The Girl Without a Voice

by Casey Watson

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘And it probably wouldn’t be sensible to take her back to the Unit, so maybe you could sort out some work for her to be getting on with till we know what’s happening? We could have her go down to learning support – I’m sure Julia Styles will be happy to take care of her. Yes, that’ll work best for the moment, don’t you think?’

  I told him it would, and that I’d have someone fetch her bag up and her reading book. I suspected that the last thing she’d want to do currently was pen poetry about fireworks and bonfires. She’d had enough of the latter for the foreseeable future, and as for the fireworks – well, they were just about to start.

  It took less than an hour for the business of child protection to lumber into action. It was just before lunch when, my report finally written, I’d headed to Gary’s office so I could email it to the contact at social services. And now we were under way, Gary hadn’t let the grass grow.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the grandparents,’ he told me, once I’d forwarded the email. ‘And put them in the picture. And the social worker will be in touch with them, too. In the meantime, grandad’s going to pick Imogen up at lunchtime, as there’s no point in her being here this afternoon, not in the state she’s in. The key thing is going to be convincing her that she’s not in any trouble, and the grandparents are aware of that as well – as they are about the fact that it’s essential that they don’t speak to either their son or their daughter-in-law until social services have been in touch and the authorities have done their bit.’

  ‘What an awful situation,’ I said.

  ‘Tell me about it. The grandmother’s devastated. Can’t quite take it in, as you’d expect.’

  ‘And must feel awful, too,’ I said. ‘Must feel so guilty about not believing her. And all this time … God, that poor, poor kid.’

  ‘But it’s over now, all being well,’ Gary said briskly. And I didn’t doubt that he’d see that it was so.

  ‘So what is going to happen next?’ I asked him. ‘What’s the course of events now it’s with social services? Will they go round and visit the house? Investigate? Bring them in to their offices and interview them?’

  Gary gave me a look that was part way between a smile and a smirk.

  ‘Nothing so polite,’ he said. ‘That tends not to be how it works.’

  ‘How does it work then?’

  ‘They will simply have the police go and arrest them.’

  I returned to the Unit after lunch with my head full of horrible images but my hands no longer full – not where Imogen was concerned, anyway – and it was a decidedly odd feeling. It was absolutely the way of things in my job – children came to you, you did what you could, then they left you; that was the job. And, actually, chances were that nothing much would change.

  Gary’s pronouncement had really brought it home to me, no doubt about it. And the picture I’d subsequently painted – complete with sirens, reading of rights and trophy-winning cat fanciers being handcuffed and thrown into the backs of police riot vans, and into cages – was undeniably a pleasing one, and no less than she deserved. But, in the midst of all that, Imogen would still need to go to school. Yes, the grandparents could keep her home, I guessed, and no one would castigate them for doing so, but as she was already removed from the situation there wasn’t any clear and present danger, and my hunch was that everyone would suggest it was in her best interests – particularly re the selective mutism – for it to indeed be a case of business as usual, particularly if it transpired, and I was still confident it would, that her father had not been involved.

  But that still left a hole in my brain’s Sherlock Holmes region. It was no longer my job to investigate anything. It was now in the hands of the professionals. And, as if to remind me, when I returned to the Unit after lunch break it was to find my attention drawn to the collection of pine cones in the corner, which took my thoughts to Christmas, and, by extension, to Shona, who was sitting with Molly currently, but staring into space.

  It was a mental gear change, and an important one, as I had six children to think about, and for one of them, at least, the coming festivities would be incredibly difficult. I was very aware how much time was devoted in school to Christmas – not just to the occasion itself and the opportunities for fostering the children’s spiritual education, but to the day-to-day business of planning Christmas-related events, such as the special assemblies, the making and giving of cards, the various decorating sessions, the end-of-term parties and the community activities, such as the school’s annual carol service at the local church, for which I had a smidgin of a germ of an idea.

  All of this, for Shona, would be torture. And I was also mindful that her ‘secret’ hinted at a difficult set of circumstances, ones that, in reality, only time could make better.

  Which put another small idea into my head. As she’d not known how long I’d be out of the Unit, Kelly – ever the human dynamo – had already organised everything for that afternoon’s lessons, which would be maths followed by science.

  As Shona’s maths was generally sound, bordering on comfortably above average, I decided I would pull her out of the first half of the afternoon, so we’d have some privacy to chat, if she felt so inclined. It would also give me a chance to bring up the secrets box, if it seemed appropriate, though I was mindful that she’d taken pains to keep her secret anonymous, so I’d have to let her take the lead on that.

  The inquest into ‘Where’s Imogen Gone and What Was Wrong with Her?’ dealt with (easily attributed to a 24-hour tummy bug), I had a quick word with Kelly, then went over to speak to Shona. As well as being good at maths, she had an impressive artistic talent, which, today, served my needs very well. ‘I’m in need of a volunteer,’ I explained, ‘to help me create a thing of beauty for the display wall in the main reception, and I said to myself, “Who’s the undisputed champion of all things creative in the Unit, if not the entire lower school?” And guess which name sprang to mind?’

  Shona smiled delightedly, which was gladdening in itself.

  ‘So you’re up for it?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d love to, Miss,’ she answered.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Grab your coat because it’s cold in the entrance, and let’s go and create a masterpiece, shall we?’

  Putting children’s work on display was a central part of every teaching job, and though I wasn’t strictly speaking a teacher myself – my job title being the slightly more menacing ‘Behaviour Manager’ – I was still on the rota to provide displays for the boards in all the school’s communal areas, and mine was due to replace the current one by the end of that very week.

  I’d already partly prepared and decided upon a theme for our display: a perennial and a bit of a classic, autumn colours. I’d squirrelled away various things already – mostly pictures and drawings, and the main ‘event’ would be the poems they had produced only that morning, which I would have them write out again, in their very best writing, and then decorate around the edges with whatever took their fancy. For now, though, it was a question of preparing the background and, as I suspected, Shona was full of ideas about what might look nice. We’d brought down my big plastic display box – full of all the tools of the trade – and we were soon immersed in choosing borders and materials and possible colours.

  ‘So,’ I said, at length, ‘how are you getting on, love? Are you still seeing your counsellor?’

  Shona nodded. ‘She’s nice. We go for walks sometimes now. Which is nice …’

  She trailed off, then, and I let the silence lengthen. Then, while manoeuvring a particularly petulant piece of border into position, said, ‘I suppose it must be nice to get away from time to time. You know, from your little cousins – have some space for yourself.’

  ‘That’s what she said.’ She handed me the wall-stapler. ‘I’m not that used to it – having so many people around all the time … all the noise.’

  ‘That’s what little ones are best at usually, aren’t they?’


  She nodded. ‘And they want me to play with them all the time. And I try to – I want to be helpful, because I know my auntie’s always so busy …’

  ‘But sometimes you just want to scream – go away!’

  Her answering smile confirmed I’d hit the nail on the head, as well as the staple into the wall. ‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘And with the holidays coming up, you’ll have to brace yourself a bit, won’t you?’

  ‘I already am,’ she said, after a pause of presumably reflection. ‘I’m going to miss school – you know, seeing my friends, having stuff to do.’

  ‘You’ll be able to see some of them, though, won’t you? At some point over the holidays? Sales shopping, catching up, that sort of thing?’

  ‘I guess so,’ she said, ‘but it’s like family time, isn’t it?’

  I hesitated, sensing from her body language that she didn’t want to dwell on that. ‘And lots of tedious board games and leftover turkey,’ I decided upon. ‘Though I have a cunning plan for all that.’ I grinned at her. ‘And I know I’ll need to come in here at some point, so I’ll have an official “going to work” day between Christmas and New Year, when I’ll come in here, while it’s quiet, and get my classroom sorted out. Pull down the old displays, get all inspired, set up the backgrounds for all the new ones. That way, when term starts, I’m ready for action – with my walls set up for all the new term’s creations. And have a few hours peace and quiet. Bet it’ll work a treat.’

  I don’t know if it was her expression or just a bolt of inspiration, but an idea pinged on in my head then and there. ‘And you know what? I could always use a helper to do that too – what with being such a shortie. So, there’s a thought; assuming the head’s okay with it, and I telephone your auntie to ask her, would you perhaps like to come in one day and do that with me too?’

  Now it was definitely her expression that cemented it. ‘Could I?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘If it’s something you’d like to do.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to, Miss,’ she said again.

  ‘Then I’d love that too. And I shall pay you in hot chocolate and pink and white marshmallows. That’s the going rate – how does that sound?’

  Her giggle warmed my heart for the rest of the day.

  Chapter 18

  I woke up the next morning with my head still madly buzzing – with the same stuff that had preoccupied me when I’d gone to bed the night before: what was happening with the wicked stepmother, that I needed to speak to the head and to Shona’s auntie, whether I should take the plunge and ask if my class could do a turn at the Christmas carol service, whether I should call Gavin’s mother and see how things were – try to establish quite why she thought he was ‘mental’ … And it made me think of something Don had said to me towards the end of my first term in school, after I’d commented on the fact that I kept losing my keys, and seemed to have my head on back to front.

  ‘It’s called end-of-term-itis,’ he’d pronounced, nodding sagely. ‘And it goes with the territory. There’s a reason why teachers need the year broken up into terms; as they go on, you find it harder and harder to switch off and clear your mind. Have you found that?’

  ‘Exactly that. Like a kind of burn-out,’ I’d said, nodding.

  ‘Though only of a temporary kind, thankfully. Everyone gets it. Couple of weeks to recharge and you’ll be set for the new term. You’ll see.’

  And I had seen, and these days I was more in tune with the termly rhythms, but right now, however, we still had four weeks of the current term to go, and, what with all the drama we’d had lately – particularly with Imogen – I profoundly hoped they’d be mostly without incident. A happy, twinkly run-up to Christmas was what I was hoping for, so I sent a quick wish to the elves at the North Pole, hoping Santa would be so kind as to oblige me.

  I ran my hands over my face and sat in bed for a few moments longer, listening to the strangely soothing sound of Kieron downstairs, banging pans around while engaged in some sort of breakfast-related mission, and hearing Riley’s always dulcet ‘I’m-getting-ready-for-work-so-keep-out-of-my-way’ tones. It was getting to that time of year: dark in the mornings, even darker in the evenings – but with the joys of Christmas still very slightly over the horizon, however much the shops would have it otherwise. There was just too much work to be done between now and then.

  I got out of bed finally and opened the curtains, even if it was only to look out on a still inky darkness. Poor Mike was long gone. Would have been at work for an hour already. The shifts he did were particularly gruelling at this time of year. I glanced back at my bedside clock. I would have to get my skates on as well – there was a big important meeting to attend in school this morning, and before that I really needed to get organised. My mind was still on Shona, to some extent – I wasn’t sure I agreed that she should go back to mainstream classes this side of Christmas – but the main priority today was Imogen and what was going to happen there.

  Mostly, I was intrigued about what we’d find out. We’d been told snippets of course, but they were tantalisingly vague ones. That the investigation had turned up some ‘interesting’ background details, that there’d been talk of various measures that were now going to be ‘put in place’, but what all of that meant in practice was anyone’s guess.

  What had they found out? And about whom? Gerri, I guessed, but what about Imogen’s father? Could he really have been so naïve as to let such horrors go on under his nose? I fervently hoped so, for Imogen’s sake.

  ‘Yes,’ came the emphatic answer a couple of hours later.

  It was a larger gathering than I’d expected. So much so that we’d had to hold it in the conference room in the library, which was usually reserved for training, as we’d have struggled to fit us all into one of the smaller offices.

  As well as Gary and myself, present were Jim Dawson (my alter ego), Julia Styles (our Special Needs Co-ordinator, or SENCO) and, as well as Don (standing in for the head, who was at a financial meeting), there were two social workers, a tall man called Simon Swift, who had apparently now been allocated to the family, and a trainee called Helen Croft, who he explained was attached to him currently and who was apparently ‘cutting her teeth’ on Imogen’s case.

  The main purpose of the meeting was to bring us up to speed. So the first 20 minutes or so had been spent putting us fully in the picture, from the moment the investigation had been launched by social services, as a consequence of Imogen’s disclosures to me and Gary’s subsequent call.

  And I was all ears, because it was as much an education for me as it was for the trainee social worker. I’d had dealings with social services before this, both in my current job and as a youth worker before that, but this was the first time I’d been so much at the centre of a process that could – and would – have such a profound effect on a child’s home life; something that felt like quite a responsibility.

  No, it didn’t involve taking a child from their home – Imogen was already out of harm’s way, because she was staying with her grandparents – but the emotional trauma she had been caused, and was still suffering the effects of, was something that would have continued, one way or another, had she not found the courage to tell me what she had that day.

  An intervention had clearly been necessary – and quite a dramatic one, by the sound of it. Choosing their moment, so that both Gerri and Graham Hinchcliffe had been at home, the social workers had gone to the house, accompanied by a police officer, who had done just as Gary had predicted – arrested both husband and wife on suspicion of assault and wilful neglect.

  ‘And, as luck would have it – well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it – it turns out that Gerri Hinchcliffe had a previous conviction,’ Simon Swift explained, ‘and it was for a similar offence. That was a key piece of evidence. And, luckily – well, in terms of the amount of paperwork involved, definitely – she didn’t even try to deny it. In fact, she laughed,’ he continued, glan
cing at Gary, to whom he’d obviously already told the tale. ‘She said – let me see if I can remember it right – yes, she said, “It was only f***ing water. How could I ever harm her with f***ing water, for f***s sake? You can’t do me for her being a gullible little cow!”’ He cleared his throat and grinned, then. ‘Nice, eh? And, of course, fortunately, yes we can.’

  ‘So Imogen made a statement to you okay, then?’ I asked. This had been my major concern, that when it came to it, and faced with having to speak to complete strangers – and in what would feel like very intimidating surroundings, however ‘cosy’ they made the places where children had to do such things – she would simply clam up and be unable to get anything out. But it seemed I didn’t need to worry.

  ‘Indeed she did,’ Simon reassured me. ‘Which made everything all the more straightforward. Gerri Hinchcliffe has been released on bail, but Imogen’s dad was released without charge pretty much straight away, and was able to reassure her that she wasn’t in any trouble. He really didn’t have a clue – that was immediately obvious. And his wife had certainly covered her tracks very well. Anyway, he asked her to leave his house that same day, apparently. Which I believe she has now done. Along with her cats.’

  And their many rosettes and trophies, no doubt. I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe such cruelty,’ I said. ‘Well, I can, obviously. We see it all around us, after all. But to treat a defenceless child like that and laugh about it – and to social services? It beggars belief, doesn’t it? And to have everyone fooled by her – incredible to think she could take everyone in so convincingly. That’s what really gets me. I mean, I’ve never heard the nan do anything but sing her praises!’

  ‘Not any more,’ Gary corrected. ‘And the poor woman’s really quite traumatised, as you can imagine. As is the grandfather. Because they were completely taken in by her, every bit as much as their son was. Which at least makes his own ignorance a touch more credible, I suppose.’