‘After that,’ I went on, ‘we’ll think of some really famous people, and how they’re different, and some people who might have some kind of disability, and together we’ll do some “difference” charts for them too. And that’s because this week we’re going to celebrate difference in a big way, and what’s more –’ I paused – ‘I have a prize going begging. And it’s going to the person who, by the end of the week, can show the best understanding of it, okay?’
As with any activity that involved cutting, sticking, mess-making and the possibility of a reward at the end of it, my young charges were immediately engaged. They were quick to set about gathering the materials they wanted to use for their creations and by the time I’d worked out the best area of wall to clear for the resultant works of art the room was buzzing with an air of productivity. It also gave me the chance to speak to them one-to-one, as I did every day, as well as their scheduled weekly half-hour life-space interviews. The few minutes in my corner were designed to give them a chance to let me know if there was anything that was troubling them, but today would also provide the perfect opportunity to prepare them individually for the arrival in the morning of our singular new pupil.
The children responded to news of Imogen pretty much as I’d expected. Molly, Shona and Ben all accepted her mutism without question, while Gavin and Henry were instantly curious.
‘Why can’t she speak?’ Henry wanted to know. ‘What happened to her voice? Did she get stabbed in the throat, Miss?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Of course not, silly,’ I told him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her throat. It’s just that she can’t speak.’
‘So she must be a baby, then. Either that or a dummy,’ he added disdainfully.
I skewered him on the end of one of my disapproving looks. ‘Henry, what have we been talking about since you came back from lunch? Difference. All the things that make everyone different from everyone else. Your lovely strawberry blond hair, for example. Ben and Gavin don’t have that, do they? And I bet they think your hair is far more interesting than theirs.’
‘No they don’t,’ he huffed. ‘They call me microphone head, Miss. Well, not no more, actually, ’cos I beat them to a pulp.’
I shook my head at the very young teenager sitting before me. The thing you couldn’t miss about Henry travelled everywhere with him – that huge chip that was weighing down his shoulder, as the result of being at the bottom of such a big pile of brothers, and lacking any sort of father figure in his life. That and his hand-me-downs and general struggle to make his voice count at home sometimes made for a very angry young man.
I knew I was last-chance saloon where Henry was concerned. If he didn’t change his fighting ways, he’d be permanently excluded, and I felt sorry for him. I had a bit of a soft spot for him too.
I looked at him now. ‘Henry,’ I chided, ‘I know you didn’t beat those boys up, just like I know that, being the oldest here, you’re going to step up to the plate. You’re going to help me, aren’t you? Help make sure that Imogen doesn’t get a hard time? Point out to the younger ones that she’s just a little different – can you do that? I can count on you to do that for me, can’t I?’
I watched Henry digest this and break into a grin. ‘I can be like your terminator, Miss, can’t I? If the others pick on her I can zap them with my bionic arm, can’t I? They’d soon stop saying stuff then, wouldn’t they?’
I laughed. ‘Er, I don’t think I want you to be doing any zapping. But it would be a great help if you could just watch over her for a few days – you know, when I’ve got my back turned and stuff.’
This seemed to make him happy, because as he walked back to the group, his shoulders high, he announced that, as the oldest, he was officially looking out for the new girl. ‘So no funny business,’ he said, before turning back to me. Upon which he winked. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.
Gavin’s take on the apparent oddity was more practical. After a barrage of questions – Why couldn’t she talk? Had she got ADHD? Was she ‘on meds’? – he had the solution. ‘You should give her some Ritalin,’ he observed. ‘That’ll sort her out.’
One of my rules, given that I tended to spend my days with challenging children, was that easier-said-than-done-thing at the end of the working day of making a determined effort to take off my ‘miss’ hat and put on my ‘mum’ one.
I always smiled to myself at school when the kids themselves found it difficult; when – at least at the beginning of the day, anyway – they would accidentally call me Mum instead of Miss. They’d always blush then, often furiously, but I took it as a compliment. I’d never wanted to be the sort of teacher who kept such a distance from their charges that it was a mistake that no child would ever make. Quite the contrary – I took these slips as evidence I was working in the right job; that I was someone they felt comfortable around. That was important – if they were comfortable enough to forget themselves around me then I would be in so much better a position to support them. Which could make the difference, in some cases, between returning to mainstream classes, back among peers, learning, and travelling even further down the road to isolation.
And I also knew that my drive to help them was partly as a consequence of seeing first hand how much that mattered, through helping Kieron with the many challenges of growing up with Asperger’s.
Which he was still doing, as I observed when, letting myself into the house and slipping off my coat and shoes, it was to find him slumped on the sofa in front of the telly, as was currently his habit.
He was waiting, I knew. Waiting for me to come in and give him his tea, before Mike and Riley both got home from work. I went into the kitchen and pulled out a plate and some cutlery.
‘Honestly,’ I called to him as I dished out some casserole from the slow cooker, ‘why you can’t wait till the others get home is beyond me, Kieron. And if you can’t wait, you could at least get off the sofa and help yourself to something.’
He looked across and gave me one of his pained looks as he turned down the TV volume. ‘Oh, Mum,’ he moaned. ‘Don’t get on at me. I’m stressed out enough as it is!’
‘And what exactly have you got to be stressed about?’ I asked him as I took the bowl of steaming casserole through to the dining-room table. I had strict rules about the eating of meals and where it was allowed to happen, even if I was generally a little on the soft side when it came to my son. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Come through here and eat this before it gets cold. So, tell me,’ I added as I set it down, and glancing at the evidence of a day spent mostly watching telly rather than career planning, ‘have you thought any more about what you’re going to do?’
Kieron scraped back a dining chair and plonked himself down wearily. ‘Oh God, Mum,’ he stropped. ‘Five minutes you’ve been in and already you’re getting on at me!’
I ruffled his hair and pulled a chair out. My cup of coffee could probably wait. ‘Sorry, love,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to get on at you. I want to help you. Dad and I were only saying this morning, perhaps we could sit down with you this evening – you know – go through some options with you maybe? It’s no good for you, this – sitting around on your own all day, moping. You’ll just get fed up, and you know what you’re like – next thing, you’ll end up getting in a state.’
He shovelled in a couple of mouthfuls before replying. He could eat for Britain could Kieron. ‘I’m not in a state, Mum – I’m just bored. And I don’t mean to snap. It’s just that Jack and James and Si – they’ve got stuff going on, haven’t they? Jack’s got his new job, the others are at college …’ He trailed off, and downed another mouthful. ‘And it’s like … well, it’s like it’s all right for them because they know what they’re doing – and they know because they can all do stuff. But I can’t. I don’t think