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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ