Casey Watson - The Girl Without a Voice - The true story of a terrified child whose silence spoke volumes

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘So his other half has to –’

‘His wife . Gerri, her name is. Lovely girl. Tried everything, she has, and – well, I’m sure you know how difficult children can be these days,’ she huffed. ‘It’s a miracle she didn’t walk out on him as well, frankly. Never stood a chance with Imogen, she didn’t. Not a chance. That’s why we’ve got her. I mean, what choice do we have? And she doesn’t see it, of course …’

‘What, your daughter-in-law?’

‘No! Imogen! No idea of the sacrifices her father’s made for her. She really hasn’t. I mean it’s her mum she should be bearing a grudge towards – I mean, anyone would say the same, wouldn’t they? Upping and leaving them like that. It’s not her dad she should be taking it out on, is it? I keep trying to tell her that, Mrs Watson. I mean, at least he flipping stayed with her … And poor Gerri. I’ve never known anyone so selfless. She’s the patience of a saint, that one. But, no … she can’t see that. Can’t see what’s plain as the nose on her face, that one.’

Mrs Hinchcliffe sighed again then, an exasperated sigh, and I got a strong impression that here was a lady who probably loved her grandchild dearly, but was emotionally exhausted with having so much responsibility on her shoulders, and at a loss to know what to do with Imogen by now. I also got the feeling that she was caught between two stools. I had the impression she was not only trying to be a good grandmother but a good mother, too. Taking the strain off her son. And perhaps a bit too much?

And what did she mean by ‘never stood a chance’? I decided not to press the point, however. ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘That’s sad. They don’t get along, then? Do you think that’s a factor in the mutism? Or did it start earlier? Some time after mum and dad split up, perhaps?’

But Mrs Hinchcliffe was having none of it. ‘No, I told you. It was that school . She was fine after the break-up. Well, not completely fine, obviously – would you be fine if your mother just upped sticks and left you? I imagine not, Mrs Watson. But she was still speaking. No, it was that dreadful school that did it – useless, they were. All the name-calling – because of her hair, because of her freckles, because of her mum having left – you name it.’

‘Children can be so cruel, can’t they?’

‘Oh, indeed they can, Mrs Watson. I don’t doubt you’ve seen plenty of that sort of thing for yourself. Just plain nasty . That’s when she shut down. And can you blame her? But she’s got to learn to deal with it, hasn’t she? She needs toughening up a bit. That’s what my husband says, and I agree with him. Needs to learn how to shrug it off more.’

There was another clear picture emerging; that of a rather ‘old school’ kind of grandad. A man keen to raise his granddaughter in a ‘no-nonsense’ kind of way. The type for whom the ‘let’s talk about it’ approach was probably anathema.

‘Perhaps,’ I said carefully, ‘and perhaps the bullying was a trigger. From the research I’ve done on selective mutism, it seems there is usually a specific trigger, as I said … How is she at home? I mean, I know you say she talks normally there, but aside from that, how does she seem? More confident? More relaxed?’

‘Oh, she’s certainly confident. You probably think she’s quite a quiet girl from what you’ve seen of her so far.’

Mrs Hinchliffe was right, there. No doubt about it. I agreed I did.

‘But she isn’t at all, you know. Shouts and screams at us – and for no apparent reason half the time, either. Sullen, too. Things don’t go her way, don’t we know about it! It’s no wonder her dad and step-mum needed a break!’

Something occurred to me. ‘What about Dad? I’m assuming they speak on the phone. Do they?’

‘Oh, no – she won’t speak to her father. Punishing him, is what we think. And the psychologist woman does, too. Won’t say a word to him. Calls all the time – of course he does. But nothing. Like I said, it’s us she takes it out on.’

‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ I sympathised, ‘and you’re quite right, she’s not come over like that at all. Mind you, lots of children play out their frustrations in either one place or the other. I’ve seen lots of that – as well as plenty of kids who are naughty in school but absolute angels at home.’ I paused then. ‘Speaking of which,’ I added, having sensed we were at what seemed the perfect moment, ‘I’d love to come and visit you all at home – you know, try to get a fuller picture of what we’re dealing with. Do you think we could arrange that?’

‘At home?’ Mrs Hinchcliffe paused. ‘Well, I suppose so. If you think it might help. Though I’d have to ask my husband first, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course you must. So how about you do so, and then get back to me …’

‘What, call up the school and leave a message?’

‘Yes, that would be perfect,’ I said. ‘I’d really appreciate that, Mrs Hinchcliffe. Oh, and one thing – it would be best if you didn’t mention anything about it to Imogen beforehand. If she knows in advance that I’m popping round she might get nervous, mightn’t she? Whereas if I just arrive, she’s more likely to be at her most normal.’

‘And it’s normal, this, is it?’ she asked. ‘You know – you coming round visiting people’s houses?’

I wondered if there was an edge of reluctance in her voice. But no, I didn’t think so; she’d not been slow in airing her feelings once she’d got going, after all. No, she just genuinely didn’t imagine people from schools did such a thing. Probably the legacy of her husband’s ‘old-school’ ideas.

‘Yes, it is,’ I reassured her. ‘All part of my role in pastoral care. Where a child has difficulties – well, I’m sure we’re all after the same thing, aren’t we? To get to the root of it, and work together to find a solution.’

‘Well that would certainly be nice,’ Mrs Hinchcliffe agreed. And I could tell how wholeheartedly she meant it.

‘Ah, Mrs Watson,’ Kelly enthused, when I returned to my classroom 20 minutes later, ‘take a look at these beauties. You certainly have some talent in this room of yours!’

‘Wow,’ I said, circling both tables, the children standing aside proudly to let me inspect their creations. I was pleased to notice that while Henry, predictably, was holding up the tower on the boys’ table, it was Imogen who had a steadying hand on the girls’ creation. ‘These are spectacular,’ I told them all, ‘and, looking at all your planning notes’ – I paused here to check both sets – ‘also almost exactly as you’d originally envisioned them. Excellent. I tell you what,’ I finished, ‘I think I am going to find it almost impossible to pick a winner today.’

Ben coughed then, to get my attention. ‘Miss,’ he suggested, eyeing up the remaining marshmallows, ‘we were thinking. If it’s too hard to pick, and you think we’re all winners, instead of giving one group a prize we could just share the rest of the marshmallows, couldn’t we?’

I grinned at Kelly, who I didn’t doubt had already heard this line of thinking. ‘What do you think, Miss Vickers? Do we think they all deserve to win?’

‘You know,’ said Kelly, ‘I think I do. In fact, I’d had another thought. Since we’ve already taken photos of both towers for the evidence board, I was thinking we could sabotage these wonderful creations and eat the lot.’

The whole group exploded into gleeful shouts of ‘Yes!’ and, once again, I was pleased to note, this included Imogen. Not with her voice, perhaps, but definitely with her small but encouraging grin. She might not be speaking, I thought, but she was definitely engaging.