Page 32

I’m not going to hide away. Shoulders back. Smile wide.

It’s been a week. I cried off sick to get my head straight. Taylor and I had a big heart-to-heart. She’s right – I have been putting Gracie’s needs over hers. I apologised and I will do better. In return, she’s going to try to settle down at school – Themis has given her a taste for justice, so she now wants to go to uni and study law! God help anyone she cross-examines. I know I barely survive it . . .

Gracie is starting to forgive me, which I must say is largely down to Matt. He’s been incredible. In oh so many ways . . . Grace is actually really relieved about the scholarship and, on some level, so am I. She’s sitting the tests for Flatford High’s grammar stream in the New Year. I’ll be keeping a close eye. But she’s got her head screwed on right.

The equilibrium nearly took a knock when we exchanged on the house yesterday. The girls are still furious they are losing their home, but we’d be crazy to turn down this buyer – they don’t seem to care about anything. It’s been the easiest sale – and now at least we can put in an offer on somewhere else.

So next year is going to be a lot – new home, new schools, new life. But today it’s the Christmas Fayre and I’m going to enjoy it.

And manning the bar is really bloody helping.

‘Bloody hell, Hats – how much mulled wine did you make?’ I ask as she pours another vat of it into the cauldron.

‘’Tis the season,’ she says. ‘You all right?’

‘I will be,’ I tell her, and it’s the truth. ‘The girls are getting there. And Matt’s been . . . amazing.’

‘Told you. You got a keeper there. So you keep him,’ she says.

She puts down her pot and looks weirdly at me. And then she pulls me into a massive hug. It takes me a bit by surprise – Hattie’s not a big one for big emotion. But it feels good. Really good.

‘It’s all gonna be all right,’ she tells me. ‘You just see if it ain’t. Because there’s loads that care about you, Fisher. So let ’em. And I’m top o’ the list. I love you, gal.’

‘Love you too, Hats,’ I tell her. Because I really, really do.

Is that . . . ? Is that a tear in her eye? Bloody hell. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hattie cry.

She must have really gone at the mulled wine.

‘Right,’ she says, pulling herself together. ‘I’m gonna go make some more o’ this – back in a bit.’

‘Hattie, we really don’t need any . . .’

But it’s too late. She’s on her way to the kitchen. It’s where she’s happiest. It’s where she belongs.

I turn to the stage, where Sasha McCall is reading out her Santa letter.

‘Dear Santa,’ she reads with a big grin. ‘For Christmas I would like the Pony Palace stable, the Pony Palace horse box, seven Pony Palace ponies, the Pony Palace grooming set and a Smiggle voucher. I’ve been really good. Love Sasha.’

A gentle ripple of applause goes around the hall. These letters are so cute. In a totally grasping way.

‘Oh my God,’ says Tanya, hurtling over and throwing a mulled wine down her neck. ‘You haven’t happened to see yellow grass snake, have you? It’s chaos at the Reptile stand. It’s like a miniature Jurassic Park . . .’

My mind flits back to Ben. We’ve had enough slimy creatures roaming this hall, thank you very much.

‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ I tell her as she necks her second glass. ‘How’s Hattie’s book turned out? I’m really sorry I couldn’t do the artwork. I . . .’

We both know why I haven’t done it, so I don’t feel the need to say it out loud. But I feel really crap about it. I look at the floor, unable to look Tanya in the eye. I feel a warm hand on my wrist.

‘Your family needed you,’ she says kindly. ‘And that must always come first.’

I look up into her smiling face. There’s not an ounce of judgement in her eyes. Just support. Hattie’s right. There are people who care.

‘Oh look,’ I tell her, happy to distract from the intensity of the moment. ‘Verity’s up with her Santa letter.’

‘Ah – this could be helpful,’ says Tanya. ‘She’s keeping dead quiet to prove Father Christmas doesn’t exist.’

‘Dear Father Christmas,’ grins Verity from behind the mic. ‘For Christmas I would like all the children of the world to be safe and happy.’

A delighted moan echoes around the parents. Verity grins even more broadly.

‘And a puppy. Love you, Santa!’

She does a little curtsey and heads off stage.

‘Oh Christ,’ says Tanya, chugging back some more mulled wine. She’s gonna be laced by lunchtime. And why not? She’s worked so hard to pull all this together. She works hard to pull this whole community together. I should be more help than I am.

It’s barely gone 11am, but the bar’s already getting busy, so I get to serving everyone. I get a few funny looks. Stella McEnzie-Roberts can stick her orange juice up her sanctimonious arse. And after how much I’ve seen of Theo Thompson’s, Rosie can keep her side eyes to herself. But, broadly, everyone is pleasant enough. That’s the great thing about a school community. You’re only the headline gossip for so long – someone else will be in Dispatches before long.

‘Bloody hell,’ comes a horny whisper in my ear as I feel a pair of strong arms encircle my waist. ‘Your poncy bottled lager might be a bag o’ shite, but I’ll have whatever the barmaid’s serving . . .’

He pulls me round and gives me a massive great snog, much to the delight of the line and the disgust of our kids.

‘Gross!’ Gracie moans, while looking slightly pleased.

‘Get a room,’ Taylor scoffs. ‘Can I have a fiver for the chocolate tombola?’

‘Absolutely not,’ I protest as Matt hands over a tenner.

‘’S all right, love.’ He winks. ‘I’m cleaning up on the general knowledge bingo! Chips are on me tonight . . .’

He smacks me on the bum with another wink as Gracie drags him away to relieve him of more of our disposable income. I bet Shottsford House doesn’t have glitter tattoos.

The hall suddenly goes weirdly quiet. Little Jacob Richardson is at the microphone, looking nervous as all hell. I don’t know if he can feel the hearts going out to him. But there are about three hundred pointing his way right now.

‘Dear Father Christmas,’ he says, his little hands shaking. ‘I’m not writing to ask for a present. Christmas is when miracles happen, like the baby Jesus and the Doctor Who special. And this year I’d like a miracle, please. I want my mummy back. That’s all. I don’t care if she’s a bit broken and messy like Mike says she is, because my swingball has only gone one way since the summer and I still love that. I just want her home. In our house. With Mike and Bea. Even if Bea is doing her menstrual cycle like we learned on Love Day and it makes her a bit of a psycho. I’ve asked God too, so I don’t know if you’re friends, but perhaps you and God could do it as a joint present? My two aunts do that, even though they live in different houses and it’s only ever a five-pound book token, which doesn’t even buy one book and . . .’

He is drowned out by a collective gasp from the entire St Nonn’s community. And then the clapping starts. And then the cheers follow. And then the tears.

Because wheeling up behind him – as broken and messy as a dodgy swingball – is Jenna Richardson.

Jacob is a little confused for a moment. I don’t think he expected his letter to get quite that response. But then a tearful Tanya turns him round. And he can’t believe his little eyes. He quickly turns back to the mic.

‘Although, Santa, if you want to give me a present too, I’d really like the Mario Kart upgrade package, thanks, bye . . .’

He pauses for a moment.

And then he runs to his mummy.

Mike’s crying. Jenna’s crying. Bea’s rolling her eyes.

And we’re all in pieces.

Thank God for Hattie’s mulled wine.

The hall erupts in cheers and everyone’s hugging and raising glasses to a beloved family. There’s a lot that’s wrong with a community like this.

But, fuck me, there’s a lot that’s right.

‘Wow,’ I say, turning back to my next punter. ‘That was . . .’

Oh great. It’s Priya.

‘Hey,’ she says.

I nod in response.

‘How are you?’ she asks.

‘Fine,’ I say stiffly. ‘You?’

‘Fine,’ she replies. ‘Look . . . . I know we’re not exactly the best of mates—’

‘You must have been a great detective—’

‘But I really need to talk to you. You got a minute? It’s important.’

Al comes up behind me and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I take the money belt off from round my waist and hand it over. I don’t think I like this . . .

We seek out a quieter corner of the hall and she gestures for me to sit down.

‘Can I ask you one thing?’ she asks, with both of us knowing she’s going to ask it anyway. ‘And it’s really important. Are you the Stitchwell Love Child? By which I mean, were either of the Stitchwells your parent?’

I spit a mouthful of mulled wine across the floor.

‘WHAT?’ I laugh. ‘You think Bitchwell was my mum? Or the Randy Rev my dad?’

‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ she says, ‘but it’s incredibly important that I know.’

Something in her face tells me I need to be straight with her. So I am.

‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I’m not related to the Stitchwells. My dad was a squaddie who passed through the camp. Knocked up my mum who was a troubled kid – she had me, gave me to the church, then buggered off.’

‘And Taylor?’

Okay, this time I nearly choke.

‘Jesus! Now you think my Taylor is one of the Randy Rev’s bible bastards? And that I shagged him? Jesus – he was a pensioner when I was a teenager! I mean Handy Pandy was bad enough – he was in his forties, the filthy perv . . .’

‘Thank you for your candour,’ she says. ‘And I just want you to know that I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.’

‘Thanks, but don’t sweat it,’ I say, replenishing my wine. ‘My shame died with Handy’s heart attack. And he gave me Taylor . . .’

‘That’s an incredibly courageous perspective,’ she says admiringly – that’s unusual. ‘But I was talking about Ben.’

I freeze. What does she know?

‘The disabled loo is right next to his office,’ she whispers. ‘You guys were either really into Quiz Night, or . . .’

I loll my head back. Great. That’s me back in Dispatches.

‘I haven’t told a soul and I won’t,’ she promises. And I find myself believing her. ‘Anya’s dad was my boss in the Met. We had a torrid, passionate affair. Told me he loved me. Told me he was leaving his wife for me. Told me we’d start our own family. And yet when I told him I was pregnant with Anya . . .’

She doesn’t supply more details and I don’t need them. Jesus. Is there a woman alive who hasn’t been screwed over by a man?

‘So I know how it feels to be everyone’s bit of scandal,’ she says. ‘They won’t be hearing anything from me. But, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’

She reaches over for my hand. And I give it to her.

‘It is what it is,’ I tell her. ‘I could break my heart over it, or I could get on with my life.’

‘And you’re making the right choice,’ she says. ‘Your life isn’t his to take. So don’t let him.’

We smile at each other. Survivors both. We get it.

We head back to the bar, where Tanya is handing Al a piece of cake.

‘Bloody hell, Tan – this is your best one ever, I swear it,’ says Al with a mouthful of chocolate sponge.

‘It’s Hattie’s mayonnaise – it’s a game-changer,’ Tanya laughs, looking at me and Priya. ‘How we all doing?’

‘We’re good,’ says Priya, smiling at me. ‘But I really need to talk to Hattie . . .’

‘Shoot – I’ve got to go and do the speech for her birthday present,’ says Tanya, a slight slur already in her words. ‘I’m going to sob my heart out, I just know it. What if she decides to retire?’

‘Oh, relax – she won’t go anywhere. I guarantee it,’ I tell them. ‘Flatford’s in her blood. Twenty quid says she’ll still be here for her ninetieth . . .’

‘I hope you’re right,’ says Tanya. ‘Right, wish me luck . . .’

She heads off to the stage with some encouraging words from her friends. It would be nice to be part of a group like that. Perhaps I should try harder to be in one.

‘This cake . . .’ Al says, stuffing his face. ‘Don’t tell Tan, but I don’t know if it’s hers or another “Hattie surprise”!’

‘What do you mean?’ Priya asks.

‘Er . . . hi, everyone!’ comes Tanya’s voice through the microphone on stage. ‘Can you hear me?’

An enthusiastic roar goes up from the crowd.

‘He’s talking about Hattie’s magic food swaps,’ I explain. ‘Where she fake bakes someone else’s cake. She’s always doing it – that woman is to baking what Bootleg Barry is to bent bank notes . . .’

‘So, as you might know,’ Tanya continues, ‘today is a special day for a special member of our St Nonnatus family.’

‘Hold on . . . you’re telling me that Hattie can . . . fake food?’ Priya says.

‘I swear to God, even its creator wouldn’t know the difference,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a gift. A twisted gift. But a gift.’

‘So that’s how . . .’ says Priya, pulling out her phone and frantically searching.

‘For over forty years, Hattie Hughes has served up love and lunch at our school canteen,’ says Tanya, starting to tear up. ‘She is the hero of so many St Nonnatus stories and, today, we get to give her one all about her.’

‘What’s got your goat?’ asks Al through his cake crumbs.

‘The cake,’ Priya mutters. ‘It was the bloody cake . . .’

‘Have you been at the mulled wine?’ I ask her. ‘Cos you know you could fuel a space mission to Mars on this stuff . . .’

She keeps frantically scrolling through the phone.

‘Don’t you see?’ she says. ‘It was the cake that killed Stitchwell.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Al scoffs. ‘You’re losing your mind. The tests cleared it – there were no nuts in Tanya’s cake. Stitchwell wasn’t killed by cake.’

She stops and looks up at us both.

‘Yes, she was,’ she says with a tremble in her voice. ‘It just wasn’t Tanya’s.’

‘So I know that so many of you wanted to thank Hattie for everything she does for our community,’ Tanya continues. ‘As anyone who knows Hattie will tell you, the only thing she loves more than a sweet sherry is a good book.’

The hall lets out a ripple of laughter. But Priya and Al aren’t smiling.

‘Oh God,’ says Al, finally putting his cake down. ‘There were two of them . . .’

‘Of course there were,’ Priya groans. ‘It makes perfect sense. Spiking Tanya’s cake with nut oil was too risky – anyone could have eaten it. The trick was to get Stitchwell to eat her one, already filled with oil – and make sure everyone saw it – then change it out for Tanya’s safe one . . .’

‘Creepy Jesus!’ Al exclaims, making several parents turn around.

Priya nods. ‘The perfect distraction.’

‘What you pair on about?’ I ask. I look down the corridor for Hattie. She’ll pretend to hate all this. But she’ll love it really.

‘And so we’ve spent the last few weeks,’ says Tanya, ‘asking everyone who wanted to do something for Hattie to write down something about her – a story, a picture, a poem. And wow – does St Nonnatus have talent!’

More laughter. But still Al and Priya look like they’re at a funeral.

‘Hattie was at BuyRite the same time as Ben, right?’ says Priya, finally finding what she’s looking for on her phone. He said she was behind him in the queue. Look at what she bought:

43857

Champagne

28.99

33858

Luxury chocolate ice cream

2.99

76400

BuyRite Special Selection Brie

2.69

49594

Red wine

8.49

2435

Durex Intense

11.00

10349

BuyRite Basics Bleach

0.79

6893

Masking tape

1.69

Thank you for Buying Rite!

BUYRITE

Buy more, pay less, buy rite!

Mon 24 Oct

16.11

58432

Rice Wine Vinegar

2.90

59382

Soy Sauce

2.75

50293

Groundnut oil

2.00

981233

Pork ribs

5.62

00293

Cornflour

2.45

8762

Garlic

0.24

59203

Chinese 5 Spice

1.10

8350

Spring onions

0.55

5023

BuyRite Basics Chicken stock cubes

1.00

19845

BuyRite Basics 50 Paper plates

2.50

19473

BuyRite Basics 50 Paper cups

7.50

19029

BuyRite Basics 1ply Napkins

1.00

Thank you for Buying Rite!

‘No – the nut oil was Ben,’ says Al. ‘We established that ages ago.’

‘Not his receipt – the one after it!’ she urges. ‘Look . . .’

BUYRITE

Buy more, pay less, buy rite!

Mon 24 Oct

16.14

00854

BuyRite Ex Power Dishwasher Tablets

3.10

006987

Cocoa powder

4.00

005485

Mayonnaise

1.20

00854

BuyRite Basics Cleaning Wipes

1.30

‘Shit,’ says Al. ‘The cocoa powder Stitchwell banned . . . extra strength dishwasher tablets to boil the evidence, wipes to clean up after herself . . . even her secret mayonnaise . . .’

‘Wow, you guys,’ I say, slow hand-clapping them. ‘School cook buys stuff for a kitchen. Sherlock must be shitting in his grave.’

‘We’ve taken all of your contributions and we’ve made them into this . . .’ says Tanya, unveiling a beautiful coffee-table book with THE BOOK OF HATTIE HUGHES painted across the front.

‘She was making sandwiches and savouries that night,’ Priya muses. ‘The pong of all that egg and tuna would be an excellent way to mask the baking smells . . .’

‘And Ben wasn’t lying about the cookery class. It was her who told Ben it was Chinese ribs,’ says Al keenly. ‘So she didn’t even need to incriminate herself – she just got him to buy the nut oil. All she had to do was take it from him.’

‘And she’s got notoriously sticky fingers,’ Priya adds, going back to her phone.

‘Wait . . . you think Hattie killed Stitchwell?’ I say, finally cottoning on. ‘Oh, come off it! She’s going to find this hysterical . . .’

‘But what was her motive?’ Al asks. ‘Not the job, surely . . .’

‘Erm – have you two completely lost the plot?!’ I laugh.

‘I think that might have been part of it,’ Priya grimaces as she triumphantly finds the next thing on her phone. ‘But mainly it was because of this.’

Sharon

Oh sure!

He loved half the bloody town!

Talk about tending your . . . flock.

He had a massive affair with my Aunty Pat.

And she was just one.

He was at it with Mary Smith who used to run The Crown, Joanie Hughes in the bakery, Connie Rogers when BuyRite was the haberdashers – and he cleaned up at the camp when the boys were on deployment.

‘Joanie Hughes was having an affair with the reverend,’ Priya continues. ‘Hattie’s mum.’

‘So was half the town,’ I confirm. ‘So what?’

‘So Hattie . . . Hattie is the Stitchwell Love Child?’ Al gasps.

Priya nods.

‘It wasn’t Stitchwell that had the illegitimate child,’ she says. ‘It was her dad. Hattie inherited his allergies. But she wanted to inherit his money.’

‘And so, without further ado, can I please invite up to the stage,’ says Tanya, sniffing back tears. ‘Our beloved, beautiful, bookish dinner lady . . . HATTIE HUGHES!’

A huge cheer goes up around the hall. I can’t wait for Hattie to hear all this. She’s gonna laugh her arse off.

Priya is scrolling through her phone again.

‘No cake,’ she mutters. ‘In all the reports of what was in the bins, there was no cake . . . How did she get rid of the second cake? Where the hell do you hide a whole chocolate cake in a primary school . . . ?’

Verity and my Grace try to push past us.

‘Oh God,’ says Al, standing in their way and putting a hand on each of their heads.

‘Girls, I want you to tell me something – you’re not in any trouble,’ he starts. ‘The night Miss Stitchwell died – you both had a bad tummy ache. Do you remember? You were sick?’

The girls look shiftily at one another and nod.

‘Had Hattie been giving you some treats?’ he asks with a smile.

The girls giggle conspiratorially.

‘Hattie? Don’t be shy!’ Tanya shouts from the stage when she doesn’t appear from the crowd. ‘Hats?’

‘What did she give you to eat?’ Al asks with a cheeky smile. I stare at Grace. She vommed for England that night. She just had that stomach bug . . .

‘She told us not to tell,’ says Verity.

‘That’s fine,’ says Priya. ‘No one’s in any trouble, I promise. We just want to . . . thank Hattie.’

Grace looks at me with a naughty smile.

‘We ate a cake,’ she giggles. ‘A whole chocolate cake . . .’

My mind glitches. Typical Hattie. I can see Priya putting two and two together and making seventeen.

‘Hattie?’ Tanya calls awkwardly from the stage over the dying applause. ‘Where are you, lovely?’

‘Of course,’ sighs Priya. ‘She’s not here. She’s done a bunk.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ I say, putting down my glass as Al hands Priya a tenner. ‘I saw her less than an hour ago. She’ll be in the kitchen stirring her brew. I’ll go fetch her. If I’m not back in ten minutes, call the police . . .’

I laugh. But Priya doesn’t.

The hall is chanting now.

‘Ha-ttie! Ha-ttie! Ha-ttie!’

I head out into the corridor and bump straight into Mike Richardson.

‘Hey!’ I say, giving him a massive hug. ‘That was a moment! You guys okay?’

‘We will be,’ he says, his tired eyes red from crying. ‘Are you heading to the kitchen? I really need to thank Hattie.’

‘For all the cakes for Jacob while you were away?’ I say. ‘Oh, she loves it – even if his pancreas won’t . . .’

‘No,’ he says, looking surprised. ‘I assumed you of all people would know . . . It was Hattie that got Jenna home.’

I feel a cold chill start to flurry in my chest.

‘What?’ I say.

‘Hattie paid for the air ambulance,’ he says, tears coming to his eyes again. ‘The pilot told me. I have no idea how we begin to repay her, but I have to tell her how much—’

‘This can’t be right,’ I tell him, my words shaking. ‘Hattie’s as poor as a church mouse. There’s no way she could afford that.’

‘Well, she did,’ says Mike with a massive grin. ‘And I want to tell the world – so long as it’s okay with her. I just want to check . . .’

‘Give me a minute,’ I say, approaching the closed kitchen door. ‘She really can’t stand a fuss. Let me sound her out. I’ll bring her back to the hall.’

‘Right you are,’ he says. ‘But she’s an angel, . An earthbound angel . . .’

That’s school life for you. One minute you’re a murderer. The next a saint. Let’s clear all this up . . .

I push the door open with a cheery shout.

‘Hats!’ I cry. ‘Get your wrinkly arse out here. They’re all calling for you! And wait until I tell you what’s being said. You’re gonna laugh . . .’

But two things hit me in quick succession.

One – the kitchen is absolutely freezing – the fire door is wide open.

And two?

Hattie isn’t here.

The kitchen is totally empty.

Except for an envelope.

An envelope with my name on it.

My darling girl,

Now I never was one for goodbyes, my love, and you don’t need me snivelling all over you. So I thought I’d do it this way and I know I’m right, so let that be an end to it.

You’re not daft. And if you haven’t figured it out by now someone soon will. Except maybe Constable Bob, God love him, never was the sharpest knife in the drawer, thank the Lord.

It was me.

I bumped old Stitchers off.

And I’d do it again tomorrow.

I’ve always admired the long game. Count of Monte Cristo. Hamlet. They all had the right idea.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say.

Well, it also works in a bloody great chocolate cake.

I know all the rumours about the Stitchwell Love Child – and well I should, I started most of ’em (and being ‘Sarah’ was a big help – I tell you, I can’t bloody believe the things they get up to on them chat groups, could get a person hung . . .)

But it’s me.

The Randy Rev knocked my ma up then tossed her away like an old hanky. She were in love with him for her sins – tried everything to get his attention, even giving me a daft bible name. Hatita. A biblical servant, apparently – the die was always cast. My name means “bending of sin”. Which, if rumours are to be believed about what the rev did to my ma over the iced ring doughnuts, sounds about right.

But he let her live and die with nothing while he and his family sat on their piles of gold. It weren’t right. But Stitchers had a couple o’ years on me – I nicked her DNA off a tea cup years ago to prove we’re kin and all’s I had to do was wait until he croaked to claim what was rightfully mine. I knew the rev never made no will, young Ricky Williams (’85 – nice lad, always took the goldfish home for the holidays) was the Stitchwell family lawyer like his pa before him and he despaired of it. Don’t get me wrong – I hated Claudia, but I didn’t always mean to kill ’er. I hated the way she treated everyone. I hated what she did to you and it had always been the plan to set it right once the rev was pushing up daisies.

But then the silly old goat found out I was her sister.

That night, she called me in to tell me that her pa confessed on his death bed that I was his, and that I was the product of sin. She told me that I’d never see a penny of his money – she’d made him write a will on his deathbed to prevent any of his bastards from claiming on his estate. She showed me the will – taunted me with it. And then told me she didn’t want me working in her school, that my original sin would infect the kids! Infect the kids! Those were her words. She was gonna make up some cock-a-hoop nonsense about catering budgets to get it past the governors, but we both knew the truth.

She was punishing me. So I decided to give her a taste of her own medicine.

I left that office in a fury, I don’t mind telling you. I didn’t know how I was gonna do it – but I was gonna do it that night. I scoured the school for anything – bleach, rat poison, I woulda choked her to death with a bloody glue stick if it’d got the job done.

And then I saw Tanya’s cake.

That greedy harridan never could resist a slice of Tanya’s choccie cake and so I knew what I had to do. I wouldn’t have touched Tanya’s cake – what if some poor other bastard with a nut allergy had a slice? I’m not a killer. I’m an avenger. So I went down BuyRite to get another one. And I’ll tell you something for free:

Do you have any sodding idea how hard it is to buy something full o’ nuts these days?!

Everything was bloody nut-free or too obvious for her to eat it. So I had to make another one from scratch. Tanya got that recipe from my ma – I can do it in my sleep in five minutes flat. The secret is to use a fat other than butter – keeps it moist. Mayonnaise is great. And a great slug of nut oil helps too.

Now I ain’t daft – I know that your Matt’s place would keep records and it would be dodgy as a nine-bob note if I left a record of me buying it meself. But salvation arrived when that dozy bugger Ben turned up – I always suspected he was a wrong un – and so I got him to buy it instead. Soon as we got back to school, I nicked it out his office – no one never notices me shuffling around the place – and I was away.

‘Course, everyone can smell a lovely choccie cake cooking, so I found every stinky thing I could – egg, tuna, onion – to drown out the smell. And not half hour after I got back, it was done. It were full of oil – even put it in the icing just for good measure. Cooled it in me freezer, iced it, then put it in Tanya’s cake box. I let her put it out for Stitchers to grab a piece, then I created all that fuss and bother with Creepy Jesus (all’s it took were a bit of veggie oil on the floor) and I were away. Pretended to ‘fix’ Tanya’s cake (matching the slice that Stitchers took outta mine – I even suggested that lovely Fliss Jameson popped a bit in her freezer cos I didn’t want anyone to get in no trouble) and took Tanya’s real cake out for everyone to have at it. All’s I needed to do was pop the nut oil bottle back in Ben’s shopping and no one would be any the wiser. He musta found it and hidden it from the coppers in the Creepy Jesus – covered in his fingerprints, the idiot. I wore gloves.

But then you put a spanner in the works, my love. Remember you slathering me face in that icing when we cleaned up? It was full of nut oil – and, like my beloved sister and father before me, I’m allergic as all hell. Not to seeds like I fibbed to young Al. To nuts.

So I’m scrabbling around for me bag with me EpiPen in – and it’s only then I realise I left it at the ruddy shop cos me nerves were all in jitters. But the Lord works in mysterious ways. Just I was injecting myself with the one from the office, I thought of the one in Stitchwell’s desk. That would have to go too. So I ‘helped’ her to look for her bible and swiped her EpiPen while I was at it. (Got mine back when your Matt gave me my purse – used it to replace the one what I took from the office and put Stitcher’s back when I was looking after the kiddies in care, before the coppers knew it was missing – didn’t want no one getting into trouble on my account and I needed to get rid o’ that bloody will in her filing cabinet.) Then all that was left to do was to run everything through a bloody hot dishwasher to hide the evidence – and pop the rest of the cake down two little girlies I knew were safe to eat it.

Why am I telling you this? Well, honestly, I gotta tell someone. I’m really quite bloody proud of myself. I thought I’d done a bang-up job. But then bloody Clive told me he’d found a copy of the rev’s will – bloody Stitchwell and her bloody duplicates – so he had to go too. And after what he did to you, that one were a pleasure, I don’t mind telling you. I’d helped him get that gun off Bootleg Barry – in return for extra budget for the good custard, mind, I ain’t no pushover – and he kept it in a bloody petty cash tin under his sink! I picked that lock inside two breaths. Now don’t get me wrong, I ain’t a monster, I did feel badly for what I done to Andy – at least till he grassed me up to Bob for being round Clive’s that night. It weren’t him nicking all the bits from the kiddies. It were me. I needed a patsy and he strikes me as a survivor. If he looked through his bag again later, he’d a found ten grand in cash. He can disappear. Just like I can.

There’s not much to commend being Stitchwell’s bastard, but it has worked out all right in the end. I’ve put in a claim for probate as his rightful heir – finding me birth certificate round Clive’s was a big help – we’ll have to see what comes of it. I’ve got Katie Blevins (’76 – breath like a badger’s bum, poor love, I used to crush polo mints into her water bottle) working on the probate claim and she reckons I’ve got a decent poke. But there’s inheritance and there’s inheritance. I knew that neither of them trusted banks, so the night Stitchwell died I went round there and had a poke about. And guess what I found under her bloody bed? One. Million. Pounds, ! Those tight buggers had saved up over a million quid in cash! I had it out of there before she was cold.

Now it’s no easy thing to bank a million in notes – everything leaves a bloody paper trail these days. But remember young Jimmy Collins (’84 – dribbled something biblical), used to manage the local bank back when it was a Midland? Well, he’s taken all his banking know-how and now runs the dodgy casino up in Easthampton. I once gave some bullies of his a dose of the pukes with some raw eggs in their milk – course you could do that back in the eighties, Thatcherism an’ all – and he was more than happy to help me launder the lot (for a very reasonable kickback too if you have the need).

So I’m all set. Whatever comes of the will, it’s more than I’ll ever need in my short lifetime, that’s for sure. So you’ll be getting a call from the solicitors on Monday. It’s me what bought your house, gal. For you. Don’t you go moving them girls from their home. Consider it reparation. For what Stitchwell did to you. For what that bastard Pandy did to you. For what you bloody deserve. You’ll also find a hundred grand in cash in your handbag. Now don’t you go spunking it on some private school – Gracie will do just fine at Flatford High. She’s a bright girl, as is your Taylor. But that money is for education – for college, university, whatever they want to do. For you too, my love. You have so much in you. Go find it and God speed.

Well now I have a plane to catch. I’m hitching a lift back on Jenna’s ride here. Turns out little Mattie Watkins (’89 – terrible squint, had to wear a Fireman Sam plaster over his left eye) is now a pilot! He used to sit in my kitchen while I patched him up after a walloping from his pa, so he was happy to help the Richardsons out – even did me mates’ rates, which was good o’ him. He’s gonna drop me in Germany and I’ll make my way from there. Bootleg Barry (’92, wanted to be an elephant when he grew up, strange lad) has done me a smashing new passport – even says I’m 57 like nature intended!

Vanuatu is calling. Tropical climate and palm trees. Also happens to be a non-extradition tax haven – needs must. I dunno when you’ll read this and what you’ll do with it when you do. But I know you’ll love me enough to sit on it until I’ve got where I need to go. I know what I done was wrong and I’ll have some explaining to do when the Almighty calls me home. But this world won’t suffer without Stitchwell and Baxendale in it. I’m no serial killer. My work here is done. Although that Ben Andrews had better watch his back in a dark alley. My sources tell me he’s living in his ma’s spare room in Inverness, can’t get arrested, though he should be. I’m sorry I never told you what he done – that was wrong. I hadn’t long known meself – the night I done Clive in, I nicked Stitchers’ black book and had a good read. I’ve posted it to your Taylor if you fancy a gander. The things folk get up to in this town . . .

And so, my darling girl, I take me leave. Like the old count says: ‘How did I escape? With difficulty. How did I plan this moment? With pleasure . . .’

Enjoy your life, my lovely. Your story ain’t half told.

Think of me fondly, . I love the very bones of you.

Your friend,

Hattie

xxx