Читать книгу The Girl Without a Voice: The true story of a terrified child whose silence spoke volumes - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 9

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, were a timely distraction for the still pumped-up Gavin, so thankfully he did do as he was told. Which was a relief. When he was hyper like this it could sometimes take a good half-hour or more before he calmed down enough to be able to concentrate on anything. Which was bad for everyone else, of course, because his antics were so distracting.

What I had planned for this afternoon, however, might just distract him – and the others, too – in a more constructive way. Having chatted to Kelly, I’d decided to prepare the ground a little in readiness for Imogen’s arrival. I’d therefore changed my scheduled task – which we could do instead once she joined us – for an activity that would celebrate difference.

I had already arranged the tables so they could all sit together, and once my coffee was made, and the tales of ‘near death by the tennis courts’ were out of the boys’ systems, I called the children together and sat them down to explain the task.

‘It’s like art, isn’t it, Miss?’ Molly said. She was clearly proud to be the conveyor of a bit of inside information, bless her, though as soon as all eyes were on her she immediately blushed.

‘It is, love,’ I confirmed. ‘But first I want you all to do some thinking. I want you to think about what it is that makes you different from everyone else.’ I stopped then and dragged my old flip chart closer to the table, folding back the pages to reveal a blank one. I then took my marker pen. ‘Here, see,’ I said, as I began writing words on it. ‘Here are some things that make me me. “Black hair”,’ I said, pointing. ‘“Small”,’ I added, writing it. ‘“Loud” …’

This, predictably, got me a couple of snorts and giggles. ‘All these things,’ I went on, ‘make me different from, say, Molly, who is nice and quiet – when she knows she should be – and has fair hair. Whereas Henry –’ he straightened – ‘Henry has something in common with me. Can you think what that might be?’ I only waited a second before supplying the answer for them: ‘He’s also loud.’

More giggles, and I could see they had begun to work out what I was after. ‘So what I’m going to do,’ I said, ‘is tear off a big sheet of paper for each of you, and you can put things on it that show all your differences. You can use the catalogues and scrap drawers if you want to cut things out and stick them on to brighten things up, but make sure you put your name across the top so we can tell who we’re talking about when we pin them all up.

‘After that,’ I went on, ‘we’ll think of some really famous people, and how they’re different, and some people who might have some kind of disability, and together we’ll do some “difference” charts for them too. And that’s because this week we’re going to celebrate difference in a big way, and what’s more –’ I paused – ‘I have a prize going begging. And it’s going to the person who, by the end of the week, can show the best understanding of it, okay?’

As with any activity that involved cutting, sticking, mess-making and the possibility of a reward at the end of it, my young charges were immediately engaged. They were quick to set about gathering the materials they wanted to use for their creations and by the time I’d worked out the best area of wall to clear for the resultant works of art the room was buzzing with an air of productivity. It also gave me the chance to speak to them one-to-one, as I did every day, as well as their scheduled weekly half-hour life-space interviews. The few minutes in my corner were designed to give them a chance to let me know if there was anything that was troubling them, but today would also provide the perfect opportunity to prepare them individually for the arrival in the morning of our singular new pupil.

The children responded to news of Imogen pretty much as I’d expected. Molly, Shona and Ben all accepted her mutism without question, while Gavin and Henry were instantly curious.

‘Why can’t she speak?’ Henry wanted to know. ‘What happened to her voice? Did she get stabbed in the throat, Miss?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Of course not, silly,’ I told him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her throat. It’s just that she can’t speak.’

‘So she must be a baby, then. Either that or a dummy,’ he added disdainfully.

I skewered him on the end of one of my disapproving looks. ‘Henry, what have we been talking about since you came back from lunch? Difference. All the things that make everyone different from everyone else. Your lovely strawberry blond hair, for example. Ben and Gavin don’t have that, do they? And I bet they think your hair is far more interesting than theirs.’

‘No they don’t,’ he huffed. ‘They call me microphone head, Miss. Well, not no more, actually, ’cos I beat them to a pulp.’

I shook my head at the very young teenager sitting before me. The thing you couldn’t miss about Henry travelled everywhere with him – that huge chip that was weighing down his shoulder, as the result of being at the bottom of such a big pile of brothers, and lacking any sort of father figure in his life. That and his hand-me-downs and general struggle to make his voice count at home sometimes made for a very angry young man.

I knew I was last-chance saloon where Henry was concerned. If he didn’t change his fighting ways, he’d be permanently excluded, and I felt sorry for him. I had a bit of a soft spot for him too.

I looked at him now. ‘Henry,’ I chided, ‘I know you didn’t beat those boys up, just like I know that, being the oldest here, you’re going to step up to the plate. You’re going to help me, aren’t you? Help make sure that Imogen doesn’t get a hard time? Point out to the younger ones that she’s just a little different – can you do that? I can count on you to do that for me, can’t I?’

I watched Henry digest this and break into a grin. ‘I can be like your terminator, Miss, can’t I? If the others pick on her I can zap them with my bionic arm, can’t I? They’d soon stop saying stuff then, wouldn’t they?’

I laughed. ‘Er, I don’t think I want you to be doing any zapping. But it would be a great help if you could just watch over her for a few days – you know, when I’ve got my back turned and stuff.’

This seemed to make him happy, because as he walked back to the group, his shoulders high, he announced that, as the oldest, he was officially looking out for the new girl. ‘So no funny business,’ he said, before turning back to me. Upon which he winked. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.

Gavin’s take on the apparent oddity was more practical. After a barrage of questions – Why couldn’t she talk? Had she got ADHD? Was she ‘on meds’? – he had the solution. ‘You should give her some Ritalin,’ he observed. ‘That’ll sort her out.’

One of my rules, given that I tended to spend my days with challenging children, was that easier-said-than-done-thing at the end of the working day of making a determined effort to take off my ‘miss’ hat and put on my ‘mum’ one.

I always smiled to myself at school when the kids themselves found it difficult; when – at least at the beginning of the day, anyway – they would accidentally call me Mum instead of Miss. They’d always blush then, often furiously, but I took it as a compliment. I’d never wanted to be the sort of teacher who kept such a distance from their charges that it was a mistake that no child would ever make. Quite the contrary – I took these slips as evidence I was working in the right job; that I was someone they felt comfortable around. That was important – if they were comfortable enough to forget themselves around me then I would be in so much better a position to support them. Which could make the difference, in some cases, between returning to mainstream classes, back among peers, learning, and travelling even further down the road to isolation.

And I also knew that my drive to help them was partly as a consequence of seeing first hand how much that mattered, through helping Kieron with the many challenges of growing up with Asperger’s.

Which he was still doing, as I observed when, letting myself into the house and slipping off my coat and shoes, it was to find him slumped on the sofa in front of the telly, as was currently his habit.

He was waiting, I knew. Waiting for me to come in and give him his tea, before Mike and Riley both got home from work. I went into the kitchen and pulled out a plate and some cutlery.

‘Honestly,’ I called to him as I dished out some casserole from the slow cooker, ‘why you can’t wait till the others get home is beyond me, Kieron. And if you can’t wait, you could at least get off the sofa and help yourself to something.’

He looked across and gave me one of his pained looks as he turned down the TV volume. ‘Oh, Mum,’ he moaned. ‘Don’t get on at me. I’m stressed out enough as it is!’

‘And what exactly have you got to be stressed about?’ I asked him as I took the bowl of steaming casserole through to the dining-room table. I had strict rules about the eating of meals and where it was allowed to happen, even if I was generally a little on the soft side when it came to my son. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Come through here and eat this before it gets cold. So, tell me,’ I added as I set it down, and glancing at the evidence of a day spent mostly watching telly rather than career planning, ‘have you thought any more about what you’re going to do?’

Kieron scraped back a dining chair and plonked himself down wearily. ‘Oh God, Mum,’ he stropped. ‘Five minutes you’ve been in and already you’re getting on at me!’

I ruffled his hair and pulled a chair out. My cup of coffee could probably wait. ‘Sorry, love,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to get on at you. I want to help you. Dad and I were only saying this morning, perhaps we could sit down with you this evening – you know – go through some options with you maybe? It’s no good for you, this – sitting around on your own all day, moping. You’ll just get fed up, and you know what you’re like – next thing, you’ll end up getting in a state.’

He shovelled in a couple of mouthfuls before replying. He could eat for Britain could Kieron. ‘I’m not in a state, Mum – I’m just bored. And I don’t mean to snap. It’s just that Jack and James and Si – they’ve got stuff going on, haven’t they? Jack’s got his new job, the others are at college …’ He trailed off, and downed another mouthful. ‘And it’s like … well, it’s like it’s all right for them because they know what they’re doing – and they know because they can all do stuff. But I can’t. I don’t think I can do anything that real grown-ups do. I’m crap at all that.’

‘Nonsense!’ I said firmly. It was a familiar refrain lately. As soon as he thought about the change inherent in making such big decisions, he took the safer route – putting it off for another day. ‘Kieron,’ I told him, ‘you are not “crap”, and of course you can do things.’

He could, too. Though his GCSE results had disappointed him, being mostly Ds, it wasn’t as straightforward as it might have been. He’d struggled with dyslexia since primary school and his diagnosis of Asperger’s had only come in the last two years, meaning valuable time and support that could have helped him achieve higher grades hadn’t been available to him till much later in his school life. That he was capable of more wasn’t in doubt – the teachers had all said so. I reiterated that fact again now. ‘You can do anything you set your mind to,’ I told him. ‘You just have to decide what it is you want to do, that’s all. And that’s what you have to put your mind to – deciding – not avoiding. Which is why you and Dad and I need to sit down and have a proper talk. Anyway, right now I’m off upstairs to change and have a shower before they’re back. And make sure you put that plate back when you’re done, okay? Okay?’

‘Um, oh, yeah. Will do,’ he said, having, in typical teenage boy fashion, already tuned me out in favour of the bit of programme he could still see through the glass doors between the table and the telly.

Honestly, I thought to myself as I headed up the stairs, if anyone had told me when they were little that I’d be worrying about my kids so much at this age, I’d have thought they were mad. But of course, I’d been wrong – older didn’t necessarily mean less difficult to parent. It was just that you did your worrying on a different level.

But at least Kieron could communicate his worries – well, up to a point and after a fashion anyway. I thought back to the anxious-looking little girl who’d be joining my class the following morning. How could she be helped in her troubles – and she clearly had some troubles on her shoulder – if she couldn’t communicate anything to anyone?