Triumph Over Adversity 3-in-1 Collection. Casey Watson

was really seeing anything, and as Mr Hinchcliffe had his back to me he definitely couldn’t.

      At the sound of my voice, though, he turned around and, as if caught red-handed in some illegal act, promptly let his granddaughter go.

      ‘See!’ he barked at me. ‘See what we have to put up with? All we do for her, and this is how she treats us! You saw that, did you? You’ve taken a note of that? I bloody hope so, because this is what she’s like – every time she can’t get her own bloody way!’

      Despite her earlier protestations, Imogen seemed in no rush to hot-foot it up to her room now. In fact, she simply sat down on the bottom step of the stairs. So perhaps my presence in the hall had changed her mind, if not her mindset. She was still busy scowling at her Grandad.

      Mrs Hinchcliffe extended a hand and placed it on her husband’s forearm nervously. ‘Mick, love, let’s just all calm down a bit, eh?’ she suggested. ‘Mrs Watson’s from school, remember? Come to see Imogen. Not to stand here and listen to all this stuff.’

      I glanced at Imogen then, to find her now staring straight at me with a look of incomprehension on her face. ‘That all right with you, love?’ I ventured.

      There was no answer. Instead she leapt up from where she’d been sitting and made a bolt for the front door, but, rather than open it, she seemed to be grabbing something from it, and by the time I’d realised she wasn’t actually trying to get out through it she was already barging past me and sprinting up the stairs.

      A door slammed, shaking the air to such an extent that I feared for the grandmother clock on the wall in front of me, which had been quietly marking out time. ‘Brilliant,’ said Mr Hinchcliffe. ‘That’s it now. Bloody brilliant!’ He rolled his eyes at me, making me think perhaps I’d missed some vital trick, then turned his back and began walking towards the back of the house. ‘You weren’t in a hurry to be anywhere, were you?’ he flung over his shoulder. ‘Because you won’t be going anywhere for a good bit now, believe me.’

      ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Hinchcliffe, ‘I’m afraid he’s right, dear. She’s already got the back-door key, you see. Come on,’ she said, gesturing that I should follow her husband. ‘Come into the kitchen and we’ll get the kettle on. Least we can do is make you a cup of tea.’

      Completely bewildered, and still a little stunned at having heard Imogen speak finally, I followed Mr Hinchcliffe into a cosy country-style kitchen and, at Mrs Hinchcliffe’s invitation, took a seat at the little oilcloth-covered table while she bustled around me with a striped teapot and some teabags.

      ‘Sounds like you’re having a bit of an episode,’ I ventured.

      Mr Hinchcliffe raised his hands and slapped them back palms down on the table. He sat back and looked at me wearily. ‘Mrs Watson, you don’t know the half of it. Little sod was halfway out of her bedroom window before I managed to drag her back inside again. And threatening to jump again,’ he added, glancing in Mrs Hinchcliffe’s direction. ‘It’s getting beyond the pale now. We’re having to run the place like bloody Colditz!’

      ‘What?’ I said. This was something of an alarming state of affairs. ‘Why would she do that?’ I asked them both. ‘Has she done it before?’

      ‘Why is the sky blue?’ her grandmother said, setting down some teacups and saucers. ‘And yes, once before. Mick’s right. It’s getting worse now. The least little thing and it’s always the same. She’s going to jump out of the window and break her legs. She’s going to run in front of a bus. She’s going to throw herself on a railway line. And so on and so forth. And then we’ll be sorry, apparently.’ She sighed heavily, and I felt for her. She looked exhausted. ‘And that’s the problem, Mrs Watson. We have no idea what sets her off. Almost anything, it seems,’ she added, casting her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Just lashes out at us, doesn’t she, Mick? So it’s no wonder, really, is it?’ She glanced at her husband again and shook her head. ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking,’ she said to me. ‘I know how it’s been. She’s silent as a thief in the night when she’s in school, isn’t she? Bottles it up, see. Keeps her nose clean. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. And then we’re the ones who get it,’ she said, adding a milk jug to the pile of crockery. ‘We’re the ones that have to bloody pay for it as soon as she gets home!’

      I nodded sympathetically. ‘I do understand,’ I said. ‘And Imogen’s not unusual in that respect. Children need to let off steam, and it’s usually the place where they feel most secure where they feel the –’

      ‘Let off steam!’ Mr Hinchcliffe huffed. ‘She’s like Stephenson’s bloody Rocket! We’re at our wits’ end with her, Mrs Watson. And we’re too old for all this nonsense! I mean it’s one thing stepping in to help out and give our son a break – never minded doing that – but it’s been almost three bloody months and we’ve had enough of it! I’m on the list for a knee op and what’ll happen once I get my bloody date? That’s what I want to know!’

      ‘I know,’ I said, anxious to steer the conversation back to Imogen and what had been the root of what was beginning to sound like an increasingly volatile situation. ‘It must feel like a huge burden on you both. Which is why we’re so keen to do what we can as a school to help get to the root of Imogen’s problems. We have a specialist coming into school on Monday, in fact, to tell us a little more about her selective mutism …’ I could see I was losing Mr Hinchcliffe at this point, as he was shaking his head in a pretty resigned way. ‘And how about your son?’ I suggested, changing tack. ‘Have you spoken to him about how difficult you’re finding things?’

      The Hinchcliffes exchanged another glance and I sensed a difference of opinion was simmering just below the surface. ‘I don’t think there’s much he can do,’ Mrs Hinchcliffe said eventually. ‘It’s complicated, Mrs Watson,’ she added. ‘They’re not really speaking at the moment.’

      ‘Ah,’ I said, wondering if she’d offer any more by way of explanation. But she didn’t, and I wondered if this was a current bone of contention – that they wanted Imogen to go home to her father and he wasn’t playing ball. But I decided to leave it. For now the key thing was to get Imogen opening up. Only once she did so would I have any idea how she felt, which might be completely at odds with the line I was being peddled. Kids acted out because they were hurting, and very often because their voices weren’t being heard, or because the adults caring for them were putting their own needs first. This was a complex family dynamic, and, however saintly the new girlfriend who had launched into the fray, a teenager who’d been abandoned by her mother was a distressed teenager in most cases, and distressed teenagers could be volatile, antagonistic and aggressive, as the Hinchcliffes were undoubtedly learning.

      ‘So,’ I said, ‘back in the here and now, what’s the business with the key all about?’

      Mrs Hinchcliffe poured boiling water into the teapot. ‘Like Mick says, we live like prisoners in our own home at the moment.’

      ‘But why does she take the keys? It’s not as if you lock her up, is it? I mean, she walks to school and back on her own every day …’

      ‘Oh, it’s not because she’s going to run away,’ Mr Hinchcliffe said. ‘She just does it to be bloody-minded! We lock the upstairs windows, so she takes the downstairs keys.’

      ‘An issue with control, then …’ I mused.

      ‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’ Mr Hinchcliffe said, stirring the tea. ‘An issue with needing a clip round the ear, if you ask me!’

      Mrs Hinchcliffe placed cups on saucers and as she did so I could see her fingers were shaking. They were small hands, dainty and delicate, almost translucent in places. I looked up to smile at her and was shocked to see tears brimming in her eyes.

      There was a slight quiver around her chin, too, but I got a strong sense that I should pretend I hadn’t seen either.

      ‘Well, as I say,’ I said briskly, turning my attention to Mr Hinchcliffe, ‘we have a specialist