Читать книгу Triumph Over Adversity 3-in-1 Collection - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 26

I woke up the next morning with my head still madly buzzing – with the same stuff that had preoccupied me when I’d gone to bed the night before: what was happening with the wicked stepmother, that I needed to speak to the head and to Shona’s auntie, whether I should take the plunge and ask if my class could do a turn at the Christmas carol service, whether I should call Gavin’s mother and see how things were – try to establish quite why she thought he was ‘mental’ … And it made me think of something Don had said to me towards the end of my first term in school, after I’d commented on the fact that I kept losing my keys, and seemed to have my head on back to front.

‘It’s called end-of-term-itis,’ he’d pronounced, nodding sagely. ‘And it goes with the territory. There’s a reason why teachers need the year broken up into terms; as they go on, you find it harder and harder to switch off and clear your mind. Have you found that?’

‘Exactly that. Like a kind of burn-out,’ I’d said, nodding.

‘Though only of a temporary kind, thankfully. Everyone gets it. Couple of weeks to recharge and you’ll be set for the new term. You’ll see.’

And I had seen, and these days I was more in tune with the termly rhythms, but right now, however, we still had four weeks of the current term to go, and, what with all the drama we’d had lately – particularly with Imogen – I profoundly hoped they’d be mostly without incident. A happy, twinkly run-up to Christmas was what I was hoping for, so I sent a quick wish to the elves at the North Pole, hoping Santa would be so kind as to oblige me.

I ran my hands over my face and sat in bed for a few moments longer, listening to the strangely soothing sound of Kieron downstairs, banging pans around while engaged in some sort of breakfast-related mission, and hearing Riley’s always dulcet ‘I’m-getting-ready-for-work-so-keep-out-of-my-way’ tones. It was getting to that time of year: dark in the mornings, even darker in the evenings – but with the joys of Christmas still very slightly over the horizon, however much the shops would have it otherwise. There was just too much work to be done between now and then.

I got out of bed finally and opened the curtains, even if it was only to look out on a still inky darkness. Poor Mike was long gone. Would have been at work for an hour already. The shifts he did were particularly gruelling at this time of year. I glanced back at my bedside clock. I would have to get my skates on as well – there was a big important meeting to attend in school this morning, and before that I really needed to get organised. My mind was still on Shona, to some extent – I wasn’t sure I agreed that she should go back to mainstream classes this side of Christmas – but the main priority today was Imogen and what was going to happen there.

Mostly, I was intrigued about what we’d find out. We’d been told snippets of course, but they were tantalisingly vague ones. That the investigation had turned up some ‘interesting’ background details, that there’d been talk of various measures that were now going to be ‘put in place’, but what all of that meant in practice was anyone’s guess.

What had they found out? And about whom? Gerri, I guessed, but what about Imogen’s father? Could he really have been so naïve as to let such horrors go on under his nose? I fervently hoped so, for Imogen’s sake.

‘Yes,’ came the emphatic answer a couple of hours later.

It was a larger gathering than I’d expected. So much so that we’d had to hold it in the conference room in the library, which was usually reserved for training, as we’d have struggled to fit us all into one of the smaller offices.

As well as Gary and myself, present were Jim Dawson (my alter ego), Julia Styles (our Special Needs Co-ordinator, or SENCO) and, as well as Don (standing in for the head, who was at a financial meeting), there were two social workers, a tall man called Simon Swift, who had apparently now been allocated to the family, and a trainee called Helen Croft, who he explained was attached to him currently and who was apparently ‘cutting her teeth’ on Imogen’s case.

The main purpose of the meeting was to bring us up to speed. So the first 20 minutes or so had been spent putting us fully in the picture, from the moment the investigation had been launched by social services, as a consequence of Imogen’s disclosures to me and Gary’s subsequent call.

And I was all ears, because it was as much an education for me as it was for the trainee social worker. I’d had dealings with social services before this, both in my current job and as a youth worker before that, but this was the first time I’d been so much at the centre of a process that could – and would – have such a profound effect on a child’s home life; something that felt like quite a responsibility.

No, it didn’t involve taking a child from their home – Imogen was already out of harm’s way, because she was staying with her grandparents – but the emotional trauma she had been caused, and was still suffering the effects of, was something that would have continued, one way or another, had she not found the courage to tell me what she had that day.

An intervention had clearly been necessary – and quite a dramatic one, by the sound of it. Choosing their moment, so that both Gerri and Graham Hinchcliffe had been at home, the social workers had gone to the house, accompanied by a police officer, who had done just as Gary had predicted – arrested both husband and wife on suspicion of assault and wilful neglect.

‘And, as luck would have it – well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it – it turns out that Gerri Hinchcliffe had a previous conviction,’ Simon Swift explained, ‘and it was for a similar offence. That was a key piece of evidence. And, luckily – well, in terms of the amount of paperwork involved, definitely – she didn’t even try to deny it. In fact, she laughed,’ he continued, glancing at Gary, to whom he’d obviously already told the tale. ‘She said – let me see if I can remember it right – yes, she said, “It was only f***ing water. How could I ever harm her with f***ing water, for f***s sake? You can’t do me for her being a gullible little cow!”’ He cleared his throat and grinned, then. ‘Nice, eh? And, of course, fortunately, yes we can.’

‘So Imogen made a statement to you okay, then?’ I asked. This had been my major concern, that when it came to it, and faced with having to speak to complete strangers – and in what would feel like very intimidating surroundings, however ‘cosy’ they made the places where children had to do such things – she would simply clam up and be unable to get anything out. But it seemed I didn’t need to worry.

‘Indeed she did,’ Simon reassured me. ‘Which made everything all the more straightforward. Gerri Hinchcliffe has been released on bail, but Imogen’s dad was released without charge pretty much straight away, and was able to reassure her that she wasn’t in any trouble. He really didn’t have a clue – that was immediately obvious. And his wife had certainly covered her tracks very well. Anyway, he asked her to leave his house that same day, apparently. Which I believe she has now done. Along with her cats.’

And their many rosettes and trophies, no doubt. I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe such cruelty,’ I said. ‘Well, I can, obviously. We see it all around us, after all. But to treat a defenceless child like that and laugh about it – and to social services? It beggars belief, doesn’t it? And to have everyone fooled by her – incredible to think she could take everyone in so convincingly. That’s what really gets me. I mean, I’ve never heard the nan do anything but sing her praises!’

‘Not any more,’ Gary corrected. ‘And the poor woman’s really quite traumatised, as you can imagine. As is the grandfather. Because they were completely taken in by her, every bit as much as their son was. Which at least makes his own ignorance a touch more credible, I suppose.’

Simon nodded. ‘And it’s far from unusual, I’m afraid. If I had a pound for every case I’ve seen where the guilty party has been able to do something like this entirely under the radar – entirely without anyone suspecting a thing – then I’d be a very rich man indeed, believe me. But we’re dealing with someone with profound emotional problems. This is a woman who’s something of a narcissist. Someone whose own mother abandoned her at a very young age and has, in the main, been brought up in care – a succession of children’s homes, by all accounts. And though, superficially, she’s quite charming, and seems to have done okay for herself, this is a woman for whom the word “empathy” might as well be written in Mandarin; someone who uses and abuses as a default. And we all know how it works, I’m sure –’ He glanced around the room and he was right. We all knew exactly what he was talking about. ‘These people are often very charismatic and independent-minded, aren’t they? They certainly don’t wear a badge saying “avoid at all costs”, do they?’

And also shrewd. Imogen’s father, cuckolded and left and hurt as he was, would have been an obvious target. Was she holidaying alone on one of his coach trips when she snared him? ‘So what will happen to her now?’ I asked, managing to feel only marginally less forgiving of her. Though, given her background, I knew I should, I still couldn’t forget what she’d done to Imogen.

‘She’s been charged and she will be prosecuted for cruelty and neglect. And if she doesn’t exactly learn the error of her ways, we can at least hope it will deter her from striking up any new relationships with men who have children to consider. We’ll obviously let you know how things progress, but as far as Imogen is concerned this period is over and we’re going to be working with the family to get her life back on track. And – hopefully – that will feed into progress with her speech therapy.’

I was just about to ask if there was anything in particular that I should or shouldn’t be doing with Imogen in the light of recent developments, when the meeting was interrupted by a knock at the door.

It was a delicate knock – one that immediately said child rather than adult – and, had anyone been talking, we might not have even heard it.