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

‘Morning, Miss!’ he said brightly, grinning widely at the pair of us.

‘I’m Henry,’ he told Imogen with a confident can-do air. ‘I came in early so I could check you were here. What’s your name again?’

Meeting his eye now, Imogen seemed to physically shrink. Down went the head onto the chest, too.

‘Her name is Imogen,’ I reminded him. ‘Imogen, Henry is our oldest. In fact he’s your age, and he kind of helps me out, don’t you, Henry? With some of the younger ones.’

I watched Henry swell with pride. ‘Yeah, I do,’ he confirmed. ‘I make sure they don’t mess about too much for Miss. An’ I told them they gotta be all right with you, too. So they will be, okay?’

There was no response to this from Imogen, so I supplied one for her. ‘Thanks, Henry,’ I told him. ‘And you’re right. I’m sure they will be. Now, shall we get some drinks made before the others get here?’

Henry moved towards my little corner and grabbed the kettle so he could fill it for me. I was so impressed with him; was this the same boy who was an inch from exclusion? Maybe stewarding Imogen would be really good for him. ‘Hot chocolate?’ I asked Imogen. ‘That’s how we tend to start the day here. With a nice cup of hot chocolate and a biscuit.’

She glanced up and I noticed her gaze flutter up towards me. And was I mistaken or was that the trace of a smile? It was something, at any rate. Something we could build on. Perhaps we might be able to communicate after all. Right now, though, I took it as evidence that she would indeed like a hot chocolate, so I joined Henry and set about arranging all the plastic cups, plus my mug, ready for my next cup of coffee.

I’d done well with my hot-chocolate stash, which I’d shamelessly blagged not long after I’d arrived in the school. There was a drinks vending machine in the sixth-form block, and a man came every month to fill it, and one day, by chance, we’d met along one of the corridors and had fallen into conversation. I’d told him about how several of my kids came into school hungry and thirsty, and he’d told me about how a small proportion of the drinks had torn sleeves and couldn’t go into the machines he serviced. They were usually thrown away, too. Would I like them?

It was a match made in heaven. I got a new supply of hot chocolate once a month, and he got a free cup of tea before he left and, more often than not, a biscuit as well.

It was a full ten minutes before the other kids arrived, and they were long ones, Imogen silently sipping her drink and Henry sneaking peeks at her as he did likewise. After his initial chattiness he didn’t seem to know quite what to do now, and kept glancing towards the door, hoping for reinforcements. I think we were both relieved when a rumble in the corridor bore fruit and the other four kids came bowling in, Shona and Molly arm in arm as per usual, and Ben and Gavin doing their usual pushing and shoving.

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘here’s the rest of our little group, Imogen. Right,’ I told them, ‘come on in and take your seats everyone, and let’s get this party started.’

I made quick introductions as I prepared chocolate for the rest, and told the girls to go and sit at Imogen’s table. Today, with even numbers, we’d have a boys’ group and a girls’ group – for this morning’s activity, at any rate. I also got out the biscuits, eyeing Ben as I always did. Ben, I knew, was one of the kids who never got breakfast, as his dad worked shifts and would be asleep when he’d left for school. I’d once asked him if he could maybe grab some toast to see him through, but his response was that there wasn’t often any bread.

I couldn’t think of Ben without feeling a sharp pang of sympathy, and today was no different. I glanced at him now, yawning away, looking as if he’d just tumbled out of bed fully clothed. His off-white shirt, unironed and crumpled, had its two bottom buttons missing, and was only half tucked into his grubby school trousers. He didn’t have a school jumper, and when I’d asked him about that he’d told me it was because his dad didn’t think it was worth spending the money as he’d probably be excluded soon and would be off to a different school.

‘You can have one of my spares,’ I’d said, this being the logical solution, but Ben, loyal to the last, and not wanting charity, shook his head. ‘Thanks, Miss,’ he’d said. ‘But if my dad don’t want me to have one then I won’t have one.’

Free biscuits, however, were another matter – no one in my classroom ever seemed to turn them down and, though I could see Molly was embarrassed, listening to Shona trying to engage Imogen in conversation – she was blushing furiously – the atmosphere in the room wasn’t quite as awkward as I’d feared.

And my plan for the morning would hopefully encourage that further.

‘Right,’ I said, once everyone had a drink and a biscuit. ‘Chatter time is over. Time to listen.’

I handed out two packets of dried spaghetti and two bags of marshmallows, to the general appreciation of all concerned.

‘Wobbly Towers!’ said Henry as I did so. ‘Yess!’

‘Yes, Wobbly Towers,’ I explained, for the benefit of Imogen and the others – Henry was the only one of the group who’d done the activity before, the other children having only been with me for a month or so. ‘Henry’s correct,’ I said. ‘That’s what we’re doing this morning. And today it’s going to be boys against girls.’

I then went on to explain the basics of ‘Wobbly Towers’, one of my most popular and well-used group activities. I would give the children an hour, during which they had to spend half an hour designing and planning the structure of a wobbly tower, and then build one out of the sticks of dried spaghetti and the marshmallows. It was a little bit like creating the molecular structure models you’d see in science classes, but we made no mention of atoms and bonds or anything complex like that. They simply had to create something that would stand unsupported for at least one minute, with a prize going to the team who, in my ‘professional’ opinion, had been the most inventive with their construction ideas.

Wobbly Towers was a team activity, which meant it was also a great ice-breaker, which was why I did it so often. With children coming and going all the time it was important to plan activities that helped with the bonding process; especially important, given that the kids that came to me often did so because of their struggles to find friends.

Henry’s hand shot up as soon as I’d finished speaking.

‘Yes, Henry?’ I said, one eye on Imogen’s impassive face.

‘Miss, do we get to eat the marshmallows after we’ve finished?’

‘Hmm, let me think …’ I said, pretending to muse as I went to my desk to get paper and pencils for everyone. ‘Well, if you take the full half hour to plan properly (the kids were always itching to plunge in impulsively and start building, so that was important) and if you do create a tower that stays upright for the whole minute … then, yes, I suppose I could let you share the marshmallows out at the end.’

There were smiles all round. We had the same conversation, pretty much, every time we did it.

‘Epic,’ said Henry to his fellow boys, as they took the pieces of paper I was proffering. ‘Let’s show the girls, eh?’

Molly and Shona tutted as they came up behind them, Imogen falling into step behind Shona, and taking the paper and pencil she passed back to her.

‘There we are,’ Shona said to her. ‘Just put your name at the top, seeing as how you don’t like to talk. And Molly and me will tell you what you’ve got to write on it. Oh, and yes –’ She turned to me. ‘Miss, can I have another bit of paper? There,’ she said, as I passed her another and she handed it over to Imogen. ‘You can use that bit of paper to tell us stuff, can’t you? It’ll be like when I had tonsillitis and I lost my voice all day. I had to write everything down then, too.’