Contents

Cover

Title Page

The Girl Without a Voice by Casey Watson

Beautiful Child by Torey Hayden

Lovey by Mary MacCracken

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

Copyright

About the Publisher

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all those who work with children in any capacity. I am filled with admiration for those who strive to make a difference in the lives of those who need someone to listen.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my wonderful agent, Andrew, and Vicky and her team of super beings at HarperCollins who work tirelessly to ensure my words make it out there. As ever, special thanks to my friend and mentor Lynne, who is there, always, to get me back on track no matter what dramas life bestows.

Chapter 1

There are jobs and there are jobs, and my perfect kind of job has always been the kind where you wake up Monday morning with no idea what the week might have in store.

Which was exactly the kind of job I did have, so it was definitely a blessing that my home life was, in contrast, so predictable.

‘Mu-um!’ came my daughter’s plaintive voice from upstairs. ‘I can’t find my other black shoe! I have five minutes to get out of the door and I can’t find it anywhere! Have you seen it? Someone’s obviously moved it!’

I shook my head and sighed. That was typical of Riley. She was 18 now and we were so alike, in so many ways. Same black hair, same laugh, same taste in music and fashion. But in one important respect we were different. Where it was my life’s mission to try and make the world a tidier place, Riley was the opposite: she was just about the most disorganised person I knew. I knew where her shoe would be. It would, same as ever, be in exactly the same place as it landed when she last flung it off.

I headed upstairs anyway, however, because I had the luxury of an hour till I needed to leave for work, whereas she really did only have five – no, four – minutes. She’d secured a great job after leaving college, and she was really enjoying it. She worked in a travel agents, which she said gave her ‘that holiday feeling every day’. But it wasn’t a holiday – there was an end time and, more pertinently, a start time. Just as well she had such an understanding boss.

I was halfway up the stairs when she appeared on the landing. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, hopping as she pulled the errant shoe on to her foot. ‘Panic over. Someone must have kicked it under my bed.’

‘Er, excuse me?’ I chided, as she came down to join me. ‘Someone? Which someone might that be?’

In answer she planted a quick kiss on my cheek, then she was out of the door to catch her bus with only seconds to spare. I waved her off, thinking wistfully of how it might feel to be 18 again, off to work without a care in the world.

The children in my own world were different. Well, the ones I spent my weekdays with, at any rate. I worked as a behaviour manager in a big inner-city comprehensive school, so the kids that came my way were the opposite of carefree. They came to spend time with me for a variety of different reasons, but what they had in common was that they couldn’t cope in a mainstream school setting. My job, as well as providing a safe space in which they could work, was to assess them and decide upon the best course of action, which could involve counselling them, teaching them coping techniques and/or, in some cases, referral to outside agencies that could help them, such as professional counsellors and clinical psychologists. Sometimes it could be as simple as formulating a temporary alternative curriculum, and other times it could end up being protracted and complex – where a child’s difficulties were too severe to be dealt with using mainstream school facilities, for example, it might mean a transfer to a live-in establishment that had the staff and facilities appropriate to their needs. And in extreme cases, where the children were deemed to be at risk at home, social services might be brought in and the child placed in care.

Either way, mine was a job that, though often challenging, was never boring, but with the growing numbers of children getting referred to me in the six months since I’d been there, it could also at times be very stressful.

With Riley gone to work, that just left me and my son Kieron at home, with my husband Mike, who was a warehouse manager, long gone too. And home was where I suspected Kieron would stay most of the day. It was the end of September – three weeks into a new academic year – and Kieron was finding life hard to cope with. He was 16 now and had left school back in June without a plan. And with his friends either back in school or college, or even working, he felt a bit rootless – the change in routine had really unsettled him. Kieron has Asperger’s, a very mild form of autism, so all change is difficult for him to manage, and the big question – try for college, get a job, do an apprenticeship? – was still to be settled and was weighing heavily on his mind.

And ours too, and would continue to do so till Kieron worked out what he felt was the best path for him; something there would be no point in rushing. No point plunging into something only to find out it was the wrong thing – that would only stress him out more.

So we needed to be patient – though right now I had other things to think about anyway. Having my final cup of coffee, throwing something for dinner into the slow cooker and making sure the house looked the way I wanted it to look when I returned home at the end of the day.

Well, hopefully, anyway. I gave my work shoes a quick polish before slipping them on my feet and grimacing at my reflection in the hall mirror. That was the one major downside of doing what I did – that I had to get so trussed up to do it. Smart black skirt and jacket, black tights, shiny shoes. And a crisp stripy blouse – it was all so not me! I’ve always been much more of a jogging bottoms and T-shirt type, more a ‘bundle my unruly hair any-which-way into a ponytail’ sort of woman than one who enjoys spending hours in front of a mirror blow-drying it and having to wear make-up all day.

But there was no choice, not if I wanted to be seen as a professional. Part of my job involved meetings with fellow professionals – head teachers, social workers, educational welfare staff, educational psychologists – so I had learned quickly what the sartorial rules were. I needed to dress to impress if I was going to by taken seriously – an uncomfortable sacrifice for someone like me. I’d rather spend time with a hundred unruly teenagers than be sat around a conference table with adults of that calibre – intimidating was what it was, even if necessary.

As ever, however, all thoughts of anything other than the job in hand left my mind as soon as I walked through the school gates, and I was greeted by the usual cacophony of shrieks and yells that were synonymous with every Monday morning.

‘Morning, Miss – did you have a nice weekend?’

‘Miss! Brandon Smith’s been telling lies about me!’

‘Mrs Watson, can I come to you instead of doing PE today?’

Smiling at the little crowd that threatened to engulf me, I pointed at the oversized hall clock. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to catch up later,’ I reassured the group around me. ‘And yes, I did have a nice weekend, thank you, but right now it’s time you all got off to registration.’ I grinned at them. ‘And guess what I need?’

‘Coffee!’ came the chorus, as the kids began dispersing. ‘Coffee, Miss, you’re off to get your coffee!’

They weren’t wrong. My love of coffee was almost as well known about me as my love of creating order out of chaos. Not that the staffroom was chaos, exactly, but neither was it a shrine to housewifery. I knew I was regularly the subject of whispers and odd looks as I stood by the drinks-making area in the corner, furiously wiping spills and polishing teaspoons. I’d often wait behind, too, after the bell had gone for classes, plumping cushions and straightening papers and journals. No one ever mentioned it – well, not to me, not yet, at any rate, but I was pretty certain they knew it was me.

There was the usual air of sudden evacuation in the room as I entered, as the assembled teachers – often 25 or so at this time of day – headed to their classes to deal with registration. I, on the other hand, still had half an hour to kill, as the students currently with me would not come to my classroom till after that was over, at around 9.30. I made my coffee, trying to resist the urge to do the washing-up as well. Which was ridiculous; there was a lady whose job it was to come in and do that during lesson time, but it was a challenge for me not to beat her to it.

Still, I resisted. I had plenty to be doing anyway. There were the lesson plans for each child in my unit to be finalised – currently five – plus some writing-up of stuff from the previous day. I did a daily ‘life space’ interview with every child who was with me. It was one of the new buzzwords, and what it actually meant was starting a conversation off with each child and then just listening. Well, not just listening – ‘active’ listening, which was all about helping the child to open up, using emotive prompts such as ‘That must have been upsetting for you’ and ‘What happened then?’

And going by my experience with some of the kids I’d had pass through my hands so far, the answer to that could be anything. Straighteners or not, it could make anyone’s hair curl.

My office was situated on the ground floor of one of the two school buildings, the one that also housed most of the other main offices and the art, sport and drama departments. The second building, which was connected to the first via a long corridor and the main dining hall, was where the majority of the normal classrooms were.

Though ‘office’ was perhaps too fine a word for my new room. In truth, it was an old, long disused, tiny classroom that had once been a learning support room. Back in the day, it had housed 15 or so pupils, and had contained nothing but a few tables and chairs and an elderly blackboard when I first viewed it. The head, Mr Moore, had been surprised that I’d chosen it over the alternatives he’d shown me. There’d also been a large airy office that had once housed Mr Brabbiner, the deputy head, or a laboratory-style classroom with huge built-in desks, an interactive whiteboard and a separate office area.

But no. This was the one I’d wanted. Though it had been both filthy and gloomy when I saw it, what I also saw was loads of potential. And the main reason for that had been the pair of ‘French doors’. Actually a fire exit, they opened out onto a lovely sheltered grassy area, and, best of all, there was no rule that said I had to keep them closed. In short, it had a garden, and I was immediately won over, and asked if I could come in for two weeks before I actually started so I could get the place properly cleaned and organised.

I looked at it now, and smiled. It really was my home from home. I had set aside an area for myself, using a couple of tables to create an ‘L’ shape, and behind that I kept a kettle and cups, everything I needed to make drinks with, plus a toaster and the thing I had quickly become known for – having always, but always, a supply of biscuits.

I’d had the caretaker paint the whole room a sunny shade of yellow (which was about as outrageous a hue as the council allowed), and made brightly coloured frames which I hung on all the walls to house the works of art I didn’t doubt I’d soon be getting. With the garden in mind (I had ambitious designs on that too) I also made an area for plants and seed potting. That initiative, too, got me a few choice looks from colleagues, as I lugged bags of compost down the corridors.

Finally, I installed a radio, and a chill-out area come mini-library, complete with a low table and some luridly patterned bean bags.

Only then did I arrange study tables and chairs in the centre, in what space was left available for the purpose. This was a classroom, no doubt about it, but it was so much more than that. It was to be a place where troubled kids could properly chill out and feel relaxed, whatever the reason for them being in my ‘office’. And that mattered. It was so much easier to talk to a relaxed child than a stressed one that, though I did wince when I saw how much I’d spent from my meagre budget, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt justified. I’d made it as it should be.

My gang of ‘regulars’ arrived with the usual kerfuffle. Kids came and went, obviously – some would be with me for just a lesson or two – but a few were with me full time during any given week. I had five of those with me currently, and they couldn’t have been more different. I had three year 7s – new to the school, still finding their way for various reasons, and two year 8s who’d both come to me last term.

First in, and most challenging, was Henry. Aged 13, he was in danger of permanent exclusion due to his disruptive and frequently violent nature. He’d already been excluded from lessons by almost all of his teachers, and coming to my ‘Unit’ (not my name of choice – I hated labels, but it had well and truly stuck now) was a last-ditch attempt to get him to settle down sufficiently that he could stay in mainstream education.

This morning, happily, he seemed to be in high spirits. ‘All right, Miss?’ he said as he bounced into the room and slung his tatty backpack down on the nearest table.

‘I’m fine, Henry,’ I told him. ‘And you’re sounding chirpy. Have a good weekend?’

‘Miss, it was epic.’

Henry’s problem with the world seemed to be rooted in a lack of empathy. He was the youngest of five boys, living with a mum on benefits – there was no dad on the scene – and it seemed he struggled with his place in the home hierarchy. He’d only ever had hand-me-downs (clothes and toys) for obvious reasons, which didn’t automatically mean he’d be emotionally scarred – far from it; lots of kids had next to nothing and were fine. But Henry wasn’t. His main problem seemed to be that he was treated as the runt of the family, getting picked on mercilessly by his older brothers. He would then, understandably, come into school full of anger, and would then transfer that to children younger or smaller than him. He was also unkempt and dirty, which was another of his issues – one of the things I’d already been able to establish was that one particular teacher had tended to pick on him too – showing him up in front of the other kids. In fact the first indication I’d had that I could perhaps make some progress with Henry was when he confided that this teacher had humiliated him in front of everyone. ‘I always know when you’ve arrived in class, Henry,’ he told him, ‘because you’re quickly followed by a bad smell.’

But he seemed in good spirits this morning, and full of what had obviously been a good weekend, and I didn’t doubt he’d have been about to tell me why it had been so ‘epic’, only at that point he was joined by another of my current trio of boys, who, there being some important footballing victory to be discussed, immediately commanded his attention. Gavin, who was 11 and had just joined the school, had ADHD ; he was on Ritalin and had been sent to me for a ‘calming’ period of two months, to try and help improve his behaviour and concentration.

Third to arrive was Ben, who was new to both school and area. He’d been excluded from his primary before the end of the last school year and had not been in education for six months. Ben lived with his dad, his mum having died shortly after giving birth to him, and, for a million reasons, he was angry all the time. My job with Ben, in the short term, was simply to assess him, so that some sort of strategy could be developed to help soothe his troubled soul.

And Ben wasn’t the only child who was bereaved. Shona, too – a sweet 12-year-old – had lost both her parents. Leaving Shona, an only child, with an uncle, aunt and cousins, they’d gone on a brief second honeymoon and been killed in a car crash when travelling home from the airport.

Shona, who was understandably finding it difficult to cope, had been with me since not long after I’d taken up my post. My heart went out to her, but there at least seemed to be a little progress. Since the arrival of Molly – another newbie with slight learning difficulties – she seemed to have found a new focus and sense of purpose. Helping Molly, who had been a target for bullies since starting school three weeks back, seemed to bring some light to Shona’s dark, unhappy days.

They came in side by side, as they invariably did, and both smiled at me as they parked their coats and bags. Though, on this occasion, there was a third person coming through the door behind them – Donald Brabbiner, the deputy head.

‘You have a moment, Mrs Watson?’ he asked me, indicating that I should step out into the corridor.

‘Of course,’ I said, turning automatically to the children. ‘Get yourselves organised,’ I told them. ‘We’re going to be continuing with what we were doing Friday. So start getting your equipment out. Quietly.’

I followed Don out, smiling to myself as the three boys immediately took on that slightly anxious ‘Oh God, what am I in trouble for?’ expression. Don was a great deputy head and a real presence around the school. And, having been in post for several years now, also something of a legend.

We stepped outside and I pulled the door towards me. ‘Problem?’

‘No, no,’ he reassured me, smiling. ‘Nothing to worry about. I was just wondering how many you had in today that’s all. Is it just those five?’

I nodded. ‘Though I think I’ve got a couple more coming after lunch. Why?’

‘Because we’ve got a new girl – a 13-year-old. Name of Imogen. She’s new to the area as well as the school, and it looks like she might need to come straight to you. Arriving some time in the next hour – I think her grandparents are bringing her. I told them to try to arrive before first break.’

‘You know anything else yet?’

‘Not a great deal,’ Donald answered. ‘It’s all a little bit last minute, this, to be honest.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘I dare say we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we? I’ll come round to your office when they get here then, shall I? And we can all sit down and have a little chat.’

‘Ah,’ Donald said, shaking his head. ‘A chat is precisely what we won’t be having with her – in fact, that’s the reason she needs to go into your Unit.’

‘I don’t get you,’ I said, grinning. ‘What is she – feral?’

Don shook his head. ‘Though it is a bit bizarre,’ he explained. ‘First time I’ve come across something like this, to be honest.’

‘As in?’ I prompted.

‘As in she doesn’t speak.’

‘What, not at all?’ I asked, confused. ‘Is she disabled?’

‘Apparently not. Just doesn’t speak in certain situations – I understand it’s called selective mutism. Except that at the moment it appears the “selective” bit is absent. Hasn’t spoken for weeks now, apparently. Not at all.’

Well, well. That was something I’d never come across before either. My line of work frequently involved dealing with the opposite problem, and though I also dealt with shy kids who needed coaxing from their shells, a child who didn’t speak at all was something else again.

I went back into my ‘Unit’ and considered my current charges, who, according to type, were variously talking in whispers or babbling away at each other thirteen to the dozen. Till they saw me and fell into a predictable silence, that was – a state of affairs anyone working in a school should work hard to be able to bring about with ease.

What a thing, I decided, to have a child in your care in whom you want to provoke the exact opposite. Well, we’d see. It might not be Riley’s ‘every day’s a holiday’, this job of mine, but there was no doubt that it was always an adventure.

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