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I did, the following one being stimulus withdrawal, which I was keen to put into practice the following week. This, I explained to Gary and Kelly, was designed to give the child a second safe alternative, the idea being that once they’d got used to speaking to a certain person, in a certain environment, you introduced another person into that successful situation – not with a view to forcing the child to speak to them, but rather as a constant unthreatening presence. You then had to engineer a situation where it was almost impossible for the child to avoid speaking, even though the other person was there.

      ‘Isn’t that what happened this morning?’ Kelly wanted to know. ‘I mean, the rest of the class were there, weren’t they?’

      ‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘Yes, they were there, but speaking in front of them really stressed Imogen. The idea of this is that she can speak to me when they’re there, and without being stressed, which is where making it more of a “two-on-one” scenario comes in.’

      Kelly’s brows knitted. ‘Sounds very technical.’

      ‘I know, ‘I said, ‘but it’s all in my notes, so don’t worry. The important thing is that now that we’ve finally got the ball rolling, we strike while the iron’s hot.’

      Now Gary did look a bit animated, at last. In fact, he burst out laughing.

      ‘Just be sure you don’t forget to mix your metaphors while you’re at it,’ he quipped.

      It took a good second or two before the penny dropped. But I didn’t care. I was at last making some progress.

Chapter 11

      The progress continued into the following week. Which was incredibly satisfying; there was nothing quite like learning something, putting it into practice and actually seeing it working before your eyes, and that was exactly what was happening with Imogen. I continued putting her on the spot, just as I’d been doing the previous week, and, as if by magic, it invariably produced speech. It was as if she was locked in a battle between being the object of scrutiny and getting words out of her mouth and, in the controlled setting we’d chosen, at least, fear of being on the spot was winning out every time.

      Better still, Kelly had rearranged much of her timetable so that I could start working on the stimulus withdrawal theory, and this was also working a treat. You could see the anxiety on Imogen’s face when asked to speak when Kelly was present also, but I stuck to my guns.

      We’d started with small steps: first a question that required only a yes or no response, and at the start of the week I’d allowed her just to nod or shake her head. And as the week progressed, we progressed too. So much so that, by Thursday, I had a plan to take a further step, and try and coax more than one-word answers out of her.

      We were doing art, as part of our ongoing quest to encourage self-expression, and today’s task was to paint pictures, using only one paint colour, with the colour representing a certain mood. The key thing was for the children, having painted their pictures, to discuss the colour they’d used, what emotion it represented and why they’d chosen it.

      I started with Molly, who’d chosen ‘sad’. She’d painted a picture using blue paint of a little boy crying. I then moved on to Henry, who’d chosen to do a pirate ship, using black, which he explained was about feeling in a bad mood.

      So by the time I got to Imogen, who had painted a picture of a log fire in red, she had an idea of what I expected her to tell me, i.e. something more substantial than a simple yes or a no.

      ‘This is great, Imogen,’ I said, clipping her picture up on my big easel. ‘And I think I can guess what sort of mood it is you’ve painted, but, for the rest of the class, can you tell us what it is?’

      She lifted her head. ‘Angry,’ she said quietly.

      ‘Thought so,’ I said, smiling. ‘And why do you think red shows anger? Is it because when we get into a rage we get all hot and bothered and our blood feels like it’s boiling? Or is it perhaps because when people get angry they often say they’re “seeing red”? What do you think?’

      There was a pause, but, having given her something to work with now, I waited, and, sure enough, out came three words. ‘It’s both, Miss.’

      She then put her head down, blushing furiously.

      I smiled at Kelly. This was going well. This wasn’t just supplying a nothing word – this was actively taking part in the lesson. Which meant I could now implement the next part of the strategy, which was to leave the classroom and let Kelly take the rest of the lesson, confident – well, optimistic – that while I was absent she would find the wherewithal to speak to Kelly.

      ‘Baby steps,’ I told her, as I grabbed my bag from beneath my desk and prepared to leave them to it. ‘But huge leaps, all the same. This will be a red-letter day, if it happens.’

      ‘Oh the pressure,’ Kelly replied. ‘I shall feel such a failure if I don’t get her to speak to me now!’

      But, of course, she did. When I returned to the unit, just before lunchtime, having made the most of my half-hour break by sneaking in a coffee and a biscuit, I could tell from Kelly’s expression that she had.

      They’d been tasked with the business of committing the descriptions of their paintings into a written record in their workbooks and Kelly had been going round from child to child as they did so, reading and checking their work. ‘And as I walked round to the girls’ table, I took a look and said, “Good work, Imogen,” and quick as you like she said thank you! I was – to use your word – totally gobsmacked!’

      ‘That’s fabulous,’ I said, as I headed towards the kettle so we could grab a coffee as soon as the bell went. ‘At this rate we’ll have her chatting to all and sundry by Christmas. And you never know – maybe we’ll even get her singing carols!’

      ‘Steady on,’ cautioned Kelly. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’ But I knew she felt as optimistic as I did. I was already looking forward to the afternoon.

      Before that, however, it seemed there would be another development – one that would pull me back to the important fact that it wasn’t so much the business of Imogen speaking (vital thought that was) as the business of what she’d have to tell us when she did find her voice.

      The boys bundled out, as per usual, within seconds of the lunchtime buzzer and, also as usual, the girls moved at a more leisurely pace. Shona was by nature a calm, organised and methodical girl and, taking her lead – as she had done since they’d both been thrown together – Molly was doing as she did now: organising her backpack with what she’d need for the next hour. Imogen, however, hadn’t moved yet. We watched Shona approach her and speak to her, presumably to hurry her along, but when Imogen produced a small plastic lunchbox I realised she wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere.

      This was a first. I went over to the girls’ table.

      ‘Are you not coming with us?’ Molly asked her now, glancing worriedly in my direction. I could almost see her mind working, too, bless her. Trying to work out if she’d done something to offend her. Imogen herself didn’t come up with a reply.

      ‘It’s fine, girls,’ I said, sensing Imogen wanted me to step in. ‘Brought a packed lunch in today, then?’ I said to Imogen. ‘Shall Molly and Shona go ahead, then? It’s fine for you to take it to the dining hall, if you want to, but if you want to stay and have it here, that’s fine too today. Because I’m going to have my lunch in here today as well.’

      This was clearly the answer she was after. Perhaps this lunchbox development would become the norm now – it would at least give her breathing space from the pressure of having to communicate in her lunch break as well as in class. ‘I’ll eat here, then,’ she answered, confirming what I’d anticipated. Then she bowed her head as per usual and peeled the lid from the box.

      ‘Thanks, girls,’ I said

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