Triumph Over Adversity 3-in-1 Collection. Casey Watson

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      ‘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

      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, СКАЧАТЬ