Her
name was Trudy. She was fourteen when I met her, her neck was covered
in green love bites, and she spoke in grunts. In a list of names of
teens that I was to support, my boss circled Trudy’s name and
tapped her pen beside her name with every word she spoke.
Nobody
works with her for long, she said. My eyebrows lifted and my boss
added one word.
Violent.
Trudy
spent her school days in a grey porta cabin, situated on the edge of
the school playground. Here students who struggled to access
mainstream lessons, were educated separately. When it rained the flat
cabin roof leaked. During Spring, seagulls nested on the cabin roof.
At this time, it was commonplace to see students whoop and cheer from
condensed windows as the caretaker chased the birds away with his
sweeping brush. A few moments later, the whooping and cheering
increased as the caretaker was dive bombed and chased by the seagulls
in retaliation.
I
remember meeting Trudy for the first time. How the searching eyes of
her fellow porta cabin students followed my every move as the wind
blew me across the playground, how in an empty room Trudy stood
motionless, her arms wrapped around her body, how she leaned against
the small electric radiator for warmth.
In
this cold room, we were left alone to become acquainted. After trying
a few introductory words and receiving little in response, I asked
Trudy a question.
How
would you like me to help you? Slowly, so slowly she raised her eyes
from their fixed position on the carpet to meet mine.
Get
me out of ‘ere.
To
begin with, I’d collect Trudy from the cabin and take her to
the Nurture Office in the main school building for sessions.
This
room is crap.
It needs sorting out. Trudy told me.
The
room was long, thin, with white painted brick walls. It was a little
more than a cupboard. It was a little more than a prison cell. As we
got to know each other, we spent a lot of time decorating the office
with soft throws, cushions, bright displays, pictures, cactuses,
fairy lights and even a mini water feature. Of course, Trudy oversaw
making the decorative decisions.
One day we had a
real breakthrough when Trudy, who typically spoke in a maximum of
two-word sentences, stepped back to admire her creative skills and
declared, That’s absolutely beautiful that! We both laughed so
hard we struggled to catch our breath for minutes. In the end, Trudy
decided there was only one crappy
thing left in the room - the filing cabinet.
Positioned
awkwardly behind the office door, the three-tiered, beige, metal
tower was a curiosity to Trudy. The cabinet was both loved and hated
in equal measure. Gently Trudy opened the drawers and peered inside,
then silently she tidied and organised the paperwork while I composed
emails. The outside of the cabinet however, received the brunt of
Trudy’s sharper emotions. On numerous occasions, the office
door crashed into the cabinet announcing Trudy’s arrival. Her
dramatic entrance was immediately followed by a shout,
She’s
mentioned my Mum again!
Morning Trudy, would
you like to take a seat?
One
breaktime, my boss stirred a heaped spoonful of sugar into her coffee
and told me that she believed Trudy had been beating
me up, during our session earlier
that morning. I spluttered my tea, while my boss calmly blew across
her steamy liquid and smiled. As it transpired, a colleague and my
boss had been locked in conversation one hundred yards or so from the
Nurture Office door, when bangs, crashes and shouts had interrupted
them. Alarmed, they ran towards the commotion and took a moment to
pause, taking in the scene through the glass panelled door. Trudy
wasn’t beating me up, but she was thrashing the filing cabinet
with her fists, her feet and all her might.
You,
my boss said, typed away on your computer as if nothing was
happening.
I
am incredibly grateful that my boss and her colleague didn’t
burst into the office and confront Trudy that day. I am so very
grateful that my boss trusted me to get
on with letting Trudy release her
anger before conversation was attempted. The poor filing cabinet took
a hammering in this process, but those hammerings lessened as Trudy’s
trust developed and her communication skills grew. It’s strange
to think that the old filing cabinet was pivotal in our work, but it
was.
As
Trudy’s confidence and self-belief grew, she was integrated
into more of her school classes and was able to sit her exams when
she was in her final school year. Through her hard work and
determination, Trudy got herself out of spending her days in the
porta cabin on the edge of the playground.
I’m
still in touch with Trudy, five years on from when I first met her on
that bleak, blustery day. We’ve both moved away from that
seaside town, but fondly remember the Nurture Office. Occasionally
two words will appear on my phone screen, You
free? and I smile knowing it’s
Trudy wanting to connect.
When
we speak, after Trudy has caught me up with news of job prospects,
her family, and her hopes for the future, without fail she’ll
request the filing cabinet story.
She settles her baby onto her lap and curls into the sofa to listen.
When I’ve finished the story, a quietness settles between us,
and a tiny grin grows from the corner of her mouth.
I
wonder if that cabinet is there, she says. It’ll have me dents
in it if it is!
My
guess is it’s still there – dents and all. You certainly
left your mark Trudy. You certainly left your mark.
