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

I smiled at my trio of lads; they’d actually come on really well in terms of behaviour, even though to the casual observer their improvements might seem tiny. But they were still angry little lads, all three of them like tightly coiled springs, and much as we had calm days, we also had the other kind – days when I seemed to be permanently braced and waiting for the next unexpected explosion. It would be a volatile place for this new girl to try and fit in to, there was no doubt about that.

Kelly arrived bang on cue, clutching two mugs of coffee, one of which I saw was in my superhero mug – it had Batman on one side and Spiderman on the other, and had been a ‘new job’ surprise gift from Kieron. And to date, no one had accidentally walked off with it either; a minor miracle in a school staffroom, apparently. She held it out to me.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘Thought I’d make you one while I was at it.’ Then she smiled at the children. ‘You all look like very busy bees. Everything okay?’

They nodded dutifully. ‘Thanks, love,’ I said to her. ‘That’s thoughtful.’ I had my little ‘coffee corner’ but didn’t always get round to filling the kettle, so the mug of my preferred stimulant was very welcome. ‘I imagine I’ll only be an hour or so, maybe less. But you shouldn’t encounter any problems.’

Kelly grinned, pulling out her walkie-talkie from her pocket. ‘Don’t worry – I’m packing my secret weapon. We’ll be fine.’

Most of the teachers, and some of the support staff, like Kelly, had access to these contraptions so they could call for duty staff to come and help out in an emergency. This might involve something as simple as a child being asked to leave the class due to disruptive behaviour or, in more extreme cases, an extra pair of hands to help break up a physical fight. They were called Computerised Communications Units (CCUs) but I was the resident oddball because I never used mine. I hated new techno gadgets so relied on my new mobile phone – another piece of kit I had yet to fully master.

I grabbed it now and popped it in my handbag. Unlike the majority of the staff, I always kept the latter with me too, partly because with such a small group situation it was easy enough to keep an eye on, and partly because it was akin to a Mary Poppins handbag – something that had developed since Kieron was little. Him being the way he was, it had often been a lifesaver; if he got dirty or cut himself he’d be more upset that he looked dishevelled than if he hurt himself.

It was a lifesaver with the kids in school too. I always had tissues, packs of plasters, biscuits, sweets and even make-up, which always proved popular when girls got upset – a bit of lip gloss and a spot of blusher always cheered them up.

‘Right,’ I said, picking up the bag. ‘I’m off. And remember, everyone, I can whip up a maths lesson in seconds if need be, so, best behaviour while I’m gone.’

I walked quickly through the corridors before the bell went that would signal break time, along with the inevitable stampede of children rushing off to the tuck shop and the playground. It went just as I arrived outside Donald’s office’s closed door.

I opened it to find Donald and the family all assembled, the latter with their backs to me, facing his desk.

‘Ah, Casey,’ said Donald, rising. ‘Come in.’ He pointed to the remaining seat, which was positioned to the side of the desk. ‘This is Mrs Watson,’ he said to the assembled trio as I slipped past them and sat down on it. ‘She’s the one I told you about on the phone, and who’ll hopefully be looking after young Imogen here.’

I smiled and, now that I could see them, took in the row of people. The two grandparents – who were white-haired and both looked to be in their mid-seventies – and Imogen herself, a girl you really couldn’t miss; not with that veil of ginger hair – well, more strawberry blonde, actually; that’s what I’d have called it. But I knew kids. It was red. They’d call it ginger.

‘Good morning,’ I said, extending a hand. ‘Mr and Mrs …’

‘Hinchcliffe,’ the woman provided. ‘I’m Veronica,’ she added, accepting it. Her hand, like the rest of her, was small and frail-looking. ‘And this is Mick. We’re Imogen’s grandparents,’ she added. ‘She lives with us.’

Her voice was clipped and I could see by the way she was holding herself that she was nervous, though her husband – a huge, fit-looking man who had only acknowledged my arrival with a nod – seemed more interested in watching the swarm of excitable children who were now rushing, whooping and shouting, past Donald’s office window. I had the feeling it had been a while since he’d been exposed to so many youngsters all at once.

I turned to Imogen herself, but she didn’t seem to want to make eye contact. She just stared out of the same window, a blank expression on her face.

‘Imogen,’ prompted her grandmother, obviously seeing the direction of my gaze. ‘Did you hear Mr Brabbiner? This is Mrs Watson, your new teacher.’

Now Imogen did turn, blinking once as our eyes met, then lowering her head.

‘She won’t talk,’ Mrs Hinchcliffe said, looking pained. ‘Not here. Not anywhere. Can’t shut her up at home, of course.’

‘Oh, I said, glancing at Don. ‘So she is still speaking sometimes, then?’

Mrs Hinchcliffe nodded. ‘The doctor says it’s something called selective mutism. That she’s just choosing not to talk. Though for the life of us we can’t work out why.’

I nodded. ‘Don’t worry too much,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Imogen will be fine with us, won’t you?’ I turned to Imogen as I said this but she didn’t raise her head. ‘But can I ask you,’ I went on, conscious that I wasn’t completely comfortable discussing Imogen while she was in the room with us, but that, as she didn’t seem to want to contribute, there was really little choice, ‘why this school at this time? Where was she previously?’

Now the grandfather spoke. ‘We took her out of her other high school at the end of the summer term. Had to. She’d been fine before all this started – you know, moving in with us and everything. But when it did start happening, they were useless. All the other kids started picking on her and the teachers were no help at all. Just thought she was being awkward. It’s not right …’

Donald slid a file across the desk to me. ‘These are all Imogen’s notes from her previous school, Mrs Watson. I’ve obviously explained to Mr and Mrs Hinchcliffe that we can take Imogen, no problem, though, in terms of her mutism, I’m not actually sure how much help we can be. Though she does apparently have a therapist working with her at home now, doesn’t she, Mrs Hinchcliffe? So …’

‘A child psychologist, is what it is,’ Mr Hinchcliffe interrupted. ‘Load of mumbo jumbo, if you ask me.’ He scowled, though more in frustration, I thought, than in irritation. ‘The girl needs to sort herself out. Choosing when and where to speak …’

Imogen didn’t react in any way but I could see Don was looking uncomfortable. Perhaps more had been said before I’d entered. There was clearly some tension in the room. ‘Well,’ I said brightly, deciding to take charge of the situation, ‘there’s no need for us to go into all the ins and outs right now, and no point in Imogen being out of school any longer than she has to. If she has some uniform,’ I said, looking at her, but still seeing the top of her head mostly, ‘she could start tomorrow, if you like.’

I looked at Don, who signalled he was fine with that happening. ‘Or,’ I added, as it occurred to me, ‘if she doesn’t, I can perhaps help. We have a good stock of school logo sweatshirts at the moment, so, if you’d like me to find her one, it’s just a case of you kitting her out in a black skirt or trousers and a white shirt.’