Free The Girl Who Couldn't Smile by Shane Dunphy

and was so involved in cramming the food into her mouth that she didn’t hear me enter the room.
    ‘You know, those are much better hot, with butter and jam,’ I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down near her. I didn’t want to get too close – her eyes were those of a cornered animal. ‘Would you like me to pop one into the microwave and put some on it for you?’
    She just eyed me and did not respond, which I decided to interpret as ‘Yes please, Shane,’ so I took one, put it on a plate and stuck it in to heat.
    ‘I bet you’d also like some milk to drink,’ I said. I poured some into a plastic cup and put it on the table next to her. She swiped it up and gulped half of it down without pausing. As she drank the rest I took the scone from the oven and spread it with butter and jam. When I had cut it up into bite-sized chunks I sat down and watched her eat. I didn’t have to watch for long – the entire plate was empty within thirty seconds. ‘You’re pretty hungry, Tam,’ I said.
    She nodded. I had to fight the urge to punch the air and whoop – she was, in her way, talking to me.
    ‘Like some more?’
    The nod again. Pleased beyond words that I had opened even this basic line of communication, I got up and prepared another scone for her.
    ‘Did you have any breakfast this morning?’ I asked, as she scarfed it down.
    She looked at me with eyes that almost held offence. Then, tentatively, she shook her head.
    ‘Do you ever get breakfast?’ My heart went out to her – she was so small, such a tiny little soul, but so self-sufficient, so tough. She paused, considering the question. Her head lolled from one side to the other as she thought about how to answer. I helped her: ‘Sometimes?’
    She shrugged in an exaggerated manner.
    ‘But hardly ever,’ I said, and she nodded firmly. I almost laughed. Tammy, although she chose not to speak, was a gifted communicator. ‘Would you like it if I sorted it out for you to have some breakfast when you got into Little Scamps every day?’
    An expression of fear came over her face, and she shook her head.
    ‘Suppose I fixed it so nobody knew things were tough at home.’
    She stopped eating and thought for a moment, studying the piece of scone in her hand as if it held the secrets to the universe. Then she gave me an expression that was certainly not a smile – I was beginning to think she didn’t know how to smile – but involved a slight turning up of the corners of her mouth, a twitching of her eyes. Later I learned that this was her expression for pleasure and satisfaction.
    ‘So we have a deal,’ I said, reaching out and patting her shoulder. She froze momentarily when I touched her, and I made a mental note to keep such displays of affection to a minimum. She got over the paroxysm quickly though, and I felt a rush of fondness for the sad, silent child. It was an affection I would have to remind myself of often in the coming months.

11
    As I had begun to explain to the group, the first project I had planned was based around Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit stories. I had been a huge fan of her tales as a child. I realize now that this seemingly quaint Victorian lady, with her amazingly detailed paintings and succinct text, was actually ploughing a deceptively dark and complex furrow through the consciousness of her youthful readers.
    While her stories deal with funny animals that generally walk on their hind legs, wear clothes and engage in very human activities, there is still a sense that they live in a world where death and injury are just around the corner. The children at Little Scamps reminded me of Potter characters. They seemed small, cute and helpless, yet there was a well of resourcefulness and guile in each of them, and although they were very much at the mercy of the adults about them, each had a finely tuned survival instinct.
    After a break for play outdoors, I read The Tale of Peter Rabbit aloud to the kids. I’d had full colour