Читать книгу Triumph Over Adversity 3-in-1 Collection - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 20

The next couple of days were strained, to say the least. Though Imogen continued to make progress with her mutism in class – answering direct questions from both me and Kelly, and interacting with the rest of the kids to the extent that she’d been doing before, it was as if a light had gone out behind her eyes. Gone were the accompanying smiles I’d begun to enjoy when she spoke to me; now she just looked sullen and slightly hostile and also tired. Defeated, even – as if every day was just something to be got through. And I felt awful, as if it had all been my fault.

I knew that wasn’t the full picture and that I should stop beating myself up about it – this was a complicated problem with an as yet undiscovered root. That I hadn’t managed to unlock Imogen’s one unsolicited utterance – I thought she was going to … – was hardly for want of trying, after all. And though she’d been quick to ‘punish’ me for apparently barking up the wrong tree (something I still wasn’t entirely convinced about) I felt even more determined to get to the bottom of whatever was making life so unbearable for this troubled, unhappy girl.

But for all my good intentions, it was difficult to know what best to do next, underlining once again just how hard it was to make progress with the root problem when the symptoms it had caused were such a barrier – no, the ultimate barrier – to communication: she couldn’t tell us! And I couldn’t speak to Gary about it, either. He was away working in one of our feeder schools this week, doing training in child-protection issues.

I’d written up my report, and handed copies to both learning support and Don, the deputy head, but these people were always busy, and had scores of problems requiring their attention at any given time, so I wasn’t optimistic that I’d get anything in the way of feedback for at least the next few days. No, I’d just have to hang on, keep the lines of communication open with Imogen, and bend Gary’s ears about it once he was back in the following Monday.

But I hadn’t factored in Kieron, who gave me a fresh perspective on the problem – one I really should have worked out for myself. It was on the Friday evening, and bar Riley, who was at the cinema with her boyfriend David, we were all sitting down to supper, and I was summing up the frustrations of my week to Mike.

I suspected he wished he’d never asked, but I ploughed on in any case. It was in the marriage vows, wasn’t it? Listening to your wife blathering on when she’s had a hard time at work? ‘So, of course, it feels like it’s all my fault,’ I was saying, ‘that we’re back to square one. And I’m really not sure what’s the best next step to take.’

‘How can it be your fault, Mum?’ Kieron wanted to know. ‘She hasn’t spoken for months, has she? And now she has. So, actually, that’s progress, isn’t it? Because you’ve done what you set out to do, haven’t you?’

‘Ah, would that it were that simple, son,’ Mike said, with the sort of grin that indicated that I was about to have the mickey taken out of me. ‘See, our little Ms Watson here – no relation to Dr Watson, admittedly, and definitely not to Sherlock Holmes – won’t be happy with simply, and single-handedly, completing the job in hand and pausing to give herself a small pat on the back. No, no,’ he continued, adopting the sort of portentous voice that put me in mind of the man who did the voiceover for Hergé’s Adventures of Tintin, ‘above and beyond the call of duty! No task too big! No mystery too mysterious! Swoops in on her wings of –’

‘Oh, shut UP, Mike!’ I said, affecting my snappiest voice, while trying to cuff Kieron round the head for joining in and giggling. ‘Eat your bloody meatballs, the pair of you, and be careful not to choke!’

‘Oh, Mum, Dad is funny, though – you’ve got to give him that much.’

‘Not that funny,’ I pointed out, even though it had made me smile. I probably needed to take a step back and stop being so intense about it. I couldn’t fix everything in a week – I wasn’t God, for goodness’ sake. And it was the weekend. I should probably lighten up.

‘Seriously, though,’ Kieron continued, the bit obviously between his teeth now. ‘If you think the problem with this girl is all about wife number one, why don’t you go and ask wife number two? After all, according to Dad there’s nothing most women love more than telling tales on other women.’

‘I never said that! Well, not exactly, anyway,’ Mike said, as I glared at him.

‘Actually, Kieron,’ I said, ‘that’s not a half bad idea. She probably could share some light on things, couldn’t she? And would probably be happy to, since Imogen’s apparently given her so much grief. And I’ve only spoken to the grandparents so far … no, you’re right. It would be a good idea to widen the net a bit, wouldn’t it?’

Kieron guffawed. ‘Widen the net? Mum, you’re priceless!’

I shooed the pair of them away into the living room as soon as supper was done with and, as it had been Kieron who’d been on lay-the-table-and-dish-up duty, set about the clearing away and washing up. Strictly speaking, this was supposed to be Riley’s job this evening, but as they’d gone to an earlyish screening – she’d had her food before us – she had left with the traditional Riley pronouncement to ‘Just leave it all and I’ll sort it once I’m back.’

She knew full well, of course, that I could no more do this than fly, on account of my ‘thing’, to use the technical term, about mess and disorder. I’d never been any different, and doubted that I ever would, either – and it sometimes struck me that perhaps I was the root cause of several of Kieron’s funny little ways. He too, hated disorder, which was probably connected to his Asperger’s, but might also be in part his genetic inheritance. Either way, he’d always been a child who looked after his belongings and woe betide anyone who disturbed any of his carefully arranged books or toys. Indeed, Riley soon learned the art of targeted teasing, and would play pranks on him for no more important reason than it allowed her to watch him go slightly mad for a while. (Which, thinking about it, was a perfectly valid reason, because that was what being siblings was sometimes all about.)

Despite some of his odd ways, though, Kieron was a simple child in many ways, tending to see things in black and white. He still did and, of course, that was what he’d done now. Where I’d wrestle with a problem for several days, he could on occasion nail the logic before anyone else did. And he was right. I had succeeded in getting Imogen to speak, which was progress, and this wobble was really just a step on the journey. And of course I should see if I could speak to the second Mrs Hinchcliffe, I thought, as I put the dishes away. I should perhaps have tried to do that from the off.

‘Excellent progress!’ Gary said, when I went to see him on the Monday morning, straight after registration, leaving Kelly to hold the fort. ‘Seriously,’ he added, ‘I don’t know how much you’ve read around the whole trauma-based type of selective mutism, but after I did I was seriously concerned that we’d fail to get anywhere, because once it becomes entrenched as a coping mechanism it can apparently get progressively worse. So, yes, this is great news. Well done.’

I had read that and had chosen not to dwell on it. I said so. ‘And I’m still not sure I’d be that excited just yet,’ I added. ‘It feels more like one step forward, two steps back at the moment. And I’m still convinced there’s some deep-seated issue around the departure of her mother. Which is mostly why I’m here. I know they’re not her current guardians, but I was wondering if the head would sanction a visit to Imogen’s dad and step-mum – assuming they’ll talk to me, that is. After all, we still don’t have anything like a full picture of why she ended up with her nan and grandad in the first place. It’s all a bit vague, that, don’t you think?’

Gary nodded. ‘I can’t see any reason why he wouldn’t,’ he agreed. ‘Though perhaps it’s best if the approach comes from me. If they’re at all reluctant – and I’ve a hunch they might be, given that they’ve voluntarily relinquished care of his only daughter, however “challenging” she’s been – my role in school will give the request added weight.’

‘As it should,’ I agreed. ‘She’s clearly not thriving in the world at present, is she? What parent wouldn’t want to be supported by the school in trying to achieve that?’

‘Exactly,’ said Gary. ‘So leave it with me. I’m assuming one day straight after school would suit you best, yes?’

I told him it would and, after grabbing a quick cup of coffee, hurried back to the Unit. The kids were in good spirits, full of chatter about what they’d got up to on their weekends, and settling companionably to their work while I got the wall boards up to date with the work we’d completed on the Friday. All apart from Imogen, that was, who was still monosyllabic. I was clearly no longer flavour of the month.

There was good news, however, within a scant couple of hours, as it seemed Gary had had no problem getting hold of Gerri Hinchcliffe, Imogen’s nan being only too pleased to pass on her son and daughter-in-law’s number, in the hope that some progress could be made.

‘And if you’re free straight after school today,’ he added, ‘you’re apparently welcome to pop round there. Imogen’s dad won’t be there himself, but I figured you’d rather see her sooner rather than later, right? Otherwise, he’ll be back end of this week. Working away or something?’

I nodded. ‘He’s a coach driver. And you’re right,’ I said, Imogen’s stony face coming immediately to mind. ‘Sooner is definitely better than later. And, to be honest, it might be better seeing Gerri on her own, in any case. I think she’ll be much more likely to open up about how Imogen’s been with her – not to mention the whole business of the first wife running off – without him there to censor her at all, don’t you?’

‘I think you’re probably right. Though she did say she won’t have that long. Got to take a cat to a vet or something. But I assured her it was only a quick chat you were after. Anyway, Sherlock, report back tomorrow and let me know how you got on, okay?’

Tsk. Him as well now. I was beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t get myself a deerstalker and start smoking a pipe.

For all my enthusiasm for visiting Imogen’s dad and step-mum, however, by the time the bell went at the end of the day a few mild misgivings had begun to creep in. For one thing I felt a bit sneaky. Yes, it was perfectly acceptable for me – or any other member of staff, for that matter – to speak to parents and/or guardians of troubled pupils without consulting them, because you did what you needed to do to help the child. But in this case I had the sense that if I put Imogen in the picture I might just inflame things all over again. She’d called her step-mum a ‘witch’, after all, so I didn’t doubt she’d have her own view on my going to talk to her.

Which I could at least rationalise. Step-mums routinely got a bad press, both in fairy tales and in real life, and if you believed everything you heard from kids in the middle of acrimonious break-ups you’d think being a stepmother made you the devil incarnate, almost by default. Which didn’t seem to be borne out by the facts in this particular family – Imogen’s grandparents had made that very clear.

But my other misgiving was more niggling and less readily countered. What was my plan exactly? What was I going to ask her when I got there? There was a fine line between gentle probing to try and glean a fuller picture, and interfering – for want of a less pejorative term – in someone’s life. And perhaps the business of her predecessor leaving was the last thing she wanted to talk about. And wasn’t I making a bit of an unwarranted assumption about how much she actually even knew?

Oh well, I thought, climbing into my car and pulling my road atlas out. It was done now. I was expected. And I would learn something of value, surely? In for a penny and all that …

The younger Hinchcliffes lived in a small, terraced house on a newish estate about half an hour’s drive from the school. It had a neat but plain-looking front garden – square of grass, concrete path, nothing more – and there were businesslike vertical blinds at all the windows, half opened to let in light but maintain privacy.

The front door was opened by a slim, thirty-something-looking blonde woman, with pearl earrings, an expression of very mild agitation and, in her arms, an enormous white cat.

‘So nice to meet you, Mrs Watson,’ she enthused, nevertheless, indicating a door just behind her that I should go through. ‘Your colleague did tell you, though, didn’t he, that I’m on something of a tight schedule? I have to take Flynn here to the vets in half an hour.’

‘Yes, he did,’ I reassured her, as she followed me into a warm, woody sitting room. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘No, no, just a jab,’ she explained, nuzzling her face into the cat’s fluffy neck. It had long hair, and masses of it, too. ‘Flynn and Grace, there’ – she tilted her head towards another giant cat, curled up in front of a roaring coal fire – ‘they’re both show cats. Won all kinds of awards between them,’ she added proudly, ‘and of course we travel all over the country with them – well, I do mainly, as Graham’s so often tied up with work – and they do tend to pick up the odd sniffle, as you’d expect, as they’re constantly mixing with other cats. So you can’t be too careful.’

‘I imagine not,’ I agreed, sitting down on the sofa, following her invitation, while she perched on the edge of the armchair opposite. ‘And I suppose they’re more vulnerable, being pedigrees.’

‘Well, exactly,’ she said. ‘Weak immune systems, that’s the main thing we’re up against.’

To which I wanted to reply ‘All that in-breeding, I suppose’ but felt it perhaps wouldn’t go down too well. Because this was someone who took her cat shows quite seriously, was my analysis – which wasn’t even much of one, because it really didn’t need to be. There was evidence enough all around me. Most obviously, there was a display cabinet not three feet away, which was stuffed with photographs, rosettes and a variety of framed certificates as well as a selection of cups and trophies big and small. Moreover, everything my eyes rested upon gleamed as if regularly polished, as did the clutch of framed photos that were clustered on the shelf below, which at a glance seemed to be of their wedding.

‘So,’ said Mrs Hinchcliffe brightly, ‘how can I help you, Mrs Watson? I know there have been some ongoing difficulties with Im, from what your colleague was saying. So she’s still refusing to talk to anyone?’

I nodded. ‘Well, the odd word or two, but, no, sadly, we’ve not been able to make as much progress as we’d have liked.’

‘It’s such a shame,’ Mrs Hinchcliffe said, shaking her head, while still methodically stroking the cat on her lap. ‘We were all so hopeful that a change of school might do the trick …’ She sighed heavily. ‘So. Clearly not, then.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ I went on. ‘Because I thought you might be able to shed a little further light on the background. What we’re most keen to get to is the root to all this –’

‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘In which case, you’ve probably come to the wrong person. As I said to your colleague, I’m not sure what I can contribute to all this, because where discipline’s concerned Graham and I have decided I’m better off keeping my distance.’ She frowned. ‘A long story, but an all too familiar one, sadly. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, eh? I’m sure you’ve seen this sort of thing before.’

‘Well, yes, I have,’ I agreed, ‘but this isn’t really about discipline, Mrs Hinchcliffe. Imogen’s no trouble in school at all, it’s that –’

‘Oh, pur-lease call me Gerri,’ she said. ‘Mrs Hinchcliffe makes me feel so old!’

‘Sorry – Gerri, then, and, as I say, it’s not a discipline issue. Imogen’s never been less than well behaved. And it’s not that she hasn’t made some progress. It’s just that the specialist who’s been to see us to tell us more about selective mutism has told us that if we can establish some possible causes of Imogen’s difficulty, we will be much better placed to help her deal with it.’

‘Selective mutism – so it has a name then?’

‘Indeed it does.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ she answered, ‘though, of course, that does make sense. And I’m more than happy to help in any way I can, Mrs Watson. No doubt about it, that child has given me no end of problems, but I’m intelligent enough to know that it’s all down to her mother – she just can’t help but resent me, can she? Because I’m not her and will never be.’ She sighed. ‘So. What exactly can I help you with?’

The cat on her lap, Flynn, launched himself off it at that moment and she jumped up and began brushing hairs from her clothes. ‘Now that’s the only downside,’ she said, smiling down indulgently at the mewing animal. ‘What?’ she asked it, continuing to pick fluff from her (rather impractical, to my mind) black trousers. ‘What is it you want, Flynnie-boy?’

Since he wasn’t about to answer, I could only sit and suppress my urge to grin. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she then said, scooping the cat back into her arms again. ‘I haven’t even offered you a drink. What can I get you?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. Then, having thought about it, said, ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.’

‘Of course,’ she said brightly. ‘Won’t be a tick.’

I took advantage of her absence to take a closer look at the cabinet, which, close up, really was stuffed with prizes and plaudits. But I was altogether more interested in the wedding photos. I loved looking at people’s wedding photos, and these were no exception. And very exotic-looking wedding photos they were too. It had obviously taken place on a beach – somewhere with plenty of swaying palm trees – and both these and exotic flowering shrubs were very much in evidence, right down to the hibiscus blooms in the bride’s bouquet and hair. I was also struck by how readily I was able to identify Imogen’s father. He had the same red hair, though his was close cropped and lightly receding, and the same attractive wide-set blue eyes.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ Gerri said as she came back into the sitting room. ‘That one on the right there? That was Grace when she won best in breed at her last show. She’ll be going for a triple in a fortnight – quite the little supermodel!’

I took the proffered water, and this time didn’t feel quite the same urge to smile at her assumption that I’d been absorbed in the fêted cats. ‘Yes, they are,’ I agreed anyway. ‘You must be very proud. Anyway …’

‘Yes, yes,’ she agreed. ‘But, as with everything, there’s an element of luck in these shows. Mind you,’ she added, clearly on a subject that was close to her heart, ‘it’s not all down to luck. There’s a lot of prep involved as well. Sometimes the difference between a silver and a gold can be the tiniest margin, as you can imagine. And that’s what I am good at,’ she finished, smiling fondly towards the cabinet. ‘Attention. Attention to all those tiny little details. Anyway,’ she said, claping her hands together. ‘Time is short, of course. So fire away.’

I duly fired. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s really just a question of you giving me some background. As much as you’re able to, of course …’

‘About Imogen’s mother? Well, what I suppose I can say is that she wasn’t any sort of mother. From what I can gather, anyway,’ she added, shaking her head. ‘As I’m sure Graham’s mother has already told you, he slaved all the hours God gave him, but it was never enough – not for Miss Fancy Pants. No, sad to say, as soon as a man with a larger pay packet came along, she was off with him like a shot. Graham was relieved, I know, but you can imagine, can’t you? She left the poor child reeling, and – sad to relate – I think Im blamed her father; she took it out on him, certainly, and then, when I came along – well, you can imagine, can’t you? Our getting together only served to make her worse. I tried everything, of course I did, but there was never any getting through to her, and, well’ – she lifted both hands, palms upwards – ‘what can you do? She decided I was the enemy, and that, I’m afraid, was that.’

‘And that was when she moved in with her grandparents?’

The other cat, Grace, left her spot by the fire, and came and wound herself around my legs. ‘Ah, she likes you,’ Gerri gushed. ‘And she’s very discriminating. Are you a cat person, Mrs Watson?’

‘Not currently,’ I said, smiling. ‘We’re in a pet-free period at the moment. My teenagers keep me busy enough, to be honest! So Imogen wanted to go?’ I asked, trying to get her back on track again. ‘You know, to move out and move in with your husband’s parents?’

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she said. ‘It was Graham’s idea initially – you know, just for all of us to have some time out. It was so difficult for him, wanting to be loyal to her, but seeing what it was doing to me.’ She looked directly at me. ‘It was extremely difficult, Mrs Watson,’ she said in a voice that seemed suddenly full of emotion. ‘Some of the things she used to call me, the lies she’d tell about me … And, of course, you have to bite your lip and just take it, don’t you? What else can you do in my kind of situation? And I think Graham …’ she trailed off, and I wondered if she was going to cry. She was clearly upset.

‘Could see how much it was distressing you?’ I asked her. ‘I don’t doubt it. And from what I’ve heard from his parents, it sounds as though you had it pretty tough …’

‘Which is not to say I ever wanted that to happen,’ she said. ‘For Im to leave us. Far from it. I only ever wanted to help her. But in the end I think we all felt that, well … perhaps space was what was needed. And that perhaps she was better off where she was. And, of course, by this time she’d started all this sudden not-speaking business, which was distressing for Graham too, because he felt he’d lost her, that he’d failed her …’ She blinked at me. Seemed to gather herself. ‘So now we’re all at sea, aren’t we? I mean, what can we do? If her mother would only …’ She stood up now and brushed her trousers down again. It seemed an action so automatic that she wasn’t even aware of doing it. ‘If only – hark at me! That’s not going to happen, is it? Anyway …’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, rising and looking for a surface on which I could put my glass.

She took it and sighed. ‘I’ve not been a great help to you, have I?’

‘Yes, you have,’ I said. No, I thought, you haven’t. Not very much.

But then, perhaps she couldn’t be. Imogen had clearly taken against her, or, at the very least, taken against the idea of her. Nothing unfamiliar there. Perhaps the problem was that Imogen wasn’t a ‘cat person’. Whatever else she was, she certainly seemed a little flaky. But whatever the ins and outs of the current travails in this family, my principal feeling as I waved and drove off was that I’d just been an extra in some bizarre play.