Читать книгу Triumph Over Adversity 3-in-1 Collection - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 25

With Kelly already looking after my kids, I used the internal phone to call Jim Dawson, and while we waited for him to arrive I impressed upon Imogen that she was not in any trouble whatsoever. And that, actually, what she’d done had been very brave and very important and that once her nan and grandad knew (I was careful not to mention her father) they would make sure she was safe.

This had brought on another intense bout of sobbing as she revealed that her nan had given her a huge telling off for stomping off to her bedroom and spoiling their party, and how fed up they were getting of her living there.

Which made me wince, but, of course, that was exactly what would happen, her wicked stepmother having done such a brilliant job of painting this child – who she clearly hated, for whatever twisted reason – as some spoilt and odious kid set on trouble.

But it was trouble that was about to be heaped on her own head, and, boy, I thought, as I sped off to track Gary Clark down, would I love to see that happen.

Just as I’d hoped, Gary was indeed in a meeting with the head, and, hopefully, as a part of his doubtless long list of items, discussing the action the school should now take. And as the receptionist confirmed that there were only the two of them in there, I had little hesitation, despite the Meeting in progress sign hanging on it, in rapping sharply on the door.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ I said, as both men looked up at me in surprise, ‘but there’s been something of a development with Imogen Hinchcliffe.’

Gary gave me a ‘What the hell?’ look as Jim stood to greet me. ‘Come on in, Casey. How are you? Rested after half-term, I hope? Come and grab a chair, and let’s hear what you’ve got for us. Gary’s already filled me in on where we’re at with her written disclosures, but you’ve something else now?’

‘I have,’ I said. ‘She’s been talking to me. Properly talking,’ I added. ‘About the first thing she told us.’ I glanced at Gary. ‘About thinking her stepmother was going to burn her? Well, now she’s told me the full circumstances and it’s shocking, it really is.’

‘Which are?’ Gary asked.

So I told them. Both men listened in the same shocked silence that I had, and when I’d finished Mike Moore spread his hands. ‘I’m at a loss for words,’ he said. ‘And I’m not trying to be funny. Where’s she now?’

‘In Gary’s office with Jim Dawson, currently,’ I told him. ‘In no fit state to stay in school but, well, where do we go now? Can we really just send her home, now, to nan and grandad, business as usual?’

He turned to Gary. ‘As CPO, what are your thoughts?’ he asked him. ‘What’s the next step we should take at this point?’

‘Well,’ said Gary, ‘it’s both complicated and made easier by the fact that she’s already living with her grandparents. Complicated because it makes intervention more complex as there is another layer of family involved, but easier in that, as far as we know, she’s already in a place of safety, so there will hopefully be no need for an emergency intervention – picking her up and placing her in care; that sort of thing.’

‘Well, that’s something,’ I agreed, thinking just what a trauma it would be for Imogen to be taken away and placed in the care of strangers. The implications for her mutism could be potentially catastrophic. ‘So what would happen?’

‘Well, the key thing is probably the dad here. We’ve yet to speak to him, so we don’t yet know what part he’s played. On the face of it, all this has been going on in his absence, and, from what Imogen herself says, without his knowledge.’

Mike tutted, and I knew exactly what he was wondering: just how foolish or, indeed, hands-off a parent had to be not to see what was happening right underneath their nose. But it was unfair to prejudge him, I supposed, not without getting all the facts. ‘And what a shock he’s going to get,’ I said.

Gary shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Odds are he is, but there are lots of abuse cases where the uninvolved parent has known what’s going on – in some cases, exactly what’s been going on – but, for whatever reason, has chosen to ignore it. Sometimes it’s coercion, or fear of retaliation, but sometimes it’s just plain expediency. And after all, this is a man who’s been left with his daughter, but who has a job that means he has to work away. It could well be that he’s chosen to turn a bind eye on how she’s been treating his daughter because he needs her to take on the lion’s share of the childcare. Trust me, people can talk themselves into all sorts of things – it’s just a case of skimming over the details and shutting your ears a tiny bit. No,’ he said finally, ‘this is a complex situation. And, happily, it’s not our job to sort it out.’

He stood up then. ‘So, assuming you are okay with it, Mike, I’m off to bend some ears at social services. They’ll decide how to proceed from there, and I imagine it will involve the police, but in the meantime you need to get this all written up, Casey. So I’ll pop down and see Kelly, make sure she’s coping okay with your lot, then I’ll make the call. Okay to tell them you’ll email a full report to them shortly?’

I nodded. ‘So what happens to Imogen? Like, right now I mean. She’s still in your office.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘And it probably wouldn’t be sensible to take her back to the Unit, so maybe you could sort out some work for her to be getting on with till we know what’s happening? We could have her go down to learning support – I’m sure Julia Styles will be happy to take care of her. Yes, that’ll work best for the moment, don’t you think?’

I told him it would, and that I’d have someone fetch her bag up and her reading book. I suspected that the last thing she’d want to do currently was pen poetry about fireworks and bonfires. She’d had enough of the latter for the foreseeable future, and as for the fireworks – well, they were just about to start.

It took less than an hour for the business of child protection to lumber into action. It was just before lunch when, my report finally written, I’d headed to Gary’s office so I could email it to the contact at social services. And now we were under way, Gary hadn’t let the grass grow.

‘I’ve already spoken to the grandparents,’ he told me, once I’d forwarded the email. ‘And put them in the picture. And the social worker will be in touch with them, too. In the meantime, grandad’s going to pick Imogen up at lunchtime, as there’s no point in her being here this afternoon, not in the state she’s in. The key thing is going to be convincing her that she’s not in any trouble, and the grandparents are aware of that as well – as they are about the fact that it’s essential that they don’t speak to either their son or their daughter-in-law until social services have been in touch and the authorities have done their bit.’

‘What an awful situation,’ I said.

‘Tell me about it. The grandmother’s devastated. Can’t quite take it in, as you’d expect.’

‘And must feel awful, too,’ I said. ‘Must feel so guilty about not believing her. And all this time … God, that poor, poor kid.’

‘But it’s over now, all being well,’ Gary said briskly. And I didn’t doubt that he’d see that it was so.

‘So what is going to happen next?’ I asked him. ‘What’s the course of events now it’s with social services? Will they go round and visit the house? Investigate? Bring them in to their offices and interview them?’

Gary gave me a look that was part way between a smile and a smirk.

‘Nothing so polite,’ he said. ‘That tends not to be how it works.’

‘How does it work then?’

‘They will simply have the police go and arrest them.’

I returned to the Unit after lunch with my head full of horrible images but my hands no longer full – not where Imogen was concerned, anyway – and it was a decidedly odd feeling. It was absolutely the way of things in my job – children came to you, you did what you could, then they left you; that was the job. And, actually, chances were that nothing much would change.

Gary’s pronouncement had really brought it home to me, no doubt about it. And the picture I’d subsequently painted – complete with sirens, reading of rights and trophy-winning cat fanciers being handcuffed and thrown into the backs of police riot vans, and into cages – was undeniably a pleasing one, and no less than she deserved. But, in the midst of all that, Imogen would still need to go to school. Yes, the grandparents could keep her home, I guessed, and no one would castigate them for doing so, but as she was already removed from the situation there wasn’t any clear and present danger, and my hunch was that everyone would suggest it was in her best interests – particularly re the selective mutism – for it to indeed be a case of business as usual, particularly if it transpired, and I was still confident it would, that her father had not been involved.

But that still left a hole in my brain’s Sherlock Holmes region. It was no longer my job to investigate anything. It was now in the hands of the professionals. And, as if to remind me, when I returned to the Unit after lunch break it was to find my attention drawn to the collection of pine cones in the corner, which took my thoughts to Christmas, and, by extension, to Shona, who was sitting with Molly currently, but staring into space.

It was a mental gear change, and an important one, as I had six children to think about, and for one of them, at least, the coming festivities would be incredibly difficult. I was very aware how much time was devoted in school to Christmas – not just to the occasion itself and the opportunities for fostering the children’s spiritual education, but to the day-to-day business of planning Christmas-related events, such as the special assemblies, the making and giving of cards, the various decorating sessions, the end-of-term parties and the community activities, such as the school’s annual carol service at the local church, for which I had a smidgin of a germ of an idea.

All of this, for Shona, would be torture. And I was also mindful that her ‘secret’ hinted at a difficult set of circumstances, ones that, in reality, only time could make better.

Which put another small idea into my head. As she’d not known how long I’d be out of the Unit, Kelly – ever the human dynamo – had already organised everything for that afternoon’s lessons, which would be maths followed by science.

As Shona’s maths was generally sound, bordering on comfortably above average, I decided I would pull her out of the first half of the afternoon, so we’d have some privacy to chat, if she felt so inclined. It would also give me a chance to bring up the secrets box, if it seemed appropriate, though I was mindful that she’d taken pains to keep her secret anonymous, so I’d have to let her take the lead on that.

The inquest into ‘Where’s Imogen Gone and What Was Wrong with Her?’ dealt with (easily attributed to a 24-hour tummy bug), I had a quick word with Kelly, then went over to speak to Shona. As well as being good at maths, she had an impressive artistic talent, which, today, served my needs very well. ‘I’m in need of a volunteer,’ I explained, ‘to help me create a thing of beauty for the display wall in the main reception, and I said to myself, “Who’s the undisputed champion of all things creative in the Unit, if not the entire lower school?” And guess which name sprang to mind?’

Shona smiled delightedly, which was gladdening in itself.

‘So you’re up for it?’ I asked.

‘I’d love to, Miss,’ she answered.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Grab your coat because it’s cold in the entrance, and let’s go and create a masterpiece, shall we?’

Putting children’s work on display was a central part of every teaching job, and though I wasn’t strictly speaking a teacher myself – my job title being the slightly more menacing ‘Behaviour Manager’ – I was still on the rota to provide displays for the boards in all the school’s communal areas, and mine was due to replace the current one by the end of that very week.

I’d already partly prepared and decided upon a theme for our display: a perennial and a bit of a classic, autumn colours. I’d squirrelled away various things already – mostly pictures and drawings, and the main ‘event’ would be the poems they had produced only that morning, which I would have them write out again, in their very best writing, and then decorate around the edges with whatever took their fancy. For now, though, it was a question of preparing the background and, as I suspected, Shona was full of ideas about what might look nice. We’d brought down my big plastic display box – full of all the tools of the trade – and we were soon immersed in choosing borders and materials and possible colours.

‘So,’ I said, at length, ‘how are you getting on, love? Are you still seeing your counsellor?’

Shona nodded. ‘She’s nice. We go for walks sometimes now. Which is nice …’

She trailed off, then, and I let the silence lengthen. Then, while manoeuvring a particularly petulant piece of border into position, said, ‘I suppose it must be nice to get away from time to time. You know, from your little cousins – have some space for yourself.’

‘That’s what she said.’ She handed me the wall-stapler. ‘I’m not that used to it – having so many people around all the time … all the noise.’

‘That’s what little ones are best at usually, aren’t they?’

She nodded. ‘And they want me to play with them all the time. And I try to – I want to be helpful, because I know my auntie’s always so busy …’

‘But sometimes you just want to scream – go away!’

Her answering smile confirmed I’d hit the nail on the head, as well as the staple into the wall. ‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘And with the holidays coming up, you’ll have to brace yourself a bit, won’t you?’

‘I already am,’ she said, after a pause of presumably reflection. ‘I’m going to miss school – you know, seeing my friends, having stuff to do.’

‘You’ll be able to see some of them, though, won’t you? At some point over the holidays? Sales shopping, catching up, that sort of thing?’

‘I guess so,’ she said, ‘but it’s like family time, isn’t it?’

I hesitated, sensing from her body language that she didn’t want to dwell on that. ‘And lots of tedious board games and leftover turkey,’ I decided upon. ‘Though I have a cunning plan for all that.’ I grinned at her. ‘And I know I’ll need to come in here at some point, so I’ll have an official “going to work” day between Christmas and New Year, when I’ll come in here, while it’s quiet, and get my classroom sorted out. Pull down the old displays, get all inspired, set up the backgrounds for all the new ones. That way, when term starts, I’m ready for action – with my walls set up for all the new term’s creations. And have a few hours peace and quiet. Bet it’ll work a treat.’

I don’t know if it was her expression or just a bolt of inspiration, but an idea pinged on in my head then and there. ‘And you know what? I could always use a helper to do that too – what with being such a shortie. So, there’s a thought; assuming the head’s okay with it, and I telephone your auntie to ask her, would you perhaps like to come in one day and do that with me too?’

Now it was definitely her expression that cemented it. ‘Could I?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘If it’s something you’d like to do.’

‘Oh, I’d love to, Miss,’ she said again.

‘Then I’d love that too. And I shall pay you in hot chocolate and pink and white marshmallows. That’s the going rate – how does that sound?’

Her giggle warmed my heart for the rest of the day.