Page 10

This wasn’t The Plan.

I clearly remember The Plan. The Plan was to run out of Flatford the second I finished school and head straight for the golden streets of London. Upon abandoning my art degree because my first exhibition was such a critical and cultural triumph, I was going to live in a creative commune before committing to both Heath Ledger and Orlando Bloom in a pagan hand-binding ceremony, lavishly but tastefully photographed for Hello .

The Plan was to live a life of free love, expensive tastes and artistic expression.

And yet here am I, scraping egg salad into a bin liner.

I am constantly cleaning up someone else’s mess. As a teaching assistant, any child can leak anything, anywhere, at any time – I clean it up. As a lunchtime supervisor, the hall is left looking like the bottom of a monkey cage every day – I clean it up. My family wreaks all manner of physical and emotional mess – I constantly clean it up. The Plan might be a distant pipe dream, but I’d love, however briefly, for someone to just clean up after me. Surely, it must be my turn to make a bloody great mess?

But, for now, I’m having to clean up after Stitchwell.

Again.

‘Guess everyone’s allergic to a Nonnatus buffet now,’ I sigh, grabbing my third plate of couscous. ‘Although if you’ve survived Rachel Shylone’s coronation chicken you’ll outlive the cockroaches . . .’

‘Oi, don’t be chucking all that away – there’s folk’ll eat it!’ says Hattie, snatching the dish out of my hands. ‘Throwing good food away’s a sin . . .’

‘All right, Bob Geldof,’ I say, backing away as she aggressively scrapes leftovers into her own bewildering array of Tupperware. Hattie lets nothing go to waste, whether it is offered or she simply nicks it. She’s been in a filthy mood since the church. ‘What’s boiling your piss?’

‘Don’t matter none,’ she grunts, thumping spoonfuls of coleslaw into a tub. ‘I just wanna get out of here is all.’

‘Suits me,’ I sigh. ‘I’ll do a last sweep.’

I love Hattie – she’s been like a mum to me, which is more than anyone else has managed.

But, Jesus, she’s a mardy cow sometimes.

I leave the kitchen, expecting the hall to be empty. But I’m not unhappy to see that Ben’s still there, ripping through the pile of condolence cards. In a school full of Christians and cardigans, he’s been a very welcome addition to the mix. Dynamic people make dynamic teachers and he can rightly claim to be both. And he’s not so awful to look at for six hours a day . . . certainly beats the hell out of Trevor Elson who teaches our Year 5 and has a mullet from the year 1985 (which was also the last time I suspect he used mouthwash). Ben’s classically tall, dark, handsome but with trendy stubble and glasses. Oh, and that gorgeous Scottish lilt . . . Urgh – who am I kidding, I fancy the crap out of him. Don’t get me wrong, I love my Matt. But I kinda love who I am around Ben. I’m younger. Sexier. I’m the girl who had The Plan. And I’ve missed her.

‘Are you feeling suitably sorry for your loss yet?’ I ask, creeping up behind him and whispering in his ear. I know I shouldn’t. But I love to play with him. I watch to see the response it creates in him, if any. Do I still have it? Or has ‘it’ been washed, ironed and folded so many times it’s sitting at the back of the cupboard with my skin-tone bras and tummy-holdy-in knickers?

Ben smiles, but it’s strained. He’s not playing. Yet.

‘Did you . . . did you see who left any of these?’ he says, rifling through the envelopes.

‘Well, Mr Andrews . . . the standard clue is the name written inside the card,’ I point out. ‘But I’m sure Dolphin Class can teach you about basic letter-writing. They covered it last term in Year 2.’

I wait for him to lob my sass back at me – ours is a thrilling game of taunt tennis and I love it when he pulls my pigtails. But, again, just the strained smile.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask him. ‘Is it . . . bitchface?’

I feel him tense as his ex-wife clouds his mind. Six months ago, Ben’s wife Elena upped and left him, taking their son, Finn, back to Scotland with her. I found him the day after they left, crying in the art supplies cupboard, and he bared his soul. Rumour is that there was someone else involved – but why anyone would leave this sweet, kind and . . . well, frankly, shit-hot . . . man for one of the other dropkicks out there, I wouldn’t know. I do know that she’s been an arsehole since they split, making it as difficult as possible for him to see Finn and generally rubbing as much salt as she can in the wound she has created. She always was a snooty cow. I never liked her. He could do so much better.

‘Er . . . yeah,’ he says softly, gathering the cards up. ‘It doesn’t get any easier.’

‘I bet,’ I say gently. ‘Can I help?’

He sighs, takes off his glasses and raises those soft brown eyes. They lock with mine. I feel all kinds of thrills. Keep it together, woman. It’s just a crush. It’ll pass. They always do.

‘Thanks,’ he says, running a weary hand through his hair, ‘but I’d better get home. So much to do for Monday.’

‘You’ll be great,’ I tell him, and I mean it. After so many grim years of the Stitchwell regime, Ben is just what St Nonnatus needs. A little tenderness and love. As do we all.

‘Thanks,’ he says again, putting his left hand on my right shoulder. ‘Truly.’

My head turns to the fingers resting lightly there. I have this overwhelming urge to tilt my cheek to rest on them, to invite them to cup my face, to pull me into the chest that’s straining against his shirt buttons and . . .

Oh FFS, Fisher.

No more Bridgerton for you.

‘If I’m not disturbing you,’ comes Hattie’s shrill command, ‘the kids’ bogs are dripping in piss. Get to it, gal.’

At the sound of her voice, Ben snaps his hand back like it’s been burned. I smile. That’s not the response of a guiltless man. Although, in the wrong mood, Hattie could make Mother Theresa feel like Miss Hannigan.

‘Sorry, Hattie,’ he smiles. ‘I’m distracting her. “Listen to many, speak to a few.”’

Bless him. He’s even quoting Hamlet to cosy up to her. Good strategy . . .

‘“One may smile and smile and be a villain,”’ she grumbles back at him, shuffling back to the kitchen.

Maybe not.

‘See you around, Mr Andrews,’ I grin. ‘I’ve got a hot date with a J Cloth and some Jif . . .’

‘Try to keep your personal peccadillos out of your work, Mrs Fisher,’ he smiles back with a wink. ‘See you on Monday.’

‘Not if I see you first.’ I wink back. I hear his breathing catch as I turn away and make sure my hips have a swing as I leave.

I know I shouldn’t need it.

But some days it’s nice to have it confirmed.

Oh yes, Fisher.

You still got it.

Despite the Turner Prize entry that was the village hall toilets, I head home feeling like a sex kitten.

A feeling that survives roughly five seconds after crossing the threshold of my house.

‘MUM! You said you’d washed my black crop top – where the hell is it? I’m going out!’

‘MUM! What’s a simultaneous equation? Taylor won’t help me!’

‘MUM! Tell Grace to sod off out of my room and stick her equations up her arse!’

‘MUM! Tell Taylor to put two pounds in the swear jar! And she still hasn’t paid for calling you an effing B last weekend! So that’s four pounds!’

‘MUM! Tell Grace to make it a fiver and FUCK OFF!’

I sigh and peer into the front room and see my husband sitting peacefully with a cuppa and his feet up in front of Pointless .

Oh, the irony.

‘Hi,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Not sure if you’re aware, but our daughters are auditioning for foster care upstairs . . . ?’

‘Anna Scott!’ he shouts in his loudest Bolton brogue at a mousy man called Ashley, who is trying to think of Julia Roberts’s characters with ten or more letters in their name. ‘Get in! Y’right, gorgeous? I’m telling you, love, I should go on this. I’d bloody clean up.’

‘That’s nine letters. And only if you think you can squeeze it in between your doctorate and your Men’s Health cover shoot,’ I mutter, picking up the remnants of his toast. ‘Have you fed the girls?’

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Taylor’s gorit in her head she’s not pescatarian this week, so won’t even eat bloody fishfingers now. And Grace reckons she’s allergic to vegetables and, bugger me, life’s too sodding short, so . . . Tess Ocean! I’m telling you, Kier – I could win us a piggin’ fortune on here! Oh no, hang on – that’s nine and all.’

Oh, Matt . . .

Matt was never part of The Plan. But then, to be fair, neither was anyone in this household. I wasn’t part of my parents’. Taylor wasn’t part of mine. Grace wasn’t part of Matt’s. What’s the collective noun for accidents? A ‘whoopsie’? Because that’s us. A family of accidents. Happy ones, mostly. But when you find yourself pregnant at seventeen, The Plan needs a whole lot of revision. And when a fit Northern squaddie swaggers into town from the local army camp a few years later, treats you like a queen and promises to take care of you and your kid, that felt like a pretty solid edit.

I trudge towards the kitchen, trying to devise a homemade gastronomic feast for our family that is wholesome and tasty while being both vegetable-free and vegetarian.

‘Pesto pasta?’ I shout to Matt, who is guffawing at Ashley’s answer.

‘Erin Brockovich?’ he mocks. ‘Yeah, pal – no one will have thought of that . . . Don’t worry about me babe, I’m on lates.’

‘Since when?’ I groan back. ‘I thought the manager was supposed to set the rota?’

‘I do,’ he calls back, ‘but Freida needs a hand.’

‘We all know where Frieda wants your hand,’ I call back. ‘And it ain’t in the World Foods aisle.’

‘Give over,’ he says, as he always does when I challenge him about the co-worker who has been shamelessly making a play for my husband for over a year.

I put the pasta on to boil and set the table for me and the girls. Matt meanders into the kitchen and puts his arms round me at the stove. I wriggle free. I’m busy.

‘So I had an interesting day today,’ I tell him.

‘Did Stitchwell poke ’er hand up through the dirt like Carrie?’ Matt says, clawing at me.

‘That would have been less surprising,’ I sigh, batting him away. ‘Baxendale’s offered you – well, us – the caretaker job at St Nonn’s.’

‘Yer what?’ he says, his shaved head wrinkling in confusion. ‘Me, picking up Twix packets off the playground for a living? No, ta.’

‘We’d get the caretaker’s cottage,’ I point out. ‘We could rent this place – give us some money for Gracie’s school fees . . .’

‘What’s the point of that scholarship if we still have to pay summit?’ he asks for the millionth time.

‘The point is to pay the seventy-five per cent of the fees we still can’t afford,’ I reply, for the millionth time.

‘Kier – we don’t have twenty-five per cent. We don’t have two per cent.’

‘Which is why this job could be the answer to everything!’ I cry, trying to keep my voice down while wanting to shake him. ‘What’s keeping you at BuyRite? Apart from Frisky Frieda?’

‘Give over,’ he says again. ‘I’m happy there. I’ve got mates. I like it.’

‘Well, we don’t always get to do what we like,’ I say more bitterly than I intend. ‘But, if you want to do what’s right by your daughter, you’ll take an easy job and a free house.’

He sighs. ‘I’ll think on it,’ he says. ‘But it’ll cost ya . . .’

He reaches for me again with a horny grin. I duck out of his arms. I don’t have time for this. Sex after fifteen years together goes on the same list as washing the net curtains and dehumidifying the loft – I will get round to it. Eventually.

‘Thanks,’ I say graciously, even though we both know this means I’ve won. There’s nothing Matt won’t do for Gracie. For any of us.

‘Grace! Taylor!’ I call up the stairs. ‘Dinner!’

A slow stomping suggests that my teenage daughter has actually responded to a request. She appears in the doorway defiantly, wearing what barely amounts to a red bra and a black Band-Aid. I laugh.

‘Not in this lifetime,’ I tell her. ‘Go and change.’

‘Oh my GOD!’ she huffs. ‘I told you, I’m going out!’

‘Since when?’ I ask her. ‘It’s a school night.’

‘Matt said I could,’ she says smugly. I stare at Matt, who shrugs and wanders back out of the kitchen. Argh . . . Matt is, by and large, a great stepdad. He’s been in Taylor’s life since she was four and he loves her like his own. But she’s got him wrapped round her finger like a Claire’s Accessories ring – I make a note to have the umpteenth conversation about discipline.

‘So yeah. I’m going. Out.’

‘Where?’ I reply, too tired for the fight tonight. ‘Got a shift at the strip club?’

‘You are SO lame,’ she withers at me, reaching for her bag. ‘I don’t need dinner – I’ll eat out.’

‘Not so fast,’ I say, snatching her bag, and my only leverage, out of her reach. ‘Who are you out with?’

‘Why do you care?’ she snarls.

‘Because I can’t afford your bail. No names, no bag.’

She freezes as her teenage ire reboots.

‘Just my friends. You know. Friends. Some of us have some . . .’

Wow – teenagers know where to sting.

‘Like who?’ I ask. ‘Jools? Tilly?’

‘Jesus Christ, Mum! How many times!’ she rages, like she’s Tom Cruise and has Jack Nicholson on the stand. ‘If you’re talking about SEBASTIAN, they are non-binary, so stop using their dead name!’

‘Sorry . . . sorry – still getting my head around it,’ I sigh. ‘And Tilly? Can I still call her that?’

‘Yeah, sure. If you want to infantilise her and not allow her reclamation of her birth name? Her name is Matilda, Mother. But she’s changing it by deed poll next year to Leif to reflect her cultural heritage.’

‘Er . . . don’t Karl and Flo come from Swindon?’

‘Oh my GOD, do you want to be a bit more racist?’ she outrages. ‘Leif is descended from the Vikings? It said so in that DNA kit her nan gave her for her birthday? So shall we stop white-washing her much?’

Wow. How do the youth get it so very right and yet so very wrong?

‘Got it.’ I nod. ‘Much as I admire your generation’s dedication to personal identity—’

‘Good,’ she snarls.

‘. . . if you think you’re leaving this house dressed like Vivian Ward – that’s ten letters – you’re making a big mistake. Big! Huge!’

I do my best Julia Roberts impression. But, like so much of my creativity, it’s wasted here.

‘Are you, like, having a fit or something?’ my teenage daughter disdains.

‘Change. Or stay home. Your choice,’ I tell her, returning to the pasta.

‘OHMYGODYOUARESUCHAFREAK!’ she says in a monosyllable of outrage as she storms upstairs to don actual clothing. ‘And who the fuck is Vivian Ward?’

‘Six pounds!’ Gracie shouts down.

‘Home by nine!’ I shout as I dish up mine and Gracie’s pasta. ‘Gracie! Pasta! Now!’

‘I’m off, babe,’ shouts Matt from the hallway. ‘Be back round midnight. Love ya.’

‘Don’t wake me,’ I shout back as the door shuts behind him. The devolution of ‘goodbye’ is one of a marriage’s sadder declines. First you can’t leave without shagging against the door. Then some passionate snogging to send you on your way. Tender words of love are next, with ardent demands to see each other soonest. Then, before you know it, you’re just hoping that someone remembers to pick up bum wipes on the way home.

Grace hurtles into the kitchen, her glasses steaming up as she peers into her pasta.

‘Hey, Mum,’ she grins, racing over to give me a hug. I honestly think it’s only Gracie and the cat who would notice if I never came home. And, in truth, I’m sure Tinkerbell would gladly move in with Mrs Hodgkins next door. But Grace still seems to like me. She’s such a great kid – and deserves all the good things. Which is why she’s going to get them. No matter what the cost.

She grabs her pasta and runs out again.

‘Hey! Where you off to?’ I call after her. ‘I thought we could have tea and watch Only Connect together?’

‘I can’t,’ she calls back. ‘I’m doing homework with Verity – she’s on the phone – byeeee!’

I hear her bedroom door close and look at my solitary bowl of pasta.

Screw it.

I open the fridge and throw the last of the wine I said I wouldn’t drink this week into a glass, before scooping up my bowl and settling myself on the sofa with both. I pick up the remote and flick to my viewing pleasure with a smile.

And there it is.

Come on then, Bridgerton .

Let’s be having you.

Robocoppers

Priya, Al, Tanya

Friday 28 October

20.46

Priya

Thatss was fun in pub.

I love yooooiiuuu two.

Al

Pri – you hold your booze like a sieve.

But fun night, girls, thanks!

See ya Stitchers.

You absolute bitch.

Tanya

These statements. . .

We need to talk.

Priya

Yeshh!

Letsss be detectivists!

I’m the best at detectiving.

Heres Ben’s thingy.

I siad thingy!

STATEMENT OF WITNESS

CJ Act 1967, s.9; MC Act 1980, ss.5A(3)(a) and 5B; Criminal Procedure Rules 2005, Rule 27.1

Statement of Benjamin Andrews

Occupation Deputy Headteacher

Age of witness (if over 18, enter ‘Over 18’) Over 18

This statement is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated in it anything which I know to be false, or do not believe to be true.

Signed:

I am Ben Andrews of 52 Landsdowne Lane, Flatford, and this is my recollection of the events of 24 October.

The first day back is always fraught and this had been no exception. Immediately after school ended, I drove to the local supermarket BuyRite to do my shopping, encountering Tanya Jones on the way and Hattie Hughes in the store, with whom I returned to school in my car.

I got back to St Nonnatus around 4.45pm and did some paperwork in my office. A little after 5.30 I went to the hall to help with preparations for the drinks night – but there was an incident when I slipped and fell, so I returned to my office to fix the Jesus statuette that had been damaged in the fracas. I met Miss Stitchwell in the main office, where she was tending to some admin, and she asked to see me. I went to her office shortly before 6pm, where she informed me of her intention to remain in post. I congratulated her and went outside to greet parents as they arrived.

The evening began promptly at 6.30pm, but it became clear quite quickly that Miss Stitchwell was unwell. I gave her some water to ease her cough, but her condition quickly deteriorated. I am our designated First Aider and I administered resuscitation, but it was sadly too late. The ambulance and police arrived shortly thereafter and I stayed on site until approximately 9pm to help them with their enquiries.

Signature witnessed by:

PARENTCHAT

Clearer Community Communication

ST NONNATUS CE PRIMARY

Ora et labora

Flatford FC

Eric

Mon 7 Nov

08.30

Eric

Hi everyone!

Wanted to leave it a respectful distance, but. . .

As promised (threatened!) I wanted to start a group for the footie!

(Only masochists need apply!)

Me and the girls are going Saturday – I can get guest tickets!

Should be a good one – we’re playing Westmouth Wanderers, our old nemesis!

Need to know by Wednesday lunchtime if you’re up for it!

See you there I hope!

PARENTCHAT

Clearer Community Communication

ST NONNATUS CE PRIMARY

Ora et labora

Monday 7 November

Mrs Marcia [email protected]

To: Whole School

Re: Week commencing 7 Nov

Dear Carers,

We have all been so delighted to see how well the children have settled back into school this past week.

Mr Andrews has asked me to pass on his gratitude for all the lovely messages and feedback he has received and reminds everyone that his morning clinics will continue between 9–9.30 every Tuesday and Thursday. We will however need to instigate an appointment system owing to the sheer volume of meetings – please use the link at the bottom of this letter if you’d like to book in. We also respectfully request that language is kept to an appropriate choice and volume, as Mr Andrews’s office is within earshot of Bumblebee class. On a related note, we apologise again for the unfortunate incident in assembly last week and assure you that the Year 1 children were supposed to be singing ‘ The Duck Clucked in the Muck ’.

We are glad that so many of you are availing yourselves of the suggestion box in reception and can announce that, after tallying the votes, the new school goldfish will be named ‘Fishy McFishFace’.

In response to some early feedback, we will be instigating the following measures with immediate effect:

·?As per the salutation in this letter, we will now refer to ‘carers’ rather than ‘parents’. It has been pointed out that not every adult in our community is a parent and we want St Nonnatus to be an inclusive space. We are always happy to address you by your preferred prefixes or pronouns and this feels like an excellent opportunity to introduce our new lunchtime supervisor, Jedi Master Bernard.

·?Mr Andrews is undertaking a comprehensive review of all behavioural policies, but will be removing the ‘bon’ and ‘mauvais’ points system from today. There will no longer be Forgetful Fridays, nor any other sanctions for forgotten homework or reading diaries. We understand that life can be hectic and things fall through the cracks. However, we do ask that the children arrive promptly to start their day at 08.45. Awaiting the conclusion of an episode of Paw Patrol does not constitute an acceptable reason to be late.

·?While we ask that the correct uniform is worn at all times, there will no longer be a formal distinction between ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ uniforms. Children and their carers may elect whichever of the clothing list best suits their needs. In a similar vein, while we all understand the morning rush, we do ask that carers dress appropriately while on school premises. While we discourage it, if sleepwear is to be worn at drop-off, it is to be done so in such a way that conforms with our safeguarding requirements.

·?As mentioned in assembly last week, for the remainder of term, we will be trialling allowing children to bring in a packed lunch if they wish. We understand that not every child wishes to eat school dinners and may benefit from having lunch provided for them from home. Please fill out the attached form if you wish to supply your child’s lunch, remembering again our allergy and healthy eating policies. In response to several similar questions about the new lunch policy, the school will not accept orders from Deliveroo on your child’s behalf.

May I remind you again about parking considerately during the morning and afternoon drop-offs/collections? Access to our neighbours’ drives and the church car park are to remain unobstructed at all times and the zigzags are for emergency use only. And, for clarity, ‘reformer Pilates at nine’ does not an emergency make.

I leave you with the words of D:Ream: ‘Things Can Only Get Better’.

Wishing you all the very best,

Mrs Marcia Cox

Office Manager

St Nonnatus Primary School