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

free periods allocated during the school day, in order that I could keep on top of the paperwork. But with the increasing numbers of children who were sent to the Unit, that particular luxury was beginning to become a thing of the past. I didn’t mind, though. Were I a mainstream teacher I’d be doing a lot of that sort of thing anyway, and though it sometimes meant I was exhausted come Friday, it was all an important part of the learning curve.

      It turned out that Kieron’s second day had mostly been ‘epic’ so, though he’d been chewing on his fingers – a sure sign that he was stressed about something – I reassured myself that it was probably a productive kind of stress. So once he’d filled me in on how he and Si were already composing some music for a presentation, I was able to turn my attention back to work.

      An important part of my job involved writing up detailed reports on every child that I currently had on my books. These would be passed on to the learning support department, the appropriate head of year and, if applicable, to Gary, our Child Protection Officer, and form part of the dossier of information we had on every pupil who needed extra support.

      In Imogen’s case, an important addition to what we already knew would be the details of my home visit earlier. Though there was still a great deal we didn’t know – and probably needed to, if we were to have the tools to help her – I’d at least gained more insight into what was clearly a tense and difficult family dynamic.

      I wondered too, as I wrote, how things might have changed. One thing I’d learned since starting my job was that, following a home visit, the dynamic between me and the child usually shifted. And in a positive way, too; it tended to become more personal. There was something about seeing a child away from the school setting – with all those rules and protocols – that encouraged a greater rapport.

      That said, we were talking about a child who’d yet to speak to me, so I wasn’t holding my breath that we’d suddenly become confidantes. So it was to my delight that I arrived at my classroom door the following morning to find Imogen standing there waiting for me to arrive.

      ‘Hello love,’ I said, fumbling with my key in the lock, aware of just how early it still was. ‘That’s good timing. Could you grab my satchel off my shoulder for me so I can get the door open, do you think? This stupid lock needs some WD40.’

      If she was aware of the irony of my words she didn’t show it. She did, however, take the bag off my shoulder so that I could maintain a hold on the stack of books I was carrying in one hand while jiggling the key in the classroom door in the other.

      Once we were in she went straight across to my desk and placed the satchel down carefully upon it. She then walked over to the evidence boards on the classroom wall and, while I filled the kettle and popped it on its stand, stood and studied all the new pieces of work I’d put up the previous afternoon. One of the things I’d copied and added was Henry’s conflict-resolution play synopsis, which she seemed to be studying quite intently.

      ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ I called across. ‘There’s a lot more to Henry than meets the eye, as you’ve probably already noticed!’

      She nodded, and even glanced over and smiled at this. It was still as odd, though – as odd as it had ever been – being in a classroom alone with a person who didn’t speak. I wondered about actors who had to do action scenes in front of green screens; how they managed to fight digitally produced monsters they could only imagine rather than see. It was strange talking into a void; it felt like such an unnatural thing to be doing. And it occurred to me that it must be even stranger for Imogen – hearing words spoken but not being able to respond to them. Was she trying to, I wondered? I couldn’t quite imagine what it must be like. It was clearly psychological but, to her, did it feel physical? As if she was desperate to get something out but couldn’t make her body obey her brain?

      Or was it not like that? Was it more of a decision she had to stick to? Like my endless quests to give up smoking, was it something she did have physical control over, and had to will herself not to crack and open her mouth?

      It was while I was pondering this that I noticed that, while she was looking at something else, Imogen’s lips were moving, presumably in synch with what she was reading – something I’d not noticed before. She then walked across to the girls’ table with her workbook and began reading that – and, once again, she seemed to be miming what she saw.

      Or was she? ‘What was that, love?’ I said casually, while spooning coffee into my mug. ‘I couldn’t quite hear what you said. Say again?’

      ‘I thought she …’ she began, but I couldn’t quite catch the rest of it because the kettle was chuntering up to the boil.

      I flipped the switch up. ‘Sorry, love?’ I said.

      ‘I thought she might …’ she whispered. At least I thought that was what she’d whispered. I came round to the front of my desk. ‘You thought someone might what?’ I repeated. But as soon as I began to approach her it was as if her own switch had been flipped as well. It was as if a shutter had come down, the change was so abrupt and so decisive. As if she’d mentally run from me, to a far corner of her mind.

      I decided I wouldn’t push it. I would simply ponder it, for the moment at least. Make a note after I’d made my coffee and then mull over what it might mean. It was a breakthrough – a big breakthrough – and that was a good enough start for me. And with the arrival of Gavin, seconds later, full of his usual surfeit of energy, I switched mental gears – I must really chase up the parents re that medication, I registered.

      New hat on, Casey, I thought, as the rest tumbled in behind him. Let the day’s madness begin …

Chapter 9

      It was clear as I got ready for work the following Monday morning that winter was very much on its way. We were now well into October and not only were the mornings getting darker, but the temperature had taken a nose-dive as well. I made a mental note to ask Mike to reset the timer on the heating and hot water as I shivered in the bedroom after my necessarily brief shower; brief because of the lack of hot water, rather than because I was in a hurry. With the meeting with the clinician scheduled, I had the rare luxury of time, as my fellow behaviour manager, Jim Dawson, would be taking the class for the morning in my place.

      Though we shared a job title, our roles were very different. Neither of us knew it at the time, but there had originally been just the one post up for grabs, so we’d actually started out as competitors. But after we’d both given presentations on how best we thought behaviour could be improved and emotional literacy fostered, it seemed the school had something of a rethink. Seeing so much merit in incorporating our different ideas and approaches, they’d decided to create two jobs and, though it would stretch the budget, employ both of us and let us divide the role as the pair of us saw fit. They also put at our disposal the services the school’s TAs and learning support staff.

      So that’s what we’d done, divvying thing up according to our own ‘skill-sets’ (to use the jargon) so that I ran the Unit, while Jim’s role was more peripatetic: he could often be found pounding the mean streets of the school corridors, chasing after some errant or absconding child or other. In the main, though, he was classroom-based, drafted in as and where needed. If a teacher was having problems with a particularly disruptive pupil, Jim was the go-to guy to form a cunning plan to contain the chaos.

      This morning, however, Jim was going to contain any chaos that might break out with my little lot, ably assisted by Kelly. All I needed to do was set things up for that morning’s activities, and though I knew that there wasn’t that much need for me to organise every tiny detail, I was far too much the control freak not to do so.

      And it seemed I wasn’t the only one keen to get a march on the day. As I walked in through the reception doors the first people I clapped eyes on were Henry and little Ben sitting quietly on two of the black seating cubes that were normally reserved for visitors and parents.

      ‘Good morning,