by Casey Watson
‘She’s more than managing,’ I told Mrs Hinchcliffe. ‘In fact, in the last few weeks she’s been blossoming. It’s been wonderful to see how confident she’s becoming. How’s she been at home? Has she talked very much about Gerri?’
Mrs Hinchcliffe shook her head. ‘Not at all,’ she said, ‘but least said soonest mended, in my book. Though she still has her psychologist woman coming round once a week. So she might speak to her, of course. But to us, no. I think she just wants to forget it. And as Mick says …’ She paused then, looking past me, towards the hallway. ‘Speak of the devil. There he is.’
I turned around to see Mr Hinchcliffe pushing the door open, with Imogen just behind him, then slipping a couple of carrier bags off his wrists and down onto the doormat. In his other hand he held what looked at first glance like a collection of firewood. Except it wasn’t. It was an armful of planks.
‘Don’t you think you’re traipsing in here with all that!’ said Mrs Hinchcliffe. ‘Go on – take it round the side. I’ve only hoovered an hour since, for goodness’ sake. I’m not having you dropping sawdust all over the carpet.’
She turned to me then. ‘Men and their blinking hobbies,’ she said. ‘You should see the state of our garage. Pain in the flipping proverbial.’
I laughed and stood up. It was probably time to leave. Imogen was still taking off her coat and boots in the hall as I went to slip mine on again. She smiled. ‘Oh, hi, Miss. What you doing here?’
‘Just popped in to see your nan for a catch-up,’ I said. ‘That’s all. You all organised for Christmas?’
Imogen grinned, her cheeks two little pink apples from the cold. ‘I think we are. I’ve been helping my nan – we’ve made mince pies and sausage rolls and a Christmas cake. If you call round again before Christmas, you could try one if you like.’
Bless her, I thought. ‘I’ll bet they’ll be delicious, too,’ I said. ‘There’s always something special about cakes baked by nans and their granddaughters. It’s the extra love, I think. That’s what my nan used to say. So I’ll bear it in mind if I’m passing and feeling peckish. In the meantime, I had better get going. I’ve got mince pies of my own to bake as soon as I get back. Now, if I could only rustle up a granddaughter, I’d be laughing …’
Chapter 21
‘I hope you’re leaving some of those for me,’ Kieron called out from the hall, as I transferred mince pies from tin to Tupperware container the following morning, ready to take into school with me.
‘I might,’ I called back. ‘If you’re very, very good.’
‘Mum, I am always good,’ he said, appearing in front of me with his arms full of mysterious leads and cables. Who knew what he got up to at college? It was mostly Greek to me, but whatever it was it definitely seemed to suit him. ‘Name me one incidence,’ he went on, ‘in the last, erm, let me see … six months – yes, six months – when I have done anything whatsoever that has annoyed you in any way.’
I smiled to myself. That was Kieron all over. He had the sort of memory that catalogued everything down to the tiniest detail. You could never say something like ‘Remember that time when …’ unless you were 100 per cent accurate about details. Especially when it came to anything that might make him anxious, like getting a telling-off from Mike for some minor misdemeanour or other – he’d be able to quote him verbatim.
‘What’s with this whole domestic goddess bit anyway, Mum?’ Riley wanted to know. ‘Did someone come in to school with a cake and make you feel all inadequate?’
‘Cheeky mare!’ I said. ‘This is nothing to do with feeling inadequate – or me trying to be a domestic goddess either. They’re for our party, if you must know. We’ve got the carol service today and after they’ve done their performance we’re going to have a little end-of-term Christmas party during last period.’
‘Aww, I remember those days so well,’ Kieron said, looking wistful.
‘I’d hope so,’ Riley said. ‘You’ve only left the place five blooming minutes!’
‘But it seems so long ago,’ he continued. ‘Carol services and mince pies and not having to worry about anything but remembering to get your homework book signed …’
‘Which you mostly didn’t,’ I chipped in.
‘Welcome to my world, little bro,’ Riley said. ‘It’s called the real one.’ She reached past me and pinched a mince pie from the tin. ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘how many kids did you say you have in that Unit of yours? You look like you’re planning on feeding the five thousand!’
‘Seven, currently,’ I told her, ‘but I won’t just be feeding them, will I? I’ll be lucky to get away with less than about 30. And you know what it’s like; they’ll be gone before you can say Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem, trust me.’
And it was a problem of my own making, to be fair, because I’d been a bit free and easy with sending out invitations. But that was the way a support structure such as the Unit should work, to my mind. Children came and went, but, whatever happened next, the one thing they all went away with was the security of knowing that the Unit door was always open.
I’d also made a point of getting in touch with the parents and guardians of my current brood, both to encourage them to come along and see their children perform at the church and to join us for our little ‘after-show’ as well. It wasn’t the usual way of things, but Mr Moore was becoming used to me by now, and fully agreed with my idea that it was a good way to foster good relations with parents who were often struggling with their children themselves.
‘Anyway, you don’t need to worry,’ I told them both, while Kieron managed to snake out a hand from under his cable spaghetti and grab a couple too. ‘I seem to have made half a zillion of the things, thanks to your auntie Donna’s enormous stock of mincemeat, so you won’t be missing out. You’ll be sick of the things by Christmas eve.’
‘Mum,’ said Kieron, ‘remember what Aristotle said.’
‘Aristotle? What on earth did he have to say on the subject of mince pies?’
‘Nothing. But he did say that nature abhors a vacuum. Which means if there’s a gap you should fill it. Ergo, there is always room for a mince pie.’
It had been a tense couple of weeks, and I didn’t doubt there would have been some tears before bedtime, but we had finally reached a point where I was reasonably confident that our little Unit would acquit ourselves well. Because what we were doing today – singing Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem, on our own, at the carol service – was a completely new departure. But not a completely random one; it had been inspired in part by my research into selective mutism, in fact, and a snippet I’d read about speech problems generally, and how things like singing were often easier to cope with than talking.
It had made for fascinating reading, too – learning just how singing could be used as therapy – and also how children with problems such as stammers often found it much easier to sing than speak, and profoundly autistic kids, who could barely speak at all, could sometimes memorise and sing whole songs, like angels. Essentially, though, I just liked the idea of my brood learning a carol, rehearsing it diligently and then actually performing it in public. It just struck me as another confidence string they would have to their bows. Well, if they pulled it off, that was.
So it was also a little scary, as was any venture into the unknown, and given that my little brood found even mainstream classes difficult (for their various reasons) I hoped I hadn’t been too ambitious in expecting them to memorise a whole carol, let alone perform it in front of a church congregation. And without – in some cases, anyway – resorting to any silliness or bad behaviour.
But I remained confident. I’d taken my cue from the special needs department, who every year put on an impressive assembly, in which awards were given out for various special needs pupils, and the rest of the school were also entertained.
This would be on a much smaller scale, obviously, but it would also be a good way to test the water, and, who knew? If it went well, maybe we could expand on it. A
fter all, the children we looked after shared one big disadvantage – the very fact of them being sent to me already made them feel they’d failed in some way. It didn’t matter why they’d come to me – whether they were the bullies, the chronically shy, the challenging or the challenged – they all shared that sense of being out of the mainstream which, in itself, made a dent in their self-esteem.
And this was one way to give them some back.
‘If they don’t clam up completely in fright,’ Kelly observed as our little crocodile finished the ten-minute walk from school to church a couple of hours later. No, it wasn’t Westminster Cathedral exactly, but it wasn’t a tiny chapel either and, more importantly, it was already filling up. This was one of the few days in the year when they could be sure of being packed to the rafters. Judging by the number of people we could see filing in – young mums, various relatives, a large percentage of the local elderly population – there didn’t look like being an empty pew anywhere.
‘They’ll be fine,’ I said, as we ushered the children round to the church hall behind, where the main school choir had already assembled. ‘You’ll be fine, kids,’ I repeated. ‘Remember what I said. What are you going to do?’
‘We’re going to steal the show, Miss!’ came Gavin’s excited response, drowning out pretty much everyone else.
‘Well, as long as he doesn’t take that too literally,’ Kelly whispered. ‘Did you bring his lunchtime pill by the way?’
I grinned, and was just patting my handbag reassuringly when Shona came over. She’d been spending more time with her old class over the past few days, in readiness for her return, and was also in the school choir already, but I’d seconded her as my own unofficial choirmaster as I knew her presence would help Imogen with her nerves.
Though there wasn’t much to be done about mine …
‘Caught you crying,’ Kelly ribbed me, waving her camera in my face as we made our way back out to the church hall. I was buzzing – not to mention still slightly in shock that it had all gone so incredibly well.
‘Oi!’ I said. ‘You were supposed to be filming the performance, not panning round the audience getting pap shots of unsuspecting wailing women!’
‘Couldn’t resist,’ she said. ‘And I can always edit you out – at a price, obviously. Seriously, though – how about our Imogen, then?’
I nodded and began rootling in my handbag for a tissue.
‘That was what set me off. I just couldn’t help thinking what a lovely picture it made. You know? Imogen belting out Oh, Morning Stars, to-ge-e-e-ether – gawd, did she go for it, or what? And in front of an audience, too, don’t forget. Amazing. Specially when you think that only three months ago she couldn’t say a single word. Ah,’ I said, ‘speak of the devil. There’s the Hinchcliffes. I’ll just nip over and remind them about the party. Back in two ticks.’
The church hall had filled up fast now the service was over and by the time I’d crossed it, threading my way through the scores of chattering pupils and parents, saying hellos and well dones here and there, Mrs Hinchcliffe was deep in conversation with Henry’s mum, and Mr Hinchcliffe seemed to be chatting with Imogen and – somewhat unexpectedly – with Henry.
Mr Hinchcliffe, who was facing me, nodded a hello. I tapped Henry, who had his back to me, on the shoulder. ‘Chop, chop,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t you two be heading back to line up with Miss Vickers?’ I asked him and Imogen. ‘We’ve got a party to get organised, after all.’
‘We are, Miss,’ he said. ‘We’re going now, aren’t we, Im? We’re just sorting out tea first, Miss.’
‘Tea?’ I looked from one to the other.
Mr Hinchcliffe nodded. ‘Henry’s coming round this weekend, aren’t you, lad?’
Henry nodded happily.
‘Is that right?’ I said, intrigued by this development. ‘That’s nice.’
‘And we’ve been making a sledge, Miss, haven’t we, Imogen? With Imogen’s grandad.’
‘Are you now?’ I said.
Imogen shook her head. ‘No, he’s helping grandad make the sledge, Miss. I just do the watching.’
‘And you’re on tea duty, remember,’ her grandfather was quick to point out. ‘Anyway, chop, chop, like Mrs Watson says,’ he said, running a hand over the top of Imogen’s head. ‘We’ll see you in school in a bit, love, okay?’
‘So Saturday’s all right, is it?’ Henry wanted to know.
‘Yes, Henry. Saturday’s fine. Any time after lunch.’
I watched them skip across the church hall to join the others, then turned back to Mr Hinchcliffe. ‘Didn’t she do well?’
‘That she did,’ he said. ‘More than well, actually. Had her nan filling up, she did. She’s a good girl …’
‘She’s certainly that, Mr Hinchcliffe,’ I agreed. ‘We’re all so proud of her. She’s come on so well, hasn’t she? Even better than we expected, especially when you think what she’s been through … still, we can put that all behind us now, can’t we? And you’re making a sledge for her, are you? Lucky girl.’
Mr Hinchcliffe smiled and nodded over towards the children. ‘Me and my little helper,’ he said, nodding. ‘He’s a nice lad, that Henry. Good with his hands, too. Keen to learn.’
I agreed that he was – well, at least some of the time anyway. He tended not to be quite so keen when it came to doing sums rather than sledges. And as I did so I could see that Mr Hinchcliffe had something of a twinkle in his eye. It seemed it wasn’t only Imogen, perhaps, who’d found herself a friend. ‘We just need some snow now so they can use the flipping thing,’ he finished. Then he chuckled, tipping his head back before shaking it bemusedly. ‘You know, I can’t believe I just said that,’ he said.
‘Am I missing something there?’ I asked Kelly now. As parties went, it was hardly the hot ticket of the century, but it was surprising – or rather, it wasn’t at all surprising – how much mess could be made by a dozen over-excited pre-pubescents in a confined space. They’d done a respectable job of clearing up and Mrs Hinchcliffe had been like a human dynamo helping out, but there was something about that age group that defied logic. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be cake crumbs lurking behind desk and chair legs, bits of streamer (every year I said it: I must stop doing streamers) and various shreds and shards of brightly coloured foil, glinting accusingly wherever my glance came to rest. ‘Jeez,’ I said, climbing on a chair to retrieve a chocolate mini-roll wrapper that had somehow ended up stuck to the top edge of my map of the world. ‘How did this make it to Alaska unnoticed?’
‘There are forces at work here that defy human logic,’ Kelly said sagely, as she made under-furniture forays with the ‘bumper’ broom – so named by the kids because it was too wide to be useful in a classroom situation, really, bumping into legs (animal and mineral) everywhere it went. ‘Anyway, you were saying? What sort of something?’
‘With Imogen and Henry,’ I said. ‘Mr Hinchcliffe was telling me earlier that he was going there for tea on Saturday and that he’s been before. Seems an unlikely sort of pairing.’
‘Oh, it’s not, actually,’ Kelly said. ‘I was talking to his mum earlier on about it. It seems Imogen’s grandparents only live a couple of streets away from where Henry does. She tells me they’ve taken to walking to school and back together.’
‘Oh my God! Of course! That definitely all makes sense. It must have been Henry, then. Not Ben!’
‘Henry what?’
‘Henry who wrote “I fancy Imogen” on his secret note. Remember when I got them to do secrets in the hope of coaxing Imogen to share one? Well, that was one of them – and I just assumed it must be Ben. I mean, Henry? You’d never know it from they way they are in here, would you?’
Kelly grinned. ‘You kidding? Can you imagine the stick Henry would get off the other boys?’
‘Fair point, O wise one. Ah, but that’s nice. Nice to know.’
‘Nice for Henry, particularly,’ Kelly agreed. ‘I think Grandad’s taken quite a shine to him. Di
d he tell you about the sledge?’
‘Yes, he did. Bless him. That’s so kind of him. You know, I got him all wrong when we first met, I think.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you did. I think he’s just had a bit of an education himself. He reminds me of my grandad, actually. The sort of man who’s never happier than when he’s tucked away doing man-things – playing with tools and whittling wood, and smelling of Swarfega.’
I remembered the wood, then. The armful he’d brought home when I’d been round there a couple of weeks back. A proper man’s man. The sort of man a boy like Henry could learn a lot from. Bless, I thought again. How very nice.
‘You know what?’ I said, plucking a length of streamer from a push-pin that was skewering Switzerland. ‘I feel very Christmassy all of a sudden. Any mince pies left?’
‘Pies?’ Kelly snorted, shaking her head. ‘Wrong p. There’s only one p I’m interested in tonight. Same as Gary, and Jim, and Julia, and possibly even Don. P for pub.’
Chapter 22
I knew I must have overslept when I opened my eyes and saw a slice of light shining whitely through the centre of the curtains and tracking its way across the floor and up onto the bed.
Either that or it had snowed in the night. Might it have? Now that would really be the icing on the cake. But there was none forecast – not yet anyway – even though there were some encouraging Met Office rumblings. And in the meantime there were things to do, people to see, places to go. Christmas wasn’t going to organise itself, after all. And I had just three days left to ‘elf’ it into being.
I turned to check the time on my alarm clock, to find that it was already gone nine. Scandalously late for a lark like me, but, actually, who cared? Riley must have decided to let me lie in because I’d definitely not heard her. In full-on Riley-off-to-work mode she could wake the dead. Mind you, I’d gone to sleep late – I’d been awake well into the wee hours, reading. The book was still where I’d dropped it, in fact, forming a little tent on the bedroom floor. I reached down for it and placed it on my bedside table, smiling as I headed to the shower.
