‘I am very sorry to hear about your wife, Dr Stirling,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘You must both have been devastated.’
‘We were,’ he said sadly, ‘but time is a great healer, and James will I am sure eventually come to terms with it.’
‘I think there is more to it than that, Dr Stirling,’ Elisabeth told him. Her voice was level and cautious.
His blue eyes flashed. ‘In what way, more to it?’ His tone was sharp and defensive.
‘I think that James has a condition which needs to be addressed,’ she said.
‘A condition?’ he repeated. ‘And what condition would this be?’
‘James, I gather from Miss Brakespeare, is fully capable of speech and understanding language but is completely silent in lessons. Despite her efforts he just doesn’t speak. This, of course, is of concern, and perhaps—’
‘He speaks quite happily and indeed expressively at home,’ interrupted Dr Stirling. ‘He can communicate normally in a situation in which he feels comfortable, and to be frank I don’t think he feels comfortable in this school – hence my decision to send him to St Paul’s.’
‘Dr Stirling, it is not quite as simple as that. James may indeed converse freely at home but, as I have said, he is completely silent in class. He never asks or answers a question and, from what I gather, only speaks to one other pupil.’
‘And how would you know all this, Mrs Devine?’ asked the doctor.
‘From what I have been told by his teacher and by observing it myself,’ she replied.
‘And when have you met my son?’ he asked.
‘I met James when I visited the school and later when he came into my garden.’
‘Came into your garden?’
‘Yes, he came with his friend, Danny.’
‘The boy who lives with his grandfather in the old caravan? Yes, I knew he was a friend of James’s.’
‘Although the boys were at my cottage for some time, your son never spoke one word, not even to say hello. It must be clear to you, a doctor, that your son has a communication disorder, and his consistent unwillingness to speak at school will inevitably interfere with his emotional development and his educational achievement. Early intervention is crucial to deal with the condition in the first few years of a child’s life. At my last school there was a boy with a similar problem and—’
‘Mrs Devine,’ interrupted Dr Stirling again, ‘James has no condition, disorder or problem. He is just a quiet, under-confident little boy who is still grieving for his mother. I weary of hearing and reading about all these so-called children’s disorders and syndromes. James is growing up. He will soon grow out of it. I did discuss his unwillingness to talk in school with the previous head teacher here and she was of the same opinion. Miss Sowerbutts felt it was a stage many children go through, something to draw attention to themselves.’
‘Well, I don’t agree, Dr Stirling,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Most children do not go through this stage, and the very last thing James wants to do is draw attention to himself. Quite the opposite, in fact. I believe James has a condition which is called selective mutism.’
Dr Stirling sighed noisily. ‘I might have guessed there would be some fancy educational label to describe it,’ he said, without looking at her.
‘And if his condition continues,’ Elisabeth told him, ‘and if it is ignored, then it tends to be self-reinforcing and those around such a person may eventually expect him or her not to speak so they don’t bother talking to them. This makes the prospect of his speaking seem even more unlikely. Sometimes in this situation a change of environment, such as a change of school, may make a difference, but the upheaval could also be distressing and harmful. Providing love, support and patience, offering emotional encouragement, which James clearly gets at home, is all important but—’
‘Mrs Devine, I am grateful for your concern over my son but it is academic, since he will be moving to St Paul’s next term. He will not be any responsibility of yours. I must admit to some surprise that, having met my son just a couple of times, you have come to such firm conclusions about him.’
‘If I could get you to talk to an educational psychologist—’ Elisabeth started.
‘No, Mrs Devine, that will not be necessary,’ said Dr Stirling abruptly. ‘I really do not feel we have anything further to discuss. I am certain that in a fresh environment with new friends, James will feel more confident to speak.’
‘I was sorry to hear about your wife, Dr Stirling,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I am sure it has affected James greatly and I do hope that in time, as you say, he will feel more able to speak.’ She looked into the blue eyes. Here was a man, she thought, with a sense of unswerving purpose, a man used to asking questions and telling people what to do, a stubborn man who clearly was not prepared to listen, who had closed his eyes to his son’s obvious disability. There was little chance of convincing such a man as he. ‘And I sincerely hope you are right and that your son will be very happy at St Paul’s,’ Elisabeth told him.
Elisabeth found the meeting of teachers and non-teaching staff that took place the week before the start of the school term an altogether more reassuring affair than the meeting with the governors had been. In the newly designated staff-room she outlined to those present – Miss Brakespeare, Miss Wilson, Mrs Robertshaw, Mrs Scrimshaw and Mr Gribbon – what she intended. The staff had arrived at the school amazed at the changes that had already taken place, and sat in silence too stunned to speak. When Elisabeth explained that she would be teaching the upper juniors, Miss Brakespeare broke her silence.
‘Split the class?’ she said in disbelief. ‘You intend to teach the top half of the juniors?’
‘That’s right,’ Elisabeth confirmed. ‘I think it is unreasonable for you to have to teach so many children. The classroom is small and cramped for so many pupils and the marking of the children’s work must be very time-consuming for you. Quite apart from that, it must be difficult for you to differentiate the work for so wide an age and ability range.’
‘It is,’ acquiesced the deputy head teacher, looking astonished. She recalled how dismissive Miss Sowerbutts had been when she had hesitantly raised the possibility of dividing the class.
‘Does this meet with your approval, then?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Well, it has come as a bit of a shock, Mrs Devine,’ said Miss Brakespeare, ‘but I must say a very welcome one.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ Elisabeth told her. She turned to the two other teachers. ‘I hope to hear from the Education Office early next term about your contracts. The governing body, which met with me at the beginning of the summer holidays, was unanimous in supporting my request for you to become permanent members of staff if you wish to stay and we are happy working together.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Mrs Robertshaw.
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Wilson, looking well pleased.
‘Now, as you can see,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘the former head teacher’s room has now become our staff-room, which gives you, Mrs Scrimshaw, more space in the school office.’ The school secretary was too dumbstruck to say anything and stared open-mouthed. ‘Mr Gribbon has done an excellent job,’ continued Elisabeth.
Following the meeting with the governors, Elisabeth had talked through with the caretaker the changes she wanted to make. Inwardly Mr Gribbon’s heart had sunk into his boots at the thought of all the work it would entail, but he had smiled weakly and said he would start immediately. The following week he had opened up the fourth classroom and moved half the desks from Miss Brakespeare’s room, to be used until the new tables arrived.
‘Thank you for all your hard work, Mr Gribbon,’ said Elisabeth now.
The caretaker smiled and nodded and rubbed his chin, pleased with the recognition of his efforts.
‘I noted on my visit, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ continued Elisabeth, ‘that you said you remained in the office after school, sometimes for more than half an hour, in case there was an urgent telephone call from a paren
t or from the Education Office.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ replied the secretary, at last finding her voice. She was about to mention that she felt it unreasonable, since she was only paid until four o’clock, but Elisabeth forestalled her.
‘Well, that will not be necessary from now on. As I told the governors, I shall be the first into the school in the morning and the last to leave in the afternoon.’
The school secretary looked startled. ‘You will?’
‘I will,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Now I am sure that there must be quite a few issues some of you wish to raise and suggestions you want to make, and I am very willing to listen to them.’
The five colleagues stared back at the new head teacher but remained silent. None of them had anything to suggest, for any requests they might have had in their minds had been answered. Then Miss Brakespeare spoke. ‘Welcome to Barton-in-the-Dale, Mrs Devine,’ she said. Her tone was genuine. ‘I hope you will be very happy here.’
It was a bright early September morning when Elisabeth arrived for her first day as the new head teacher of the village school. The caretaker had made a real effort to make the building attractive and welcoming. Elisabeth noticed that the window-frames had been cleaned, the broken flagstones on the path replaced, the hedge trimmed and the fence around the perimeter repaired.
Mr Gribbon, wanting to make a good impression, was there early, dressed in a new pair of bright electric blue overalls and busy at work digging in the border surrounding the tussocky lawn at the front of the school. He had thought to himself that since he would be working with the woman in the red shoes, it seemed sensible to get on the right side of her from the very start.
‘My goodness, Mr Gribbon,’ Elisabeth exclaimed, standing at the gate, ‘you’ve transformed the place. What a difference.’
‘I try my best, Mrs Devine,’ he replied, clearly pleased with the praise. He had seldom received any commendations from the previous head teacher, so had made little effort apart from with his floors, which he prized. It was nice, he thought, to receive some recognition for all his labours. ‘I just need to give the window-frames a lick of paint and sort the lawn out now.’
‘Well, I am very grateful for all your hard work,’ Elisabeth told him.
‘I’ve given the classrooms another good going over,’ he told her, ‘and buffed up the floors.’
‘Thank you,’ Elisabeth said. ‘It is much appreciated.’
It wasn’t long before the school secretary and the teachers arrived. The many doubts Elisabeth had harboured about taking on this post, and her nervousness at starting as the new head teacher, seemed suddenly dispelled when she saw the people she would be working with. There was a cheerfulness and buoyancy in the air, a lively, genial chatter and a real sense of optimism. Elisabeth took a deep breath. She shared their hopefulness and confidence about the future. These people, I can tell, she thought, are going to work with me and not against me. Together it would not just be the transformation of the building. Attitudes and aspirations would change; there would be a spirit of cooperation and a workmanlike atmosphere characterised by good-humour, respect and affection.
Before the start of school Elisabeth called a meeting in the new staff-room, at which she provided coffee and biscuits. She welcomed everyone and said she looked forward to what she knew would be a successful term. She noticed there was a visible difference from the Miss Brakespeare she had met previously. Like the caretaker, the dowdy, serious and conventional deputy head teacher she had encountered on her visits to the school had made a real effort and now looked and sounded quite a different person.
Miss Brakespeare indeed felt quite a different person and was in a particularly jaunty mood that morning. With hair newly permed and tinted, dressed in a bright floral dress and with a rope of large amber beads draped around her neck, she chatted away amiably. She had been into the school following the staff meeting that had taken place before the start of term to mount displays in her classroom and found, after Mr Gribbon’s efforts, that her room was bright and clean. Now, with half the desks gone, it was veritably spacious. During this visit there had been the opportunity to spend some time with the new head teacher and to talk through the changes envisaged, and Miss Brakespeare had found her affable and easy to talk to. Mrs Devine was not, as Miss Sowerbutts had predicted, full of educational jargon and keen on fashionable fads and fancy initiatives, nor was she intending to bring in a whole raft of modern teaching methods and change everything. Furthermore, she was keen to involve all the staff in decisions and had sought out Miss Brakespeare’s opinions, something the former head teacher had never done. Rather than finding the situation ‘intolerable’, as Miss Sowerbutts had foretold, Miss Brakespeare had a feeling that she was going to be very content with her new situation. When she looked down the list of pupils she would have in her now depleted class, she found, to her delight, that the new head teacher, as she had said, was to teach the oldest children, who included the two most difficult and disruptive pupils. She would no longer have to contend with the likes of Malcolm Stubbins and Ernest Pocock, or with the local GP’s son, that strange, hypersensitive, disturbed little boy who never said a word. She was well pleased with the changes.
Miss Brakespeare, on that first morning of the new term, smiled wryly when she saw Elisabeth arranging some chocolate biscuits on a plate.
‘Join the club, Mrs Devine,’ she said, amiably.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘I see Mrs Sloughthwaite has managed to sell another packet of her Viennese biscuits or, as she likes to tell people, her Venetian selection box,’ she said. ‘I think everyone in the village must have a box somewhere. Rumour has it that she ordered ten boxes thinking she was only going to get ten, but there were ten to a box and she was lumbered with a hundred.’ She didn’t wish to sound ungrateful so added quickly, ‘They’re very nice, actually.’
Later that morning, when she saw the parents arriving with their children, Elisabeth straightened the creases in her skirt discreetly, buttoned her jacket, took a deep breath and walked slowly down the school path to meet them. It was an unusually large turnout of mothers and fathers standing at the gate that morning, no doubt there to see the new head teacher about whom they had heard so much. Elisabeth had deliberately dressed for the part, in a stylish red turtleneck sweater, navy blue jacket and skirt and the famous red shoes with the silver heels she had worn at the interview. Small earrings glittered in her ears. She smiled and greeted each parent with a friendly ‘Good morning’. Most nodded and smiled but stood shyly at the gate.
‘Do come through,’ Elisabeth told them. ‘You can see your children into school if you wish.’
‘Miss Sowerbutts made us wait at the gate,’ mumbled a mousy-looking woman.
‘Well, I like parents to come into the school,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘You are all very welcome.’
One mother, accompanied by a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked child of about nine, approached her. She was an extremely thin and intense-looking woman dressed in a charcoal grey suit with narrow chalk stripes. Her large eyes had dark shadows under them and her greying hair was caught back untidily in a black ribbon.
‘This is my mother, Mrs Devine,’ said Oscar brightly. He gestured with a small hand. ‘Mumsie, this is Mrs Devine, the new head teacher. I’ve told you all about her.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Devine,’ the woman said, and smoothed away a strand of hair that had escaped and fallen over her face. ‘I hope you will be very happy here. I must call in some time when it’s convenient to have a word about Oscar.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He’s somewhat wise beyond his years, is my son, and I guess he can be quite a handful at times,’ she confided.
‘I’ll look forward to that,’ replied Elisabeth.
‘You can go now, Mumsie,’ the boy told her dismissively, proffering a rosy cheek which she kissed. ‘You won’t be late this afternoon, will you? Remember I have piano practice at four fifteen and you know how Miss Platt
likes me to be prompt.’
‘No, Oscar,’ said his mother wearily. ‘I won’t be late.’ She gave Elisabeth a weak smile. ‘I don’t know where he gets it from,’ she confided quietly.
‘I see Mr Gribbon has replaced the broken paving slabs,’ observed the child when his mother had departed. He inspected the path. ‘I did mention it to him.’
‘Thank you for your lovely poster, Oscar, and your poem,’ said Elisabeth. ‘It was a very nice thought.’
‘My pleasure,’ he replied, heading for the school, his small briefcase tucked under his arm.
In assembly that morning the children, silent and wary, sat cross-legged on the highly polished floor in the school hall as Elisabeth introduced herself and said how much she looked forward to getting to know everyone. She then described the changes that would be taking place. Later, as her class lined up outside the classroom door, she explained that she had placed name cards on the desks to show where children would sit and so that she could learn their names. The placing of each pupil was strategic: boy next to girl and the two potentially disruptive children – Malcolm Stubbins and Ernest Pocock – seated at the very front but well away from each other.
Malcolm Stubbins was, as Elisabeth expected, the first to raise an objection.
He slouched in his chair. ‘Can’t we sit with our pals?’ he asked tetchily.
‘Do call me “miss” when you speak to me, Malcolm,’ replied Elisabeth pleasantly. ‘And sit up.’
The boy grimaced, shuffled forward and repeated the question.
‘I asked if we could sit with our pals?’ he asked, and then added loudly, ‘Miss.’
‘No, you can’t,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘You can see your friends at break and lunchtimes, that is, of course, if you behave yourself and are not kept in. In the classroom you are here to work and I want no distractions.’
The boy muttered something.
‘What did you say?’ snapped Elisabeth.
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