by Casey Watson
I couldn’t help but smile. Yes, it was almost seven, and I was normally home by five, but it was hardly the wee hours and this was hardly a huge drama. It was the home of a couple of pensioners and a slight teenage girl – hardly The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or The Silence of the Lambs.
I found myself smiling ruefully as I followed Mike through into the kitchen. Actually, on the silence front, there was a parallel.
I’d gone upstairs, past a row of horticultural prints of various roses, to find myself on a small landing, crowded with small bits of dark wood furniture – a spindly chair; a semi-circular side table, topped with a vase of silk roses, themselves sitting on a small embroidered doilie; a wooden wall-mounted repository for a large thimble collection; and, over the banister rail, a pair of beige towels. Dust, I thought. A dust haven. It made me anxious just to look at it. When I was retired, I decided, I would have to live an ornament-free existence, just to stay on the right side of sane.
The little landing was also crowded by some very busy floral wallpaper and punctuated by an assortment of panelled white doors. Following the instructions Mrs Hinchcliffe had given me, I knocked on the one to the left of the bathroom and, getting no response, turned the handle and went in.
It was exactly as I’d expected, given the rest of the Hinchcliffes’ home. Prettily decorated and furnished, creamy floral curtains, a selection of cheerful pictures, sunny aspect … In fact, the perfect cosy guest bedroom, should that be what you were after. And, just as had been the case when I’d first seen Imogen’s clothes, nothing like a teenage girl’s bedroom at all. I winced to see there wasn’t so much as a duvet, let alone a funky duvet cover, much less any trace of the usual detritus such as hair straighteners, nail varnish bottles, discarded socks and bras.
Imogen herself was sitting on the single bed, atop a quilted floral bedspread, head down, nose in a paperback book. She looked up, and, seeing me, her face took on that same closed expression that I had by now become so familiar with in school.
‘Hello,’ I said, to which she responded by putting the book down, uncrossing her legs and swinging them around and to the floor. She didn’t stand up, though, so I went and sat beside her.
‘Can we talk,’ I asked her gently, ‘about what’s troubling you?’
I left it long enough to feel fairly sure she’d decided she didn’t want to communicate, then picked up the book to see what it was. It was from the school library, a book by Jacqueline Wilson, called Double Act, which I recognised immediately as being one of the set texts some of the year 8s were currently reading.
‘I don’t think I’ve read this one,’ I said, scanning the blurb on the back and flicking through a couple of pages. It seemed to be about twin sisters, Ruby and Garnet, whose mum had died – so a parallel with Imogen’s life right there. ‘It looks good,’ I said. ‘Are you enjoying it? I love Jacqueline Wilson’s books, don’t you? I think my daughter’s read almost every one she’s ever written.’
Again, there was no response, so I put it down again, changing tack. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that was certainly some introduction to your voice, anyway, Imogen. I was so surprised I nearly lost mine, you know that? But I understand that perhaps you don’t want to talk to me today. I just came up to let you know that, well, that I’ve had a chat with your nan and grandad, and the one thing you need to know is that we’re all in this together. Imogen, sweetie, we all want to help you. That and the small matter,’ I continued, ‘that if I don’t get the front-door key I’m not going to get home, I won’t get any tea and, more importantly, I am going to miss EastEnders.’
I was close enough to nudge her so I took a risk and did. ‘So can we resolve this particular conflict, do you think?’
‘So she gave it to you?’ asked Mike, when I’d finished relating everything to him. ‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that,’ I said, surveying the plate he placed in front of me and sniffing. ‘And don’t worry, no fishy business whatsoever.’
Riley wafted into the living room, just as Mike was groaning at my lame joke. ‘Those fish fingers are gross, Mum. Just gross. God – and look at them! Dad, you’ve cremated them!’
I was inclined to agree, bless him, but said nothing. I’d just kind of work my way around to them, via the mash and mushy peas.
‘But it’s still not on,’ Mike said. ‘Yes, it might have been okay on this occasion, but I’m not sure this business of you making home visits isn’t a bit above and beyond the call of duty.’
‘Love, it was my choice,’ I said. ‘They don’t make me do anything. But it’s part of my job to work with and support parents. And indeed grandparents. So I want to. Anyway, I’m glad I went. I feel I’ve learned so much more about everything now.’
Which wasn’t strictly true – what the visit had mostly done was throw up more questions. But that was fine. It at least gave me something to work with. And I’d been particularly pleased that Imogen had so meekly given me the key as soon as I’d requested it. She clearly had a respect for authority, and, hopefully, me – and I knew that would help a great deal.
‘Even so,’ Mike persisted, ‘I still think it’s a bit much for an unaccompanied female to be visiting strangers’ homes in the evening. I know you see it as part of your job, all this “super-nanny” stuff, but it’s still risky, and at the very least you should keep your phone switched on, love – I must have tried you a dozen times. I didn’t know what to think!’
I felt a bit bad about that. I wasn’t the best person to be left in charge of a mobile phone and I knew it. I was forever leaving it switched on in school and having it burst into song in meetings, or forgetting I’d switched it off and running around for hours after school was over, oblivious to the fact that people might be trying to get in touch with me, and, as for remembering to charge it at night, I was a lost cause.
Riley laughed. ‘Didn’t know how to cook fish fingers, more like,’ she trilled, then skipped off into the hall with an ‘Out with David, home by ten!’, narrowly avoiding a flick across the back of the knees with Mike’s tea-towel.
‘That was absolutely delicious, love,’ I lied as I gave him the plate back. ‘So, Kieron, how was your second day?’
My own day was still some distance from being over, which was pretty much par for the course now. It hadn’t always been so; when I’d started in my job I had several free periods allocated during the school day, in order that I could keep on top of the paperwork. But with the increasing numbers of children who were sent to the Unit, that particular luxury was beginning to become a thing of the past. I didn’t mind, though. Were I a mainstream teacher I’d be doing a lot of that sort of thing anyway, and though it sometimes meant I was exhausted come Friday, it was all an important part of the learning curve.
It turned out that Kieron’s second day had mostly been ‘epic’ so, though he’d been chewing on his fingers – a sure sign that he was stressed about something – I reassured myself that it was probably a productive kind of stress. So once he’d filled me in on how he and Si were already composing some music for a presentation, I was able to turn my attention back to work.
An important part of my job involved writing up detailed reports on every child that I currently had on my books. These would be passed on to the learning support department, the appropriate head of year and, if applicable, to Gary, our Child Protection Officer, and form part of the dossier of information we had on every pupil who needed extra support.
In Imogen’s case, an important addition to what we already knew would be the details of my home visit earlier. Though there was still a great deal we didn’t know – and probably needed to, if we were to have the tools to help her – I’d at least gained more insight into what was clearly a tense and difficult family dynamic.
I wondered too, as I wrote, how things might have changed. One thing I’d learned since starting my job was that, following a home visit, the dynamic between me and the child usually shifted. And in a positive way, too; it tended to
become more personal. There was something about seeing a child away from the school setting – with all those rules and protocols – that encouraged a greater rapport.
That said, we were talking about a child who’d yet to speak to me, so I wasn’t holding my breath that we’d suddenly become confidantes. So it was to my delight that I arrived at my classroom door the following morning to find Imogen standing there waiting for me to arrive.
‘Hello love,’ I said, fumbling with my key in the lock, aware of just how early it still was. ‘That’s good timing. Could you grab my satchel off my shoulder for me so I can get the door open, do you think? This stupid lock needs some WD40.’
If she was aware of the irony of my words she didn’t show it. She did, however, take the bag off my shoulder so that I could maintain a hold on the stack of books I was carrying in one hand while jiggling the key in the classroom door in the other.
Once we were in she went straight across to my desk and placed the satchel down carefully upon it. She then walked over to the evidence boards on the classroom wall and, while I filled the kettle and popped it on its stand, stood and studied all the new pieces of work I’d put up the previous afternoon. One of the things I’d copied and added was Henry’s conflict-resolution play synopsis, which she seemed to be studying quite intently.
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ I called across. ‘There’s a lot more to Henry than meets the eye, as you’ve probably already noticed!’
She nodded, and even glanced over and smiled at this. It was still as odd, though – as odd as it had ever been – being in a classroom alone with a person who didn’t speak. I wondered about actors who had to do action scenes in front of green screens; how they managed to fight digitally produced monsters they could only imagine rather than see. It was strange talking into a void; it felt like such an unnatural thing to be doing. And it occurred to me that it must be even stranger for Imogen – hearing words spoken but not being able to respond to them. Was she trying to, I wondered? I couldn’t quite imagine what it must be like. It was clearly psychological but, to her, did it feel physical? As if she was desperate to get something out but couldn’t make her body obey her brain?
Or was it not like that? Was it more of a decision she had to stick to? Like my endless quests to give up smoking, was it something she did have physical control over, and had to will herself not to crack and open her mouth?
It was while I was pondering this that I noticed that, while she was looking at something else, Imogen’s lips were moving, presumably in synch with what she was reading – something I’d not noticed before. She then walked across to the girls’ table with her workbook and began reading that – and, once again, she seemed to be miming what she saw.
Or was she? ‘What was that, love?’ I said casually, while spooning coffee into my mug. ‘I couldn’t quite hear what you said. Say again?’
‘I thought she …’ she began, but I couldn’t quite catch the rest of it because the kettle was chuntering up to the boil.
I flipped the switch up. ‘Sorry, love?’ I said.
‘I thought she might …’ she whispered. At least I thought that was what she’d whispered. I came round to the front of my desk. ‘You thought someone might what?’ I repeated. But as soon as I began to approach her it was as if her own switch had been flipped as well. It was as if a shutter had come down, the change was so abrupt and so decisive. As if she’d mentally run from me, to a far corner of her mind.
I decided I wouldn’t push it. I would simply ponder it, for the moment at least. Make a note after I’d made my coffee and then mull over what it might mean. It was a breakthrough – a big breakthrough – and that was a good enough start for me. And with the arrival of Gavin, seconds later, full of his usual surfeit of energy, I switched mental gears – I must really chase up the parents re that medication, I registered.
New hat on, Casey, I thought, as the rest tumbled in behind him. Let the day’s madness begin …
Chapter 9
It was clear as I got ready for work the following Monday morning that winter was very much on its way. We were now well into October and not only were the mornings getting darker, but the temperature had taken a nose-dive as well. I made a mental note to ask Mike to reset the timer on the heating and hot water as I shivered in the bedroom after my necessarily brief shower; brief because of the lack of hot water, rather than because I was in a hurry. With the meeting with the clinician scheduled, I had the rare luxury of time, as my fellow behaviour manager, Jim Dawson, would be taking the class for the morning in my place.
Though we shared a job title, our roles were very different. Neither of us knew it at the time, but there had originally been just the one post up for grabs, so we’d actually started out as competitors. But after we’d both given presentations on how best we thought behaviour could be improved and emotional literacy fostered, it seemed the school had something of a rethink. Seeing so much merit in incorporating our different ideas and approaches, they’d decided to create two jobs and, though it would stretch the budget, employ both of us and let us divide the role as the pair of us saw fit. They also put at our disposal the services the school’s TAs and learning support staff.
So that’s what we’d done, divvying thing up according to our own ‘skill-sets’ (to use the jargon) so that I ran the Unit, while Jim’s role was more peripatetic: he could often be found pounding the mean streets of the school corridors, chasing after some errant or absconding child or other. In the main, though, he was classroom-based, drafted in as and where needed. If a teacher was having problems with a particularly disruptive pupil, Jim was the go-to guy to form a cunning plan to contain the chaos.
This morning, however, Jim was going to contain any chaos that might break out with my little lot, ably assisted by Kelly. All I needed to do was set things up for that morning’s activities, and though I knew that there wasn’t that much need for me to organise every tiny detail, I was far too much the control freak not to do so.
And it seemed I wasn’t the only one keen to get a march on the day. As I walked in through the reception doors the first people I clapped eyes on were Henry and little Ben sitting quietly on two of the black seating cubes that were normally reserved for visitors and parents.
‘Good morning, boys,’ I said, eyeing them curiously. ‘Now, it’s far too early in the day for you both to be in trouble. So, let me see, are you waiting for me?’
They both jumped up and Henry grinned at me.
‘Yes, we were,’ he said, ‘weren’t we, Ben?’
Ben nodded. ‘Just so you know we’ll keep an eye on things for you. You know, till you get back after dinner … you will be back after dinner, Miss, won’t you?’
I was quite sure that was the most Ben had so far said to me in one go, without prompting. Which was very pleasing. I’d not personally found him that challenging so far but he was a boy whose reputation for causing trouble among his peers definitely preceded him.
I was also pleased that these two were clearly forming some sort of bond, and I made a mental note to check if they shared a route to school, since this wasn’t the first time they seemed to have arrived in school together.
‘Yes, I will,’ I told him. ‘And thank you so much for reassuring me. It always helps to know there will be a few people who’ll help things run smoothly.’
‘And we’ll keep an eye on Imogen for you, Miss,’ Henry added. ‘And I won’t get into nothing with Shona, neither. Just in case you were wondering, that’s all.’
‘Well, that’s good to know as well, Henry,’ I said, trying to suppress a laugh as I ruffled the hair of first the taller and then the shorter of the boys’ heads. ‘I can go off to my meeting without worrying now, can’t I? Thank you both.’ I glanced at the big clock on the wall. ‘But, if I’m not mistaken, the bell is going to go at any minute, so if the two of you are going to be my undercover helpers you’d better scoot off. You won’t be able to help me if Mr Dawson sends you out for being lat
e, will you?’
They scooted off and I headed off to the staffroom for a coffee. I had 20 minutes to spare and I intended to make the most of them. The staffroom was heaving, as it always was at that time of the morning: everyone dashing around, collecting internal mail from their pigeon holes, grabbing paperwork, scribbling last-minute notes, marking last-minute books – all of them trying to cram a quart’s worth of organising into a pint-pot, before the ringing of the dreaded bell. It didn’t seem to matter how passionate any of us felt about our jobs – when your day was dictated by the tyranny of that buzzer, your response was exactly like that of one of Pavlov’s dogs; it meant ‘Showtime – you’d better be ready!’
The room cleared as if by magic moments later, leaving me with a steaming mug of instant and an upbeat frame of mind. It was the little things that brought on that happy mindset, and this was one such – the simple matter of Henry and Ben’s thoughtfulness was enough to lift my day.
Despite their well-documented penchant for disruption and violent outbursts, I had a soft spot for both of these boys. Which was probably part of my job spec – being keen to unearth the positive in a difficult child was pretty much essential – but it was still pleasing to be feeling it, rather than just doing it.
Both boys lived chaotic lives and both had huge self-esteem issues, and I was particularly pleased to see Ben, who I was only just getting to know, showing potential for having more productive relationships with his peers.
I tried to imagine what it must be like to be him. According to his notes, it was his birth that had precipitated his mother’s death. She’d been a non-attender at her antenatal clinics and had suffered from undiagnosed pre-eclampsia, which, tragically, was caught too late and resulted in her death. This left her newborn child to be taken home by his shocked and grieving father – the only child of a man who hadn’t the first clue how to raise one.
