vocabulary of Polish words, but had no English at all, even though she had been in Ireland for more than a year. She would tolerate no one but Gilbert, of whom she was very protective. Her adoptive parents were close to despair, and hoped that by spending time in a healthy environment with her peers, she might emerge from the darkness that enveloped her. So far, no such breakthrough had occurred possibly, I mused, because the environment could hardly be called 'healthy'.

The last member of our motley a.s.sembly was Milandra. The daughter of an Irish mother and a Nigerian father, she had hair in tight cornrows and blue eyes. She spoke English, Irish (her mother was a gaelgoir) and Yoruba, the language of her father's people. She was solidly built, pretty and uncontrollable. Susan and Tush had told me her parents doted on her, and while she might have been a little spoiled, it was nothing so great as to explain the terrible rage she harboured against the world and just about everyone in it. She never spoke except to scream, bellowing invective in whichever language she happened to use. She was intellectually able enough to start mainstream school but her behaviour meant this was out of the question. There was no way of knowing what was likely to rub her up the wrong way. Milandra was wholly unpredictable.

So, now we gazed at each other over the rows of paint pots. I could feel the tension radiating behind me as Tush and Susan awaited the children's response. The children exuded their own anxiety they were not used to surprises. How would they cope with this new development? I was sandwiched between the distress of both sides.

'Good morning, everyone,' I said, as no one else seemed to be in the mood to begin. 'My name is Shane, and I'm going to be working here for a while.'

Milandra threw me a dirty look, and Mitzi simpered from where she had settled on the linoleum. Other than that I might as well not have been there. I soldiered on.

'Susan, Tush and I thought it might be a good idea, seeing as I'm new and we need to get to know one another, if we did a bit of a project.'

'Wha.s.sa project?' Milandra asked sulkily.

'What's your name, sweetie?' I asked.

'Nunna your bus'ness.'

'I told you my name. It's polite for you to tell me yours.'

'You jus' f.u.c.k off,' Milandra replied. 'Where all de toys?' This to Susan. 'I wanna play now.'

Susan glanced at me, but I said nothing. 'We'll do some free play later, Milandra. Just now Shane is going to explain how we're going to help with painting and doing the room up. Won't that be fun?'

Milandra let loose a bellow of what I a.s.sumed was Yoruba. Susan flinched, but quickly recovered her composure. 'You can shout and rant all you like, Milandra,' she said calmly. 'It won't change anything.'

The little girl hauled herself to her feet and stomped over to the nearest tin of paint. She drew back her leg to deliver a mighty kick. I couldn't help but smile. The top of the tin came to Milandra's waist, and was certainly heavier than she was. It did not move. From the howls and hopping about that followed, it seemed that Milandra's main achievement had been to mash her toes.

There was a resounding silence, punctuated only by Milandra's impa.s.sioned roars and curses. Then Tammy, her eyes fixed on me, charged the tin, ramming it with her shoulder. It slid an inch or two across the floor. She stopped dead, then followed up with a kick. I couldn't tell if she'd hurt herself she remained quiet, biting her lower lip.

Each child in turn had a tilt at the tin. Finally Arga and Gilbert joined forces and, together, started to push with all their might. Susan made to stop them, but I shook my head. The lid of the tin was firmly taped down: knocking the can on its side would not pose a problem.

It took them three great shoves. The can tipped over with a dull thud. Milandra whooped in delight, and Jeffrey shouted something. The children's eyes were turned to us expectantly. I went over to the tin, lifted it up, and returned to Susan and Tush. The children had lapsed back into incredulous silence.

'I've never seen them quite like this,' Tush said. 'I don't like it.'

'They don't know what to do,' I said. 'They're not used to working together, and they're not used to being made to do anything they don't want to. They want to stand up to us, but to do that requires a collective effort. Which is what we want.'

'Well, I suppose that was them working together sort of,' Susan said. 'But what'll happen next?'

'I have no idea,' I admitted. 'I'm hoping they'll burn themselves out, sooner or later, and we can get some work done.'

'I thought you had a plan,' Susan said.

'I didn't say it was a good one.'

'Or even a finished one,' she added.

Arga and Gilbert overturned the tin again, and the rest of the kids started on the others, rocking them from side to side until they tumbled over. When Gus and Ross had dealt with the last one, the children cl.u.s.tered together, Mitzi sprawled on the floor in the middle of them. All were panting after the exertion and seemed just a little less wound up than they had been.

'Here's what I suggest,' I said, when I was sure the frenzy of paint-tipping was really over. 'Why don't we go into the kitchen and have a snack? We can talk about what we're going to do today. Does that sound like a good idea?'

There was a general round of nods and yeses.

'Okay, then,' I said. 'I baked some banana bread last night.'

We left the paint tins strewn here and there, and trooped into the kitchen.

6.

The children sat at the table in the kitchen, sulky and annoyed. We handed round juice and banana bread: I had warmed it in the oven and cut it into fingers. There was also some toast and jam for those who wanted it. When everyone was munching we started 'large circle time', a meeting for everyone at which we would plan the day. I knew from talking to Susan and Tush that such a gathering had not been attempted for a very long time at Little Scamps keeping the kids away from each other was usually seen as desirable but this was something we all wanted to change. In most creches and pre-schools the day was punctuated by large and small circle times to give every child the opportunity to talk about what was going on. What's the point in making a collage unless everyone has a chance to have a look at your work and tell you how good it is? I've seen centres where such moments of appreciation never happen, and children are left with a sense that most jobs are pointless. I didn't want Little Scamps to be one of those units children have to feel they have a voice, and that when they use it, someone will listen.

That first meeting, though, wasn't really about that. The children I was faced with knew very well they had voices. The problem was that absolutely n.o.body could listen to them because there was so much background noise and dangerous activity. I wanted to get the children used to dealing with one another and the staff through a medium other than violence, and food was a good way of doing just that. Most people naturally chat at mealtimes food makes us sociable, amenable. I hoped that would be the case at Little Scamps.

'Okay,' I said, nursing a mug of coffee. 'Let's talk about what's going to happen today.'

'Why you here?' Ross asked, punching Gilbert, who immediately began to wail.

'Me don' like you,' Rufus chimed in over the resulting ruckus. 'You go 'way.'

'I'm here because you need some extra grown-ups at Little Scamps,' I said, as Tush tried to hush Gilbert. 'If you don't have more staff, the place will have to close. There are laws about how many grown-ups have to be in a creche with the children it's called "ratios". If the ratio is wrong, the place is shut down. Would you like that, Rufus?'

He had bright red hair and his nose ran constantly. He eyed me with unconcealed distaste, his mouth full of toast. Then he spat at least half of it at Julie, who started to whinge as she picked gobs from her hair. Rufus was oblivious. He continued, 'You go an' we get somebobby else.'

'We've tried to get several other people to work here,' Tush said gently, moving around to help Julie clean herself up. 'Do you remember Mary, the blond lady who was here three weeks ago?'

'She smelt nice.' Mitzi sighed.

'Well, she stayed for just one morning, and then wouldn't come back,' Susan said.

'M'landra hitted her on the head with my lunchbox,' Gus said, smiling at the memory. 'It maked a pop, so it did.'

'And do you remember Dorotia?' Tush said. 'She was Polish, just like Arga.'

'Arrrrga,' the child said. She grabbed Milandra's hair and tugged enthusiastically. Milandra squealed at an alarming pitch I'd had no idea a human being could make a noise like it. Arga didn't either, it seems, for she let go immediately and gawked at her victim in amazement.

'She was pretty. So pretty,' Mitzi purred, apparently unfazed.

'Yes, she was,' Susan said. 'Do you remember she had that lovely long plait, right down her back?'

'She was a long-haired Polack motherf.u.c.ker,' Milandra growled, picking up her plastic mug and pouring its contents over Ross's head. He did not flinch he picked up a slice of toast, spread with b.u.t.ter and jam, and stuck it firmly to his attacker's cornrowed hair.

'Well, why do you think Dorotia stopped coming here after two days?' Tush asked, deciding to ignore this latest a.s.sault Milandra didn't appear too concerned about it.

'Me,' Jeffrey said, raising his hand.

'Go on, Jeff,' Tush said.

He pointed at Julie, who was looking angelic if that's possible when one is covered with semi-masticated toast.

'What did Julie do, Jeffrey?' I asked.

'Pull her hair ' he blurted, just before Gus smacked him in the back of the head with a roll of kitchen towel we had left on the table for the children to wipe their hands. It didn't hurt so much as surprise Jeffrey, but he wailed anyway. Susan tutted at Gus, who hooted with laughter.

'Julie decided that it might be a good idea to use Dorotia's plait as a swing,' Susan said to me. 'That last day, every time the poor girl turned her back, Julie would leap from a table or chair and launch herself at it. I know Julie's tiny, but it must have hurt.'

'We suspect she was put up to it,' Tush said, glaring at Ross, 'but obviously Julie's not talking.'

Julie made a kind of bubbling sound and smiled at me. It was hard to imagine this delicate little creature as anything other than sweet and docile. There was obviously another side to her.

'Then there was Una,' Susan said, rocking the still inconsolable Jeffrey on her knee. 'Lasted an hour. She was a rather ... um ... well-endowed lady, and Tammy kept punching her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. No warning, she would just run over and wallop her in the b.o.o.b. Freaked Una out completely.'

'You forgot Ruth,' Tush said. 'The kids kept puking on her.'

'Puking?' I asked, amazed.

'We pukeded on her,' Gus said, mimicking someone being sick.

'I don't know how they did it, but they took turns throwing up all over the girl,' Tush said, shaking her head in disgust. 'By the end of the day she was covered from head to toe. We'd got her one change of clothes but we just didn't have any more for her.'

'So you see,' Susan said to Rufus, 'we've tried lots of people. They decided not to work here because you were all so mean to them. And Shane might still choose not to stay. But you really need to give him a chance.'

'He's precious,' Mitzi cooed. 'Such a precious child.'

'Where our stuff gone?' Ross asked, rolling toast into doughy b.a.l.l.s and setting these in a row on the table in front of him. 'Why you gots all them paints?'

'We'd like you to help us paint the room the way you'd like it,' I said.

'Him a painter fella?' Milandra asked.

'Why don't you ask him?' Tush said.

'Hey, hairy boy,' Milandra snapped and was. .h.i.t on the forehead by one of Ross's toast b.a.l.l.s, which he had flicked with great precision.

'I presume you're talking to me,' I said, trying not to smile.

'Yeah. You. You a painter guy?' Milandra asked, as she rubbed the red spot on her face, eyeing Gus with undisguised venom.

'No,' I admitted. 'I'm pretty d.a.m.n terrible at painting. But I bet some of you are really good at it.'

'Me good,' Jeffrey said.

'I'm good at painting,' Gilbert said, in a wavery voice. 'Mammy says I'm very good at painting.'

'He hardly ever speaks,' Tush hissed in my ear.

I nodded, but continued talking to the children, who seemed to have declared a brief truce.

'See?' I said. 'I bet all of you could add something beautiful to the room. We could make it really special if we pitched in and did our best.'

There were general murmurs of a.s.sent. I held my breath. No one threw a mug or screamed abuse.

'Can we paint now?' Ross asked.

'Well ... yes, you can,' I said.

And so we began.

7.

The rest of the morning pa.s.sed without any major problems. The first task was to paint over the existing surfaces with a base colour, upon which we planned to make a mural to which we would all contribute. The job did not require any great skill or dexterity the paint could, quite literally, be thrown on. My intention was to do this as quickly as possible so the kids wouldn't become bored, and we could get on with the far more interesting task of doing the actual pictures and scenes that would make the finished product. I was acutely aware that this could not happen that first day, as the initial coat of paint needed time to dry, and was hoping that the children's destructive side would carry them through that the pleasure of chucking paint at the wall would sustain their interest. Thankfully, it did. The sheer novelty of it, combined with being allowed to do what would previously have been frowned upon, won the day.

We worked solidly for the first hour, then Tush and I took some of them outside to play. To my surprise, Milandra and Gus chose to stay at their posts with Susan, which we agreed to, on the condition that Susan called us if there were any problems.

Little Scamps had a pleasant enclosed play area behind the main building. There were various pieces of equipment (swings, a see-saw, a climbing frame, a sandpit) and ample room for running and jumping. Tush and I kept a close eye on things, but the children expressed no desire for us to get involved in their activities. This was unusual children usually crave the attention and approval of adults. There was also little interplay between them they seemed mainly to entertain themselves. We had to separate a minor altercation, but in the main things were quiet and calm.

Seeing that we were in for an easy ride, I perched my behind on one of the swings and beckoned Tush to join me. It was a beautiful morning, and I enjoyed the feel of the sun on my face. I had been trying to give up smoking, and while I had suffered mercifully few physical withdrawals, I didn't know what to do with my hands during the lulls I would previously have filled by lighting up. The swing offered a convenient subst.i.tute.