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name-calling – because of her hair, because of her freckles, because of her mum having left – you name it.’

      ‘Children can be so cruel, can’t they?’

      ‘Oh, indeed they can, Mrs Watson. I don’t doubt you’ve seen plenty of that sort of thing for yourself. Just plain nasty. That’s when she shut down. And can you blame her? But she’s got to learn to deal with it, hasn’t she? She needs toughening up a bit. That’s what my husband says, and I agree with him. Needs to learn how to shrug it off more.’

      There was another clear picture emerging; that of a rather ‘old school’ kind of grandad. A man keen to raise his granddaughter in a ‘no-nonsense’ kind of way. The type for whom the ‘let’s talk about it’ approach was probably anathema.

      ‘Perhaps,’ I said carefully, ‘and perhaps the bullying was a trigger. From the research I’ve done on selective mutism, it seems there is usually a specific trigger, as I said … How is she at home? I mean, I know you say she talks normally there, but aside from that, how does she seem? More confident? More relaxed?’

      ‘Oh, she’s certainly confident. You probably think she’s quite a quiet girl from what you’ve seen of her so far.’

      Mrs Hinchliffe was right, there. No doubt about it. I agreed I did.

      ‘But she isn’t at all, you know. Shouts and screams at us – and for no apparent reason half the time, either. Sullen, too. Things don’t go her way, don’t we know about it! It’s no wonder her dad and step-mum needed a break!’

      Something occurred to me. ‘What about Dad? I’m assuming they speak on the phone. Do they?’

      ‘Oh, no – she won’t speak to her father. Punishing him, is what we think. And the psychologist woman does, too. Won’t say a word to him. Calls all the time – of course he does. But nothing. Like I said, it’s us she takes it out on.’

      ‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ I sympathised, ‘and you’re quite right, she’s not come over like that at all. Mind you, lots of children play out their frustrations in either one place or the other. I’ve seen lots of that – as well as plenty of kids who are naughty in school but absolute angels at home.’ I paused then. ‘Speaking of which,’ I added, having sensed we were at what seemed the perfect moment, ‘I’d love to come and visit you all at home – you know, try to get a fuller picture of what we’re dealing with. Do you think we could arrange that?’

      ‘At home?’ Mrs Hinchcliffe paused. ‘Well, I suppose so. If you think it might help. Though I’d have to ask my husband first, of course.’

      ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course you must. So how about you do so, and then get back to me …’

      ‘What, call up the school and leave a message?’

      ‘Yes, that would be perfect,’ I said. ‘I’d really appreciate that, Mrs Hinchcliffe. Oh, and one thing – it would be best if you didn’t mention anything about it to Imogen beforehand. If she knows in advance that I’m popping round she might get nervous, mightn’t she? Whereas if I just arrive, she’s more likely to be at her most normal.’

      ‘And it’s normal, this, is it?’ she asked. ‘You know – you coming round visiting people’s houses?’

      I wondered if there was an edge of reluctance in her voice. But no, I didn’t think so; she’d not been slow in airing her feelings once she’d got going, after all. No, she just genuinely didn’t imagine people from schools did such a thing. Probably the legacy of her husband’s ‘old-school’ ideas.

      ‘Yes, it is,’ I reassured her. ‘All part of my role in pastoral care. Where a child has difficulties – well, I’m sure we’re all after the same thing, aren’t we? To get to the root of it, and work together to find a solution.’

      ‘Well that would certainly be nice,’ Mrs Hinchcliffe agreed. And I could tell how wholeheartedly she meant it.

      ‘Ah, Mrs Watson,’ Kelly enthused, when I returned to my classroom 20 minutes later, ‘take a look at these beauties. You certainly have some talent in this room of yours!’

      ‘Wow,’ I said, circling both tables, the children standing aside proudly to let me inspect their creations. I was pleased to notice that while Henry, predictably, was holding up the tower on the boys’ table, it was Imogen who had a steadying hand on the girls’ creation. ‘These are spectacular,’ I told them all, ‘and, looking at all your planning notes’ – I paused here to check both sets – ‘also almost exactly as you’d originally envisioned them. Excellent. I tell you what,’ I finished, ‘I think I am going to find it almost impossible to pick a winner today.’

      Ben coughed then, to get my attention. ‘Miss,’ he suggested, eyeing up the remaining marshmallows, ‘we were thinking. If it’s too hard to pick, and you think we’re all winners, instead of giving one group a prize we could just share the rest of the marshmallows, couldn’t we?’

      I grinned at Kelly, who I didn’t doubt had already heard this line of thinking. ‘What do you think, Miss Vickers? Do we think they all deserve to win?’

      ‘You know,’ said Kelly, ‘I think I do. In fact, I’d had another thought. Since we’ve already taken photos of both towers for the evidence board, I was thinking we could sabotage these wonderful creations and eat the lot.’

      The whole group exploded into gleeful shouts of ‘Yes!’ and, once again, I was pleased to note, this included Imogen. Not with her voice, perhaps, but definitely with her small but encouraging grin. She might not be speaking, I thought, but she was definitely engaging.

      ‘Oh, go on then,’ I said. ‘Just make sure you save me a pink one.’

      The unexpected bounty at the end of our session of Wobbly Towers set the tone for the remainder of the morning. Had anyone glanced in at my classroom before lunch that day, they could be forgiven for wondering quite why the Unit was known as the place where the most challenging children went to. Or, indeed, quite what they did all day – apart from laughing and scoffing marshmallows, that was.

      It was one reason why the evidence board, which we updated with their planning notes and photographs as soon as the marshmallows were gone, was so important. Not only did it provide the children with much-needed evidence of how much they had achieved during their time with me, it also proved to the teachers and other staff members that the children were actually learning something curriculum-related, rather than being just in some sort of behaviour-management holding pen. Hard though it might have been for me to believe when I first started, a few – naming no names, of course – really did seem to see it as some sort of cop-out: a sin-bin where kids came for punishment and didn’t do very much in the way of school work. Finally, it helped me, in that it gave me the opportunity to assess which lessons worked well and which didn’t. I was learning too, and I could usually tell by the standard of work my kids produced whether the children had enjoyed it and also, most importantly, benefited from it.

      At lunchtime the boys, as usual, were first to the door – out of the blocks, like 100-metre sprinters, it often seemed; with a sixth sense for the first tinkling of the bell. I felt slightly guilty that they’d stuffed down a fair few marshmallows each before lunch, but didn’t doubt they’d find room for dinner too.

      The girls, on the other hand, lingered. I’d already been so impressed with Shona and Molly this morning, and here they were again, thinking about Imogen’s needs; and I realised that rather than just disappear off to the lunch hall without her they were waiting for me to tell them what to do.

      ‘Imogen,’ I said, ‘would you like to come down to lunch with me?’ It was an offer I’d make to any new pupil, disorientated and nervous as they’d invariably be.

      Imogen glanced towards Shona before casting her gaze down.

      ‘You can go with Miss if you want,’ Shona told her. ‘Or you can come with me an’ Molly.’ She put an arm

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