Mummy’s Little Soldier: A troubled child. An absent mum. A shocking secret.. Casey Watson

and primping, is it?’

      ‘Oh, you know what I mean. He’d have been mortified if he knew I’d seen him. Anyway, the point is why? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gary pay attention to how he looks, ever.’

      She was right about that. Gary was in his mid forties, but he still dressed as though inside him there was a devil-may-care student half his age trying to muscle out. In fact, half-muscled out already; he invariably looked if not as if he’d been dragged through a hedge, at least like someone had shoved him against one. He just wasn’t a suit and tie man – much more a chinos and checked shirt one. Which was fine. While Mike Moore and Donald Brabbiner looked ever the ‘executive’ part, as befitted their status as head and deputy, nobody minded that Gary’s look was more understated or that his hair was of the too-long-for-school style. It was all fit for purpose. Some roles had a more relaxed dress code and Gary’s – which often required him to be approachable, on-side and unthreatening – was just right for the sort of work he had to do. The kids liked him, pretty universally, and that was the main thing. And as he’d once commented, having that extra half-hour in bed was something he rather liked as well.

      ‘Agree,’ I said. ‘And, as it happens, there is something going on.’

      ‘What?’ she squealed delightedly. ‘Tell me, tell me!’

      I passed her a mug of coffee and sat down at the nearest table with her. ‘Ah, that I can’t tell you because I don’t yet know myself. He’s going to spill the beans at lunchtime. Actually,’ I said, remembering, ‘he didn’t use the word “secret”. He called it “gossip”. So don’t worry – when I do know, I’ll have absolutely no compunction about passing any intelligence on.’

      ‘Good,’ she said, ‘because I have a wall-stapler and I’m not afraid to use it. Anyway, crack on with your own gossip because I haven’t got long. I’m supposed to be back in learning support in ten minutes. I only came to drop the files to you from Julia.’

      So I did. We spent an enjoyable few minutes having a proper debrief about the summer holidays (Kelly’s sounding achingly carefree compared with my carefully edited highlights), and once she’d gone I got back to clearing the classroom walls and stapling up new backing sheets ready for the new term. But my eye kept being drawn back to the folder of photocopies in front of me, and in the end I succumbed to what I really fancied doing, which was taking a proper look at the three kids I had joining me.

      The first child on the pile was one we’d not yet discussed, but I wasn’t in the least surprised to see the name on the top; it was a fourteen-year-old girl, now in year 10, called Ria Walker. Ria had already earned herself something of a reputation of late, for becoming – to use the jargon – a bit of a nightmare. The stats were all there to prove it, as well. In the last year she’d been sent out of at least one lesson per day, for disruption – and now she was starting her GCSE courses proper, it was essential the school get a grip on what ailed her so she had a fighting chance of reaching her potential. And she had a lot of potential too; she was academically very able and, up till a year or so ago, she’d also been a model student. She was popular, outgoing, intelligent and capable, and no one could seem to find out why the slide had started happening, least of all her supportive, caring parents.

      Was she too able? Not being stretched enough? No one seemed to think so. She just seemed to be permanently irritable and pugnacious, and when quizzed she was apparently as unable to find a reason as anyone else. I smiled as I turned the page. Having Ria in the Unit would be a challenge, but one I relished. Getting to the crux of a child’s difficulties was what I was there for, after all. It would also be nice to have an older girl come into the mix, given Cody. No, we’d be fine, whatever attitude she brought along.

      I then started to read a bit more about Cody herself – the girl Julia had referred to as ‘strange’. No doubt I’d soon get to see her odd behaviours for myself, but right now I was more interested in taking a look at the records from her previous schools and foster placements. She’d had a shocking start to life it seemed (being locked up by her mother apparently only a part of it), so it was no wonder she had a personality disorder. And as I read on, it became clear that she was destined to be a very temporary pupil; we were simply the interim and the place at which she’d get the full assessment that would finally see her in a school where they could better meet her needs. In fact, I was mostly to be a ‘facilitator’, helping organise and support her while a series of meetings with the educational psychologist took place.

      So a pretty clear brief, even if the child herself was complex – as I suspected would be the case with the youngest of them, Darryl. I was naturally drawn to working with kids on the autism spectrum and felt confident I could help Darryl settle in and find his way. He sounded like a poppet, too – though very vulnerable – so my heart automatically went out to him. I was very much looking forward to meeting him.

      And it seemed I was about to, much sooner than I’d thought. When the bell went for break I decided to stay put and continue reading. I had a computer terminal in my office and had plugged it in and fired it up, so I could research some of Cody’s behaviours. I was just doing so when there was a rap at the door.

      Kelly popped her head round. ‘You okay for a quick visit, Mrs Watson?’ she asked. The formal address signalled that she must have a child in tow, so I shut the screen off.

      ‘Of course,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m always up for visits. And who might this be?’ I added, turning my attention to the skinny little lad who she was now ushering in.

      He looked pristine and nervous, so I pegged him as a year 7. Stiff shirt, brand new blazer, shoes polished to within an inch of their lives, and he’d yet to raise his gaze from the floor.

      Kelly closed the door behind them. ‘This is Darryl, Mrs Watson,’ she said. ‘And he wanted to come down as he’s been feeling a bit anxious about being able to find his way here come Wednesday.’

      In reality, he’d be brought to me by either his form tutor or a prefect, but I knew how autistic kids needed to iron out life’s anxieties, so it was a shrewd move to get this one out of the way.

      ‘Darryl?’ Kelly was saying gently, squatting down to shrink herself a little. ‘Are you going to lift your head up and say hello to Mrs Watson?’

      I also made myself smaller and leaned towards Darryl, offering my hand for him to shake. ‘Nice to meet you, Darryl,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy working in here. Well, once you get settled in, which I’m sure you soon will.’

      The boy gave me the briefest of glances then looked away, flinching slightly as I shook the hand he shyly proffered. He then began nodding, increasingly quickly, and shifting from one foot to the other. ‘Yes. I’m Darryl,’ he said, still avoiding my gaze. ‘I’m Darryl Davies who lives at number 18 Summersdale Court.’ The foot movements became more obvious and he then started rocking. ‘Hmm,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Is that the time? It’s two minutes until the bell and we need to get back. Numeracy starts in four minutes.’

      I glanced at Kelly then checked my watch, impressed. ‘Spot on,’ I told him. ‘That’s some trick you’ve got there.’ But Darryl continued to stare at the floor.

      Kelly grinned. ‘Darryl counts the seconds in his head,’ she explained. ‘Loves to live by the clock, don’t you, lovely?’

      ‘Time is of the essence,’ Darryl added, though, again, without looking up. And in the same monotone he’d used for the rest of his little speech.

      ‘Well, okay,’ I said, rising. ‘I guess you’d better skedaddle then. See you Wednesday.’ Another nod, and he was herding Kelly out of the door.

      I watched them leave and felt a familiar prickle of excitement. It looked like I was going to be in for an interesting term. Kieron’s Asperger’s – the kind I knew about – was nothing like this. Time for a refresher course, perhaps, I thought, returning to the computer monitor. While my son was only just over the line that put him ‘on the spectrum’, Darryl seemed to be in a completely different place.

      And