Page 25 of That’ll Teach Her

There’s no greater sight than watching kids be kids. And after all the nonsense at school, this trip is just what the little uns needed – me too as it turns out. Young Nora Thorpe is covering for me in the school kitchen (’93 – used to flash her knickers something shocking) and I’m enjoying the break.

The kiddies been up to all sorts today – climbing, kayaking, raft-building . . . They tried to get me up on the rope course, but I told ’em these feet ain’t left the ground in near sixty years and they ain’t starting today. They’re having a blast at Radford House. Food ain’t much cop, mind, but you can’t have everything. Almond tart you could break a tooth on and some nasty stew what weren’t fit for a dog. And I’m more than a touch suspicious that Fido might’ve been the main ingredient.

‘You enjoying yourself, ?’ Ben asks after dinner.

‘’S all right,’ I tell him. I ain’t got nothing to say to that man and, besides, we gotta herd these munchkins into bed. They are high as little kites on fresh air and sugar – none of us is getting much sleep tonight – I’ll tell you that for free.

But one kid ain’t smiling.

Little Jacob Richardson. He’s sitting at the dinner table, all alone. We still don’t know what’s happened to Jenna, his ma. The poor mite must be going through seventeen hells.

‘Hello, my darling,’ I say, pulling him into a big old cuddle. ‘You ready for the midnight feast? Between you, me and the gatepost, I noticed that Matthew’s got a bag o’ sweeties the size of Santa’s sack. You’ll all be puking gummy bears for days . . .’

I got a tickle in me throat and try to clear it.

‘I’m not hungry,’ says Jacob, and I bet he ain’t. He ain’t touched his dinner, nor his lunch. I’ll feed him up like foie gras when we’re back at St Nonn’s, you just watch me.

‘Now listen here,’ I tell him. ‘I know you must be worrying yourself something rotten about your ma. No news is worse than bad news sometimes – your brain fills in all them gaps with ‘what ifs’. But you remember what I told you?’

‘You don’t like “what if”. You like “I know”,’ he chirps back at me.

‘Smart lad,’ I tell him. ‘So at the moment we don’t know nothing bad’s happened to your ma. And if it ain’t, think of all the fun you’ve missed worrying yourself daft for nothing?’

He screws up his little face and considers this. I don’t wanna give the lad false hope. But it takes longer to find the living than the dead – they’re still moving, after all. I’m praying bad news woulda travelled faster than this. And, if I’m wrong, why not let the lad have one good night before his little world goes the way of the tit?

‘But it’s not fair,’ he says.

‘What ain’t?’ I ask him.

‘Me having fun,’ he says, starting to sniff. ‘I can’t have fun if my mummy is hurting or she’s broken something or she’s—’

‘Oh, now let’s not go down that road,’ I tell him. ‘That’s a one-way ticket to Bonkers Town, that. Cos I tell you what else I know. Wherever your ma is, she will be wanting you to have a good time. Am I wrong?’

He shakes his little head.

‘And I promise you – from my lips to God’s ears . . .’ Urgh. Pesky cough. I give me lungs a right good clearing. ‘. . . second we hear anything, I’ll come tell you meself.’

‘You will?’ He sniffs again.

‘I don’t care if it’s four o’clock in the morning and you’re bum-up, snoring in bed,’ I say, making the Scouts’ salute. ‘I, Hatita Hughes, will drag you out in yer jammies and tell you what’s what. I swear it on my ma’s secret mince-pie recipe! And that ain’t a vow I’m gonna break any time soon.’

He thinks about it for a minute.

‘I do like gummy bears,’ he says uncertainly.

‘Then you’d better get yer little backside up to the dorm and get some down you before them lads beat you to it!’ I tell him. ‘Get to it! You know what Aleksander’s like – that boy can gobble down my treacle tart sideways like one of them snakes! Give us another cuddle.’

He gives me a squeeze and I send little Jacob on his way with a pat on the bum. Come on Lord. You’ve had your fill of souls from Flatford lately. Appreciate you’d want some better company, mind. But not our Jenna, Heavenly Father. Not today . . .

‘You’re a treasure, you know that, Hughes,’ comes a soft voice behind me.

‘Oh, hush your noise,’ I tell Al, swatting him as I walk past. ‘Now, let’s try to get these rugrats to . . .’

This bloody cough.

‘You okay, Hats?’ he asks, going all nurse-y on me. ‘You’ve gone a bit of a funny colour.’

Oh Crivvens. That bloody dinner. Knew I shoulda checked that kitchen knew their arse from their . . .

‘?’ says Al as I cough up a lung. ‘ – what can I do?’

‘Go get me handbag,’ I gasp, handing him my room key. ‘In my room. Number 226.’

‘Someone should be with you . . .’

‘Go!’ I shout at him, leaving him in no mind where I need someone to be.

He sprints off, leaving me trying to calm the panic and find some breath. It’ll all be okay, . We’ve been here before. Help is on the way.

Time don’t half move slow when you’re counting it in breaths. When they come and go easy, you don’t notice the time they take. But as your ruddy throat starts trying to squeeze ’em outta you, you wish you’d valued each one, I don’t mind telling you.

I hear Al sprinting back – ten years of running after them kids has kept the boy fit, I see. He shoves the handbag in my arms.

‘Can I get you something?’ he says, pulling the zip open. ‘Do you need water for pills? An inhaler? A . . .’

He’s been around the medical block too many times not to recognise what comes out of my bag.

‘, I had no . . .’

I open the bloody EpiPen and jab it into me thigh. It hurts like all hell, always does. But, like sex and reverse parking, once you get it in, you’re over the worst. And it bloody works. Almost instantly I feel my throat and chest open and the air returns to my lungs. I take some long, deep breaths. Al don’t say nothing. But I know he’s gonna.

‘You’re allergic,’ he says finally. ‘To what?’

‘Seeds,’ I say. ‘Musta been some contamination in that ruddy kitchen.’

‘Why didn’t you tell them you have allergies?’ he says, clearly looking me over for signs of wear. He’s a good boy.

‘Same reason I ain’t told no one else,’ I tell him. ‘Because a) who’s gonna keep on a dinner lady who could be allergic to the dinner? and b) because it’s no one’s business but mine.’

‘People need to know, ,’ he says. ‘You might need help . . .’

‘I ain’t had no one’s help me whole life. I ain’t gonna need it now,’ I remind him. ‘Only difference between now and five minutes ago is you know summit you shouldn’t. I’m the same old warhorse as ever’s been and I’ll thank you to keep this to yourself.’

He looks daggers at me. But I know he’ll do me right.

‘Only if you promise to let me know if this happens again,’ he finally says. ‘And you promise you’ll keep your EpiPen with you at all times . . .’

He trails off. Where’s his head at?

‘?’ he says, serious as the grave. ‘I need to ask you something. And you need to be entirely honest with me. It’s really important.’

I nod, but I don’t mean it. I don’t like where this is going. I don’t like it at all.

‘The night Stitchwell died,’ he says – and I think I know exactly where this is going. ‘Neither Kiera nor Clive could find the onsite EpiPens. There is a theory that someone tampered with them, to stop Stitchwell getting her medication . . .’

‘A theory by who?’ I cry. Who’s sniffing around Stitcher’s death? And why?

‘That’s not important,’ he continues, and I want to bloody differ. ‘What is important is . . . did you have something to do with that?’

I go to fib. But he’s no fool. The jig’s up. Might as well fess up now. I sigh. And then feel bloody grateful I can breathe again.

‘That night was all over the show,’ I begin. ‘Between Stitchwell calling everyone in and pissing ’em off and bloody Jesus statues in cakes and folk running around like headless chickens – I’m normally super careful about everything I eat and drink. But there am I, cutting the crusts off me egg sarnies and I nibble on one – never normally eat shop-bought bread, but I was peckish and there musta been some seeds on or in it, because moments later off I go – like what you just seen.’

He nods. The lad knows when to say nothing, which is more than most folk do.

‘Now I always carry an EpiPen in my bag as you now know,’ I tell him. ‘But that night, like a daft old goose, I’d left me handbag in BuyRite. So I panicked . . .’

‘And used the school one,’ he fills in.

‘I know I shouldn’ta,’ I admit. ‘But what was the alternative? And I knew there was another one – although why no bugger could find it is beyond me. Clive never were a details man . . .’

‘So you used the one in the school office?’ he asks.

‘Well, I could hardly go into Stitcher’s office and grab one outta her desk, could I?’ I point out to the daft melon. ‘Managed to keep this whole thing under wraps for forty year – I weren’t gonna blow it! And I replaced it straight off when I was back in school at crack o’ sparrow fart the next day with them poor looked-after kiddies . . .’

‘So that’s why it wasn’t missing in the report,’ he sighs, and looks more than a little relieved. ‘Now it makes sense.’

I take another breath. I’m lucky I can. Stitchers had no such luck. Musta been a nasty way to go, that. Proper nasty.

‘Look – don’t get me wrong – I ain’t no machine,’ I say, taking his hand. ‘Do I feel in part responsible? Yes I do. Will it haunt me to my dying day? Yes it will. I’ll never know if that pen coulda saved her. And that’s me punishment. Unless you decide to talk to the old bill . . .’

I watch him. I can’t go to no prison. Not for her. Not for this.

He’s wrestling. He’s a good man.

Which is why I know he’ll do the right thing.

‘What good would it do?’ he says. ‘It won’t bring her back. And, as you say, there was another pen . . . But in any case . . . I can’t see any sense in ruining another life. Especially not yours. I won’t talk to the police.’

His wording is a tad specific, which makes me worry who exactly he will talk to. But, for now, I just need to take the win.

‘Now I’m sorry for giving you a fright,’ I say, trying to stand, ‘but there’s thirty kids who are gonna be allergic to bed and I need to sort ’em all out, so . . .’

‘You’ll do no such thing – you need to be in bed yourself,’ he instructs, being all nurse-y again.

‘You cracking on to me, Nurse Bourne?’ I tell him. ‘Cos if you’re just trying to get me into the sack, there’s easier ways.’

‘So I hear,’ he says, planting a kiss on my head. Those who get kisses all the time dunno how good it feels to get one.

‘ . . . Maisie’s Dad!’ comes young Theo, running in like his bumbum’s on fire. ‘Aleksander just puked gummy bears all over the dorm and it’s purple and it stinks!’

‘On my way!’ I say, pulling myself up.

‘No. You’re not,’ says Al, pushing my key back in my hand and pointing me towards the dorms. ‘I’ve cleaned up gallons of puke. And that’s just at my house . . . Off to bed with you, Mrs Hughes. Call me if you need anything at all.’

I give up without no fight. He’s right – I need to rest up.

And, in any case, I don’t need him nor no one asking more questions tonight.

I think I got away with it.

Cos, after all, best place to hide a lie is in the truth.