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Now I ain’t saying I’m no Dostoevsky or nothing – I can’t hardly write a cheque, me. But I got my tale to tell. We all do. Every soul on God’s green earth is their own book. And when you stick a load of us together you got yourself a human library.

Take this church right now. Here we are, half the folk of Flatford, neatly stacking the pews like novels on a shelf. ’Cept me of course, I’m at the back serving the tea, as God intended. But that don’t fit into me metaphor and that’s why I’ll be sticking to making school dinners and leaving all them fancy words to Dostoevsky. Although I bet old Fyodor never knew his way round a syrup sponge like I do.

Lord knows I ain’t done much with me life, but I’ve read plenty of others, on and off the page. I love nothing more than a good yarn – and we got a bunch of stories here at St Nonnatus. Some’ll make you laugh, others weep. A few are true, most are downright fantasy. And I’ll tell you this for free: death might have brought us to this church today. But all of life is here.

Take young Priya Mistry. Newcomer here, but she’s quite the crime story. Worked up in London as a copper, hunting down all them nasty gangs. But then – plot twist – bullet straight to the spine. She might not be able to use her legs no more, but by Jiminy she’s making up for it with the rest of her. Proper firecracker, that one. Moved down here with her little Anya a couple of years ago to be closer to her sister. Priya says she’s looking for a quiet life. But I don’t believe a word of it. And there ain’t no such thing in Flatford to be found.

Her mate Al is more of a romantic comedy, known him since he was a lad here at the school (’97 – used to be an absolute tinker. Once managed to smuggle a ferret into church and set it loose during the psalms – still no idea how he did it). He was a nurse up the local hospital, bloody good one too – lovely warm hands. But then he fell hook, line and sinker for our Doc Klein and that pair went at it like they didn’t know what made a baby. Three kids quick as you like – but two medics and three kiddies don’t add up, so now Al is a stay-at-home dad. It’s chaos. I don’t care what you say, men aren’t made for it the way women are. But they seem happy enough.

Oh yes, we got a tale for every taste here at St Nonn’s: Domestic Drama (Flo and Karl Davies tearing strips off each other with a divorce what makes them Kardashians look like the Waltons); Romantic Tragedy (lovely Eric Bolton losing his childhood sweetheart, Kathleen, back along – he’s been frightful lonely since, poor lamb); Rough Justice (Sharon Dooley taking in her grandkids after her son Steve and his partner were sent down for a ten stretch for them rotten drugs); World Politics (Jenna Richardson goes all over the world as a war correspondent – dunno how she stomachs it) and a few downright Mysteries. And I can’t get enough of ’em. Flatford has been me whole life. And St Nonnatus Primary School, its beating heart. I’ve been cooking for the kiddies there for most of my days. And I love ’em all like me own. Well, maybe not all. That Jerry Jenkins (’85 – lousy kid, used to look up all the girls’ skirts in PE) was a little bugger. Knew he’d end up the wrong side of the tracks. No wonder he became our local MP.

When it comes to people, though – like every book from the bible to The BFG – we’ll never all agree which ones are actually any good. And you should never be sure which stories to believe. We’d do well to rate folk like we rate books. Rankings clear for all to see, one to five stars, job done – an anthropological Amazon, if you like. We’ll all have our own thoughts, of course. But together we should come out somewhere about right.

Take Stitchwell. I doubt she’d have troubled one star on her best day. ‘Horrible lead character. Preachy and vile,’ would be my write-up, but she was much worse than that. She had all sorts to say about the devil and I believe she had insider knowledge. Her body is still with the coroner, so we don’t have a coffin. Shame. I’d’ve liked something to spit on.

That bloody Clive Baxendale’s not much better, 2.3 stars, if that. ‘Unconvincing and creepy.’ See, a small town like Flatford runs on the favour economy – you scratch my back and so on. But Clive’s a flea – all itch and no scratch. Ever since he washed up here a few years back from London, he’s kept himself apart – above , he’d like to think. Here he is, lurking at the back of the church like mustard gas. The man’s oilier than a bloody sardine. What’s he smirking at me for?

Ben Andrews is flapping around like a fanny. Everyone else would rate him a 5.0, they love him so. Nice-looking bugger, I’ll give him that. Says all the right things – he’s everyone’s handsome hero. But I’m not convinced. Something about his plot don’t sit right with me. And he’s Scottish. He’s too smooth by half – you should never trust a silver tongue. Virtue talks; goodness acts. I need to see some more chapters before I can submit a review.

Then you got folk like poor old Tanya Jones (’96 – ever such a sweet kid, always tucked her chair in at dinner time and you can tell a lot about a person that way). Lovely woman – woulda been a solid 4.8 until last week. But they reckon her chocolate cake’s what done for Stitchwell – musta had nuts in it, they say. Truth is, she’s done us all a favour – there’s few that’ll squander tears on Stitchers. But that don’t stop folk judging. The playground ain’t just for children. And parents can be the biggest kids of all.

I can see ’em now, giving the poor love the evil eye from their pews. Tanya’s had a rough trot lately – she was a big shot lawyer up in Easthampton, our very own Perry Mason, she was. But she’s been struggling something awful with The Change, couldn’t hold two thoughts in her head, poor love, it came for her far too early. I get it. I had a terrible time with it meself. I used to get awful angry and me bits and bobs wouldn’t half itch. One time I nearly laid out old Jim Franklin from down the chemist over a leaking tube o’ Canesten, bless him . . . Any road, young Tanya’s chambers just chucked her out without a by yer leave. She took ’em to court and everything – but that’s the problem when you work as a barrister. The other side’s got a helluva defence team. She lost her case, which was proper wrong. And so is what she’s getting from folk round here. But no one said life is fair. Not unless theirs is. ‘Underrated and undervalued,’ I’d say . . .

‘Ding dong! The Stitch is dead,’ Kiera trills far too loudly, slamming a fresh teapot down next to me. ‘Which Stitch? The bitchy Stitch . . .’

I smile. I make no secret of how much I love that girl. Always have, ever since she were a kid at the school herself (’02 – cleverest kiddie St Nonn’s ever saw – won some national prize for spelling. I’ve still got the certificate on me fridge). She’s five stars all day long for me: ‘Funny and compelling.’ Not sure all folk agree, though – Kiera certainly attracts mixed reviews. But all great works of art tend to.

‘Hush your noise and let folk pay their respects,’ I say, pouring her a cuppa and hoping my quiet might encourage hers. ‘It’s what we do, you great melon.’

‘It’s what hypocrites do!’ she scoffs. ‘She was a stone-cold arsehole! And now her arsehole’s stone cold . . .’

‘Be that as it may,’ I whisper, stirring in two sugars to sweeten her up. ‘When death comes this close, folk feel it. They seek comfort together. Funerals ain’t really for the dead. And keep yer foghorn down. People are looking . . .’

‘Oh dear,’ she says defiantly, blowing into her tea. ‘Remind me to find a shit to give.’

I smile. She’s a terror.

‘It’s good to see you, gal – how you been?’ I ask, giving her a squeeze.

‘Don’t get me started. It’s been a madhouse,’ she sighs. ‘Taylor’s doing my head in. She’s rude, ungrateful, disrespectful . . .’

‘Them genes are a right mystery,’ I wink, swatting her with my cloth.

‘Matt does nothing, of course,’ she moans.

‘Apart from cook, clean, look after the girls, work all hours . . .’

‘Well, I do all that too,’ she snaps. ‘But Taylor walks all over him. And she’s so entitled. When I think about what my life was like at seventeen . . .’

‘. . . and you’ve worked hard to make sure hers ain’t,’ I remind her. ‘Too hard, perhaps. So take the win. How’s my little Gracie? Over the pukes?’

Kiera lights up.

‘She’s gorgeous,’ she says proudly. ‘And fine now, must have been a twenty-four-hour thing – Tanya’s girls had the same – you know what a petri dish this place is.’

‘Poor lamb . . .’

‘She was brilliant during home schooling, thank God. How’s it been over there?’

Kiera nods towards the school, which backs onto this very church.

‘Swarming.’ I shudder. ‘Coppers, coroners, sciencey fellas – Gods knows who and what. They’ve been over the place with a fine-tooth comb twice – even went through the ruddy bins! Been spooking the kiddies summit rotten . . .’

‘That was good of you to volunteer with the looked-after kids.’ She smiles. ‘They’re lucky to have you.’

‘And I them,’ I say, thinking of the poor little buggers with no place else to go. ‘There’s more every year. It’s a crying shame. And anyways, what else was I gonna do? Join the bloody circus?’

‘Why – are they recruiting a fat lady?’ she sasses, earning another swat from the cloth.

She blows on her tea again and her eyes drop. She’s deciding whether to say something. She always looks like this when summit’s on her mind, always has. I can still see her gangly legs dangling over my school-kitchen units, telling me her wins and her woes. Although there were usually more of the latter, poor kid. Them what do say life is fair sure as hell never grew up in care.

‘Hatts . . . ?’ she starts, finally dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘I really need to talk to you. About . . . that night. We have to . . .’

‘No. We don’t,’ I tell her, staring straight into her pretty green eyes. ‘I don’t never wanna talk about that night again. It’s done, she’s gone, I don’t ever wanna speak of it. You understand?’

Kiera looks at her tea again. I know that look too. She’s feeling guilty.

‘Everyone thinks it was Tanya’s cake, right?’ she asks quietly. ‘That’s what everyone thinks? No one’s saying anything else, are they? What are they saying?’

‘I don’t give a monkey’s uncle what anyone thinks and even less what they say,’ I growl again. ‘I don’t wanna hear it. Stitchwell’s gone. Let her rot in her grave. No sense the rest of us wasting more life on her.’

She nods her head and the conversation is over. Good. Best that way for everyone.

‘Ladies,’ says a voice. ‘Might I trouble you for another coffee? A hot one this time, if it’s not too vexing?’

I look up to see bloody Baxendale smarming at us.

‘Aw, shame. Pot’s empty,’ says Kiera, folding her arms and nodding at the dry cafetière.

‘Then, my dear, might I suggest you go and refill it?’ Clive asks. ‘Unless you’re not actually working today? In which case I can adjust your time sheet accordingly . . .’

Kiera shoots him a look that could turn cream and snatches the coffee pot away. Smart girl. This one’s not worth the fight. He turns his gaze back to me. The man makes me want a hot shower and a cold gin.

‘I was hoping to see you, ,’ he oozes.

‘I weren’t,’ I tell him straight.

‘Oh, you do put the fun into funeral,’ he leers, his voice and gaze dropping. ‘But something has recently come to my attention that I thought I should share with you.’

I feel my blood chill a degree or two. Clive is like shingles. Mainly irritating, sometimes dangerous. You need to tread careful around him. I calm my innards.

‘Is it crabs again?’ I whisper. ‘Because you need to see Jim down the chemist – I’d go meself, but I’m still banned and—’

‘,’ he says darkly. ‘I know.’

My face is used to keeping secrets – it’s held plenty down the years. And it ain’t gonna leak now.

But this could be a problem.

‘Know what exactly, you great pillock?’ I scoff. ‘The capital of Burkina Faso? I’m gonna need some detail . . .’

Clive leans forward. He smells good and bad all at once.

‘I know . . . that it was really you who made the winning entry at the Harvest Bake Off,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve suffered Ella McDonald’s anhydrous fruit scones for years . . . That was very kind – if entirely against the rules – for you to help her. And I believe it is Ouagadougou . . .’

I know Clive – he’s toying with me. But I’ll play along for now. At least until I understand the game.

‘Well, I’ll wait for them to haul me off in irons,’ I tell him. ‘Ella’s had a rough trot, what with Derek’s Alzheimer’s and all. Decided he were Benny Hill last week and chased poor Polly the postie round the garden in his Y-fronts. Can’t expect Ella to go whipping up some daft scones with capers like that going on at home.’

He smiles. About what?

‘I just thought you should be aware,’ he says with that punchable half-smirk. ‘That I know.’

‘Congratulations,’ I deadpan as Kiera bustles back with the hot coffee. ‘Have a scone.’

‘There you go,’ she smiles sweetly, filling his cup to the undrinkable brim. ‘Scalding hot. Hope you don’t burn yourself.’

‘Oh, I rarely feel the heat,’ he says, sipping his steaming brew and smiling with delight. ‘Actually, Kiera, I wanted to speak with you too. Given dear old Douglas’s . . . predicament . . . the caretaker job – and house – will shortly be available. It needs some work, of course – bachelor life rarely coexists well with interior design – but I wondered if your husband might be interested?’

‘Matt?’ asks Kiera in surprise.

‘Is that his name?’ says Baxendale airily. ‘I just thought as you have so many . . . roles . . . here at St Nonnatus anyway, you may as well move in. Your . . . Matt . . . he was a handyman prior to his present position at the supermarket, was he not?’

‘He was a construction supervisor in the army,’ Kiera says through a slightly clenched jaw.

‘Really? Well, I thank him for his service,’ says Clive, an eyebrow pointing to heaven. ‘I know you’re always keen to . . . broaden your financial horizons? Particularly with young Grace off to Shottsford House next year. Congratulations on the art scholarship, by the way. What a pleasant surprise that must have been?’

He smiles like a snake at a mouse. I can feel Kiera bristle next to me. She’s proud – and got far too much about her to be cleaning up kiddie piddle for the rest of her days. She’s smart as a whip and shoulda got out of this town the second her feet could carry her. Had a place at uni and everything . . . But life ain’t worked out that way. And Clive’s right. She needs the money.

Or thinks she does.

‘Never in doubt,’ Kiera replies tightly. ‘Not with talent like hers.’

‘Indeed,’ says Clive, sipping his coffee. ‘And won’t you make a . . . vibrant addition to the parent community there. I’m not sure any of the other mothers will have met someone with a job before. Let alone three . . .’

‘We’ll think about it,’ says Kiera with jaws that could strain rice, although we all know she’ll tell Matt to take it. Gracie’s fees might be covered, but private school finds plenty of other ways to make you pay. And you don’t look a gift house in the mouth.

‘Marvellous,’ says Clive, taking another sip before wrinkling his nose. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll get a decent cup on the way home.’

He wipes his mouth with a tissue and chucks it in the cup, before dropping it hard on the table. He turns on his heel and slithers toward his seat on the front pew.

‘Roll on his bloody funeral,’ Kiera grumbles, tossing the damp tissue in the bin as Rev McAlester starts the service.

I shush her down, but I can’t disagree.

Clive Baxendale’s dangerous.

Just like Stitchwell was.

Robocoppers

Priya, Al, Tanya

Friday 28 Oct

14.13

Priya

Jesus, this service is miserable.

And sooo dull

Al

It’s what Stitchwell would have wanted.

Tanya

Put your phones away, people are looking.

Priya

She says. On her phone.

Oooh – look

Here’s Clive’s statement from my. . . contact.

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 ?Clive Baxendale

Occupation ??School Bursar

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:

Please find herein my account of the tragic events of Monday 24th October, as mighty God is my witness.

For the first two hours after school, I was working in my office. I was interrupted by some kerfuffle in the hall when a statue of Our Saviour was knocked over and smashed the wine. So, just prior to 6pm, I visited the kitchen to obtain a second bottle of Miss Stitchwell’s special reserve from her late father’s cellars. I opened the bottle in the kitchen, where I exchanged pleasantries with our catering manager, Miss Hughes and our teaching assistant, Miss Fisher.

I was called in to see Miss Stitchwell at around ten past six to discuss budgets for the forthcoming school year. It was a brief meeting – she was distracted looking for a lost bible and in any case Claudia and I were always highly efficient. I returned to the hall in time for the event to begin.

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 before returning to the hall, where it had become tragically clear my efforts were in vain and Miss Stitchwell had already been commended to the Lord’s care.

I remained with Claudia until the authorities arrived, answered such questions as I was able, then briefly visited the church to pray for her before returning home.

Signature witnessed by: