The Experiment part two

Mr. Dennis told her to stay here while he had a word with the headmaster, but when he knocked on the door, Mr. Philpotts said to wait a minute. After a few seconds of fidgeting, Mr. Dennis went in without waiting to be called. Through the door, Emily heard them talk. Mr. Philpotts sounded annoyed. Then Mr. Dennis came out scowling and told Emily to sit on the plastic chair, so she did. Mr. Dennis paced up and down, muttering.

She’d never been called to see the headmaster before. Who knew what lay behind that big oak door with a glass handle that looked like a stopper from a crystal decanter. But her heart wasn’t racing and she didn’t need the toilet. She didn’t feel nervous at all. She’d already been shouted at, what else could they do?

The door opened and out came one of the couples from the physics lab. Mr. Dennis smiled at them with his mouth closed, then went into Mr. Philpotts’ office. He wasn’t in there long, then the door opened to show Mr. Philpotts standing tall and broad, his belt straining under his belly. ‘Now then Ms. Mathers,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come in.’

She followed him to a circular rug under a chandelier in the middle of the room. He sat behind his desk, in front of a glass-fronted cabinet containing shelves and shelves of old leather-bound books; they looked like bigger versions of the hymn books they were given for assembly. Next to it was a portrait of the Queen when she was about twenty. It was much warmer in here than in the corridor. Under his colonel’s moustache, Mr. Philpotts’ mouth relaxed into a friendly smile.

‘Take a seat,’ he said and she did. Mr. Dennis stayed somewhere behind her.

‘I understand there was something of an incident earlier,’ Mr. Philpotts said, still standing. ‘Is that right?’

Emily shrugged.

‘Because discipline is one of the most important things you’ll learn, not just at school, but in life in general.’ He turned around and, hands clasped behind his back, looked out through the patio doors at the garden. ‘It’s one of the building blocks of a civilised society. It’s important you understand this now. It might not seem like it, but right now your brain is like a sponge. The habits you pick up now will shape who you are as an adult...’

The heat was getting too much for Emily, so she took off her coat. She heard Mr. Dennis tut.

‘... and so it’s vital you do as the teachers say.’ Mr. Philpotts turned around. ‘Ah. Looks like we're getting somewhere.’ When he heard Mr. Dennis clear his throat, Mr. Philpotts glanced at him. ‘Though I understand there was something else as well. Apparently you wouldn’t answer Mr. Dennis earlier. Now why was that?’

Emily shrugged.

‘This is exactly what I’m talking about—’

‘Thank you Mr. Dennis. If we could try and remain calm.’

‘Just sits there—’

‘Philip.’

So that was Mr. Dennis’ first name. She hadn’t even known he had a first name, but she wouldn’t have thought it’d be that. He suited something tougher. Mick. Or Tyson. Philip. He sounded like he could be a boy at the school.

Mr. Philpotts said to Emily, ‘So you don’t want to talk, is that it?’

She had an almost unbearable temptation to say yes.

‘Now what’s brought this on? Did someone say something, or do something?’

...

‘Pah,’ Mr. Dennis said.

‘Why don't you go and have the rest of your lunch break. I can handle it from here.’

‘But—’

‘I’ll call you if there’s anything else you can do.’

Emily heard a sigh and then the door open and close. Mr. Philpotts sat on his chair and leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

‘Now it’s okay, you can tell me if someone has upset you. You’re not going to be in any trouble.

‘No? Well that’s going to be a bit of an issue. You see, our school can’t function unless the students participate. If you don’t make the effort, we’ll have to discuss other arrangements. I don’t think your parents will be too happy. I know I wouldn’t be. But we can avoid all this fuss if you just tell me who’s upset you. We do not tolerate bullying in this school. And they won’t know who told us. They’ll have no way of knowing.

‘Okay, you leave me no option.’ He took the receiver from the phone on his desk and pressed a button. ‘Hilary, can you phone Emily Mathers’ mother. Tell her she’s refusing to speak. No, won’t say a word. And get Mr. Delaney, maybe he can help. Tell him to come to my office right away.’

 

#

 

He said they wouldn’t be long. A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the door — it was Mr. Delaney the guidance counsellor. Emily had only met him once before, when he gave the class a career aptitude test. It said that when she grew up, she should be a salmon farmer. 

That was when her insomnia started.

She’d lie awake for hours picturing herself in waders and a wide-brimmed hat, in a landscape of rolling hills all flooded and filled with salmon. For some reason, she would be chewing a stalk of corn. What would that life hold for her? she’d wonder. Would she have farmer friends, and go to farmer places? Would the land farmers mix with the fish farmers, or would they look down on them for being too specialist? And why salmon? What was it about this particular fish that made it so well-suited to her as a vocation? Rather, what was it about her that meant salmon was the fish for her? Should she feel flattered? Was there some poor sap who’d got trout farmer and who now envied her? (No, everyone else got something far more normal like doctor or engineer. It was only her who’d be stuck tending fish for a living.) Could she branch out into carp? What was the career ladder? Would she have to start with something small like anchovies and work her way up? She hadn’t even mentioned fish in any of her answers — the only one that even came close was that she enjoyed the outdoors — so why was she now shackled to a future that revolved around them?

Mr. Delaney said he was just here to chat, that she wasn’t in any trouble. Whatever she said would stay confidential between them. He crouched down and looked up at her through his rimless glasses. He said she could tell him anything, if someone had done something to her or told her not to tell anyone. He wouldn’t be angry, and they’d never know she’d told on them.

No one had done anything to her, she didn’t know why everyone assumed that they had. It reminded her of her grandad. Whenever she’d be quiet, he’d try and cajole her into speaking, saying, ‘Come on, what’s wrong with you?’ She’d tell him Nothing, but he wouldn’t believe her. She didn’t get it. Just because she wasn’t speaking, why did something have to be wrong?

‘Okay,’ Mr. Delaney said, ‘you don’t have to say anything. How about you just nod? Can you do that? Nod for yes,’ he said, nodding, ‘and shake your head for no,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Yes? Do you understand?’

Emily shook her head.

‘No, it’s very simple.’ He shifted his weight onto one side like his thighs were getting tired from crouching. ‘We can’t help you unless you tell us what’s wrong.’ He explained the nodding/shaking system again, then tried an example. ‘Someone in my class hurt me and told me not to tell anyone,’ he said, nodding. ‘No?’ shaking his head, ‘Is that not what happened? Were they not in my class? Were they in a year above? Year ten? Or eleven?’

‘This is hopeless,’ Mr. Philpotts said.

Mr. Delaney stood with a groan and shook each leg in turn. ‘And she’s not done this before?’

‘Not as far as I know. Her mother’s on her way.’ Mr. Philpotts picked up his phone again. ‘Hilary, get Ms. Phoenix. Tell her it’s about Emily Mathers.’

Mr. Delaney paced the room. Mr. Philpotts typed on his computer.

‘I think this could be it,’ Mr. Philpotts said, reading from his computer screen. ‘Selective mutism. A social phobia, a fear of speaking in public. Apparently some people are scared of eating in public as well. Fancy being scared of eating.’

There was a knock at the door. Emily turned to see Ms. Phoenix.

‘You asked to see me?’

‘It’s Ms. Mathers here,’ Mr. Philpotts said. ‘She’s refusing to speak. Has there been anything odd in her behaviour lately?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. But she’s always been on the quiet side. Bit of a daydreamer. Finds it hard to focus, doesn’t contribute much.’

‘But she’s always answered you?’

‘Of course.’

‘When did you last take her?’

‘English this morning. First thing.’

‘And did she say anything?’

‘No-o, not that I remember.’

‘But you didn’t ask her anything directly?’

‘No. I would’ve noticed.’

‘I see.’ Mr. Philpotts rubbed his chin. ‘Was she talking yesterday?’

‘She must’ve been. Oh yes, I asked her to take something to Mr. Andrews’ office and she asked where that was.’

‘What do you think might’ve brought this on?’

‘I couldn’t say. She doesn’t mix much with the others. But her and Petra Marsden are thick as thieves.’

‘Bring this Petra Marsden here. Maybe she knows what’s going on.’

‘She’s off sick today. I could try speaking to her?’

‘Please.’

‘Now,’ Ms. Phoenix said, crouching in front of Emily, ‘you know it’s very rude not to answer someone. You don’t want people thinking you’re rude do you. You won’t get very far like that.’ Ms. Phoenix was in her mid-forties but dressed like some of the younger, slimmer teachers: pencil skirts that she spilled out of, sleeveless tops that showed her mottled, corn beef arms. Once, on one of her more conservative days, she wore a beige rollneck; at first glance, it looked like she was topless under her peach blazer.

Emily could see where her make-up ended just below her hairline.  

‘I know you think it’s all a big game, being the centre of attention, but this is serious,’ Ms. Phoenix said. ‘You can’t go around not saying anything.’ Like Mr. Delaney before her, she shifted her weight onto one side; Emily wondered why so many adults insisted on crouching to talk to her. ‘Most people aren’t as patient as us. If you don’t speak to them they’re going to get annoyed pretty quickly. It’ll affect the rest of your life — you won’t be able to go to university, or get a job.’

‘That’s right,’ Mr. Delaney said, ‘you’ll have to have interviews. They won’t think much of someone who just sits there staring at them.’

‘You can’t carry on like this,’ Mr. Philpotts said. ‘You’ll have to go to a special school that caters for this sort of thing.’

‘We’re trying to help you,’ Ms. Phoenix said, shifting her weight to her other leg. ‘If you carry on like this there’s not much we can do.’

She stood, grimacing, and shook each leg in turn.

‘It’s a waste of time,’ Mr. Delaney said.

‘You’re the counsellor Gary,’ Ms. Phoenix said, ‘I thought you’d be used to dealing with situations like this.’

‘I’m not having a go, I just meant—’

The phone rang, Mr. Philpotts answered it. Mr. Delaney glared at Ms. Phoenix, then looked away and muttered something.

‘What was that?’ Ms. Phoenix said.

‘I said counselling is about listening,’ Mr. Delaney said. ‘That’s the whole cornerstone of it, listen listen listen.’

‘In that order?’

He sighed. ‘Some of us are trying to help—’

‘Quiet,’ Mr. Philpotts said, one hand over the mouthpiece. He put the receiver to his ear. ‘Now?’ he said. ‘Well show her in.’ He hung up. ‘It’s the mother,’ he said and straightened his tie.