Triumph Over Adversity 3-in-1 Collection

Which I could at least rationalise. Step-mums routinely got a bad press, both in fairy tales and in real life, and if you believed everything you heard from kids in the middle of acrimonious break-ups you’d think being a stepmother made you the devil incarnate, almost by default. Which didn’t seem to be borne out by the facts in this particular family – Imogen’s grandparents had made that very clear.

But my other misgiving was more niggling and less readily countered. What was my plan exactly? What was I going to ask her when I got there? There was a fine line between gentle probing to try and glean a fuller picture, and interfering – for want of a less pejorative term – in someone’s life. And perhaps the business of her predecessor leaving was the last thing she wanted to talk about. And wasn’t I making a bit of an unwarranted assumption about how much she actually even knew?

Oh well, I thought, climbing into my car and pulling my road atlas out. It was done now. I was expected. And I would learn something of value, surely? In for a penny and all that …

The younger Hinchcliffes lived in a small, terraced house on a newish estate about half an hour’s drive from the school. It had a neat but plain-looking front garden – square of grass, concrete path, nothing more – and there were businesslike vertical blinds at all the windows, half opened to let in light but maintain privacy.

The front door was opened by a slim, thirty-something-looking blonde woman, with pearl earrings, an expression of very mild agitation and, in her arms, an enormous white cat.

‘So nice to meet you, Mrs Watson,’ she enthused, nevertheless, indicating a door just behind her that I should go through. ‘Your colleague did tell you, though, didn’t he, that I’m on something of a tight schedule? I have to take Flynn here to the vets in half an hour.’

‘Yes, he did,’ I reassured her, as she followed me into a warm, woody sitting room. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘No, no, just a jab,’ she explained, nuzzling her face into the cat’s fluffy neck. It had long hair, and masses of it, too. ‘Flynn and Grace, there’ – she tilted her head towards another giant cat, curled up in front of a roaring coal fire – ‘they’re both show cats. Won all kinds of awards between them,’ she added proudly, ‘and of course we travel all over the country with them – well, I do mainly, as Graham’s so often tied up with work – and they do tend to pick up the odd sniffle, as you’d expect, as they’re constantly mixing with other cats. So you can’t be too careful.’

‘I imagine not,’ I agreed, sitting down on the sofa, following her invitation, while she perched on the edge of the armchair opposite. ‘And I suppose they’re more vulnerable, being pedigrees.’

‘Well, exactly,’ she said. ‘Weak immune systems, that’s the main thing we’re up against.’

To which I wanted to reply ‘All that in-breeding, I suppose’ but felt it perhaps wouldn’t go down too well. Because this was someone who took her cat shows quite seriously, was my analysis – which wasn’t even much of one, because it really didn’t need to be. There was evidence enough all around me. Most obviously, there was a display cabinet not three feet away, which was stuffed with photographs, rosettes and a variety of framed certificates as well as a selection of cups and trophies big and small. Moreover, everything my eyes rested upon gleamed as if regularly polished, as did the clutch of framed photos that were clustered on the shelf below, which at a glance seemed to be of their wedding.

‘So,’ said Mrs Hinchcliffe brightly, ‘how can I help you, Mrs Watson? I know there have been some ongoing difficulties with Im, from what your colleague was saying. So she’s still refusing to talk to anyone?’

I nodded. ‘Well, the odd word or two, but, no, sadly, we’ve not been able to make as much progress as we’d have liked.’

‘It’s such a shame,’ Mrs Hinchcliffe said, shaking her head, while still methodically stroking the cat on her lap. ‘We were all so hopeful that a change of school might do the trick …’ She sighed heavily. ‘So. Clearly not, then.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ I went on. ‘Because I thought you might be able to shed a little further light on the background. What we’re most keen to get to is the root to all this –’

‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘In which case, you’ve probably come to the wrong person. As I said to your colleague, I’m not sure what I can contribute to all this, because where discipline’s concerned Graham and I have decided I’m better off keeping my distance.’ She frowned. ‘A long story, but an all too familiar one, sadly. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, eh? I’m sure you’ve seen this sort of thing before.’

‘Well, yes, I have,’ I agreed, ‘but this isn’t really about discipline, Mrs Hinchcliffe. Imogen’s no trouble in school at all, it’s that –’

‘Oh, pur-lease call me Gerri,’ she said. ‘Mrs Hinchcliffe makes me feel so old!’

‘Sorry – Gerri, then, and, as I say, it’s not a discipline issue. Imogen’s never been less than well behaved. And it’s not that she hasn’t made some progress. It’s just that the specialist who’s been to see us to tell us more about selective mutism has told us that if we can establish some possible causes of Imogen’s difficulty, we will be much better placed to help her deal with it.’

‘Selective mutism – so it has a name then?’

‘Indeed it does.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ she answered, ‘though, of course, that does make sense. And I’m more than happy to help in any way I can, Mrs Watson. No doubt about it, that child has given me no end of problems, but I’m intelligent enough to know that it’s all down to her mother – she just can’t help but resent me, can she? Because I’m not her and will never be.’ She sighed. ‘So. What exactly can I help you with?’

The cat on her lap, Flynn, launched himself off it at that moment and she jumped up and began brushing hairs from her clothes. ‘Now that’s the only downside,’ she said, smiling down indulgently at the mewing animal. ‘What?’ she asked it, continuing to pick fluff from her (rather impractical, to my mind) black trousers. ‘What is it you want, Flynnie-boy?’

Since he wasn’t about to answer, I could only sit and suppress my urge to grin. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she then said, scooping the cat back into her arms again. ‘I haven’t even offered you a drink. What can I get you?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. Then, having thought about it, said, ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.’

‘Of course,’ she said brightly. ‘Won’t be a tick.’

I took advantage of her absence to take a closer look at the cabinet, which, close up, really was stuffed with prizes and plaudits. But I was altogether more interested in the wedding photos. I loved looking at people’s wedding photos, and these were no exception. And very exotic-looking wedding photos they were too. It had obviously taken place on a beach – somewhere with plenty of swaying palm trees – and both these and exotic flowering shrubs were very much in evidence, right down to the hibiscus blooms in the bride’s bouquet and hair. I was also struck by how readily I was able to identify Imogen’s father. He had the same red hair, though his was close cropped and lightly receding, and the same attractive wide-set blue eyes.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ Gerri said as she came back into the sitting room. ‘That one on the right there? That was Grace when she won best in breed at her last show. She’ll be going for a triple in a fortnight – quite the little supermodel!’

I took the proffered water, and this time didn’t feel quite the same urge to smile at her assumption that I’d been absorbed in the fêted cats. ‘Yes, they are,’ I agreed anyway. ‘You must be very proud. Anyway …’

‘Yes, yes,’ she agreed. ‘But, as with everything, there’s an element of luck in these shows. Mind you,’ she added, clearly on a subject that was close to her heart, ‘it’s not all down to luck. There’s a lot of prep involved as well. Sometimes the difference between a silver and a gold can be the tiniest margin, as you can imagine. And that’s what I am good at,’ she finished, smiling fondly towards the cabinet. ‘Attention. Attention to all those tiny little details. Anyway,’ she said, claping her hands together. ‘Time is short, of course. So fire away.’

I duly fired. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s really just a question of you giving me some background. As much as you’re able to, of course …’

‘About Imogen’s mother? Well, what I suppose I can say is that she wasn’t any sort of mother. From what I can gather, anyway,’ she added, shaking her head. ‘As I’m sure Graham’s mother has already told you, he slaved all the hours God gave him, but it was never enough – not for Miss Fancy Pants. No, sad to say, as soon as a man with a larger pay packet came along, she was off with him like a shot. Graham was relieved, I know, but you can imagine, can’t you? She left the poor child reeling, and – sad to relate – I think Im blamed her father; she took it out on him, certainly, and then, when I came along – well, you can imagine, can’t you? Our getting together only served to make her worse. I tried everything, of course I did, but there was never any getting through to her, and, well’ – she lifted both hands, palms upwards – ‘what can you do? She decided I was the enemy, and that, I’m afraid, was that.’

‘And that was when she moved in with her grandparents?’

The other cat, Grace, left her spot by the fire, and came and wound herself around my legs. ‘Ah, she likes you,’ Gerri gushed. ‘And she’s very discriminating. Are you a cat person, Mrs Watson?’

‘Not currently,’ I said, smiling. ‘We’re in a pet-free period at the moment. My teenagers keep me busy enough, to be honest! So Imogen wanted to go?’ I asked, trying to get her back on track again. ‘You know, to move out and move in with your husband’s parents?’

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she said. ‘It was Graham’s idea initially – you know, just for all of us to have some time out. It was so difficult for him, wanting to be loyal to her, but seeing what it was doing to me.’ She looked directly at me. ‘It was extremely difficult, Mrs Watson,’ she said in a voice that seemed suddenly full of emotion. ‘Some of the things she used to call me, the lies she’d tell about me … And, of course, you have to bite your lip and just take it, don’t you? What else can you do in my kind of situation? And I think Graham …’ she trailed off, and I wondered if she was going to cry. She was clearly upset.

‘Could see how much it was distressing you?’ I asked her. ‘I don’t doubt it. And from what I’ve heard from his parents, it sounds as though you had it pretty tough …’

‘Which is not to say I ever wanted that to happen,’ she said. ‘For Im to leave us. Far from it. I only ever wanted to help her. But in the end I think we all felt that, well … perhaps space was what was needed. And that perhaps she was better off where she was. And, of course, by this time she’d started all this sudden not-speaking business, which was distressing for Graham too, because he felt he’d lost her, that he’d failed her …’ She blinked at me. Seemed to gather herself. ‘So now we’re all at sea, aren’t we? I mean, what can we do? If her mother would only …’ She stood up now and brushed her trousers down again. It seemed an action so automatic that she wasn’t even aware of doing it. ‘If only – hark at me! That’s not going to happen, is it? Anyway …’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, rising and looking for a surface on which I could put my glass.

She took it and sighed. ‘I’ve not been a great help to you, have I?’

‘Yes, you have,’ I said. No, I thought, you haven’t. Not very much.

But then, perhaps she couldn’t be. Imogen had clearly taken against her, or, at the very least, taken against the idea of her. Nothing unfamiliar there. Perhaps the problem was that Imogen wasn’t a ‘cat person’. Whatever else she was, she certainly seemed a little flaky. But whatever the ins and outs of the current travails in this family, my principal feeling as I waved and drove off was that I’d just been an extra in some bizarre play.

Chapter 13 (#uc374aa13-50dd-54e0-95f2-ea1005475a74)

What was it about Gerri Hinchcliffe? The question vexed me. She had been unfailingly nice, unfailingly polite, unfailingly … what? Unfailingly correct. Yes, that was probably the word for it. Correct, neat and tidy – if a touch Stepford-Wifey – and though self-pitying enough to be ever so slightly irritating, not so much that I felt justified in holding it against her. After all, she had never even been ‘the other woman’ in this scenario. She hadn’t ‘stolen’ Imogen’s dad away from her mother, as Imogen herself might have seen it. She had just walked into an already unhappy family situation. Imogen’s mother had left her father long before.

Of course, it could have been that, unbeknown to everyone, she’d been having an affair with him all along, but the facts didn’t fit and, well, even if they had, it wasn’t for me to pass judgement on Imogen’s father’s love life, was it? My role was quite specific but at the same time quite general: to try and help children to reach a place where they could thrive in their new circumstances, whatever they were. And there were many children in situations like Imogen’s, after all.

Oh, but what was it about Gerri Hinchcliffe? It was a question I took home with me and pondered all that evening, eventually falling into a fitful, erratic sleep; periods of wakefulness punctuated by half-realised dreams involving wicked step-mothers, witches and other fairy-tale staples, all of which berated me for venturing opinions about them – damned if you do, as Gerri Hinchcliffe had said, and damned if you don’t.

It was almost four in the morning when it hit me. I’d woken up for what must have been the third or fourth time, and turned over, as I habitually did, to see what the time was, so I could calculate what the chances were of getting back to sleep before the alarm put an end to it either way.

The display read 03.57, glowing red in the darkness, emitting enough light to illuminate something else. It was as familiar a thing to me as everything else in my bedroom – a double photo-frame I’d had sitting there for quite a few years now, from which Kieron, to the left, and Riley, to the right, grinned goofy, self-conscious school-photo smiles.

I’d bought the frame years back – and chosen the photos to go in it – to take away on a residential course with me, back when I was working with vulnerable young people. It had been a big thing for me, going away on that week-long course, because it was the first time I’d spent so long away from my children since either had been born.

I looked at the kids’ faces now, in the darkness, and that was when it hit me. That was the thing about Gerri Hinchcliffe, I decided. That in her home – in the home she shared with Imogen’s dad – I didn’t see a single photograph of Imogen.