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

‘Um, oh, yeah. Will do,’ he said, having, in typical teenage boy fashion, already tuned me out in favour of the bit of programme he could still see through the glass doors between the table and the telly.

Honestly, I thought to myself as I headed up the stairs, if anyone had told me when they were little that I’d be worrying about my kids so much at this age, I’d have thought they were mad. But of course, I’d been wrong – older didn’t necessarily mean less difficult to parent. It was just that you did your worrying on a different level.

But at least Kieron could communicate his worries – well, up to a point and after a fashion anyway. I thought back to the anxious-looking little girl who’d be joining my class the following morning. How could she be helped in her troubles – and she clearly had some troubles on her shoulder – if she couldn’t communicate anything to anyone?

I was feeling lighter of heart as I walked into school the following morning, at least where Kieron was concerned. Where I had only prompted mild teenage disgruntlement, Mike had produced progress, and we’d all gone to bed with a plan that seemed workable – for Kieron to at least think about exploring the possibility of applying to the local college to do a two-year course in Media Studies, with an emphasis on music production.

It had been a friend of Mike’s from work that had suggested it. His son had just finished one and had really enjoyed it, and, better still, it had clearly served him well. He was now doing an apprenticeship with a theatre group in London, learning how to produce music for shows.

Mike had done a soft-sell on it, knowing that to go in guns blazing would be likely to make Kieron anxious by default. Instead, he couched it in terms that made it sound more like a hobby he could dabble in than an actual college course. After all, he loved music as much as he loved football and superheroes (i.e. a lot ), and once we looked into things further and found the teaching style was mostly small-group based, it began to seem much less daunting than he’d originally thought. He was still reticent, but he was also asking questions, at least, which was an encouraging development. But now came the biggie: his task for today was to take the bold and scary step of phoning the admissions office to try and make an appointment.

Whether he’d have managed it by the time I got home from work remained to be seen. I felt hopeful, though, and able to turn my attention to the probably equally scared young girl who was joining us today.

I could see Imogen and her grandmother when I walked into reception. They were seated in the corner, on the small sofa that was stationed there for the purpose, and both silently watched my progress through the double doors.

I was pleased to see they’d arrived early as it would be much less daunting for Imogen if she could come straight to my classroom with me than run the gamut of all the other kids arriving.

I raised an arm and waved. ‘Morning!’ I called to them, smiling. They both stood as I approached, as if to attention.

Mrs Hinchcliffe was holding Imogen’s arm protectively, but it was clear she was keen to be gone. ‘Do I have to stay with her?’ she asked me, having acknowledged my greeting.

I shook my head. ‘No, no, that’s fine,’ I told her. ‘Imogen can come with me now.’ I turned and met her gaze. ‘Okay? And will you be picking Imogen up again?’ I asked Mrs Hinchcliffe, ‘or will she be making her own way home?’

Imogen’s grandmother shuffled, a touch uncomfortably, I thought, before she answered. ‘No,’ she said, finally. ‘She knows her way home. It’s only five minutes away. And she won’t want me here, I’m sure. Showing her up …’

Now it was my turn to feel uncomfortable. It really did feel odd to be talking about this girl as if she was an inanimate object. ‘Okay, then,’ I said. ‘Well, we’ll be off then, shall we, Imogen? And I’ll see you, well … whenever, Mrs Hinchcliffe. Though it occurred to me that perhaps we could speak on the phone later – have a bit of a catch-up? If that’s all right.’

She seemed a little surprised at my suggestion, but said that, yes, it would be fine, then headed back out into the warm autumn sunshine, throwing a ‘Be good, Imogen’ back towards us by way of a goodbye.

I’d already decided to skip my usual half-hour in the staffroom and as we were in school so early – there were still ten minutes to go till the bell went – take the opportunity to acclimatise Imogen to her new surroundings before the other children all came crashing in.

‘Come on,’ I told her now, beckoning her towards the doors to the main corridor. ‘Follow me.’

She seemed reluctant to make eye contact, but fell into step with me, chin very firmly on chest. But not before I could see the strange blank expression that had now taken over her face. It really was mask-like; as if, now Nan had gone, a shutter had come down. It made the silence between us feel even more uncomfortable.

I chatted as we walked, trying to fill it. I told her about my own children, and how I would have been in school before her and her Nan were, had it not been for my daughter Riley and her scattiness in the mornings and how this particular morning she’d had us all in a spin, rushing around trying to find her a pair of her ‘stupid’ tights. I kept glancing at Imogen as I spoke, but it wasn’t clear that she was even listening, since there was no response at all.

‘There are going to be five other children joining us in a bit,’ I went on. ‘Three boys, two other girls – and they’re all looking forward to meeting you. I think you’ll like them – particularly the girls, Molly and Shona. They’re a little younger than you – Shona’s in year 8 but Molly’s still in year 7 – and they’re both lovely girls.’

The walk wasn’t a long one, but it seemed so. It was a strange business, inanely chirping away to a girl who seemed not to want to listen or respond. And I wondered – what was going through her head right now? Still, my research had told me that this was the right thing to do – just keep on talking, even if it was into a void. And that, I thought, as we reached my classroom, I was good at.

‘Here we are!’ I said, as we approached the door. ‘My little kingdom!’

It was something to see, too – a proper work of art. In contrast to every other classroom door in the school, mine was highly decorated; covered, top to bottom, in daffodils and daisies, all painted by various children who had passed through it and all cut out and covered in sticky-back plastic, in traditional Blue Peter style. A work of art in its own right, everyone in school commented on it, and I was pleased to see it prompt a reaction. No, not in words, but Imogen did seem to do a bit of a double-take on seeing it.

‘We’ll have to get you to paint a flower for it, too, eh?’ I told her as I unlocked it. I laughed. ‘I think there’s just about room!’

Again, there was almost nothing in the way of a response, and it was an equally odd business trying to do my usual welcome spiel. I ushered Imogen to a seat, and as I proceeded to point out the various aspects of the classroom I felt increasingly like an air hostess – one who was trying to keep the attention of my single indifferent passenger, who only glanced up occasionally and apparently indifferently.

‘And that door there,’ I said, once I’d run through all the basic whats and wheres, ‘is the emergency exit, as you can see, but we often take a table or two out there if the weather is nice. Might do today, in fact. We’ll see …’

It was hard work, but just as I was wondering if I should next show her the brace position, I was rescued by the arrival of Henry.