Читать книгу Triumph Over Adversity 3-in-1 Collection - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 23

It was to be the following morning before I could get back to Gary and fill him in on my chat with Imogen. I had hoped that I’d be able to catch him during final period, but, as if to remind me that I had more than one child to take care of – and perhaps because they wanted a piece of the action – Henry and Ben kicked off almost as soon as they came back from last break, over some disagreement over the latest Manchester United line-up.

As ever, the full-on fist-fight that honour seemed to dictate must ensue was not really about player stats at all. It was about them – Ben and Henry – two volatile boys always just half a step away from losing the plot. They didn’t know it (well, actually, they did, when they were getting on) but they actually had quite a lot in common. For all that Ben was an only child looked after by his heavily drinking dad, and Henry the youngest of five, looked after by his invariably fraught mother, they both brought the same issues to school with them. Both were angry and unable to express it when they were at home – Ben because he always had to be mindful of his father’s temper, and Henry because, being the designated ‘runt’ of the litter, he wasn’t allowed to express himself, ever.

I would lie awake at night worrying about children like Henry and Ben, and what if anything I could do to make things better. I couldn’t find a new mother for Ben, or make his father quit the drinking, and I couldn’t whistle up a father figure for poor put-upon Henry, to lick his bullying, ill-disciplined brothers into shape. In short, I couldn’t change their world for them. All I could do – and this always felt like one of the best wisdoms I’d been lucky enough to learn – was to make them change the way they felt about themselves, which would, in turn, change how they interacted with their world.

In short, it was all about self-esteem-building, as well as team-building, though in the short term it was also about managing the inevitable flash points that were bound to occur when such boys came into conflict. Fortunately, in this case, it was short lived and easily remedied, with the application of some fact checking, courtesy of my trusty computers, and another round of posh chocolate biscuits.

But that still left me too late to nip up to Gary’s office and, not wishing to keep him, given I knew he was taking on a zillion extra duties currently, I decided that the morning would have to do.

Early morning, mind. I was still on something of a mission, so I made a point of getting into school half an hour earlier than usual so that we could talk before registration. I knew sod’s law would probably mean I’d get scant opportunity later, and I was also conscious of sticking around, as much as possible, in class. What with Gavin and Imogen, then Ben and Henry, who knew what could happen? Would Shona and Molly launch into fisticuffs next?

Happily, Gary was in and up for chatting, and even managed to rustle me up a coffee, while I nabbed the comfiest of the comfy chairs by his desk.

‘So,’ he said, settling into his own chair, ‘what news on yesterday’s cryptic message?’

‘Well,’ I began, ‘if you cast your mind back, you’ll remember that I went to visit the step-mother, didn’t I? And it turns out the two are related.’

‘Of course. The wicked step-mother. I’d forgotten you’d already been round there. How did that go in the end? Get anything of any use?’

‘Well, as it happens,’ I chided, ‘that quip won’t seem so funny when I tell you what happened in here after you left yesterday.’

I filled Gary in on what Imogen had told me about her message and how it confirmed what I’d already begun to suspect – that it wasn’t the mother but the stepmother who was the mother figure in question – and that could be the root cause I’d been trying to unearth.

‘Set light to her, though?’ Gary grimaced. ‘Sounds a little bit extreme, doesn’t it? Slight case of amateur dramatics?’

I shook my head. ‘Don’t forget, Imogen said she didn’t actually do it – but she did threaten it. Pretty frightening in itself. I just wish I could have got some more out of her – you know, the whys and wherefores, such as when did this happen. But, you know, it just fits. I know I shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions, but neither do I want to ignore my gut feeling, having met her. Yes, she came across as the traumatised, oh-so-concerned parent, who only wants the best for Imogen, yadda yadda yadda … but I just don’t buy it. There’s just something not quite right about her at all.’

‘What, like it’s an act?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She didn’t come across as false, not really. But the whole business of there not being any photographs of Imogen. If she was playing some clever game, she’d have slung a few around for effect, wouldn’t she? But she obviously isn’t that clever. I don’t know,’ I said again. ‘It was just odd. The whole meeting – just odd.’

‘But did you learn anything? Find out any more about our silent child’s background?’

‘Not really. According to Gerri, it was exactly how Mrs Hinchcliffe’s always told us. That mummy dearest was apparently a “money-grabbing bitch”, with no time for either husband or daughter, and rode out of Dodge with the first man who had more to offer. Then, when Gerri came along, it was a textbook scenario: spoilt only daughter, used to it just being her and Dad, resents the fact that said Dad has now found love with another woman. That’s how she told it, at any rate.’

‘Hmm,’ Gary said, ‘bit of an over-reaction, though, wouldn’t you say? Resentment is one thing, but mutism in a child of her age? My understanding – if I read Mr Gregory right, anyway – was that you’d expect there to be an episode of real trauma.’

‘Which takes me back to what she said about the threat of burning. And I agree – I’ve read much more now, and from what I’ve seen of Imogen I just feel we need to take things further. Speak to her dad, at the very least. He’s like the Scarlet Pimpernel in all this, isn’t he?’

‘Disguised as a bit of a doormat, if we’re to believe his PR.’

‘But you agree with me?’

Gary nodded. ‘I agree with you. But Mike’s away till after half-term now, so it won’t be happening imminently.’

I had forgotten that the head teacher wasn’t going to be back till after the holiday. Something to do with budgets – it was invariably something to do with budgets. ‘Could we share our concerns with Don then?’

Gary nodded again. ‘Yes, we could. But I doubt it’ll make much difference, and, anyway, this isn’t life or death pressing. She’s safe with her grandparents, so she’s not in a situation of jeopardy, is she? And I’d rather wait and speak to Mike – formulate a considered plan of action, than start making waves that might forewarn this wicked stepmother of yours. And, to be honest, it’ll give you a chance to get a bit more out of Imogen – which, as we don’t have a great deal to go on, can’t hurt, can it? After all, if we’re going to make an allegation of abuse, we’re talking social workers, police, the whole kit and caboodle. So we need to be able to back up what we say.’ He drained his coffee. The man had a mouth made of asbestos. Which thought, given the situation, certainly felt apt.

Despite feeling I had Gary on board, I still returned to my classroom feeling disappointed. He was right, of course: Imogen clearly was safe with her grandparents, and perhaps that was part of some grand master plan anyway. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed perfectly plausible that Gerri, ostensibly so nice and so concerned, actually just wanted her new husband’s daughter out of the way.

But you couldn’t un-think bad thoughts and worrying disclosures. And it seemed to me that it was doubly important I try and get Imogen to tell me more – because if it was an unsubstantiated accusation it could very easily be deflected, and, more and more, my hunch was that she was telling the absolute truth; just the fact of how hard it had been for her to share what she had shared seemed to make it feel all the more likely.

But how to get her talking? As in really talking? That was the problem. And one that preoccupied me as I unlocked the door to my room, to find an icy blast whistling through it. I looked up – someone had left one of the top windows open. Probably the caretaker, for reasons I didn’t know. It needed shutting, however, because the weather had definitely taken on a wintry feel, so I climbed up onto an art unit and banged it shut again. As I did so, I heard a telltale rustle of paper, and turned around to see the rocket picture the kids had done a couple of weeks back had fallen to the floor, probably as a result of the sudden gust of air-flow. I climbed down and picked it up, and as I pinned it back to the wall I read some of the words on it – all the bad words we’d written and ‘sent’ off to space. All the bad words we didn’t want – and that’s when it hit me. My secrets box – why hadn’t I thought of that before?

Excited, I went round to my desk and squatted down behind it, rummaging through the top shelf – the place I last recalled seeing it. And that was where it was, too – I was nothing if not obsessively organised – a little scuffed in places, but perfectly serviceable as a postbox.

Which was what it was, being a cylinder of cardboard, painted red, with a slot in the side in which secrets could be posted. It was one of the first tools I’d used when I’d started the Unit. Back then, whenever a new child joined us, out it would come, as well as after every school holiday. I would always explain to the kids that, though it wasn’t healthy to carry secrets around with us, sometimes we were in situations when we had no choice. I’d then explain that sometimes sharing a secret might make us feel better about it, even if it was something really scary. I’d then given them the choice, if they had something to get off their chests, to share the secret by writing it down and posting it anonymously, in my box.

The deal was simple. I would read them and, depending on what they wanted, take action or just keep their secret safe with me. They also had the option of adding a name, if they wanted me to know who they were, and, if they felt they’d like to share it in person they could add that, and we could talk, confidentially.

It had been a while since I’d had the box out, which was the sort of thing that sometimes happened. Life was busy, and new strategies and ideas were always circulating, and it had been ages since I’d even given it any thought. And now I did, I remember there was another aspect to it – there’d been times when it would be routinely filled not so much with important secrets but with tittle-tattle – tale-telling like Jordan was smoking in the toilets, or I heard Mr Moore say ‘damn’ after assembly.

But today my box was going to be reinstated for a while, as for a child who had difficulty expressing her secrets via talking this was surely the perfect opportunity to write them down instead. And if it didn’t work – she might have decided she had shared too much already, anyway, mightn’t she? – well, I hadn’t lost anything, after all.

I got the children on the case right away, explaining that as we’d soon be breaking up for half-term it would be a good opportunity to share anything that was worrying them, rather than it festering away over the holidays. I tried not to focus my gaze on Imogen at any point, just had them gather paper and pens while I explained the principles for those who didn’t know them, which was most of them, and told them that while they were doing that I would sort out the materials for the morning’s activity, which would be to go out into the school grounds on a nature trail cum treasure hunt, looking for leaves and twigs and pine cones and anything else that looked interesting, in order to decorate the classroom for a late autumn display.

It was a popular choice of activity, and the day was perfect for it – bright and cold – and my news set the tone for what I hoped would be a less stressful day than previously. I was also pleased to see that everyone seemed keen to post something, Imogen very much included. Like the others, she had her head down and started scribbling away furiously, writing so much that when the time came to actually post what they’d written, she was the last of the children to come up. I feigned indifference as she posted her piece of paper in the box, folded into a tight, intriguing square. Would this be what we needed? I couldn’t wait to open it.

In the meantime, however, it was time to get outside and romp around the school grounds for a bit. I gave each child a plastic bag and we scoured the whole perimeter for goodies; as well as pine cones and acorns and berry-studded twigs, we were able to gather an impressive amount of conkers from the huge horse chestnut on the far edge of the field. It absorbed them for an hour or so, and then, once I felt we’d gathered enough, surprised them by shouting ‘Leaf fight!’ I then showered Henry and Molly, who were busy inspecting an empty bird’s eggshell they’d found, with an armful of dead leaves.

Within seconds, as I knew it would be, it was war. The kids delighted in throwing leaves at me and all over each other, and I was rather shame-faced as the caretaker stomped past us and tutted, making a mental note to assure him we’d sweep them all up again. And, as ever, we attracted a few disapproving looks from a few adjacent classroom windows, the noise we’d made bringing us to the attention of several teachers.

‘Okay, everyone,’ I said finally, stopping to catch my breath, ‘back inside for hot chocolate and marshmallows!’

Disapproval seemed to go with my job. I knew that my techniques had been the subject of heated classroom debate more than once, one line of thinking being that I was sending the wrong message. Behave yourself in school, so the argument ran, and your reward is simply work. Act like a prat, on the other hand, and look forward to skipping proper lessons and having fun. Most weren’t so simplistic – most of the teachers knew these kids and their challenges – but I knew the odd pocket of teachers who seemed to think that. And, actually, they couldn’t have been more wrong.

Yes, rewards played a big part in what I did, but that was an essential, because it was all about changing expectations. Most of the kids that were sent to me – particularly those affected by difficult home lives and behavioural issues – couldn’t cope long enough in mainstream classes to get rewarded for anything, and came from home environments where rewards were pretty thin on the ground too. Being in the Unit, for many of these children, was a rare opportunity to be in an environment where they could relax and not be constantly expecting the worst. It was a place where they’d be bigged up for the smallest good thing – not as a way of over-inflating their egos (these were children who’d often had their egos comprehensively trampled) but as a way of reintroducing the idea that they could be proud of themselves and that praise and reward were good feelings. It was all about breaking the cycle of feeling useless, acting in accordance with low expectations, getting punished and having your low opinion of yourself confirmed.

It was also about having fun, and I remained unrepentant. Maybe one day I’d deliver a serious lecture on the business of why fun, as a concept for kids like these, mattered. But perhaps not today. Today I had other more pressing matters to attend to, and as the bell went for break I couldn’t wait for the room to clear, so I could get my hands on my little postbox full of notes.

And I wasn’t to be disappointed.

The first was intriguing.

I am going to see a speshalist doctor cos my mum thinks I’m mental. Don’t tell the other kids, will you. Gavin.

I smiled and put it to one side. For all his eccentricities, Gavin certainly wasn’t ‘mental’. Did his mother think he was? I didn’t think so. He had obviously been referred, though. I wondered what for.

I smacked my little cousin and I feel bad.

This one was unsigned, but I felt sure it was from Shona. She’d written in neat capitals, presumably in an attempt to disguise her writing, but I knew that in the great scheme of things it would be worth bringing up, so that she had the opportunity of talking it through, albeit couched in more general terms.

Robert Small called me a sad sack – Molly.

Poor Molly. Although she’d started speaking up for herself a bit more, Molly attracted bullies like a flame attracted moths. I made another mental note – time for another of our regular chats about finding ways to better stand up for yourself.

The next one I picked up was definitely from Imogen – I remembered how many times she’d folded it. And, instinctively, I put it to one side for the moment, while I read the two remaining bits of paper.

The next was blank. Which was odd, as I’d seen everybody writing. Another mental note – to think about that later. And the next made me start, as well as smile:

I fancy Imogen.

Well, well, I thought, trying to work out who had written it, narrowing it down logically to either Henry or Ben, which meant it had to be Ben. With him being that bit younger, perhaps he had a bit of a crush on her, despite him always following Henry’s lead and ribbing her. That was often the way when it came to boys. Ribbing the object of their burgeoning attraction was one of the surest ways of getting their attention. I smiled to myself and added it to the pile.

And now I was back to Imogen’s herself; the prompt to get the box out in the first place. Would she finally find the wherewithal to share a little more? I unfolded the sheet of A4, not quite daring to hope, but immediately realising there was a great deal written on it, which took the form of a neatly penned list.

Gerri used to lock me in my room while she went to the cat shows.

Gerri told my dad I wet my bed when she wouldn’t let me go to the toilet. She locked me up.

Gerri told me my mum left us because I’m ugly like my dad and have gingery hair.

Gerri didn’t give me any food when dad worked away and she said she’d hit me if I told him.

Gerri pulled my hair and said she would cut it all off when I went to sleep.

She cried to my nan and said I tried to push her down the steps cos I hated her and my nan believed her.

She told my dad I stole money from her purse and that I let her cats out on purpose.

I thought she was going to set fire to me.

I set the letter down and returned the rest to the postbox, which I then returned to the back of the shelf under my desk. I then picked up the letter again, grabbed my satchel, left the classroom and locked it, before hurrying to the staffroom to see if Kelly was in there, as I needed her to come hold the fort after break so I could track Gary down.

I had what I needed. The head would surely have to take this seriously.