Читать книгу Triumph Over Adversity 3-in-1 Collection - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 19

The progress continued into the following week. Which was incredibly satisfying; there was nothing quite like learning something, putting it into practice and actually seeing it working before your eyes, and that was exactly what was happening with Imogen. I continued putting her on the spot, just as I’d been doing the previous week, and, as if by magic, it invariably produced speech. It was as if she was locked in a battle between being the object of scrutiny and getting words out of her mouth and, in the controlled setting we’d chosen, at least, fear of being on the spot was winning out every time.

Better still, Kelly had rearranged much of her timetable so that I could start working on the stimulus withdrawal theory, and this was also working a treat. You could see the anxiety on Imogen’s face when asked to speak when Kelly was present also, but I stuck to my guns.

We’d started with small steps: first a question that required only a yes or no response, and at the start of the week I’d allowed her just to nod or shake her head. And as the week progressed, we progressed too. So much so that, by Thursday, I had a plan to take a further step, and try and coax more than one-word answers out of her.

We were doing art, as part of our ongoing quest to encourage self-expression, and today’s task was to paint pictures, using only one paint colour, with the colour representing a certain mood. The key thing was for the children, having painted their pictures, to discuss the colour they’d used, what emotion it represented and why they’d chosen it.

I started with Molly, who’d chosen ‘sad’. She’d painted a picture using blue paint of a little boy crying. I then moved on to Henry, who’d chosen to do a pirate ship, using black, which he explained was about feeling in a bad mood.

So by the time I got to Imogen, who had painted a picture of a log fire in red, she had an idea of what I expected her to tell me, i.e. something more substantial than a simple yes or a no.

‘This is great, Imogen,’ I said, clipping her picture up on my big easel. ‘And I think I can guess what sort of mood it is you’ve painted, but, for the rest of the class, can you tell us what it is?’

She lifted her head. ‘Angry,’ she said quietly.

‘Thought so,’ I said, smiling. ‘And why do you think red shows anger? Is it because when we get into a rage we get all hot and bothered and our blood feels like it’s boiling? Or is it perhaps because when people get angry they often say they’re “seeing red”? What do you think?’

There was a pause, but, having given her something to work with now, I waited, and, sure enough, out came three words. ‘It’s both, Miss.’

She then put her head down, blushing furiously.

I smiled at Kelly. This was going well. This wasn’t just supplying a nothing word – this was actively taking part in the lesson. Which meant I could now implement the next part of the strategy, which was to leave the classroom and let Kelly take the rest of the lesson, confident – well, optimistic – that while I was absent she would find the wherewithal to speak to Kelly.

‘Baby steps,’ I told her, as I grabbed my bag from beneath my desk and prepared to leave them to it. ‘But huge leaps, all the same. This will be a red-letter day, if it happens.’

‘Oh the pressure,’ Kelly replied. ‘I shall feel such a failure if I don’t get her to speak to me now!’

But, of course, she did. When I returned to the unit, just before lunchtime, having made the most of my half-hour break by sneaking in a coffee and a biscuit, I could tell from Kelly’s expression that she had.

They’d been tasked with the business of committing the descriptions of their paintings into a written record in their workbooks and Kelly had been going round from child to child as they did so, reading and checking their work. ‘And as I walked round to the girls’ table, I took a look and said, “Good work, Imogen,” and quick as you like she said thank you! I was – to use your word – totally gobsmacked!’

‘That’s fabulous,’ I said, as I headed towards the kettle so we could grab a coffee as soon as the bell went. ‘At this rate we’ll have her chatting to all and sundry by Christmas. And you never know – maybe we’ll even get her singing carols!’

‘Steady on,’ cautioned Kelly. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’ But I knew she felt as optimistic as I did. I was already looking forward to the afternoon.

Before that, however, it seemed there would be another development – one that would pull me back to the important fact that it wasn’t so much the business of Imogen speaking (vital thought that was) as the business of what she’d have to tell us when she did find her voice.

The boys bundled out, as per usual, within seconds of the lunchtime buzzer and, also as usual, the girls moved at a more leisurely pace. Shona was by nature a calm, organised and methodical girl and, taking her lead – as she had done since they’d both been thrown together – Molly was doing as she did now: organising her backpack with what she’d need for the next hour. Imogen, however, hadn’t moved yet. We watched Shona approach her and speak to her, presumably to hurry her along, but when Imogen produced a small plastic lunchbox I realised she wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere.

This was a first. I went over to the girls’ table.

‘Are you not coming with us?’ Molly asked her now, glancing worriedly in my direction. I could almost see her mind working, too, bless her. Trying to work out if she’d done something to offend her. Imogen herself didn’t come up with a reply.

‘It’s fine, girls,’ I said, sensing Imogen wanted me to step in. ‘Brought a packed lunch in today, then?’ I said to Imogen. ‘Shall Molly and Shona go ahead, then? It’s fine for you to take it to the dining hall, if you want to, but if you want to stay and have it here, that’s fine too today. Because I’m going to have my lunch in here today as well.’

This was clearly the answer she was after. Perhaps this lunchbox development would become the norm now – it would at least give her breathing space from the pressure of having to communicate in her lunch break as well as in class. ‘I’ll eat here, then,’ she answered, confirming what I’d anticipated. Then she bowed her head as per usual and peeled the lid from the box.

‘Thanks, girls,’ I said to the other two. ‘You’d better hurry off now, or you’ll end up spending half the lunch hour in the queue.’

They did so, and, as Imogen had now pulled out her reading book, I headed back to where Kelly was, at the desk.

‘Got your sandwiches, then?’ she asked, grinning at me as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

‘I wish,’ I said. ‘But you know what it’s like. You just can’t get the staff.’

I was always full of good intentions on the ‘bring a sandwich in and save money’ front, me, but they never got further than exactly that – intentions. ‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘Any chance you could grab me something from the vending machine while you’re around and about? And I tell you what,’ I added softly, as a thought suddenly struck me, ‘take your time. Because it occurs to me there might be a reason why Imogen wants to stay put in here today, mightn’t there?’

And, as it turned out, there was.

I made myself a coffee and, as Imogen sat nibbling her sandwich, nose in book, I pondered this development and what it meant. Imogen had always gone to lunch with Shona and Molly. That had been a constant. Every single day. So this business of bringing in a sandwich – what did it mean? Assuming it did mean anything more than just school-meals refusal, then it would be something she had planned in advance. Of course, it could just be that her nan was on a money saving/healthy eating/change of routine kick, but were that the case then I was fairly sure Imogen already knew that she could take her packed lunch and eat it in the hall.

No, there was a reason behind this. The question was – what should I do? Should I get on with some work, drink my coffee, sit it out till she told me? Or go across to her and ask her if something was bothering her?

The latter, I decided. After all, she had already taken the most difficult step, hadn’t she? No, the next step had to come from me.

Those words she had first spoken to me still weighed on my mind. ‘I thought she was going to …’ What? Come back home to me? Take me with her? Stay in touch? Because I was sure that the ‘she’ in question must be her absent mother and I was equally sure that this woman – whoever she was – was responsible for Imogen’s current trauma. And that was hardly surprising, was it? After all, by all accounts she’d already been the target for bullies, in the way redheads like her – unbelievably, and so cruelly – were. When, exactly, was that ever going to stop? But, on top of that, for her mother to just up and leave like she did, well, I had little doubt that that would be the straw that had broken the camel’s back. How would a child manage to assimilate and cope with such rejection? How could they? This was her mother and she’d just disappeared. No wonder the poor kid was so damaged.

But I was about to find out I was wrong. I went to the biscuit tin by the kettle and fished out a couple of biscuits to eat with my coffee. They were probably stale, as I hadn’t stocked up in a while, but they’d keep me going till Kelly returned. They’d also make it look less like I was going over to conduct an interrogation and more like we were being companionable over lunch.

I then went over, sat down at the other side of the table, took a bite out of one of the soggy biscuits, then said, ‘Mmm, just what I needed. You okay, sweetie?’

The effect was instantaneous. Imogen carefully replaced the uneaten half of her sandwich in her lunchbox, then said, ‘No, not really, Miss.’

Just like that. I was stunned. And her big eyes were still on me.

‘I understand, love,’ I started. ‘And I kind of guessed that today. That picture you painted this morning … All red and angry … Is it your mum?’ I added gently.

She looked confused. And hadn’t spoken. Was she going to shut down again?

‘Your painting?’ I tried again. ‘Was that about your mum leaving? I’m sure I’d feel angry too … You said it represented anger, remember?’

But she was now shaking her head. ‘Yes. I mean, no. I mean it’s not about my mum.’

‘It’s not?’

‘No. I always kind of knew she would leave.’

Now it was my turn to be confused. Had I got this whole thing completely wrong? ‘So that’s not what’s upsetting you? Your mum and dad splitting up?’

She shook her head again. And now her face began crumpling, her features falling in on themselves.

‘Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry,’ I said, getting up and going round to where Shona usually sat, next to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, sitting beside her. ‘I didn’t want to upset you. I just thought that it must be your mum leaving that started this all off. And if it’s not … sweetie, you must tell me. If you tell me I might be able to help you.’

‘That’s just it!’ she said, her voice stronger than at any time since she’d come to us. ‘You can’t help me, Miss. No one can!’ She was properly sobbing now so I put an arm round her and pulled her in close. ‘It’s her!’ she said. ‘Gerri! She hates me! And I hate her too! And my dad is so stupid!’ she gulped. ‘He thinks the sun shines out of her backside but she’s a horrible witch!’

I digested all this while I held her. It was an incredible amount to have said and I could tell she’d meant every word of it. So the grandmother was right on that score, at least. Her granddaughter did hate her step-mum. Which was natural in itself. Almost mandatory, sometimes. For taking her dad away? For pushing her out? For merely existing?’

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘You know, I can tell just how much you’re hurting. And I know how hard it must be for you, all of it. First your mum leaving and then your dad meeting someone new – aren’t adults a pain, eh? And I know how difficult it can be to adjust to all that new stuff. All the changes. Having to get used to this stranger being in your life – specially if you don’t agree with dad’s choices … but, you know what? Nothing’s changed between you and your dad – I know that. You will always be his little girl, and he will always love you, and what you have to do is …’

‘NO!’ The word was shouted, and as Imogen uttered it she pushed me away. ‘No!’ she repeated, sobbing. ‘You’re just as bad as my nan and grandad! Nobody ever listens to me! What’s the point of talking to anyone if nobody ever listens to me!’

It was a shocking and sudden outburst and it seemed she’d done with me. Turning her body away from me she immediately snatched up her book and started pretending to read it. I could tell she wasn’t really doing so because her eyes were still so full of tears. But, even so, I had clearly been dismissed.

But the only response was to soldier right on. ‘I am so sorry, love,’ I tried, speaking mainly to her curtain of hair, ‘but if you don’t tell me what is wrong, how can I possibly understand? If I have it all wrong then you have to put me right. And I will listen, Imogen. Honestly, I will.’

But that, it seemed, was that. I was persona non gratis. She seemed determined to completely ignore me. Blank expression, head down, ‘don’t come near me’ demeanour. An impenetrable shield, but shielding what?

I went back to my desk, taking my remaining one and a half soggy biscuits with me, and praying I hadn’t completely blown it. That we weren’t back to square one as far as speaking was concerned. And I had a good 20 minutes in which to ponder what to do about it, before Kelly breezed back in, bearing a ‘Well?’ kind of expression, a tuna mayo sandwich and a chocolate bar.

‘Greetings!’ she announced to the classroom in general. ‘I bring a gift from the dinner-lady gods!’

Imogen didn’t even lift her head. Not a millimetre.