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forty. Maybe even less,’ the driver said. ‘Hold on to your arses, ladies and gentlement. Next stop, chez Milandra.’
    ‘He means my house,’ she announced, to no one in particular.
    Milandra was met at the door by her granny, a plump, smiling woman with blue-rinse hair.
    ‘I love her dearly, but she has her mother’s heart broke,’ the old lady said to me. ‘She’s as clever as a tack, and she’d buy and sell you, but I’m not jokin’, the child has a temper on her that’d scare Jack the Ripper.’
    ‘Well, there are certainly issues,’ I agreed. ‘But she’s still very little. Often it’s just about setting some clear boundaries and sticking with them.’
    ‘Ah, sure, I know all that. Haven’t I raised five children on me own?’
    ‘No small feat,’ I congratulated her.
    ‘Milandra behaves well enough for me – I don’t take any messin’ – but she runs rings around her mother. Terrorizes her.’
    ‘Why do you think that is?’
    ‘My daughter was always a gentle soul. And I think that children can smell fear.’
    Most of the parents chatted with me for a few moments, some obviously a little rattled that a man was now working at the crèche, but in the main I was met with friendliness. Arga’s parents agreed to help out when they were free, as did Julie’s, but even with these occasional extra hands, I knew I would have to talk to Susan and Tush about more staff. That day’s episode with the painted children clearly demonstrated that we couldn’t manage much longer with so few of us.
    Tammy’s house was the last stop. Set amid a tiny housing estate that bordered a salt marsh near the coast, it reeked of poverty and desperation. A low wall, which would have posed no challenge to a determined child, acted as a barrier to the wasteland. I could barely see the ocean in the distance, and the smell of salt and stagnating vegetation hung in the air. A lonely heron stood on one leg in the reeds, a soft wind off the sea ruffling its feathers.
    Tammy’s house was at the end of the row, tucked into a corner as if it were trying to hide. The little girl shot out of her seat, like a cork from a bottle, hauled the door open and dashed for her home.
    ‘Who usually lets her in?’ I asked Bea.
    ‘Watch,’ she said.
    Tammy lifted a filthy, threadbare mat and produced a key. A grimy plastic chair stood beside the doorstep. She hopped up on to it and, standing on tiptoe, fitted the key into the lock. With great effort and determination she twisted it and, using her foot, pushed the door open.
    ‘I don’t fucking believe what I’m seeing,’ I said. ‘She does this every day?’
    ‘Yep,’ Bea said. ‘Sometimes her mother sticks her head out after the child goes in, but usually not.’
    ‘So she might well be going into an empty house?’ I said.
    Janet shook her head. ‘The parents are in there. When I started I saw what you just did and went and hammered on the door. Finally Tammy’s awful useless dad came out, grunted something unintelligible at me, and went back inside. Tammy had a black eye the next day.’
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said.
    The tiny girl had gone inside now, and the door was slowly closing behind her.
    ‘That kid is three years old,’ I said, more to myself than anyone else.
    ‘Goin’ on sixteen,’ Arnold said. ‘Homeward bound, ladies and gents. Hold on to your toupees.’
     
    Five o’clock: the crèche was empty and the shadows growing long in the echoing room. I was bone tired, but knew there was one thing I still had to do before going home for the night. I sat at the work table in the play room, its surface still tacky from being wiped clean, and opened the slim file Little Scamps kept on Tammy.
    Most early-years settings do not have much paperwork on the children, but I knew this one would be different – all the children were referrals from Child Services, and would have arrived with a fair amount of information accompanying them. As a rule I try to keep away from