LITMIR.BIZ

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was a complicated problem with an as yet undiscovered root. That I hadn’t managed to unlock Imogen’s one unsolicited utterance – I thought she was going to … – was hardly for want of trying, after all. And though she’d been quick to ‘punish’ me for apparently barking up the wrong tree (something I still wasn’t entirely convinced about) I felt even more determined to get to the bottom of whatever was making life so unbearable for this troubled, unhappy girl.

      But for all my good intentions, it was difficult to know what best to do next, underlining once again just how hard it was to make progress with the root problem when the symptoms it had caused were such a barrier – no, the ultimate barrier – to communication: she couldn’t tell us! And I couldn’t speak to Gary about it, either. He was away working in one of our feeder schools this week, doing training in child-protection issues.

      I’d written up my report, and handed copies to both learning support and Don, the deputy head, but these people were always busy, and had scores of problems requiring their attention at any given time, so I wasn’t optimistic that I’d get anything in the way of feedback for at least the next few days. No, I’d just have to hang on, keep the lines of communication open with Imogen, and bend Gary’s ears about it once he was back in the following Monday.

      But I hadn’t factored in Kieron, who gave me a fresh perspective on the problem – one I really should have worked out for myself. It was on the Friday evening, and bar Riley, who was at the cinema with her boyfriend David, we were all sitting down to supper, and I was summing up the frustrations of my week to Mike.

      I suspected he wished he’d never asked, but I ploughed on in any case. It was in the marriage vows, wasn’t it? Listening to your wife blathering on when she’s had a hard time at work? ‘So, of course, it feels like it’s all my fault,’ I was saying, ‘that we’re back to square one. And I’m really not sure what’s the best next step to take.’

      ‘How can it be your fault, Mum?’ Kieron wanted to know. ‘She hasn’t spoken for months, has she? And now she has. So, actually, that’s progress, isn’t it? Because you’ve done what you set out to do, haven’t you?’

      ‘Ah, would that it were that simple, son,’ Mike said, with the sort of grin that indicated that I was about to have the mickey taken out of me. ‘See, our little Ms Watson here – no relation to Dr Watson, admittedly, and definitely not to Sherlock Holmes – won’t be happy with simply, and single-handedly, completing the job in hand and pausing to give herself a small pat on the back. No, no,’ he continued, adopting the sort of portentous voice that put me in mind of the man who did the voiceover for Hergé’s Adventures of Tintin, ‘above and beyond the call of duty! No task too big! No mystery too mysterious! Swoops in on her wings of –’

      ‘Oh, shut UP, Mike!’ I said, affecting my snappiest voice, while trying to cuff Kieron round the head for joining in and giggling. ‘Eat your bloody meatballs, the pair of you, and be careful not to choke!’

      ‘Oh, Mum, Dad is funny, though – you’ve got to give him that much.’

      ‘Not that funny,’ I pointed out, even though it had made me smile. I probably needed to take a step back and stop being so intense about it. I couldn’t fix everything in a week – I wasn’t God, for goodness’ sake. And it was the weekend. I should probably lighten up.

      ‘Seriously, though,’ Kieron continued, the bit obviously between his teeth now. ‘If you think the problem with this girl is all about wife number one, why don’t you go and ask wife number two? After all, according to Dad there’s nothing most women love more than telling tales on other women.’

      ‘I never said that! Well, not exactly, anyway,’ Mike said, as I glared at him.

      ‘Actually, Kieron,’ I said, ‘that’s not a half bad idea. She probably could share some light on things, couldn’t she? And would probably be happy to, since Imogen’s apparently given her so much grief. And I’ve only spoken to the grandparents so far … no, you’re right. It would be a good idea to widen the net a bit, wouldn’t it?’

      Kieron guffawed. ‘Widen the net? Mum, you’re priceless!’

      I shooed the pair of them away into the living room as soon as supper was done with and, as it had been Kieron who’d been on lay-the-table-and-dish-up duty, set about the clearing away and washing up. Strictly speaking, this was supposed to be Riley’s job this evening, but as they’d gone to an earlyish screening – she’d had her food before us – she had left with the traditional Riley pronouncement to ‘Just leave it all and I’ll sort it once I’m back.’

      She knew full well, of course, that I could no more do this than fly, on account of my ‘thing’, to use the technical term, about mess and disorder. I’d never been any different, and doubted that I ever would, either – and it sometimes struck me that perhaps I was the root cause of several of Kieron’s funny little ways. He too, hated disorder, which was probably connected to his Asperger’s, but might also be in part his genetic inheritance. Either way, he’d always been a child who looked after his belongings and woe betide anyone who disturbed any of his carefully arranged books or toys. Indeed, Riley soon learned the art of targeted teasing, and would play pranks on him for no more important reason than it allowed her to watch him go slightly mad for a while. (Which, thinking about it, was a perfectly valid reason, because that was what being siblings was sometimes all about.)

      Despite some of his odd ways, though, Kieron was a simple child in many ways, tending to see things in black and white. He still did and, of course, that was what he’d done now. Where I’d wrestle with a problem for several days, he could on occasion nail the logic before anyone else did. And he was right. I had succeeded in getting Imogen to speak, which was progress, and this wobble was really just a step on the journey. And of course I should see if I could speak to the second Mrs Hinchcliffe, I thought, as I put the dishes away. I should perhaps have tried to do that from the off.

      ‘Excellent progress!’ Gary said, when I went to see him on the Monday morning, straight after registration, leaving Kelly to hold the fort. ‘Seriously,’ he added, ‘I don’t know how much you’ve read around the whole trauma-based type of selective mutism, but after I did I was seriously concerned that we’d fail to get anywhere, because once it becomes entrenched as a coping mechanism it can apparently get progressively worse. So, yes, this is great news. Well done.’

      I had read that and had chosen not to dwell on it. I said so. ‘And I’m still not sure I’d be that excited just yet,’ I added. ‘It feels more like one step forward, two steps back at the moment. And I’m still convinced there’s some deep-seated issue around the departure of her mother. Which is mostly why I’m here. I know they’re not her current guardians, but I was wondering if the head would sanction a visit to Imogen’s dad and step-mum – assuming they’ll talk to me, that is. After all, we still don’t have anything like a full picture of why she ended up with her nan and grandad in the first place. It’s all a bit vague, that, don’t you think?’

      Gary nodded. ‘I can’t see any reason why he wouldn’t,’ he agreed. ‘Though perhaps it’s best if the approach comes from me. If they’re at all reluctant – and I’ve a hunch they might be, given that they’ve voluntarily relinquished care of his only daughter, however “challenging” she’s been – my role in school will give the request added weight.’

      ‘As it should,’ I agreed. ‘She’s clearly not thriving in the world at present, is she? What parent wouldn’t want to be supported by the school in trying to achieve that?’

      ‘Exactly,’ said Gary. ‘So leave it with me. I’m assuming one day straight after school would suit you best, yes?’

      I told him it would and, after grabbing a quick cup of coffee, hurried back to the Unit. The kids were in good spirits, full of chatter about what they’d got up to on their weekends, and settling companionably to their work while I got the wall boards up to date with the work we’d completed on the Friday. All apart from Imogen, that was, who was still monosyllabic. I was clearly no longer flavour of the month.

      There

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