The Girl Who Couldn't Smile by Shane Dunphy Read Free Book Online Page A

bay leaves, somethyme and sage, a handful of spinach, a couple of oversized radishes and a smallish beet. Back inside I put a Niall Toner CD on the kitchen stereo and began to chop the herbs. Then I diced the vegetables. Millie kept a very close eye on all this activity, standing at my side, acutely aware that the slightest slip of my hand might send something tasty her way.
    Ten minutes later the cottage was filling with the scent of dinner cooking, and Millie and I were sitting out back, me with a bottle of beer, she with her favourite cuddly toy, a rather evil-looking stuffed rabbit. I’d like to say she treated it with affection, but all of Millie’s toys ended up shredded – the similarities between my dog and the children at Little Scamps were becoming disturbing.
    The secret to a good chilli is to cook it long enough for the beef to get really tender, but not so long that it all turns to mush. I have found that, if you cut the beef up quite small, an hour just about does it. If you put some bread in to bake about fifteen minutes after the chilli starts to simmer and keep a watchful eye on the clock, everything should be ready at about the same time. So I sipped my beer, listened to Niall singing about walking on water, and closed my eyes.
    I probably would have dozed – Millie’s breathing told me she was already asleep – if a voice hadn’t said, ‘I hope that’s our dinner I smell and not the dog’s.’
    Lonnie was perched on my garden wall. ‘Can’t you just come in the gate like a normal person?’ I asked, pleased to see him.
    ‘I’d be hugely insulted if anyone ever accused me of being a normal person,’ my friend retorted, jumping down to the grass and marching across it.
    Lonnie is just under four feet tall. He has a strong, handsome face with a pronounced brow and a shock of black hair that he wears quite long. He also has a pronouncedhump on his right shoulder and dresses flamboyantly. When I first met him he favoured enormous hats, flowing trench-coats that would trail along the ground behind him and loud flared trousers. I have always assumed that this was primarily because he had spent most of his life locked away from prying eyes, ‘protected’ from mockery by a mother and maiden aunt who were embarrassed by his condition. Lonnie had passed the time reading fantasy novels, stories in which dwarfs were heroic and accepted, and his attire reflected this.
    Since becoming a member of staff at Drumlin (and seeing how other people dressed) Lonnie had tempered his fashion sense slightly, but still leaned towards bright colours and an almost punkish desire to clash whenever possible. Today he was wearing a loose shirt that was bright orange down one side and electric blue down the other. This was matched with pink and white checked trousers and canary yellow Doc Marten boots. If the fashion police ever came upon him, he’d soon be serving a very lengthy institutional sentence.  
    ‘I’ve got a pot of chilli on,’ I said. ‘You want a beer?’  
    ‘What’ve you got?’
    ‘Umm … Bavaria. It’s Dutch, I think.’
    Out of a bag he had slung across his shoulder he produced an amber bottle, some kind of Scotch – Lonnie favoured single malts. ‘I’m sure you’ll take a drop of this afterwards.’
    ‘I might force some down.’ I grinned. ‘Get a beer and a chair. Dinner’ll be half an hour or so yet.’
    When he was settled beside me he leaned down and scratched Millie behind the ears. ‘She seems to be settling in nicely. Has she house-trained you yet?’
    ‘I’m a slow learner. How are things at Drumlin?’
    ‘We’re just about managing without you. We say a prayer every morning for your safe return and for the welfare of the poor children left to your tender mercies.’ He took a slug ofbeer and nodded in satisfaction. ‘How are you managing in your new position?’
    ‘All right, so far,’ I said. ‘But I have a feeling that the children are sort of sizing me up. I