Книга - The Girl Without a Voice: The true story of a terrified child whose silence spoke volumes

The Girl Without a Voice: The true story of a terrified child whose silence spoke volumes
Casey Watson


Bestselling author and foster carer Casey Watson tells the shocking and deeply moving true story of a young girl with severe behavioural problems.This is the first of several stories about ‘difficult’ children Casey helped during her time as a behaviour manager at her local comprehensive.Casey has been in the post for six months when thirteen-year-old Imogen joins her class. One of six children Casey is teaching, Imogen has selective mutism. She’s a bright girl, but her speech problems have been making mainstream lessons difficult.Life at home is also hard for Imogen. Her mum walked out on her a few years earlier and she’s never got on with her dad’s new girlfriend. She’s now living with her grandparents. There’s no physical explanation for Imogen’s condition, and her family insist she’s never had troubles like this before.Everyone thinks Imogen is just playing up – except the member of staff closest to her, her teacher Casey Watson. It is the deadpan expression she constantly has on her face that is most disturbing to Casey. Determined there must be more to it, Casey starts digging and it’s not long before she starts to discover a very different side to Imogen’s character.A visit to her grandparents’ reveals that Imogen is anything but silent at home. In fact she’s prone to violent outbursts; her elderly grandparents are terrified of her.Eventually Casey’s hard work starts to pay off. After months of silence, Imogen utters her first, terrified, words to Casey: ‘I thought she was going to burn me.’Dark, shocking and deeply disturbing, Casey begins to uncover the reality of what Imogen has been subjected to for years.









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Copyright (#ua3174a6c-f48f-5bca-b978-cd0e38fb5409)


This book is a work of non-fiction based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

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and HarperElement are trademarks of

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First published by HarperElement 2014

FIRST EDITION

© Casey Watson 2014

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available from the British Library

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Casey Watson asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780007510696

Ebook Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9780007518159

Version 2016-10-19




Contents


Cover (#u5d0c929e-2d55-5e16-9405-f4ecca3f9ba9)

Title Page (#ulink_12f687a3-8f5d-5781-8929-9a8e98513816)

Copyright (#ulink_a816d5fc-1313-531a-a3ec-411428bc2db4)

Dedication (#ulink_869aeea7-877a-5e8f-ab62-fe9bddafd97a)

Acknowledgements (#ulink_edd61884-4130-5019-93ec-8163f41b5e5e)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_2793bc72-9545-51d2-a725-8d391b6fd9e7)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_a32f6f50-43c7-59b8-91f8-8e2a43a8a8ec)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_d4c54d2a-5494-5e48-a77b-c2f85b7ffb84)

Chapter 4 (#ulink_322be6a1-dffb-5166-b300-f033a0cf4663)

Chapter 5 (#ulink_6b4d5fc4-1aa4-550c-a246-b166105588a6)

Chapter 6 (#ulink_efce528a-2570-5b95-8eb7-bc3a6e396bad)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Exclusive sample chapter (#litres_trial_promo)

Casey Watson (#litres_trial_promo)

If you loved this book … (#litres_trial_promo)

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Dedication (#ua3174a6c-f48f-5bca-b978-cd0e38fb5409)


This book is dedicated to all those who work with children in any capacity. I am filled with admiration for those who strive to make a difference in the lives of those who need someone to listen.




Acknowledgements (#ua3174a6c-f48f-5bca-b978-cd0e38fb5409)


I would like to thank my wonderful agent, Andrew, and Vicky and her team of super beings at HarperCollins who work tirelessly to ensure my words make it out there. As ever, special thanks to my friend and mentor Lynne, who is there, always, to get me back on track no matter what dramas life bestows.




Chapter 1 (#ua3174a6c-f48f-5bca-b978-cd0e38fb5409)


There are jobs and there are jobs, and my perfect kind of job has always been the kind where you wake up Monday morning with no idea what the week might have in store.

Which was exactly the kind of job I did have, so it was definitely a blessing that my home life was, in contrast, so predictable.

‘Mu-um!’ came my daughter’s plaintive voice from upstairs. ‘I can’t find my other black shoe! I have five minutes to get out of the door and I can’t find it anywhere! Have you seen it? Someone’s obviously moved it!’

I shook my head and sighed. That was typical of Riley. She was 18 now and we were so alike, in so many ways. Same black hair, same laugh, same taste in music and fashion. But in one important respect we were different. Where it was my life’s mission to try and make the world a tidier place, Riley was the opposite: she was just about the most disorganised person I knew. I knew where her shoe would be. It would, same as ever, be in exactly the same place as it landed when she last flung it off.

I headed upstairs anyway, however, because I had the luxury of an hour till I needed to leave for work, whereas she really did only have five – no, four – minutes. She’d secured a great job after leaving college, and she was really enjoying it. She worked in a travel agents, which she said gave her ‘that holiday feeling every day’. But it wasn’t a holiday – there was an end time and, more pertinently, a start time. Just as well she had such an understanding boss.

I was halfway up the stairs when she appeared on the landing. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, hopping as she pulled the errant shoe on to her foot. ‘Panic over. Someone must have kicked it under my bed.’

‘Er, excuse me?’ I chided, as she came down to join me. ‘Someone? Which someone might that be?’

In answer she planted a quick kiss on my cheek, then she was out of the door to catch her bus with only seconds to spare. I waved her off, thinking wistfully of how it might feel to be 18 again, off to work without a care in the world.

The children in my own world were different. Well, the ones I spent my weekdays with, at any rate. I worked as a behaviour manager in a big inner-city comprehensive school, so the kids that came my way were the opposite of carefree. They came to spend time with me for a variety of different reasons, but what they had in common was that they couldn’t cope in a mainstream school setting. My job, as well as providing a safe space in which they could work, was to assess them and decide upon the best course of action, which could involve counselling them, teaching them coping techniques and/or, in some cases, referral to outside agencies that could help them, such as professional counsellors and clinical psychologists. Sometimes it could be as simple as formulating a temporary alternative curriculum, and other times it could end up being protracted and complex – where a child’s difficulties were too severe to be dealt with using mainstream school facilities, for example, it might mean a transfer to a live-in establishment that had the staff and facilities appropriate to their needs. And in extreme cases, where the children were deemed to be at risk at home, social services might be brought in and the child placed in care.

Either way, mine was a job that, though often challenging, was never boring, but with the growing numbers of children getting referred to me in the six months since I’d been there, it could also at times be very stressful.

With Riley gone to work, that just left me and my son Kieron at home, with my husband Mike, who was a warehouse manager, long gone too. And home was where I suspected Kieron would stay most of the day. It was the end of September – three weeks into a new academic year – and Kieron was finding life hard to cope with. He was 16 now and had left school back in June without a plan. And with his friends either back in school or college, or even working, he felt a bit rootless – the change in routine had really unsettled him. Kieron has Asperger’s, a very mild form of autism, so all change is difficult for him to manage, and the big question – try for college, get a job, do an apprenticeship? – was still to be settled and was weighing heavily on his mind.

And ours too, and would continue to do so till Kieron worked out what he felt was the best path for him; something there would be no point in rushing. No point plunging into something only to find out it was the wrong thing – that would only stress him out more.

So we needed to be patient – though right now I had other things to think about anyway. Having my final cup of coffee, throwing something for dinner into the slow cooker and making sure the house looked the way I wanted it to look when I returned home at the end of the day.

Well, hopefully, anyway. I gave my work shoes a quick polish before slipping them on my feet and grimacing at my reflection in the hall mirror. That was the one major downside of doing what I did – that I had to get so trussed up to do it. Smart black skirt and jacket, black tights, shiny shoes. And a crisp stripy blouse – it was all so not me! I’ve always been much more of a jogging bottoms and T-shirt type, more a ‘bundle my unruly hair any-which-way into a ponytail’ sort of woman than one who enjoys spending hours in front of a mirror blow-drying it and having to wear make-up all day.

But there was no choice, not if I wanted to be seen as a professional. Part of my job involved meetings with fellow professionals – head teachers, social workers, educational welfare staff, educational psychologists – so I had learned quickly what the sartorial rules were. I needed to dress to impress if I was going to by taken seriously – an uncomfortable sacrifice for someone like me. I’d rather spend time with a hundred unruly teenagers than be sat around a conference table with adults of that calibre – intimidating was what it was, even if necessary.

As ever, however, all thoughts of anything other than the job in hand left my mind as soon as I walked through the school gates, and I was greeted by the usual cacophony of shrieks and yells that were synonymous with every Monday morning.

‘Morning, Miss – did you have a nice weekend?’

‘Miss! Brandon Smith’s been telling lies about me!’

‘Mrs Watson, can I come to you instead of doing PE today?’

Smiling at the little crowd that threatened to engulf me, I pointed at the oversized hall clock. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to catch up later,’ I reassured the group around me. ‘And yes, I did have a nice weekend, thank you, but right now it’s time you all got off to registration.’ I grinned at them. ‘And guess what I need?’

‘Coffee!’ came the chorus, as the kids began dispersing. ‘Coffee, Miss, you’re off to get your coffee!’

They weren’t wrong. My love of coffee was almost as well known about me as my love of creating order out of chaos. Not that the staffroom was chaos, exactly, but neither was it a shrine to housewifery. I knew I was regularly the subject of whispers and odd looks as I stood by the drinks-making area in the corner, furiously wiping spills and polishing teaspoons. I’d often wait behind, too, after the bell had gone for classes, plumping cushions and straightening papers and journals. No one ever mentioned it – well, not to me, not yet, at any rate, but I was pretty certain they knew it was me.

There was the usual air of sudden evacuation in the room as I entered, as the assembled teachers – often 25 or so at this time of day – headed to their classes to deal with registration. I, on the other hand, still had half an hour to kill, as the students currently with me would not come to my classroom till after that was over, at around 9.30. I made my coffee, trying to resist the urge to do the washing-up as well. Which was ridiculous; there was a lady whose job it was to come in and do that during lesson time, but it was a challenge for me not to beat her to it.

Still, I resisted. I had plenty to be doing anyway. There were the lesson plans for each child in my unit to be finalised – currently five – plus some writing-up of stuff from the previous day. I did a daily ‘life space’ interview with every child who was with me. It was one of the new buzzwords, and what it actually meant was starting a conversation off with each child and then just listening. Well, not just listening – ‘active’ listening, which was all about helping the child to open up, using emotive prompts such as ‘That must have been upsetting for you’ and ‘What happened then?’

And going by my experience with some of the kids I’d had pass through my hands so far, the answer to that could be anything. Straighteners or not, it could make anyone’s hair curl.

My office was situated on the ground floor of one of the two school buildings, the one that also housed most of the other main offices and the art, sport and drama departments. The second building, which was connected to the first via a long corridor and the main dining hall, was where the majority of the normal classrooms were.

Though ‘office’ was perhaps too fine a word for my new room. In truth, it was an old, long disused, tiny classroom that had once been a learning support room. Back in the day, it had housed 15 or so pupils, and had contained nothing but a few tables and chairs and an elderly blackboard when I first viewed it. The head, Mr Moore, had been surprised that I’d chosen it over the alternatives he’d shown me. There’d also been a large airy office that had once housed Mr Brabbiner, the deputy head, or a laboratory-style classroom with huge built-in desks, an interactive whiteboard and a separate office area.

But no. This was the one I’d wanted. Though it had been both filthy and gloomy when I saw it, what I also saw was loads of potential. And the main reason for that had been the pair of ‘French doors’. Actually a fire exit, they opened out onto a lovely sheltered grassy area, and, best of all, there was no rule that said I had to keep them closed. In short, it had a garden, and I was immediately won over, and asked if I could come in for two weeks before I actually started so I could get the place properly cleaned and organised.

I looked at it now, and smiled. It really was my home from home. I had set aside an area for myself, using a couple of tables to create an ‘L’ shape, and behind that I kept a kettle and cups, everything I needed to make drinks with, plus a toaster and the thing I had quickly become known for – having always, but always, a supply of biscuits.

I’d had the caretaker paint the whole room a sunny shade of yellow (which was about as outrageous a hue as the council allowed), and made brightly coloured frames which I hung on all the walls to house the works of art I didn’t doubt I’d soon be getting. With the garden in mind (I had ambitious designs on that too) I also made an area for plants and seed potting. That initiative, too, got me a few choice looks from colleagues, as I lugged bags of compost down the corridors.

Finally, I installed a radio, and a chill-out area come mini-library, complete with a low table and some luridly patterned bean bags.

Only then did I arrange study tables and chairs in the centre, in what space was left available for the purpose. This was a classroom, no doubt about it, but it was so much more than that. It was to be a place where troubled kids could properly chill out and feel relaxed, whatever the reason for them being in my ‘office’. And that mattered. It was so much easier to talk to a relaxed child than a stressed one that, though I did wince when I saw how much I’d spent from my meagre budget, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt justified. I’d made it as it should be.

My gang of ‘regulars’ arrived with the usual kerfuffle. Kids came and went, obviously – some would be with me for just a lesson or two – but a few were with me full time during any given week. I had five of those with me currently, and they couldn’t have been more different. I had three year 7s – new to the school, still finding their way for various reasons, and two year 8s who’d both come to me last term.

First in, and most challenging, was Henry. Aged 13, he was in danger of permanent exclusion due to his disruptive and frequently violent nature. He’d already been excluded from lessons by almost all of his teachers, and coming to my ‘Unit’ (not my name of choice – I hated labels, but it had well and truly stuck now) was a last-ditch attempt to get him to settle down sufficiently that he could stay in mainstream education.

This morning, happily, he seemed to be in high spirits. ‘All right, Miss?’ he said as he bounced into the room and slung his tatty backpack down on the nearest table.

‘I’m fine, Henry,’ I told him. ‘And you’re sounding chirpy. Have a good weekend?’

‘Miss, it was epic.’

Henry’s problem with the world seemed to be rooted in a lack of empathy. He was the youngest of five boys, living with a mum on benefits – there was no dad on the scene – and it seemed he struggled with his place in the home hierarchy. He’d only ever had hand-me-downs (clothes and toys) for obvious reasons, which didn’t automatically mean he’d be emotionally scarred – far from it; lots of kids had next to nothing and were fine. But Henry wasn’t. His main problem seemed to be that he was treated as the runt of the family, getting picked on mercilessly by his older brothers. He would then, understandably, come into school full of anger, and would then transfer that to children younger or smaller than him. He was also unkempt and dirty, which was another of his issues – one of the things I’d already been able to establish was that one particular teacher had tended to pick on him too – showing him up in front of the other kids. In fact the first indication I’d had that I could perhaps make some progress with Henry was when he confided that this teacher had humiliated him in front of everyone. ‘I always know when you’ve arrived in class, Henry,’ he told him, ‘because you’re quickly followed by a bad smell.’

But he seemed in good spirits this morning, and full of what had obviously been a good weekend, and I didn’t doubt he’d have been about to tell me why it had been so ‘epic’, only at that point he was joined by another of my current trio of boys, who, there being some important footballing victory to be discussed, immediately commanded his attention. Gavin, who was 11 and had just joined the school, had ADHD ; he was on Ritalin and had been sent to me for a ‘calming’ period of two months, to try and help improve his behaviour and concentration.

Third to arrive was Ben, who was new to both school and area. He’d been excluded from his primary before the end of the last school year and had not been in education for six months. Ben lived with his dad, his mum having died shortly after giving birth to him, and, for a million reasons, he was angry all the time. My job with Ben, in the short term, was simply to assess him, so that some sort of strategy could be developed to help soothe his troubled soul.

And Ben wasn’t the only child who was bereaved. Shona, too – a sweet 12-year-old – had lost both her parents. Leaving Shona, an only child, with an uncle, aunt and cousins, they’d gone on a brief second honeymoon and been killed in a car crash when travelling home from the airport.

Shona, who was understandably finding it difficult to cope, had been with me since not long after I’d taken up my post. My heart went out to her, but there at least seemed to be a little progress. Since the arrival of Molly – another newbie with slight learning difficulties – she seemed to have found a new focus and sense of purpose. Helping Molly, who had been a target for bullies since starting school three weeks back, seemed to bring some light to Shona’s dark, unhappy days.

They came in side by side, as they invariably did, and both smiled at me as they parked their coats and bags. Though, on this occasion, there was a third person coming through the door behind them – Donald Brabbiner, the deputy head.

‘You have a moment, Mrs Watson?’ he asked me, indicating that I should step out into the corridor.

‘Of course,’ I said, turning automatically to the children. ‘Get yourselves organised,’ I told them. ‘We’re going to be continuing with what we were doing Friday. So start getting your equipment out. Quietly.’

I followed Don out, smiling to myself as the three boys immediately took on that slightly anxious ‘Oh God, what am I in trouble for?’ expression. Don was a great deputy head and a real presence around the school. And, having been in post for several years now, also something of a legend.

We stepped outside and I pulled the door towards me. ‘Problem?’

‘No, no,’ he reassured me, smiling. ‘Nothing to worry about. I was just wondering how many you had in today that’s all. Is it just those five?’

I nodded. ‘Though I think I’ve got a couple more coming after lunch. Why?’

‘Because we’ve got a new girl – a 13-year-old. Name of Imogen. She’s new to the area as well as the school, and it looks like she might need to come straight to you. Arriving some time in the next hour – I think her grandparents are bringing her. I told them to try to arrive before first break.’

‘You know anything else yet?’

‘Not a great deal,’ Donald answered. ‘It’s all a little bit last minute, this, to be honest.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘I dare say we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we? I’ll come round to your office when they get here then, shall I? And we can all sit down and have a little chat.’

‘Ah,’ Donald said, shaking his head. ‘A chat is precisely what we won’t be having with her – in fact, that’s the reason she needs to go into your Unit.’

‘I don’t get you,’ I said, grinning. ‘What is she – feral?’

Don shook his head. ‘Though it is a bit bizarre,’ he explained. ‘First time I’ve come across something like this, to be honest.’

‘As in?’ I prompted.

‘As in she doesn’t speak.’

‘What, not at all?’ I asked, confused. ‘Is she disabled?’

‘Apparently not. Just doesn’t speak in certain situations – I understand it’s called selective mutism. Except that at the moment it appears the “selective” bit is absent. Hasn’t spoken for weeks now, apparently. Not at all.’

Well, well. That was something I’d never come across before either. My line of work frequently involved dealing with the opposite problem, and though I also dealt with shy kids who needed coaxing from their shells, a child who didn’t speak at all was something else again.

I went back into my ‘Unit’ and considered my current charges, who, according to type, were variously talking in whispers or babbling away at each other thirteen to the dozen. Till they saw me and fell into a predictable silence, that was – a state of affairs anyone working in a school should work hard to be able to bring about with ease.

What a thing, I decided, to have a child in your care in whom you want to provoke the exact opposite. Well, we’d see. It might not be Riley’s ‘every day’s a holiday’, this job of mine, but there was no doubt that it was always an adventure.




Chapter 2 (#ua3174a6c-f48f-5bca-b978-cd0e38fb5409)


Getting my job at the comp was something of a dream come true for me, and I still pinched myself sometimes that I had. Yes, I’d worked with young people before, but never in a school setting, so to be entrusted with a job looking after the school’s most challenging children was something I felt very proud of.

My background had previously been in social services. I’d had a similar role, in that I was helping the disadvantaged and troubled, but it had involved working with adults – ones with learning disabilities. So though I’d done teacher training and managerial courses as part of my post with social services, my only prior experience of supporting and helping troubled kids had been when I’d been a volunteer youth worker.

I don’t know what clinched it on the day. There were four of us interviewed, and I never in a million years thought I’d get it, because the other candidates had way more professional qualifications. But I did. ‘The head phoned me personally,’ I told Mike, when I called him to tell him the good news. ‘Said it was my obvious understanding of how the school were trying to be more proactive about the emotional well-being of their pupils that had swung it,’ I explained. ‘That and my enthusiasm, which had apparently really impressed him. And he said they’d pay for any courses I needed to go on.’

‘And?’ Mike had asked.

‘And what?’ I’d answered.

‘And how many unmarked £50 notes did you have to slip him?’

No danger of anyone getting a big head in our house.

I had never worried that I might become bored or disillusioned once the reality of working in a large city comprehensive kicked in, but neither had I reckoned on how much the job would consume me. It was just so engrossing – sometimes stressful, sometimes fascinating, but always so interesting – that on weekdays, at any rate, I ate, slept and breathed it.

And it looked like this week would be no exception. A new child always brought a little thrill of excitement, as each one was a different leap into the unknown. And this one sounded particularly intriguing. I made a mental note to see if I could find out anything about selective mutism on my computer once the children were settled with their work.

‘Right,’ I told them. ‘Let’s get this project up in the air, shall we?’

Henry, predictably, groaned at my pun. We had been doing a project on the history of aviation for the past two weeks, and had been devoting the first two hours of each day to developing it. My little group were lucky. Only the school’s IT department enjoyed the luxury of computers, and the only internet connections were on the ones in the school offices. But since my classroom was also my office, that meant I had one of those precious few, so could allow access to the children in my care for their research. And the boys had researched well. And, now, armed with all the information they needed, they had been making a magnificent model of the Wright Brothers’ first plane together with an accompanying narrative.

The girls, meanwhile, had been busy writing a first-person account of Amelia Earhart’s solo flight across the Atlantic. The whole group had also been working on a large timeline poster, complete with carefully cut-out pictures and artwork. They’d all worked hard, and I was proud of them, and would feel even prouder when they presented their work during school assembly the following week.

They worked quietly and productively for a good 20 minutes, when Henry’s hand suddenly shot up. ‘Miss,’ he said, waving it impatiently, as ever. ‘We’ve been wondering – who’s going to do all the talking when we do our presentation?’

Which, when decoded, meant ‘would it be him?’ He was very aware of his status as the oldest in the group, as he would be, given his background.

I walked across and sat down at the boys’ table. I mixed them up sometimes but most of the time the three boys sat at one and the girls at another. It was good to make them work together, obviously, but only up to a point. Most of the time, my number one priority was to have these kids relaxed and receptive – and that meant making them feel as comfortable as possible.

‘Well, that’s for you to decide. All five of you. You’ll have to get together and have a board meeting about it.’

Ben giggled and nudged Henry. ‘Bored meeting, more like. It will be a bored meeting if Molly and Shona have to speak!’

I glanced across at the girls, but they hadn’t even heard. They were, as ever, bent over their work, heads close, engrossed. ‘Don’t be silly, Ben,’ I said. ‘You know I don’t mean that sort of bored. No, you’ll have to have a meeting and discuss it. Though I think it would be nice if you all had something to say, don’t you? You’ve all worked so hard on this that you all deserve the spotlight, don’t you think? Anyway, right now, I need you to all get on, so we can get it finished. And quietly, please, because I need to go and make a phone call.’

I left the kids to it and went across to my desk in the corner, where I buzzed the Learning Support department in search of my sometime assistant, Kelly.

Kelly was a 23-year-old teaching assistant who had a wonderful rapport with the more challenging pupils, which meant she was very sought after within the school.

She answered the phone herself, and pre-empted my question. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I know what you’re going to ask and I’ll be down in ten minutes. I saw Mr Brabbiner earlier and he put me in the picture.’

‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘They’re working on their project right now, too. So you shouldn’t have any problems.’

Kelly laughed. She knew as well as I did that things could change in a split second. One minute everything could be hunky dory – as it was now – and the next all hell could break loose. Still, that was what I liked about her, and what set her apart from some of the other TAs – she seemed to thrive on the unknown element of it all, just as I did, and I’d yet to see her faced with anything she couldn’t handle. She was an expert at thinking on her feet.

I went to sit with the girls for a bit once I’d put down the phone, and had what had become a predictable response from Molly once I’d told them I’d be gone for a bit and that Miss Vickers would be looking after them. She glanced at the boys nervously. ‘You won’t be gone long, will you, Miss? We don’t like it when you leave us, do we, Shona?’

Shona put a protective arm around her friend. ‘Miss Vickers is all right, Molly,’ she reassured her. ‘She won’t stand for any nonsense, will she, Miss?’

‘No, she won’t,’ I agreed, smiling at her grown-up turn of phrase. ‘And there will be no nonsense. Will there, boys?’ I added, raising my voice so they could hear me. ‘Or it’ll be maths practice all afternoon.’

‘Where you going anyway, Miss?’ Shona wanted to know.

‘To a meeting,’ I said. ‘Not a board meeting but a meeting about a new girl who might be joining us. Her name’s Imogen and we need to see if she’s going to be right for us. I’ll be able to tell you more once I’ve been and met her.’

Both Shona and Molly exchanged looks (girls and threes didn’t readily blend well – it took time and management), but it was Gavin who spoke up. ‘Another girl?’ he moaned. ‘We don’t want to be invaded by no more girls, Miss. Is she a retard?’

‘Gavin!’ I admonished. ‘What have I told you about name-calling? Have you remembered nothing of the exercise we did the other week?’

His brow furrowed a little as he tried to recall what I meant. We’d done an exercise I tried to fit into the schedule periodically – splitting the kids into two groups and having each one draw a picture of a gingerbread man. This wasn’t in any sense an art exercise, though. I’d then get one set to annotate theirs with any horrible names they had ever called anyone. And with no holds barred – swear words were acceptable on this occasion, if that had been the way the thing had been said. The other group had to do likewise, only this time they had to record any names they recalled having been called, by either adults or other children. I would then swap the drawings over and ask each group to write down how they would feel or how they felt when they had been called any name from the list, and then compile a separate list of reasons why they thought people might call others by these names.

It was all about developing their emotional literacy; a key part of what my role was in the Unit. And, judging by Gavin’s comment, perhaps I needed to revisit it some time soon.

‘Well?’ I said to him.

‘Sorry, Miss,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean nothing. Just wanted to know what she would be, like, doing here.’

‘Then you need to think harder about how you’re going to say something before you say it,’ I told him. ‘Because if I hear any more talk like that you will be doing maths practice all afternoon, is that clear?’

I wasn’t too worried about Gavin, however. He’d had his morning dose of Ritalin and it would be another couple of hours before his ADHD became blindingly obvious again. Then it would be another hour before he was given his meds by the school nurse – an hour when it would be hard for me to leave the classroom. Even Henry, who at 13 was two years Gavin’s senior, didn’t like what he called ‘the mad hour’.

I smiled at my trio of lads; they’d actually come on really well in terms of behaviour, even though to the casual observer their improvements might seem tiny. But they were still angry little lads, all three of them like tightly coiled springs, and much as we had calm days, we also had the other kind – days when I seemed to be permanently braced and waiting for the next unexpected explosion. It would be a volatile place for this new girl to try and fit in to, there was no doubt about that.

Kelly arrived bang on cue, clutching two mugs of coffee, one of which I saw was in my superhero mug – it had Batman on one side and Spiderman on the other, and had been a ‘new job’ surprise gift from Kieron. And to date, no one had accidentally walked off with it either; a minor miracle in a school staffroom, apparently. She held it out to me.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘Thought I’d make you one while I was at it.’ Then she smiled at the children. ‘You all look like very busy bees. Everything okay?’

They nodded dutifully. ‘Thanks, love,’ I said to her. ‘That’s thoughtful.’ I had my little ‘coffee corner’ but didn’t always get round to filling the kettle, so the mug of my preferred stimulant was very welcome. ‘I imagine I’ll only be an hour or so, maybe less. But you shouldn’t encounter any problems.’

Kelly grinned, pulling out her walkie-talkie from her pocket. ‘Don’t worry – I’m packing my secret weapon. We’ll be fine.’

Most of the teachers, and some of the support staff, like Kelly, had access to these contraptions so they could call for duty staff to come and help out in an emergency. This might involve something as simple as a child being asked to leave the class due to disruptive behaviour or, in more extreme cases, an extra pair of hands to help break up a physical fight. They were called Computerised Communications Units (CCUs) but I was the resident oddball because I never used mine. I hated new techno gadgets so relied on my new mobile phone – another piece of kit I had yet to fully master.

I grabbed it now and popped it in my handbag. Unlike the majority of the staff, I always kept the latter with me too, partly because with such a small group situation it was easy enough to keep an eye on, and partly because it was akin to a Mary Poppins handbag – something that had developed since Kieron was little. Him being the way he was, it had often been a lifesaver; if he got dirty or cut himself he’d be more upset that he looked dishevelled than if he hurt himself.

It was a lifesaver with the kids in school too. I always had tissues, packs of plasters, biscuits, sweets and even make-up, which always proved popular when girls got upset – a bit of lip gloss and a spot of blusher always cheered them up.

‘Right,’ I said, picking up the bag. ‘I’m off. And remember, everyone, I can whip up a maths lesson in seconds if need be, so, best behaviour while I’m gone.’

I walked quickly through the corridors before the bell went that would signal break time, along with the inevitable stampede of children rushing off to the tuck shop and the playground. It went just as I arrived outside Donald’s office’s closed door.

I opened it to find Donald and the family all assembled, the latter with their backs to me, facing his desk.

‘Ah, Casey,’ said Donald, rising. ‘Come in.’ He pointed to the remaining seat, which was positioned to the side of the desk. ‘This is Mrs Watson,’ he said to the assembled trio as I slipped past them and sat down on it. ‘She’s the one I told you about on the phone, and who’ll hopefully be looking after young Imogen here.’

I smiled and, now that I could see them, took in the row of people. The two grandparents – who were white-haired and both looked to be in their mid-seventies – and Imogen herself, a girl you really couldn’t miss; not with that veil of ginger hair – well, more strawberry blonde, actually; that’s what I’d have called it. But I knew kids. It was red. They’d call it ginger.

‘Good morning,’ I said, extending a hand. ‘Mr and Mrs …’

‘Hinchcliffe,’ the woman provided. ‘I’m Veronica,’ she added, accepting it. Her hand, like the rest of her, was small and frail-looking. ‘And this is Mick. We’re Imogen’s grandparents,’ she added. ‘She lives with us.’

Her voice was clipped and I could see by the way she was holding herself that she was nervous, though her husband – a huge, fit-looking man who had only acknowledged my arrival with a nod – seemed more interested in watching the swarm of excitable children who were now rushing, whooping and shouting, past Donald’s office window. I had the feeling it had been a while since he’d been exposed to so many youngsters all at once.

I turned to Imogen herself, but she didn’t seem to want to make eye contact. She just stared out of the same window, a blank expression on her face.

‘Imogen,’ prompted her grandmother, obviously seeing the direction of my gaze. ‘Did you hear Mr Brabbiner? This is Mrs Watson, your new teacher.’

Now Imogen did turn, blinking once as our eyes met, then lowering her head.

‘She won’t talk,’ Mrs Hinchcliffe said, looking pained. ‘Not here. Not anywhere. Can’t shut her up at home, of course.’

‘Oh, I said, glancing at Don. ‘So she is still speaking sometimes, then?’

Mrs Hinchcliffe nodded. ‘The doctor says it’s something called selective mutism. That she’s just choosing not to talk. Though for the life of us we can’t work out why.’

I nodded. ‘Don’t worry too much,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Imogen will be fine with us, won’t you?’ I turned to Imogen as I said this but she didn’t raise her head. ‘But can I ask you,’ I went on, conscious that I wasn’t completely comfortable discussing Imogen while she was in the room with us, but that, as she didn’t seem to want to contribute, there was really little choice, ‘why this school at this time? Where was she previously?’

Now the grandfather spoke. ‘We took her out of her other high school at the end of the summer term. Had to. She’d been fine before all this started – you know, moving in with us and everything. But when it did start happening, they were useless. All the other kids started picking on her and the teachers were no help at all. Just thought she was being awkward. It’s not right …’

Donald slid a file across the desk to me. ‘These are all Imogen’s notes from her previous school, Mrs Watson. I’ve obviously explained to Mr and Mrs Hinchcliffe that we can take Imogen, no problem, though, in terms of her mutism, I’m not actually sure how much help we can be. Though she does apparently have a therapist working with her at home now, doesn’t she, Mrs Hinchcliffe? So …’

‘A child psychologist, is what it is,’ Mr Hinchcliffe interrupted. ‘Load of mumbo jumbo, if you ask me.’ He scowled, though more in frustration, I thought, than in irritation. ‘The girl needs to sort herself out. Choosing when and where to speak …’

Imogen didn’t react in any way but I could see Don was looking uncomfortable. Perhaps more had been said before I’d entered. There was clearly some tension in the room. ‘Well,’ I said brightly, deciding to take charge of the situation, ‘there’s no need for us to go into all the ins and outs right now, and no point in Imogen being out of school any longer than she has to. If she has some uniform,’ I said, looking at her, but still seeing the top of her head mostly, ‘she could start tomorrow, if you like.’

I looked at Don, who signalled he was fine with that happening. ‘Or,’ I added, as it occurred to me, ‘if she doesn’t, I can perhaps help. We have a good stock of school logo sweatshirts at the moment, so, if you’d like me to find her one, it’s just a case of you kitting her out in a black skirt or trousers and a white shirt.’

Don’s expression changed now, at my off-message largesse. I was actually meant to try and sell the stock of surplus uniform, but I got the impression money was tight and I had a good stock of sweatshirts in my room. I was the lost property queen of the school, after all.

I stood up, picked up the file and extended my hand to the couple once again. ‘So if that’s it for now,’ I said, ‘I really need to get back to my class.’

Everyone else stood up too. ‘No, no, that’s fine,’ agreed Don. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow then, Imogen.’

‘Indeed you will,’ said Mrs Hinchcliffe. ‘Come on sweetheart,’ she said, nudging her granddaughter to stand up as well. ‘Come on, let’s get you home for some lunch, shall we?’

Imogen duly stood and only now could I see just how small she seemed to be for 13: small and slight and dressed in clothes that looked old and, more importantly, old fashioned – nothing like the clothes worn by most of her peer group. She was a pretty girl, with deep blue eyes, pale skin and a liberal sprinkling of freckles. I felt sorry for her. I somehow knew, even without checking, that this was an only child. No older siblings to help with fashion tips and general ‘fitting in’ type guidance. A lonely kid, I guessed, who found it hard to make friends. A ready target for bullies. Definitely that.

It felt all wrong to have been talking over her, even if there wasn’t really an option, since they’d brought her. Which was understandable – they wanted her to see the school for herself, of course they did. But it didn’t really make for a productive meeting. There were so many questions I’d have liked to ask, all of them personal, but that would have to wait till I had a chance to speak to Imogen’s grandparents alone. For now, I had only my gut instinct to rely on, and my gut instinct, as I watched them go, was that there was a lot going on here. That the grandfather’s insistence that they had no idea why their granddaughter had developed selective mutism was – without a doubt – not quite true.




Chapter 3 (#ua3174a6c-f48f-5bca-b978-cd0e38fb5409)


After a quick lunch and catch-up with Kelly in the staff-room, I made it back to my classroom only seconds before the bell went, with the usual accompanying surge of small purposeful bodies, almost all of whom were ignoring the equally familiar teachers’ shouts of ‘Walk, please!’, ‘Don’t run!’ and ‘Keep left!’

‘Miss, what we doing this afternoon?’ asked Shona, as I flicked on my kettle. ‘Not really maths, is it? Can’t me and Molly do some art?’

I spooned a large teaspoon of coffee into my mug. ‘Not maths, love, don’t worry. And we’re going to do something that is a bit like art, actually. It’s –’

But I was prevented from replying by the arrival of Gavin, bursting through the door like a small-boy-shaped battering ram, his ADHD medication clearly not yet having taken full effect. ‘Whoosh whoosh!’ he yelled, obviously pretending to be an aeroplane, swooping round the tables and catching Molly’s head with a lowered arm as he passed.

‘Gavin!’ Shona barked at him. ‘Leave her alone, you dickhead!’

‘Gavin, sit down,’ I commanded, hoping he’d actually do so. That wasn’t a given – not at this time of day, at any rate. ‘And Shona,’ I added, ‘it’s nice to see you sticking up for Molly, but we don’t name call in this classroom, okay?’

Happily, the other two boys appeared at that moment and, full of the gory details of some fight they had witnessed in the playground, were a timely distraction for the still pumped-up Gavin, so thankfully he did do as he was told. Which was a relief. When he was hyper like this it could sometimes take a good half-hour or more before he calmed down enough to be able to concentrate on anything. Which was bad for everyone else, of course, because his antics were so distracting.

What I had planned for this afternoon, however, might just distract him – and the others, too – in a more constructive way. Having chatted to Kelly, I’d decided to prepare the ground a little in readiness for Imogen’s arrival. I’d therefore changed my scheduled task – which we could do instead once she joined us – for an activity that would celebrate difference.

I had already arranged the tables so they could all sit together, and once my coffee was made, and the tales of ‘near death by the tennis courts’ were out of the boys’ systems, I called the children together and sat them down to explain the task.

‘It’s like art, isn’t it, Miss?’ Molly said. She was clearly proud to be the conveyor of a bit of inside information, bless her, though as soon as all eyes were on her she immediately blushed.

‘It is, love,’ I confirmed. ‘But first I want you all to do some thinking. I want you to think about what it is that makes you different from everyone else.’ I stopped then and dragged my old flip chart closer to the table, folding back the pages to reveal a blank one. I then took my marker pen. ‘Here, see,’ I said, as I began writing words on it. ‘Here are some things that make me me. “Black hair”,’ I said, pointing. ‘“Small”,’ I added, writing it. ‘“Loud” …’

This, predictably, got me a couple of snorts and giggles. ‘All these things,’ I went on, ‘make me different from, say, Molly, who is nice and quiet – when she knows she should be – and has fair hair. Whereas Henry –’ he straightened – ‘Henry has something in common with me. Can you think what that might be?’ I only waited a second before supplying the answer for them: ‘He’s also loud.’

More giggles, and I could see they had begun to work out what I was after. ‘So what I’m going to do,’ I said, ‘is tear off a big sheet of paper for each of you, and you can put things on it that show all your differences. You can use the catalogues and scrap drawers if you want to cut things out and stick them on to brighten things up, but make sure you put your name across the top so we can tell who we’re talking about when we pin them all up.

‘After that,’ I went on, ‘we’ll think of some really famous people, and how they’re different, and some people who might have some kind of disability, and together we’ll do some “difference” charts for them too. And that’s because this week we’re going to celebrate difference in a big way, and what’s more –’ I paused – ‘I have a prize going begging. And it’s going to the person who, by the end of the week, can show the best understanding of it, okay?’

As with any activity that involved cutting, sticking, mess-making and the possibility of a reward at the end of it, my young charges were immediately engaged. They were quick to set about gathering the materials they wanted to use for their creations and by the time I’d worked out the best area of wall to clear for the resultant works of art the room was buzzing with an air of productivity. It also gave me the chance to speak to them one-to-one, as I did every day, as well as their scheduled weekly half-hour life-space interviews. The few minutes in my corner were designed to give them a chance to let me know if there was anything that was troubling them, but today would also provide the perfect opportunity to prepare them individually for the arrival in the morning of our singular new pupil.

The children responded to news of Imogen pretty much as I’d expected. Molly, Shona and Ben all accepted her mutism without question, while Gavin and Henry were instantly curious.

‘Why can’t she speak?’ Henry wanted to know. ‘What happened to her voice? Did she get stabbed in the throat, Miss?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Of course not, silly,’ I told him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her throat. It’s just that she can’t speak.’

‘So she must be a baby, then. Either that or a dummy,’ he added disdainfully.

I skewered him on the end of one of my disapproving looks. ‘Henry, what have we been talking about since you came back from lunch? Difference. All the things that make everyone different from everyone else. Your lovely strawberry blond hair, for example. Ben and Gavin don’t have that, do they? And I bet they think your hair is far more interesting than theirs.’

‘No they don’t,’ he huffed. ‘They call me microphone head, Miss. Well, not no more, actually, ’cos I beat them to a pulp.’

I shook my head at the very young teenager sitting before me. The thing you couldn’t miss about Henry travelled everywhere with him – that huge chip that was weighing down his shoulder, as the result of being at the bottom of such a big pile of brothers, and lacking any sort of father figure in his life. That and his hand-me-downs and general struggle to make his voice count at home sometimes made for a very angry young man.

I knew I was last-chance saloon where Henry was concerned. If he didn’t change his fighting ways, he’d be permanently excluded, and I felt sorry for him. I had a bit of a soft spot for him too.

I looked at him now. ‘Henry,’ I chided, ‘I know you didn’t beat those boys up, just like I know that, being the oldest here, you’re going to step up to the plate. You’re going to help me, aren’t you? Help make sure that Imogen doesn’t get a hard time? Point out to the younger ones that she’s just a little different – can you do that? I can count on you to do that for me, can’t I?’

I watched Henry digest this and break into a grin. ‘I can be like your terminator, Miss, can’t I? If the others pick on her I can zap them with my bionic arm, can’t I? They’d soon stop saying stuff then, wouldn’t they?’

I laughed. ‘Er, I don’t think I want you to be doing any zapping. But it would be a great help if you could just watch over her for a few days – you know, when I’ve got my back turned and stuff.’

This seemed to make him happy, because as he walked back to the group, his shoulders high, he announced that, as the oldest, he was officially looking out for the new girl. ‘So no funny business,’ he said, before turning back to me. Upon which he winked. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.

Gavin’s take on the apparent oddity was more practical. After a barrage of questions – Why couldn’t she talk? Had she got ADHD? Was she ‘on meds’? – he had the solution. ‘You should give her some Ritalin,’ he observed. ‘That’ll sort her out.’

One of my rules, given that I tended to spend my days with challenging children, was that easier-said-than-done-thing at the end of the working day of making a determined effort to take off my ‘miss’ hat and put on my ‘mum’ one.

I always smiled to myself at school when the kids themselves found it difficult; when – at least at the beginning of the day, anyway – they would accidentally call me Mum instead of Miss. They’d always blush then, often furiously, but I took it as a compliment. I’d never wanted to be the sort of teacher who kept such a distance from their charges that it was a mistake that no child would ever make. Quite the contrary – I took these slips as evidence I was working in the right job; that I was someone they felt comfortable around. That was important – if they were comfortable enough to forget themselves around me then I would be in so much better a position to support them. Which could make the difference, in some cases, between returning to mainstream classes, back among peers, learning, and travelling even further down the road to isolation.

And I also knew that my drive to help them was partly as a consequence of seeing first hand how much that mattered, through helping Kieron with the many challenges of growing up with Asperger’s.

Which he was still doing, as I observed when, letting myself into the house and slipping off my coat and shoes, it was to find him slumped on the sofa in front of the telly, as was currently his habit.

He was waiting, I knew. Waiting for me to come in and give him his tea, before Mike and Riley both got home from work. I went into the kitchen and pulled out a plate and some cutlery.

‘Honestly,’ I called to him as I dished out some casserole from the slow cooker, ‘why you can’t wait till the others get home is beyond me, Kieron. And if you can’t wait, you could at least get off the sofa and help yourself to something.’

He looked across and gave me one of his pained looks as he turned down the TV volume. ‘Oh, Mum,’ he moaned. ‘Don’t get on at me. I’m stressed out enough as it is!’

‘And what exactly have you got to be stressed about?’ I asked him as I took the bowl of steaming casserole through to the dining-room table. I had strict rules about the eating of meals and where it was allowed to happen, even if I was generally a little on the soft side when it came to my son. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Come through here and eat this before it gets cold. So, tell me,’ I added as I set it down, and glancing at the evidence of a day spent mostly watching telly rather than career planning, ‘have you thought any more about what you’re going to do?’

Kieron scraped back a dining chair and plonked himself down wearily. ‘Oh God, Mum,’ he stropped. ‘Five minutes you’ve been in and already you’re getting on at me!’

I ruffled his hair and pulled a chair out. My cup of coffee could probably wait. ‘Sorry, love,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to get on at you. I want to help you. Dad and I were only saying this morning, perhaps we could sit down with you this evening – you know – go through some options with you maybe? It’s no good for you, this – sitting around on your own all day, moping. You’ll just get fed up, and you know what you’re like – next thing, you’ll end up getting in a state.’

He shovelled in a couple of mouthfuls before replying. He could eat for Britain could Kieron. ‘I’m not in a state, Mum – I’m just bored. And I don’t mean to snap. It’s just that Jack and James and Si – they’ve got stuff going on, haven’t they? Jack’s got his new job, the others are at college …’ He trailed off, and downed another mouthful. ‘And it’s like … well, it’s like it’s all right for them because they know what they’re doing – and they know because they can all do stuff. But I can’t. I don’t think I can do anything that real grown-ups do. I’m crap at all that.’

‘Nonsense!’ I said firmly. It was a familiar refrain lately. As soon as he thought about the change inherent in making such big decisions, he took the safer route – putting it off for another day. ‘Kieron,’ I told him, ‘you are not “crap”, and of course you can do things.’

He could, too. Though his GCSE results had disappointed him, being mostly Ds, it wasn’t as straightforward as it might have been. He’d struggled with dyslexia since primary school and his diagnosis of Asperger’s had only come in the last two years, meaning valuable time and support that could have helped him achieve higher grades hadn’t been available to him till much later in his school life. That he was capable of more wasn’t in doubt – the teachers had all said so. I reiterated that fact again now. ‘You can do anything you set your mind to,’ I told him. ‘You just have to decide what it is you want to do, that’s all. And that’s what you have to put your mind to – deciding – not avoiding. Which is why you and Dad and I need to sit down and have a proper talk. Anyway, right now I’m off upstairs to change and have a shower before they’re back. And make sure you put that plate back when you’re done, okay? Okay?’

‘Um, oh, yeah. Will do,’ he said, having, in typical teenage boy fashion, already tuned me out in favour of the bit of programme he could still see through the glass doors between the table and the telly.

Honestly, I thought to myself as I headed up the stairs, if anyone had told me when they were little that I’d be worrying about my kids so much at this age, I’d have thought they were mad. But of course, I’d been wrong – older didn’t necessarily mean less difficult to parent. It was just that you did your worrying on a different level.

But at least Kieron could communicate his worries – well, up to a point and after a fashion anyway. I thought back to the anxious-looking little girl who’d be joining my class the following morning. How could she be helped in her troubles – and she clearly had some troubles on her shoulder – if she couldn’t communicate anything to anyone?




Chapter 4 (#ua3174a6c-f48f-5bca-b978-cd0e38fb5409)


I was feeling lighter of heart as I walked into school the following morning, at least where Kieron was concerned. Where I had only prompted mild teenage disgruntlement, Mike had produced progress, and we’d all gone to bed with a plan that seemed workable – for Kieron to at least think about exploring the possibility of applying to the local college to do a two-year course in Media Studies, with an emphasis on music production.

It had been a friend of Mike’s from work that had suggested it. His son had just finished one and had really enjoyed it, and, better still, it had clearly served him well. He was now doing an apprenticeship with a theatre group in London, learning how to produce music for shows.

Mike had done a soft-sell on it, knowing that to go in guns blazing would be likely to make Kieron anxious by default. Instead, he couched it in terms that made it sound more like a hobby he could dabble in than an actual college course. After all, he loved music as much as he loved football and superheroes (i.e. a lot), and once we looked into things further and found the teaching style was mostly small-group based, it began to seem much less daunting than he’d originally thought. He was still reticent, but he was also asking questions, at least, which was an encouraging development. But now came the biggie: his task for today was to take the bold and scary step of phoning the admissions office to try and make an appointment.

Whether he’d have managed it by the time I got home from work remained to be seen. I felt hopeful, though, and able to turn my attention to the probably equally scared young girl who was joining us today.

I could see Imogen and her grandmother when I walked into reception. They were seated in the corner, on the small sofa that was stationed there for the purpose, and both silently watched my progress through the double doors.

I was pleased to see they’d arrived early as it would be much less daunting for Imogen if she could come straight to my classroom with me than run the gamut of all the other kids arriving.

I raised an arm and waved. ‘Morning!’ I called to them, smiling. They both stood as I approached, as if to attention.

Mrs Hinchcliffe was holding Imogen’s arm protectively, but it was clear she was keen to be gone. ‘Do I have to stay with her?’ she asked me, having acknowledged my greeting.

I shook my head. ‘No, no, that’s fine,’ I told her. ‘Imogen can come with me now.’ I turned and met her gaze. ‘Okay? And will you be picking Imogen up again?’ I asked Mrs Hinchcliffe, ‘or will she be making her own way home?’

Imogen’s grandmother shuffled, a touch uncomfortably, I thought, before she answered. ‘No,’ she said, finally. ‘She knows her way home. It’s only five minutes away. And she won’t want me here, I’m sure. Showing her up …’

Now it was my turn to feel uncomfortable. It really did feel odd to be talking about this girl as if she was an inanimate object. ‘Okay, then,’ I said. ‘Well, we’ll be off then, shall we, Imogen? And I’ll see you, well … whenever, Mrs Hinchcliffe. Though it occurred to me that perhaps we could speak on the phone later – have a bit of a catch-up? If that’s all right.’

She seemed a little surprised at my suggestion, but said that, yes, it would be fine, then headed back out into the warm autumn sunshine, throwing a ‘Be good, Imogen’ back towards us by way of a goodbye.

I’d already decided to skip my usual half-hour in the staffroom and as we were in school so early – there were still ten minutes to go till the bell went – take the opportunity to acclimatise Imogen to her new surroundings before the other children all came crashing in.

‘Come on,’ I told her now, beckoning her towards the doors to the main corridor. ‘Follow me.’

She seemed reluctant to make eye contact, but fell into step with me, chin very firmly on chest. But not before I could see the strange blank expression that had now taken over her face. It really was mask-like; as if, now Nan had gone, a shutter had come down. It made the silence between us feel even more uncomfortable.

I chatted as we walked, trying to fill it. I told her about my own children, and how I would have been in school before her and her Nan were, had it not been for my daughter Riley and her scattiness in the mornings and how this particular morning she’d had us all in a spin, rushing around trying to find her a pair of her ‘stupid’ tights. I kept glancing at Imogen as I spoke, but it wasn’t clear that she was even listening, since there was no response at all.

‘There are going to be five other children joining us in a bit,’ I went on. ‘Three boys, two other girls – and they’re all looking forward to meeting you. I think you’ll like them – particularly the girls, Molly and Shona. They’re a little younger than you – Shona’s in year 8 but Molly’s still in year 7 – and they’re both lovely girls.’

The walk wasn’t a long one, but it seemed so. It was a strange business, inanely chirping away to a girl who seemed not to want to listen or respond. And I wondered – what was going through her head right now? Still, my research had told me that this was the right thing to do – just keep on talking, even if it was into a void. And that, I thought, as we reached my classroom, I was good at.

‘Here we are!’ I said, as we approached the door. ‘My little kingdom!’

It was something to see, too – a proper work of art. In contrast to every other classroom door in the school, mine was highly decorated; covered, top to bottom, in daffodils and daisies, all painted by various children who had passed through it and all cut out and covered in sticky-back plastic, in traditional Blue Peter style. A work of art in its own right, everyone in school commented on it, and I was pleased to see it prompt a reaction. No, not in words, but Imogen did seem to do a bit of a double-take on seeing it.

‘We’ll have to get you to paint a flower for it, too, eh?’ I told her as I unlocked it. I laughed. ‘I think there’s just about room!’

Again, there was almost nothing in the way of a response, and it was an equally odd business trying to do my usual welcome spiel. I ushered Imogen to a seat, and as I proceeded to point out the various aspects of the classroom I felt increasingly like an air hostess – one who was trying to keep the attention of my single indifferent passenger, who only glanced up occasionally and apparently indifferently.

‘And that door there,’ I said, once I’d run through all the basic whats and wheres, ‘is the emergency exit, as you can see, but we often take a table or two out there if the weather is nice. Might do today, in fact. We’ll see …’

It was hard work, but just as I was wondering if I should next show her the brace position, I was rescued by the arrival of Henry.

‘Morning, Miss!’ he said brightly, grinning widely at the pair of us.

‘I’m Henry,’ he told Imogen with a confident can-do air. ‘I came in early so I could check you were here. What’s your name again?’

Meeting his eye now, Imogen seemed to physically shrink. Down went the head onto the chest, too.

‘Her name is Imogen,’ I reminded him. ‘Imogen, Henry is our oldest. In fact he’s your age, and he kind of helps me out, don’t you, Henry? With some of the younger ones.’

I watched Henry swell with pride. ‘Yeah, I do,’ he confirmed. ‘I make sure they don’t mess about too much for Miss. An’ I told them they gotta be all right with you, too. So they will be, okay?’

There was no response to this from Imogen, so I supplied one for her. ‘Thanks, Henry,’ I told him. ‘And you’re right. I’m sure they will be. Now, shall we get some drinks made before the others get here?’

Henry moved towards my little corner and grabbed the kettle so he could fill it for me. I was so impressed with him; was this the same boy who was an inch from exclusion? Maybe stewarding Imogen would be really good for him. ‘Hot chocolate?’ I asked Imogen. ‘That’s how we tend to start the day here. With a nice cup of hot chocolate and a biscuit.’

She glanced up and I noticed her gaze flutter up towards me. And was I mistaken or was that the trace of a smile? It was something, at any rate. Something we could build on. Perhaps we might be able to communicate after all. Right now, though, I took it as evidence that she would indeed like a hot chocolate, so I joined Henry and set about arranging all the plastic cups, plus my mug, ready for my next cup of coffee.

I’d done well with my hot-chocolate stash, which I’d shamelessly blagged not long after I’d arrived in the school. There was a drinks vending machine in the sixth-form block, and a man came every month to fill it, and one day, by chance, we’d met along one of the corridors and had fallen into conversation. I’d told him about how several of my kids came into school hungry and thirsty, and he’d told me about how a small proportion of the drinks had torn sleeves and couldn’t go into the machines he serviced. They were usually thrown away, too. Would I like them?

It was a match made in heaven. I got a new supply of hot chocolate once a month, and he got a free cup of tea before he left and, more often than not, a biscuit as well.

It was a full ten minutes before the other kids arrived, and they were long ones, Imogen silently sipping her drink and Henry sneaking peeks at her as he did likewise. After his initial chattiness he didn’t seem to know quite what to do now, and kept glancing towards the door, hoping for reinforcements. I think we were both relieved when a rumble in the corridor bore fruit and the other four kids came bowling in, Shona and Molly arm in arm as per usual, and Ben and Gavin doing their usual pushing and shoving.

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘here’s the rest of our little group, Imogen. Right,’ I told them, ‘come on in and take your seats everyone, and let’s get this party started.’

I made quick introductions as I prepared chocolate for the rest, and told the girls to go and sit at Imogen’s table. Today, with even numbers, we’d have a boys’ group and a girls’ group – for this morning’s activity, at any rate. I also got out the biscuits, eyeing Ben as I always did. Ben, I knew, was one of the kids who never got breakfast, as his dad worked shifts and would be asleep when he’d left for school. I’d once asked him if he could maybe grab some toast to see him through, but his response was that there wasn’t often any bread.

I couldn’t think of Ben without feeling a sharp pang of sympathy, and today was no different. I glanced at him now, yawning away, looking as if he’d just tumbled out of bed fully clothed. His off-white shirt, unironed and crumpled, had its two bottom buttons missing, and was only half tucked into his grubby school trousers. He didn’t have a school jumper, and when I’d asked him about that he’d told me it was because his dad didn’t think it was worth spending the money as he’d probably be excluded soon and would be off to a different school.

‘You can have one of my spares,’ I’d said, this being the logical solution, but Ben, loyal to the last, and not wanting charity, shook his head. ‘Thanks, Miss,’ he’d said. ‘But if my dad don’t want me to have one then I won’t have one.’

Free biscuits, however, were another matter – no one in my classroom ever seemed to turn them down and, though I could see Molly was embarrassed, listening to Shona trying to engage Imogen in conversation – she was blushing furiously – the atmosphere in the room wasn’t quite as awkward as I’d feared.

And my plan for the morning would hopefully encourage that further.

‘Right,’ I said, once everyone had a drink and a biscuit. ‘Chatter time is over. Time to listen.’

I handed out two packets of dried spaghetti and two bags of marshmallows, to the general appreciation of all concerned.

‘Wobbly Towers!’ said Henry as I did so. ‘Yess!’

‘Yes, Wobbly Towers,’ I explained, for the benefit of Imogen and the others – Henry was the only one of the group who’d done the activity before, the other children having only been with me for a month or so. ‘Henry’s correct,’ I said. ‘That’s what we’re doing this morning. And today it’s going to be boys against girls.’

I then went on to explain the basics of ‘Wobbly Towers’, one of my most popular and well-used group activities. I would give the children an hour, during which they had to spend half an hour designing and planning the structure of a wobbly tower, and then build one out of the sticks of dried spaghetti and the marshmallows. It was a little bit like creating the molecular structure models you’d see in science classes, but we made no mention of atoms and bonds or anything complex like that. They simply had to create something that would stand unsupported for at least one minute, with a prize going to the team who, in my ‘professional’ opinion, had been the most inventive with their construction ideas.

Wobbly Towers was a team activity, which meant it was also a great ice-breaker, which was why I did it so often. With children coming and going all the time it was important to plan activities that helped with the bonding process; especially important, given that the kids that came to me often did so because of their struggles to find friends.

Henry’s hand shot up as soon as I’d finished speaking.

‘Yes, Henry?’ I said, one eye on Imogen’s impassive face.

‘Miss, do we get to eat the marshmallows after we’ve finished?’

‘Hmm, let me think …’ I said, pretending to muse as I went to my desk to get paper and pencils for everyone. ‘Well, if you take the full half hour to plan properly (the kids were always itching to plunge in impulsively and start building, so that was important) and if you do create a tower that stays upright for the whole minute … then, yes, I suppose I could let you share the marshmallows out at the end.’

There were smiles all round. We had the same conversation, pretty much, every time we did it.

‘Epic,’ said Henry to his fellow boys, as they took the pieces of paper I was proffering. ‘Let’s show the girls, eh?’

Molly and Shona tutted as they came up behind them, Imogen falling into step behind Shona, and taking the paper and pencil she passed back to her.

‘There we are,’ Shona said to her. ‘Just put your name at the top, seeing as how you don’t like to talk. And Molly and me will tell you what you’ve got to write on it. Oh, and yes –’ She turned to me. ‘Miss, can I have another bit of paper? There,’ she said, as I passed her another and she handed it over to Imogen. ‘You can use that bit of paper to tell us stuff, can’t you? It’ll be like when I had tonsillitis and I lost my voice all day. I had to write everything down then, too.’

Nice one, Shona! I thought, as the children began to settle to their planning. What a clever, intuitive, emotionally intelligent girl she was. She would be okay, would Shona, I decided. Her late parents would have been so proud of her.

Which got me to thinking – what was the situation with Imogen’s exactly? With the dad? The second wife? And where exactly was her mum? What precisely was the root of her current troubling situation? I would find out more about the family at some point, I imagined. But in the meantime, as of today, I was on a mission.

If there was no physical reason for Imogen’s silence – and it seemed there wasn’t – then my own mission, I decided, as the children set about their engineering one, was to find a way to get her to speak. To me.




Chapter 5 (#ua3174a6c-f48f-5bca-b978-cd0e38fb5409)


Leaving the children occupied with their exciting engineering activity left me freed up to do a little more research. I’d already looked up the basics of selective mutism on the internet, and everything I’d discovered so far had told me pretty much the same thing: that children with the condition ‘opted out’ of speaking in social situations – of which school was an obvious example. Most of the time, however, they spoke completely normally in close family environments, when no one else was listening – as in at home.

I wasn’t sure about that key phrase ‘opt out’, though. It seemed to me – again, reading the research I had come across – that it wasn’t a case of a child ‘opting’ not to speak, but rather of them literally being unable to do so. In fact, another thing I learned was that children found it so distressing that they would actively avoid situations which would bring on their mutism. And, unfortunately, you couldn’t avoid school.

But where had it come from? In Imogen’s case, what had been the trigger? That there had been one didn’t seem to be in doubt. So it was a case of going back, then – back in time to look at the history. Because if I could tease out what had caused it, I had the best tool to help her. Without knowing it, we wouldn’t be addressing the problem – only the symptoms. Simple logic, but it seemed the best place to start.

My session on the computer done, I sat at my desk and watched Imogen intently. Shona, ever the mother hen, bless her, was doing her best to take charge of their little group. And, taking her lead, Molly seemed to be adapting to their unusual situation, understanding the need to provide a commentary, to compensate for the lack of reciprocation when either of them spoke to our newest Unit ‘recruit’. ‘That’s right, Imogen,’ she was saying, ‘Shona meant to criss-cross the straws there, just like you’ve drawn them. Well done.’

I had to smile. If you’d witnessed it cold you’d imagine they were speaking to a much younger child. But Imogen didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her expression, usually so deadpan, seemed to soften now the girls were clucking and fussing so much around her. Was that it? Did she lack attention? Feel excruciatingly self-conscious? It was so hard to fathom someone who didn’t speak. All those little clues. It wasn’t just what children had to say to you that mattered – you learned so much just from the way they spoke, too.

I was just pondering our little enigma when Kelly breezed in, beaming smiles for all, as per usual. Imogen glanced up, but I noticed she took very little interest. Not anxious, not nervous, not stressed by a new person. Perhaps shyness wasn’t a factor here at all.

‘You must have read my mind,’ I told Kelly, standing up to pop the kettle on for coffee. ‘I could actually do with nipping to the staffroom – got to make a phone call. If you’re free to hang around for a bit, that is.’

Kelly nodded. ‘If you’ll throw a chocolate digestive into the deal, I’ll happily stay,’ she said. ‘I’m free till lunchtime as it happens. All yours.’

I gave Kelly a quick update on what the children were up to and, before I left, sensing that I ought to let Imogen know what I was doing, went across to the girls’ table to let her know.

‘This is looking good,’ I told them all, looking at the planning notes they’d made already, then, lowering my voice, said, ‘You know, you might have a good chance of winning, girls. And, Imogen, your handwriting’s really neat.’

There was no reply from her, obviously, but I saw that same flutter of recognition that she’d understood and was pleased with what I’d said. What could it be like, I wondered, to have that barrier between yourself and the world? Did she want to respond, formulate an answer, yet be physically unable to deliver it, or was it a more conscious thing? What a curious thing it was. Particularly since she spoke normally at home.

Mrs Hinchcliffe didn’t seem particularly pleased to hear from me. In fact I got the impression as soon as she answered the phone that despite my having already mentioned that I’d like to, she felt my calling her was somehow irregular. I assured her that wasn’t the case; that, where practical, it was an important part of my role to try and work in co-operation with a child’s parents or guardians, to give them the best chance to deal with whatever their particular problems were and help ease them back into mainstream life in school.

‘Well, I don’t know that there’s much I can tell you,’ she said. ‘She was living with her dad before, as you know, and having lots of problems at her old school. Bullying, teasing, that sort of thing.’

‘Just her and Dad, then?’ I asked. ‘What about Mum?’

I heard her sigh. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I told you, Imogen lived with my son. It had just been the two of them since her mother walked out on the pair of them …’

‘Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Yes, well …’ said Mrs Hinchcliffe. ‘Believe me, you don’t know the …’ And then she checked herself. She was clearly anxious not to be indiscreet. ‘And they were fine …’

‘So does Imogen see her mum at all?’

‘No, she doesn’t. Not at the moment.’ I could hear the edge in Mrs Hinchcliffe’s voice still. ‘She’s been getting settled into her new life, and – well – it’s not really for me to say, Mrs Watson. It’s none of my business, is it?’

The implication being that it was none of mine either. But yes, it was her business. It was certainly her business. She was the one holding the flipping baby, wasn’t she?

‘I suppose not,’ I said anyway, because I didn’t want to antagonise her. What I really wanted to ask next was why he wasn’t bringing up his daughter. There must have been a reason, after all. But that would only antagonise Mrs Hinchcliffe further, I didn’t doubt, especially as I was fast getting the impression that my line of enquiry was one that wasn’t really considered relevant. I was being fed the line that it was bullying at school that had prompted Imogen’s selective mutism – but what about her mum? Might her absence from Imogen’s life have some bearing? I tried to imagine how Kieron or Riley might have coped if I’d disappeared suddenly from their lives – and I couldn’t. Losing a mother was a huge thing. Surely it must have contributed?

I took another tack. ‘So, Dad – your son – he’s on his own now, then, is he?’

‘No, not at all,’ said Mrs Hinchcliffe. ‘Graham has a new partner. Lovely girl, she is. That poor woman,’ she said with sudden animation. ‘It’s a lot to take on for anyone, isn’t it? Someone else’s child. And what with Graham working away …’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘He works away, does he?’

‘He’s a coach driver, dear,’ she said. ‘European tours. Luxury ones …’ And with the emphasis on the ‘luxury’ bit. I could hear the pride in her voice.

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘So his other half has to –’

‘His wife. Gerri, her name is. Lovely girl. Tried everything, she has, and – well, I’m sure you know how difficult children can be these days,’ she huffed. ‘It’s a miracle she didn’t walk out on him as well, frankly. Never stood a chance with Imogen, she didn’t. Not a chance. That’s why we’ve got her. I mean, what choice do we have? And she doesn’t see it, of course …’

‘What, your daughter-in-law?’

‘No! Imogen! No idea of the sacrifices her father’s made for her. She really hasn’t. I mean it’s her mum she should be bearing a grudge towards – I mean, anyone would say the same, wouldn’t they? Upping and leaving them like that. It’s not her dad she should be taking it out on, is it? I keep trying to tell her that, Mrs Watson. I mean, at least he flipping stayed with her … And poor Gerri. I’ve never known anyone so selfless. She’s the patience of a saint, that one. But, no … she can’t see that. Can’t see what’s plain as the nose on her face, that one.’

Mrs Hinchcliffe sighed again then, an exasperated sigh, and I got a strong impression that here was a lady who probably loved her grandchild dearly, but was emotionally exhausted with having so much responsibility on her shoulders, and at a loss to know what to do with Imogen by now. I also got the feeling that she was caught between two stools. I had the impression she was not only trying to be a good grandmother but a good mother, too. Taking the strain off her son. And perhaps a bit too much?

And what did she mean by ‘never stood a chance’? I decided not to press the point, however. ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘That’s sad. They don’t get along, then? Do you think that’s a factor in the mutism? Or did it start earlier? Some time after mum and dad split up, perhaps?’

But Mrs Hinchcliffe was having none of it. ‘No, I told you. It was that school. She was fine after the break-up. Well, not completely fine, obviously – would you be fine if your mother just upped sticks and left you? I imagine not, Mrs Watson. But she was still speaking. No, it was that dreadful school that did it – useless, they were. All the name-calling – because of her hair, because of her freckles, because of her mum having left – you name it.’

‘Children can be so cruel, can’t they?’

‘Oh, indeed they can, Mrs Watson. I don’t doubt you’ve seen plenty of that sort of thing for yourself. Just plain nasty. That’s when she shut down. And can you blame her? But she’s got to learn to deal with it, hasn’t she? She needs toughening up a bit. That’s what my husband says, and I agree with him. Needs to learn how to shrug it off more.’

There was another clear picture emerging; that of a rather ‘old school’ kind of grandad. A man keen to raise his granddaughter in a ‘no-nonsense’ kind of way. The type for whom the ‘let’s talk about it’ approach was probably anathema.

‘Perhaps,’ I said carefully, ‘and perhaps the bullying was a trigger. From the research I’ve done on selective mutism, it seems there is usually a specific trigger, as I said … How is she at home? I mean, I know you say she talks normally there, but aside from that, how does she seem? More confident? More relaxed?’

‘Oh, she’s certainly confident. You probably think she’s quite a quiet girl from what you’ve seen of her so far.’

Mrs Hinchliffe was right, there. No doubt about it. I agreed I did.

‘But she isn’t at all, you know. Shouts and screams at us – and for no apparent reason half the time, either. Sullen, too. Things don’t go her way, don’t we know about it! It’s no wonder her dad and step-mum needed a break!’

Something occurred to me. ‘What about Dad? I’m assuming they speak on the phone. Do they?’

‘Oh, no – she won’t speak to her father. Punishing him, is what we think. And the psychologist woman does, too. Won’t say a word to him. Calls all the time – of course he does. But nothing. Like I said, it’s us she takes it out on.’

‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ I sympathised, ‘and you’re quite right, she’s not come over like that at all. Mind you, lots of children play out their frustrations in either one place or the other. I’ve seen lots of that – as well as plenty of kids who are naughty in school but absolute angels at home.’ I paused then. ‘Speaking of which,’ I added, having sensed we were at what seemed the perfect moment, ‘I’d love to come and visit you all at home – you know, try to get a fuller picture of what we’re dealing with. Do you think we could arrange that?’

‘At home?’ Mrs Hinchcliffe paused. ‘Well, I suppose so. If you think it might help. Though I’d have to ask my husband first, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course you must. So how about you do so, and then get back to me …’

‘What, call up the school and leave a message?’

‘Yes, that would be perfect,’ I said. ‘I’d really appreciate that, Mrs Hinchcliffe. Oh, and one thing – it would be best if you didn’t mention anything about it to Imogen beforehand. If she knows in advance that I’m popping round she might get nervous, mightn’t she? Whereas if I just arrive, she’s more likely to be at her most normal.’

‘And it’s normal, this, is it?’ she asked. ‘You know – you coming round visiting people’s houses?’

I wondered if there was an edge of reluctance in her voice. But no, I didn’t think so; she’d not been slow in airing her feelings once she’d got going, after all. No, she just genuinely didn’t imagine people from schools did such a thing. Probably the legacy of her husband’s ‘old-school’ ideas.

‘Yes, it is,’ I reassured her. ‘All part of my role in pastoral care. Where a child has difficulties – well, I’m sure we’re all after the same thing, aren’t we? To get to the root of it, and work together to find a solution.’

‘Well that would certainly be nice,’ Mrs Hinchcliffe agreed. And I could tell how wholeheartedly she meant it.

‘Ah, Mrs Watson,’ Kelly enthused, when I returned to my classroom 20 minutes later, ‘take a look at these beauties. You certainly have some talent in this room of yours!’

‘Wow,’ I said, circling both tables, the children standing aside proudly to let me inspect their creations. I was pleased to notice that while Henry, predictably, was holding up the tower on the boys’ table, it was Imogen who had a steadying hand on the girls’ creation. ‘These are spectacular,’ I told them all, ‘and, looking at all your planning notes’ – I paused here to check both sets – ‘also almost exactly as you’d originally envisioned them. Excellent. I tell you what,’ I finished, ‘I think I am going to find it almost impossible to pick a winner today.’

Ben coughed then, to get my attention. ‘Miss,’ he suggested, eyeing up the remaining marshmallows, ‘we were thinking. If it’s too hard to pick, and you think we’re all winners, instead of giving one group a prize we could just share the rest of the marshmallows, couldn’t we?’

I grinned at Kelly, who I didn’t doubt had already heard this line of thinking. ‘What do you think, Miss Vickers? Do we think they all deserve to win?’

‘You know,’ said Kelly, ‘I think I do. In fact, I’d had another thought. Since we’ve already taken photos of both towers for the evidence board, I was thinking we could sabotage these wonderful creations and eat the lot.’

The whole group exploded into gleeful shouts of ‘Yes!’ and, once again, I was pleased to note, this included Imogen. Not with her voice, perhaps, but definitely with her small but encouraging grin. She might not be speaking, I thought, but she was definitely engaging.

‘Oh, go on then,’ I said. ‘Just make sure you save me a pink one.’

The unexpected bounty at the end of our session of Wobbly Towers set the tone for the remainder of the morning. Had anyone glanced in at my classroom before lunch that day, they could be forgiven for wondering quite why the Unit was known as the place where the most challenging children went to. Or, indeed, quite what they did all day – apart from laughing and scoffing marshmallows, that was.

It was one reason why the evidence board, which we updated with their planning notes and photographs as soon as the marshmallows were gone, was so important. Not only did it provide the children with much-needed evidence of how much they had achieved during their time with me, it also proved to the teachers and other staff members that the children were actually learning something curriculum-related, rather than being just in some sort of behaviour-management holding pen. Hard though it might have been for me to believe when I first started, a few – naming no names, of course – really did seem to see it as some sort of cop-out: a sin-bin where kids came for punishment and didn’t do very much in the way of school work. Finally, it helped me, in that it gave me the opportunity to assess which lessons worked well and which didn’t. I was learning too, and I could usually tell by the standard of work my kids produced whether the children had enjoyed it and also, most importantly, benefited from it.

At lunchtime the boys, as usual, were first to the door – out of the blocks, like 100-metre sprinters, it often seemed; with a sixth sense for the first tinkling of the bell. I felt slightly guilty that they’d stuffed down a fair few marshmallows each before lunch, but didn’t doubt they’d find room for dinner too.

The girls, on the other hand, lingered. I’d already been so impressed with Shona and Molly this morning, and here they were again, thinking about Imogen’s needs; and I realised that rather than just disappear off to the lunch hall without her they were waiting for me to tell them what to do.

‘Imogen,’ I said, ‘would you like to come down to lunch with me?’ It was an offer I’d make to any new pupil, disorientated and nervous as they’d invariably be.

Imogen glanced towards Shona before casting her gaze down.

‘You can go with Miss if you want,’ Shona told her. ‘Or you can come with me an’ Molly.’ She put an arm around her waist – a friendly gesture that was so typical of her. ‘If you wanna come with us, just nod, and if you don’t, that’s okay. You can go with Miss and she’ll look after you instead.’

Imogen’s nod was almost immediate, and before I could add anything further the three of them were already halfway out of the classroom.

‘’Bye then, girls,’ I said, then, turning to Kelly, mouthed ‘wow’.

‘A turn-up for the books,’ she agreed, once the girls had disappeared off down the corridor.

‘Not that I’m counting my chickens,’ I said, ‘but bloody hell – what about Shona today? So maternal, bless her. Maybe she’ll be the key to unlocking whatever Imogen has locked in.’

That and that home visit, I remembered. Which it seemed was definitely going to happen, Donald passing on the news, once I’d gone up for some lunch myself, that the Hinchcliffes were happy for me to visit at 5 p.m. that Thursday.

Though, with the afternoon going as productively as the morning had before it, by home time I was even beginning to wonder if Imogen might speak sooner rather than later, after all. Perhaps I’d been pessimistic. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too long.

Perhaps it would turn out that in my head I’d been making a mountain out of a molehill. We would see. It was a nice thought, at least.




Chapter 6 (#ua3174a6c-f48f-5bca-b978-cd0e38fb5409)


My optimistic mood took me all the way home and, as I got inside and saw the enormous grin on Kieron’s face, I had an inkling it might be set to continue.

‘Here, let me get that, Mum,’ he said, rushing to help me pull my large satchel off my shoulder and relocate it to the back of one of the dining-room chairs. The teachers mostly carried briefcases but I rather liked my school bag. It might have seemed sentimental – and maybe it was – but it was also very practical.

‘Thanks, love,’ I said gratefully. ‘And what’s the grin for?’

It grew wider still. Kieron was obviously bursting to tell me something. ‘It’s because I have big news!’ he beamed.

I rolled my sleeves up and headed towards the kitchen to put the kettle on and start on tea. ‘Big news, eh?’

‘Very big news,’ he confirmed, following me in there. ‘You know Si, my mate.’

‘Indeed I do,’ I said, nodding. I would do, after all. They’d been in nursery school together.

‘Well, he’s changed his course at college. He was doing some sports science course, but he wasn’t really enjoying it, so they let him change it. To that one Dad was talking about – you know? That Media Studies thing, or whatever it is. Anyway, Si loves it. And from what he’s told me, it sounds well good.’

I smiled as I rummaged in the fridge to check out the options. For Kieron to think something was ‘well good’ meant it was borderline spectacular. He wasn’t one for bestowing compliments lightly. ‘Does it now?’ I said, rising. ‘So what’s it to be? Spag bol or sausages?’

‘Mum!’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Are you even listening? I’m talking about my future here, you know. It’s really important!’

‘Of course I’m listening,’ I told him. ‘I’m just multi-tasking, love. It’s what we women do best. And I’m hearing that the course Dad told you about the other day seems much more appealing now that Simon is already on it – have I got that bit right? And the next bit is that because of that you’ve decided you’re going to give it a go yourself, yes?’

Kieron looked at me open-mouthed. ‘Who are you?’ he said incredulously. ‘Derren Brown or something? You just read my mind!’

I grinned. ‘Derren Brown is a magician, sweetie, not a mind-reader. But, yes, I reckon I did, right?’

I gave him a hug. I was playing it cool, but this was the best news imaginable. All he had to do now was actually follow through. ‘I am so proud of you, love,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure it will really suit you. So. Have you phoned up and asked if there’s actually a place left on it for you?’

It seemed it was Kieron’s turn to do a bit of mind-reading. ‘I knew you’d ask that,’ he said. ‘And I’ve beaten you to it, as it happens. I’ve done even better. I’ve been down there with Si and I’ve filled all the forms in and everything. And even though I’ve already missed the first fortnight – obviously – they told me that’s okay because I can just catch up. Oh, and I can start there tomorrow! Well, as long as I take in my passport, that is. Where is my passport? I’ve been looking for it but I can’t find it anywhere.’

Now it was my jaw hanging open. I yanked it back into position. Then sent up a quick prayer of gratitude for there being a friend called Si in this world.

‘That’s amazing,’ I said. ‘Fabulous news, love! Now I feel even prouder. And don’t worry about your passport. Dad will have just put it somewhere safe. And you know what? I think we’ll forget cooking and order in pizzas for tea, to celebrate. Like the sound of that?’

He liked the sound of it very much. There was still the small matter of actually finding his passport – Kieron didn’t like holidays so we tended not to do them, and I knew dinner wouldn’t happen till the offending article had been tracked down – but, all in all, it was definitely a cause for celebration. Whenever Kieron was upset or stressed, it played out in all sorts of little ways, which couldn’t help but have an effect on the rest of us, so I knew Mike and Riley would be up for a celebration as well. Plus no one in our house ever said no to a big slab of take-away pizza. What kind of normal person would, after all?

My working day, in contrast, was invariably far from ‘normal’. Work, for me, usually meant taking a deep breath and preparing for the unexpected. That was the central irony of working in the sort of unit I did. That what was designed to be a place of calm, routine and order for the kids that came to me, was, in terms of teaching strategies and decisions about how to handle conflicts and flare-ups, also a place where two days were never going to be the same.

My current six – Molly and Shona, Gavin, Henry and Ben, and, of course, now Imogen – seemed, in my short experience, to represent a fairly standard spread. Some the bullied, some the bullies, all of them united in their need to be heard and understood, and then carefully managed, and helped to re-integrate where possible.





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