Imogen nodded and began putting the torn pages back into order, while I went to Gary’s desk and located a roll of Sellotape.
‘And I tell you what, Imogen,’ I said, ‘I have even better news than that. Keep this to yourself – this will just be between you, me and Gavin, okay? – but I have a packet of posh chocolate biscuits as well.’
And an awful lot to start chewing over.
Gavin, predictably, was waiting for the order from the king that he was to be executed by firing squad, at dawn, without trial. Well, that was my guess, based on the expression on his face when Imogen and I returned to the Unit. Kelly was just overseeing an orderly exit for break when we got there, and, seeing us, pulled him back from scooting out.
‘Not so fast, mister,’ I said, re-routing him back into the classroom. ‘I think you and Imogen and I need to have a little chat first. You’ll still get your break’ – heaven knew, Gavin needed his break time, just to burn off a bit of energy – ‘but first we’re going to sit down and say some sorrys.’
Gavin slumped in his seat and laid his palms on the table, as if manoeuvring his way around a particularly tricky police interrogation. ‘Miss, I am sorry. I’m already sorry. Honest to God, Miss, I’m sorry. I swear on my mother’s life – I’ll swear on me baby cousin’s life, too, if you like – that’s how sorry I am, Imogen, see?’
I tried very hard not to laugh, and it was something of an achievement that I didn’t, but I kept it together sufficiently that I could deliver a short but important lecture about the importance of seeing other people’s points of view. It was mainly directed at Gavin, of course, but it didn’t hurt to include Imogen in it; she might not be any sort of pest in the classroom, but she was – currently partly of necessity – an introspective only child and it was important she understood that Gavin struggled with challenges too.
But the important thing now, I thought, as I gave them both a biscuit and sent them out to join the others, was to find out exactly what kind of challenges Imogen was struggling with herself. Because an accusation that an adult had been threatening to set fire to her had certainly lit a fire under me.
It was to be the following morning before I could get back to Gary and fill him in on my chat with Imogen. I had hoped that I’d be able to catch him during final period, but, as if to remind me that I had more than one child to take care of – and perhaps because they wanted a piece of the action – Henry and Ben kicked off almost as soon as they came back from last break, over some disagreement over the latest Manchester United line-up.
As ever, the full-on fist-fight that honour seemed to dictate must ensue was not really about player stats at all. It was about them – Ben and Henry – two volatile boys always just half a step away from losing the plot. They didn’t know it (well, actually, they did, when they were getting on) but they actually had quite a lot in common. For all that Ben was an only child looked after by his heavily drinking dad, and Henry the youngest of five, looked after by his invariably fraught mother, they both brought the same issues to school with them. Both were angry and unable to express it when they were at home – Ben because he always had to be mindful of his father’s temper, and Henry because, being the designated ‘runt’ of the litter, he wasn’t allowed to express himself, ever.
I would lie awake at night worrying about children like Henry and Ben, and what if anything I could do to make things better. I couldn’t find a new mother for Ben, or make his father quit the drinking, and I couldn’t whistle up a father figure for poor put-upon Henry, to lick his bullying, ill-disciplined brothers into shape. In short, I couldn’t change their world for them. All I could do – and this always felt like one of the best wisdoms I’d been lucky enough to learn – was to make them change the way they felt about themselves, which would, in turn, change how they interacted with their world.
In short, it was all about self-esteem-building, as well as team-building, though in the short term it was also about managing the inevitable flash points that were bound to occur when such boys came into conflict. Fortunately, in this case, it was short lived and easily remedied, with the application of some fact checking, courtesy of my trusty computers, and another round of posh chocolate biscuits.
But that still left me too late to nip up to Gary’s office and, not wishing to keep him, given I knew he was taking on a zillion extra duties currently, I decided that the morning would have to do.
Early morning, mind. I was still on something of a mission, so I made a point of getting into school half an hour earlier than usual so that we could talk before registration. I knew sod’s law would probably mean I’d get scant opportunity later, and I was also conscious of sticking around, as much as possible, in class. What with Gavin and Imogen, then Ben and Henry, who knew what could happen? Would Shona and Molly launch into fisticuffs next?
Happily, Gary was in and up for chatting, and even managed to rustle me up a coffee, while I nabbed the comfiest of the comfy chairs by his desk.
‘So,’ he said, settling into his own chair, ‘what news on yesterday’s cryptic message?’
‘Well,’ I began, ‘if you cast your mind back, you’ll remember that I went to visit the step-mother, didn’t I? And it turns out the two are related.’
‘Of course. The wicked step-mother. I’d forgotten you’d already been round there. How did that go in the end? Get anything of any use?’
‘Well, as it happens,’ I chided, ‘that quip won’t seem so funny when I tell you what happened in here after you left yesterday.’
I filled Gary in on what Imogen had told me about her message and how it confirmed what I’d already begun to suspect – that it wasn’t the mother but the stepmother who was the mother figure in question – and that could be the root cause I’d been trying to unearth.
‘Set light to her, though?’ Gary grimaced. ‘Sounds a little bit extreme, doesn’t it? Slight case of amateur dramatics?’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t forget, Imogen said she didn’t actually do it – but she did threaten it. Pretty frightening in itself. I just wish I could have got some more out of her – you know, the whys and wherefores, such as when did this happen. But, you know, it just fits. I know I shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions, but neither do I want to ignore my gut feeling, having met her. Yes, she came across as the traumatised, oh-so-concerned parent, who only wants the best for Imogen, yadda yadda yadda … but I just don’t buy it. There’s just something not quite right about her at all.’
‘What, like it’s an act?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She didn’t come across as false, not really. But the whole business of there not being any photographs of Imogen. If she was playing some clever game, she’d have slung a few around for effect, wouldn’t she? But she obviously isn’t that clever. I don’t know,’ I said again. ‘It was just odd. The whole meeting – just odd.’
‘But did you learn anything? Find out any more about our silent child’s background?’
‘Not really. According to Gerri, it was exactly how Mrs Hinchcliffe’s always told us. That mummy dearest was apparently a “money-grabbing bitch”, with no time for either husband or daughter, and rode out of Dodge with the first man who had more to offer. Then, when Gerri came along, it was a textbook scenario: spoilt only daughter, used to it just being her and Dad, resents the fact that said Dad has now found love with another woman. That’s how she told it, at any rate.’
‘Hmm,’ Gary said, ‘bit of an over-reaction, though, wouldn’t you say? Resentment is one thing, but mutism in a child of her age? My understanding – if I read Mr Gregory right, anyway – was that you’d expect there to be an episode of real trauma.’
‘Which takes me back to what she said about the threat