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Packed bloody lunches!

Packed bloody lunches!

The damn sauce of the man!

I’ve been feeding kiddies for four ruddy decades at St Nonnatus and there’s never been any talk of packed bloody lunches!

Even Stitchers knew the value of a hot meal in a little un’s belly.

But not Mr Sushi Roll. Noooo – he’s got his own fancy Nancy ideas.

It’s a ruddy outrage. I looked inside little Zac Phillips’s lunchbox to see what I’m up against. The lad’s lunch? A cold slice of pizza. I ask you.

‘Power is given only to him who dares to stoop and take it,’ said old Dostoevsky. ‘One must have the courage to dare.’

Well, I dare, Ben Andrews. And I’m stooping to sticky toffee sponge for pudding. Let’s see how many bloody packed lunches there’ll be after that.

It’s break-time and I’m storming through school to the library. Library . . . it’s a grand name for a disused classroom that wasn’t big enough for these modern class sizes, but it serves the purpose. And Kiera made it look lovely with all her paintings and whatnot on the wall, clever girl. They’re lovely to look at – all characters from all kinds of books. And they cover up the damp patches beneath, so win-win.

You see, when I do a job, I do it right. Forty years ago, I pledged to feed these kiddies and that’s what I’ve done. But they don’t just need full bellies, they need full minds. And I know better than most – I had neither. So, like any kid starved of anything, the moment I could, I gorged on both – and my sturdy frame is bought and paid for, thank you very much.

I ain’t never really been out of Flatford. (’Cept that time I went up to London for a Michael Ball concert what I won in the Easter raffle – he weren’t half bad. He’s no Donny Osmond, mind, but who is?) But I seen the world through the pages of me books. I have my favourites, of course – Count of Monte Cristo and Crime and Punishment will be in the box with me when they put me six feet under. The only book Stitchers cared about was the ruddy Bible and I ain’t convinced she read that right. But I fought my corner for this little library and so here we are. And I’ll defend it like the bloody Somme.

‘Hey, ,’ grins Verity Jones, one of my Year 6 librarians, Tanya’s eldest. ‘I came early to try to get ahead, but the door’s locked?’

Bugger. I left the keys in the kitchen. Can’t be arsed to go all the way back there, so . . .

‘You ain’t seen this, right?’ I say to her as I pull a paring knife out of my apron.

She shakes her head earnestly. Bless her little heart.

I stick the knife in the door and jimmy the lock. Learned that from a book and all – though these doors are all so old you could pick the locks with an ear bud. And it’s worth it to see Verity’s little face as the door opens and I tip her the wink. She heads in and immediately takes charge.

‘So I’m going to reshelve the weekend returns, sticker all the new arrivals and I’ve sorted the wish list into alphabetical order for you,’ she says, presenting me with a piece of paper, typed and everything – these kiddies are so smart these days.

I smile. She’s a proper chip off the old block. She’ll be running the country one day. Or dictating it, could go either way with that one.

‘Thank you, my lovely,’ I tell her with a cuddle as I look down her list. Phew. That’s a lot of books. Ben’s given me a few quid more than Stitchers did, but it’ll never cover this lot. Still, I’m a resourceful woman. There’s charity shops and second-hand sales. And failing that, Sticky Steve (’84 – head chorister at the church – his ‘ Pie Jesu ’ coulda made the devil repent) can nick ’em from Smiths. He owes me for the weekly banana bread during his last stretch.

Kids come in all shapes and sizes, but there’s a certain sort that loves a book. They’re always good kids – although all kids are good at source; it’s the bad stuff that happens to ’em what queers the pitch – and they always have big hearts. I reckon books do that. All them words and ideas get into you and, with nowhere else to go, they swell your heart and grow your mind. I never met a reader I didn’t like. And most of the people I can’t abide don’t read. It takes a certain kind of folk not to be open to someone else’s words. They’re called closed books for a reason.

I leave Verity to her bustling and look around the room as my regulars file in. It’s amazing what a few second-hand beanbags and cushions can do. Kids don’t just come here for books – they come here for sanctuary. The playground’s a scary place for some and they take shelter in the library. I love my little bookworms. Whatever else is going on, they’re safe here with me.

‘How you getting on with The Goldfish Boy , Omar?’ I ask the little lad already engrossed in the tatty armchair.

He raises a thumb, but won’t unglue his eyes from the page. I’ll take it as a good sign. His ma, Mariam, lost a baby late in the day into her third pregnancy last year. I can’t tell her how sorry I am, given I don’t speak Arabic and all – but this book’ll help her boy. That’s the other thing books can do. They’re medicine for the soul.

I do a bit of sorting and tidying and cuddling until the bell rings for the end of play.

‘All right, you little lovelies – back to class,’ I tell them. They all duly file out without question. That’s the other great thing about bookworms. They always do what they’re bloody well told.

I’m about to shut up shop – I got a sticky toffee pud to deploy – when I hear a little sniff. You don’t work in a school for forty years without knowing the sound of a little un crying. So back I go – and there’s little Jacob Richardson sobbing his heart out behind the non-fiction.

‘Hey now,’ I say, getting down to the floor, which is no mean feat, let me tell you. ‘What’s all this about?’

He wipes his snotty nose on the back of his hand before realising he ain’t got nowhere to put it. I offer up my apron with a smile and he makes good use of it. I’ve got others and they’ve all seen worse.

‘I’m scared,’ he sobs. ‘About my mum. I saw the news. The place she’s gone – Ryanair – has got a big war. There’s loads of bombs. What if one of them gets her? What if she’s hurt? What if she dies . . . ?’

The poor little mite melts into tears again. I pull him in for a big old cuddle. I saw the news too. There’s been ‘intense shelling’ in Myanmar, where his ma, Jenna, has gone to report. It ain’t safe for no one. I can’t fathom why a mother would put herself in harm’s way like that, but none of mine, I suppose.

‘Now listen here, young Jacob,’ I tell him. ‘I’m older than Father Christmas and if I’ve learned one thing in this life, it’s that I’m not a big fan of “what if”. It’s a terrible business! “What if” lets tomorrow steal today and I ain’t having none of it! I’m a much bigger fan of “I know”. So what do we know here? Have you heard your ma has been hit by a bomb?’

He shakes his soggy little head.

‘Right! Then today you know she’s all right,’ I tell him. ‘So why don’t we say that? Go on, say it with me.’

He shakes his little head.

‘Go on,’ I cajole. ‘I’ve got some spare custard at lunchtime says you can do it.’

He pants snottily into my armpit.

‘I know she’s all right,’ he says, sniffing.

‘Well, how’s about that, then?’ I say brightly. ‘That’s a bit better, innit? Much better than all that stuff what hasn’t happened and might not never?’

He nods a bit.

‘And I tell you something else I know,’ I say, rooting around in my pocket for the biscuits I always keep for this very purpose. ‘I know that I have this packet of bourbons waiting for my mid-morning cuppa. And I know I shouldn’t eat them, what with my big ole bum and whatnot, so do you know what I’m going to do with them?’

‘No,’ he whimpers.

‘I know you need to eat ’em for me,’ I whisper, handing them over.

His little eyes light up. He hesitates.

‘But Mr Andrews want us to be a Healthy Eating school,’ he says. ‘He told us all about it in assembly. We have to eat five vegetables a day. So I’m going to eat five peas at lunchtime. Biscuits aren’t healthy.’

‘Is that so?’ I ask. ‘Well Mr Andrews is forty-one. I’m fifty-seven. I’ve been eating bourbons all me life and I’ve already lived sixteen years longer than Mr Andrews. So who knows more about the health benefits of biscuits, him or me?’

He grins.

‘You do,’ he says, taking the top biccie and shovelling it in sideways.

I smile to meself. ‘When reason fails, the devil helps,’ said Mr Dostoyevsky. Any argument works best with those what want them to be right.

‘I know,’ I whisper to him, giving him a squeeze. ‘Now gobble them down you and get your little backside back to Tigers. That seven times table ain’t gonna learn itself.’

He duly obliges, stands up and gives me a big hug.

‘Thanks, , you’re the best,’ he says, skipping off back to class with a belly full o’ biscuit. That’s the thing about kids. Their moods are like tropical rainstorms: they pass over quick enough.

I shut up the library and go back to the kitchen to see to lunch. I’ve not been in five minutes when I hear the door go and Kiera’s skinny bum pops up onto the side.

‘Ain’t you got nowhere better to be?’ I tell her, swatting her off with a cloth.

‘Love you too,’ she says back, blowing a kiss, the cheeky mare. ‘Tigers are doing their Maths test, Owls are out at play, so I’ve got a break.’

‘Nice for some,’ I say, stirring my custard.

‘So . . .’ she begins, ‘we’ve decided to take the caretaker job.’

I raise an eyebrow, though I can’t say I’m surprised. Even if the last thing Kiera needs is to get more stuck in this place.

‘We?’ I ask. ‘Or you?’

‘Same net result,’ she grins. ‘And I’ve just seen the uniform list for Shottsford House. A blazer alone is a hundred and fifty quid! I don’t own anything that costs a hundred and fifty quid! My bloody wedding dress didn’t cost a hundred and fifty quid! Come to think of it . . . my whole wedding didn’t cost a hundred and fifty quid . . .’

‘You didn’t have such expensive tastes back then,’ I mutter.

‘Oi!’ she cries, swatting me back. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘All’s I’m saying is that you’re spending a lot you don’t have,’ I tell her. ‘You spoil those girls. All them fancy clothes and latest phones. Kids don’t need all that.’

‘Pffff,’ she scoffs. ‘You have that conversation with Taylor . . .’

‘And this Shottsford House business—’

‘, don’t . . .’ she warns. But I ain’t never been scared of Kiera Fisher, woman or girl, and I ain’t about to be starting now.

‘I bloomin’ will,’ I insist. ‘Little Gracie done ever so well with her scholarship . . . but are you sure a posh gaff like that is the right place for her?’

‘Yes,’ she says, her mouth puckering like a monkey’s arsehole. ‘It’s the best. She’s the best. So it’s the right place.’

‘It’s the most expensive,’ I point out. ‘That don’t make it the best.’

‘You’ve seen what Flatford High has done to Taylor,’ she glowers. ‘I’m not seeing Gracie go the same way.’

I throw my cloth on the side.

‘Flatford High ain’t done nothing to Taylor,’ I correct her. ‘She’s just the same as any kid that age – gobby, rebellious and a pain in the arse. Like every seventeen-year-old girl under God’s blue sky, you included, missy. You can’t buy your way outta that . . . What about all o’ Gracie’s friends?’

‘She’ll make new ones,’ Kiera sighs. ‘Better ones.’

‘Richer ones, you mean?’ I shoot back. ‘Ones that she won’t be able to keep up with? That she’ll always feel like the poor relation to? I already stopped you from making one stupid mistake with Stitchers. High time I stopped another—’

‘That’s enough!’ Kiera hisses, and I know I gone too far. ‘Thought we were never speaking of that again? And you don’t know anything about raising kids, . You can’t learn that in a book.’

‘Oh, I know plenty, gal,’ I remind her. ‘You don’t have to know how to sail to see when the ship’s sinking.’

‘I’m fine,’ she spits. ‘We’re fine. Just . . . just keep your nose out of it!’

She strops out of the kitchen and the door flaps behind her. Kiera’s got a right hot head on her, but she won’t stay mad – she never does. She’ll be back in a bit, we’ll pretend nothing happened and the world’ll keep on turning. But she doesn’t get that mad unless she knows I’m right. And I am.

People like to throw spinsterhood around as a weapon, when I reckon it’s the only sane choice. I saw my ma done wrong by men all her life. My pa didn’t want nothing to do with either of us and I watched her scrap and scrimp and struggle until she died too soon. They don’t put poverty on a death certificate. Yet it’s killed more folk than cancer.

And as for being alone . . . well, that were my choice too. Never got all the fuss about sex. I tried it once with a man and once with a woman and weren’t tempted to give it another go. Felt much the same about crayfish, as it goes. I’ve been happy with myself and by myself. Folk have never understood it. Back along, they didn’t have a name for what I am. These days, I ’spect there’s seventeen hashtags and a flag.

‘,’ slicks that greasy toad, Baxendale, oozing into my kitchen. ‘Is now a good time for our chat?’

I huff loudly.

‘No worse than any other,’ I grumble, checking on me spuds. I want him to think I don’t care. However much I do.

‘Excellent,’ he says, and I don’t need to be looking at him to know he’ll be grinning like a clown. ‘As you will be aware, the school finds itself in . . . a challenging financial climate.’

‘Shame we ain’t got a decent bursar, then,’ I heave, draining me taters.

‘In times such as these, difficult cuts must be made,’ he says. ‘We old-timers are expensive, . There are cheaper alternatives to us both.’

I snort.

‘Can’t imagine they get much cheaper than you,’ I mutter, popping my spuds back in the pan.

‘So I just wanted to gauge your interest in early retirement,’ he smarms. ‘It would be an . . . elegant solution to a complex problem.’

I point my masher right at him.

‘Retire!’ I cry. ‘I’m only fifty-seven years old!’

‘Hatita Hughes, you are sixty next month,’ he says. ‘I have your National Insurance details on your staff record.’

I say nothing. Bloody number-cruncher.

‘What of it?’ I mutter, starting to mash.

‘Perhaps I’m not being clear,’ he says, moving closer. ‘One of us has to go. And I find myself in somewhat . . . reduced circumstances. So it’s not going to be me.’

‘And you think it’s gonna be me!’ I laugh. ‘Let’s see you find someone to do my job! We can replace you with a bloody calculator . . .’

‘Oh, , you are entirely irreplaceable. I wouldn’t even try,’ he says with a smile as sincere as a dead kipper. ‘But, seeing as you ask, on my desk there are some projections for an external catering company. They cost a fraction of what you do—’

‘Because the kiddies will get a fraction of the food!’ I roar. ‘They’ll turn up with their trays o’ crap and the kids won’t touch a bite.’

‘Well, then, Mr Andrews’s trial of packed lunches is timely indeed,’ he continues. ‘Our school budget is in deficit. Cuts need to be made.’

‘Well, make ’em somewhere else,’ I snap. ‘You get rid of me, I’ll kick right off! I’ll rile the parents up something rotten! You’ll have a riot on your hands!’

‘I don’t think you will,’ he says, leaning against one of the units. ‘I think you’ll announce that you’re going to retire and go ever so quietly and graciously.’

‘Well, you got a truckload o’ thinks coming!’ I laugh. ‘I ain’t going nowhere, boy.’

‘I beg to differ,’ he says. ‘You see, . I know.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah – I fiddled the Harvest Bake Off, that’s hardly gonna get me sent to Alcatraz, innit . . .’

‘No, ,’ he whispers. ‘I know . Claudia – may she rest in peace – was kind enough to divulge the contents of your final meeting with her.’

I feel my fingers start to shake. I grip the masher. Hard.

‘Is that so?’ I grunt. I’m gonna let him spill first – he might yet be bluffing.

‘It is,’ he replies. ‘I know that she too was planning to get rid of you.’

I stop mashing. Bugger me. He does know. I throw down my cloth and turn about.

‘Well, ain’t that grand?’ I tell him.

‘It is rather.’ He snorts like a bloody schoolgirl. ‘So I know. I know about you and the reverend . . .’

A sudden clattering at the door saves me from explaining why I’ve dropped me masher.

‘I’m . . . I’m so sorry,’ cowers Tanya Jones, her feet surrounded by cake tins.

How long’s she been standing there?

‘So you should be – you nearly gave me a bloody coronary!’ I say with a cheery smile, strolling over to help her pick them up. ‘You’re fine, lovely – what can I do for you?’

‘I just came to return your cake tins – and to thank you for your mum’s Victoria sponge recipe. It is by far the best I’ve ever made,’ she grins. She’s a sweet girl.

‘And she’d be glad to hear it,’ I say, taking the tins from her. ‘How you travelling, love?’

‘I’m okay,’ she says and clearly isn’t. ‘Apologies again for interrupting – , Mr Baxendale . . .’

She backs out me kitchen like her bum’s on fire.

I look back at Clive. This needs sorting, quick smart.

‘Whatever you think you know about me ’n’ Stitchwell senior, you have no proof.’

‘Don’t I?’ he counters. ‘You resign. Or I start talking.’

Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Let’s try calling his bluff.

‘Go on, then. I ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of,’ I lie again. ‘I don’t care who knows.’

‘Oh, I think you will,’ he chuckles like a bloody schoolgirl. ‘After all, it’s a powerful motivation for murder . . .’

‘ What? What you jabbering about now?’

He leans in.

‘You knew Claudia better than anyone,’ he says. ‘You fed her daily. You could have got the allergens into her any number of ways. One word to Bob Alsorp about the reverend and . . .’

I grit my teeth. He’s got me over a barrel and he knows it.

‘If you go to the police now, you’ll have withheld evidence,’ I bluster. ‘You’ll be in a whole heap of trouble . . .’

‘Not as much as you’ll be in,’ he rightly points out. ‘And I would only be doing the Lord’s work if you had any part in Claudia’s tragic death . . .’

Enough of this. Time to fight fire with fire.

‘And why would you wanna do that, Clive?’ I say. ‘You need to shine the light away from you? I heard you two that night. You were screaming blue murder at her. You go snitching, I will too.’

‘A professional disagreement is not a crime,’ he says slickly, although I fancy I’ve rattled him. ‘But I think the authorities would take a rather dimmer view of the information you’ve withheld.’

‘I ain’t done nothing . . .’

He eyes up me copy of Hamlet .

‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’ he whispers.

‘We are arrant knaves all,’ I quote back. ‘Believe none of us.’

Daggers are stared. Now I ain’t scared of no one. But, like I say, Baxendale’s a dangerous player. He needs to be taken out of the game.

‘You have my terms,’ he says. ‘Do with them what you will.’

And, with that, he turns on his shiny shoes and buggers off.

I look out the kitchen window, at all the little ones running around the playground. This school has been my life. I’m not even sure what my life is without it.

And I have no intention of finding out.

Clive Baxendale, you just declared war.

And let me tell you, boy.

I fight dirty.

PARENTCHAT

Clearer Community Communication

ST NONNATUS CE PRIMARY

Ora et labora

Flatford FC

Eric

Weds 9 Nov

14.02

Eric

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

No takers?

Not to worry!

Another time!

Robocoppers

Priya, Al, Tanya

Thurs 10 Nov

09.39

Tanya

Hey guys .

You still on for group playdate after school?

By which I mean ‘justifiable wine before six’.

Al

Sorry babe

Just back from the doc’s.

Millie’s got Hand, Foot and Mouth.

Caught it off the bloody babysitter.

We’re in quarantine.

Priya

Noooo!

I’ve got so much I need to talk to you both about!

(Not least that you have to find a new babysitter, Al, your Casey is a liability.)

I’ve been studying the witness statements again and thinking about the stuff we discussed last week.

Al

‘We discussed’

You mean, your crackpot theories that Tan and I tolerated over croissants?

Priya

Yes.

Like I say.

Discussed.

I have thoughts.

Tanya

Like?

Priya

In their statements, both Clive and Kiera reference going to look for epipens, but neither can find them.

The event started at 6.30. When Stitchwell started to choke, I went to the office to get the EpiPen, but couldn’t find it.

When it became clear that Miss Stitchwell was in respiratory distress, I hastened to her office, where I knew her to keep her personal dose of epinephrine in case of anaphylaxis. I was unable to locate it, so called an ambulance from her office

Al

OK. That is weird.

I did a lot of outreach with local schools around allergy safety.

And given Leo’s lactose intolerance, I wanted to be sure St Nonn’s was covered.

Clive and Kiera were right – there should always be two doses on site (in case one doesn’t work).

That’s really remiss of the school not to have them to hand.

Priya

I don’t think the school is to blame.

Tanya

Whyever not?

They really should be on top of that stuff.

Al

Absolutely – the authorities will hang them out to dry over this.

And rightly so.

Priya

So ask yourselves?

Why haven’t they?

Tanya

Um. . .

Al

We all know you’re going to tell us.

Priya

I *might* have had a look at the preliminary findings from the investigations at the school.

Al

Of course you have.

Tanya

Of course you have.

Al

Jinx!

Go on then. . .

Priya

I won’t bore you with the whole thing – I’m still wading through it.

But for one thing (sorry Tan) all the food made that night came back allergen-free.

There were samples left of everything (not surprised given the menu – egg sandwiches and tuna vol au vents ?!)

So even if Stitchwell did eat some of ’s food, it didn’t kill her.

But check this out.

And in accordance with governmental guidance, two doses of epinephrine were found on site: one in the first-aid box in the main office, one in Claudia Stitchwell’s desk drawer.

Tanya

Huh?

Al

So they were both there?!

Priya

Yup.

And there’s no record of them being used, nor thrown away – the cops went through the bins, nothing in the report about finding an epipen.

So that leaves us with two options:

1) One/both deliberately didn’t find them.

2) Someone had already moved them.

Tanya

Or 3) They just didn’t see them.

It was incredibly frantic that night, Pri.

People were screaming and running around.

Stitchwell was choking to death in front of us.

You could be forgiven for being in a panic.

Al

I agree.

People do all kinds of weird things in traumatic situations.

The adrenalin can impair all kinds of systems.

And like Tan says, just plain old fashioned panic plays its part.

Priya

I’ll buy it for a dollar with Clive.

That pen was found in Stitchwell’s desk drawer.

It could have got hidden.

And we know Stitchwell had been rummaging around looking for the lost bible.

(More on that later.)

Tanya

Oh God.

There’s more?

Priya

So much more

But let’s stay with the pens for now.

So Clive can’t find it in Stitchwell’s messy drawers.

Al

Priya

But Kiera couldn’t find it in the first aid kit??!!!

She’s a trained TA.

And doesn’t strike me as someone who panics in a crisis.

Al

True.

We all saw her when Freddie Burrows choked on a Lego head at the summer picnic.

She was cool as a cucumber.

Tanya

But Pri. . . you’re not exactly her biggest fan.

So maybe your judgement is a little coloured?

Priya

I can’t stand the arsey cow.

But I’m looking at this as a detective, not a mum.

And it doesn’t look good.

Unless. . .

Al

2) Someone had already moved them.

That’s where you’re going with this, right?

Priya

Maybe.

And, if Clive and/or Kiera didn’t deliberately miss them.

That leaves Ben and .

Al

I just can’t see either of them being that malicious.

And even if we go with Ben being pissed about the job. . .

We still have zero motive for .

Why would she kill Stitchwell?

Priya

She has a pulse?

Tanya

Oh God.

Okay.

So, I’ve been wondering if I should tell you this.

Priya

Well you have to now.

Al

Don’t do us dirty like that, Tan!

Tanya

Look.

You know I’m not entirely on board with this conspiracy theory. . .

Priya

You mean ‘murder investigation’.

I don’t do conspiracy theories.

Tanya

. . . but I heard something weird at school yesterday.

Al

I don’t do conspiracy theories.

Oh sure!

Just ask Tash Tompkins!

I can’t believe you asked her if she had any unspent criminal convictions at the Macmillan coffee morning!

Priya

There was context.

We were talking about DBS checks.

Al

You know full well she doesn’t need one for a bloody bake sale.

Anyway, sorry Tan.

What happened?

Tanya

Right.

If I tell you – Priya, you are not to take it and run with it.

Promise?

Priya

Of course.

I am a pro, you know.

I can keep it in my pants.

(Metaphorically at least )

Al

Tanya

So. . .

I walked in on and Clive today.

Al

Oh GOD!

They weren’t at it, were they?

Priya

Tanya

No!

But they were having a bit of a tiff.

And Clive said something weird.

Priya

Go on??!!

Tanya

In.

Pants.

Remember?

Priya

Yes yes yes.

Al

What did he say?

Tanya

He said: ‘I know about you and the reverend’.

And it sounded. . . threatening.

Priya

WHAT?!

Al

Nice pants you’ve got there.

Tanya

Do you think it’s significant?

Priya

ARE YOU SHITTING ME??!!

Al

Does that answer your question, Tan?

Priya

Okay, I’m adding that to the list. . .

Tanya

What list?

There’s a list?

Al

Of course there’s a list.

Priya

You’re damn right there’s a list.

How did react?

To Clive’s comment, I mean.

Tanya

Honestly, I couldn’t really say.

I was so shocked I dropped her cake tins.

But ‘know’ what?

Al

Eugh? So and the Rev were at it?

I mean, disgusting as it is, the Randy Rev was at it with half the town.

If Clive is threatening with it, it’s embarrassing, but hardly a motive.

Priya

I agree – there must be more to it than that. . .

Speaking of this wildly dysfunctional town.

Did you see that stuff on the group chat?

About the Stitchwell love child?

And the black book?

Any proof that either exist?

Sarah

And yet it was Miss Stitchwell that had a baby on the wrong side of the blanket.

The fabled Stitchwell Love Child.

Sharon

Stitchwell’s diary.

Legend has it she kept everyone’s secrets in it. Including her own.

Tanya

No proof of either as far as I’m aware.

Persistent local gossip, though.

Al

Also, we don’t know that Clive wasn’t lying.

Or winding up.

He’s such a prick.

Priya

This could also be true.

But was the last person to be alone with Stitchwell prior to the event:

slamming around my kitchen like an oaf, trying to find the rev’s poxy wine. Apparently, madam was in a right state – couldn’t find her pa’s bible for the opening prayer, so I went to the office to help her look. Turned out it was in the wrong drawer, the dozy mare, so I calmed her down. She made me

Priya

She specifically mentions going into Stitchwell’s drawer.

She could have taken the EpiPen then.

Al

Okay. . . I’m going to join you on the crazy train for a minute:

So ’s our murderer.

To silence Stitchwell over something to do with her secret fling with the Rev.

She takes the EpiPen.

She knows that Stitchwell is going to have the reaction.

Because she’s the one who has somehow administered the nuts to her (although not with her food as that’s been given the all-clear)?

She takes it from Stitchwell’s desk under the guise of looking for the bible?

Then somehow returns it afterwards so the authorities find it.

Priya

With you so far.

Al

So riddle me this. . .

What did she do with the other one?

Tanya

Exactly!

There were two pens.

I’m just reading the statements back.

No one places in the school office at any point.

So even if she nicked one pen.

There’s no evidence she took the other.

Al

Which kinda makes it unlikely she only took one.

I think Clive’s shit-stirring.

Or trying to throw suspicion elsewhere.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew Tanya was there today.

And said something on purpose.

I wouldn’t put anything past that man.

Priya

You’re both missing a third explanation.

Al

You’re a paranoid cynic who needs something else to fill her days?

Tanya

Behave!

Go on, Pri.

Priya

You’re right – there’s no evidence that went to the office.

She also claims she left school before Stitchwell died, so wouldn’t have had the chance to put it back if that’s true.

We know Clive was in Stitchwell’s office, but there’s no evidence he was in the school office at any point – although he is unaccounted for more than the others earlier in the evening.

But Ben goes through the school office to reach his own – twice: once to do paperwork, once to fix the Creepy Jesus statue (you two need to fill me in on this).

And Kiera goes there after Stitchwell’s reaction.

So theoretically either of them could have taken it and later returned it.

Al

So what about and Stitchwell’s pen. . .?

Tanya

Oh God.

I know how this thread pulls out.

couldn’t be in two places at once.

So she would have needed an accomplice.

Priya

Bingo!

And who do you think she’s most likely to work with?

Al

We’re back with Kiera.

So now you’re saying we don’t have one murderer in our rural primary school.

We have two?

Priya

I’m just saying that anything is possible.

So what’s with the statue?

They all mention it at some point?

Al

Oh yeah.

Creepy Jesus!

Tanya

It’s that horrible crucifixion that Miss Stitchwell always insisted on having out.

It’s been freaking kids out for decades.

Al

It really is hideous.

Although it had its uses.

We used to hide sweets in it.

If I’m going to hell for anything, it’s for taking sherbet lemons out of Jesus’s arse.

Tanya

I’m just saying that anything is possible.

It is.

But you have to concede another possibility.

You’re wrong about this.

And that it was just a horrible accident.

Priya

Perhaps.

Look, I gotta go, I’m off to BuyRite.

Al

Try not to arrest any suspicious looking pensioners.

Or dodgy girl guides.

Tanya

Or Tash T.

The poor woman’s going to take out a restraining order.

Priya

If it spares us from her bloody awful brownies at the next bake sale.

Next time we’re looking for a murder weapon. . .

Al

You are a nightmare.

But we love you.

Laters girls.

Priya

Xxx

Tanya

Love you guys

Xx