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I don’t think I’ve ever been to a funeral where absolutely no one cried.

There wasn’t a damp eye in the house. Even Miss Stitchwell’s staunchest supporters, the few that there are, didn’t so much as snuffle. Margaret Sutherford, the Year 3 teacher (who has already handed in her notice because I refuse to continue Miss Stitchwell’s ‘Forgetful Friday’, where kids who’ve forgotten to bring anything to school in the week have to run laps round the playground in lunch break) – even she couldn’t summon up a sob. I don’t want to imagine the pain that my death would inflict on my loved ones. But I hope there might be at least a few soggy Kleenexes to show for my existence.

The reception in the village hall is subdued, but not exactly sombre. They’re a cracking bunch of parents here – I like them. The typically bountiful homespun buffet spreads across two tables, though, given everything, it’s hardly a surprise that no one has touched a bite. Maybe I should lead by example? Although, looking at Stella McEnzie-Roberts’s congealed potato salad, maybe not.

‘So,’ says Zofia Kaczmarek, sidling up to me, ‘is it true that you’re going to abolish uniform and let the kids call the teachers by their first names?’

I smile. Zofia is lovely. But she has a mouth the size of Dundee.

‘I think today is a time to look back, rather than forward,’ I say diplomatically. ‘So no new policy from me just now.’

‘I knew it!’ she squeals, and runs back towards her group of mum chums. News that I’ll be letting the kids smoke crack in assembly will be around the school before Stella’s potato salad goes in the bin.

A headship. It’s what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve been working towards. This wasn’t how I would have liked to get it, of course, but it’s not been the easiest year. This must be where it picks up. Finally.

A couple of kids hare past and my heart misfires. God, I miss my Finn . . .

‘Oh, Hattie, could I just—’ I call as the school catering manager – dinner lady as she insists we all call her – bustles past. I don’t know if she’s busy or just ignoring me. Actually, I’m fairly confident I do.

I’m not sure what I’ve done to offend Hattie, but she’s not nearly as warm with me as she is with everyone else. She’s a lifer, an institution – she’s been there longer than the central heating, over forty years now. Hattie’s a wonderful cook – but what I’ve done to stick in her craw, I have no idea.

‘Oh, Mr Andrews?’ a welcome voice whispers in my left ear. ‘Upsetting the dinner lady will result in smaller portions.’

My everything involuntarily tingles at the casual intimacy of the gesture. It’s been a while since a woman has been that close to me, casually or otherwise. A long while.

‘Something I said?’ I ask Kiera Fisher, my colleague and, I think I can say, friend.

‘Let’s hope not,’ says Kiera grimly, laying out the clean glasses she’s just brought in from the kitchen. ‘Hattie’s reading Hamlet again . . . and you know what happened to Claudius . . .’

She gestures to my cup of tea. I snort ruefully. Kiera is another St Nonnatus institution, although, dare I say, a more comely one than Hattie or Claudia Stitchwell. My eyes flick guiltily to our late headteacher’s stern portrait on the condolence table as I even think it. Kiera’s been at St Nonnatus longer than anyone should have been at her age and has been a huge support to me, especially as my TA in Tiger Class. She’s funny and smart and direct and I really like her. Not like that – she’s a colleague, not to mention a parent in what would have been my class this year. I mean, she’s not unattractive. Far from it. It’s hard to imagine she’s changed much since she was a teenager and you’d never believe she’s old enough to have one herself – I couldn’t when I found out her Taylor is seventeen. But we’re colleagues. And she’s married. That’s all there is to it. Just friends. And colleagues. That’s it.

‘Did you enjoy the service?’ I blurt out, although I have no idea why. Kiera gives me that lop-sided look that almost makes me glad I’m such an idiot.

‘Actually, Mr Andrews, yes,’ she says plainly. ‘Absolute banger. Best funeral I’ve been to in ages.’

I swallow my laugh at her callous disregard for her surroundings. As my dad would say, there are no flies on Kiera. I find it incredibly . . . invigorating. And the way she uses my ‘teacher’ name . . .

She ignores the disapproving looks from a gaggle of Stitchwellites and I force my face to stay neutral as I feel their gaze pass over me. Taking the reins from a long-serving head is never easy. I’m going to need to unite all factions if I’m to get the job permanently.

‘Glad to hear it.’ I smile and worry that I, a forty-one-year-old man, am actually blushing. I hope she extends the conversation. Seems I’m all out of smooth moves.

‘Actually – I need to ask you a favour.’ She winces. ‘I realise today’s not the best time to ask . . . but Grace needs a recommendation letter for Shottsford House. Bitchwell was going to do it, but . . . y’know . . .’

She pulls her finger across her throat with a grin that could turn a man to sin. She’s so naughty. I wonder how naughty . . .

Stop it, . Just . . . stop it.

‘No trouble,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll do it tonight.’

‘You are a legend,’ she says, squeezing my arm. It feels . . . lovely. ‘By the way, there’s a load of condolence cards on the table over there. No one knows who should open them . . . But given there is no family and she had no friends . . . I guess it’s over to you, big guy.’

She winks and squeezes my arm again on her way back to the kitchen, the most gorgeous unconscious lilt in her hips as she walks. Is she staying there a bit longer than she needs to . . . ? Oh Christ. I’m like a teenage boy with the Littlewoods catalogue – calm down, Andrews . . .

I’m heading over to the cards when my teacher spidey sense tunes into some slightly raised voices in the corner of the room. Tanya Jones has been cornered by a group of mums, spearheaded by Stella herself. The poor woman looks like she’s about to cry. Priya Mistry looks like she’s about to kill someone. I should step in. This is my job now. I grab a plate from the buffet and head towards them.

‘I’m not trying to upset you,’ I hear Stella say as I approach. ‘I’m merely speaking on behalf of the few of us who felt that, maybe, it wasn’t entirely appropriate for you to come today . . .’

‘Then don’t upset her,’ says Priya firmly. ‘Tan has as much right to be here as any of us.’

‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ Tanya quivers. ‘I promise, I didn’t . . .’

‘It’s all right dear,’ says Stella, nailing that condescending passive-aggression at which certain mothers and many home secretaries excel. ‘Everyone makes mistakes. And we all know you’ve been . . . struggling.’

‘Don’t. Even. Go. There,’ says Priya, wheeling up menacingly. ‘I swear to God, Stella, you back down or . . .’

‘Lovely potato salad,’ I say, trying to summon sufficient saliva to gulp down Stella’s offering. ‘How do you get it so . . . firm?’

‘Mr Andrews,’ says Stella, immediately straightening up. ‘How lovely to see you.’

It’s funny how most parents immediately go on best behaviour around teaching staff, as though we still wield any kind of power over them. The few that don’t, alas, are painfully aware of how little power we actually possess.

I look to Tanya to make sure she’s okay. The break in hostilities seems to have given her a moment to gather herself. Priya is holding her hand and shooting daggers at Stella’s cronies.

‘I realise that this is perhaps not the best moment,’ Stella whispers, ‘but a few of us are a little concerned about what will happen with Tiger Class this year?’

This drives me potty. Parents like Stella never speak on behalf of themselves, only ever as a spokesperson for an invisible mob. I decide to play dumb.

‘How so?’ I ask. I didn’t think even Stella would be quite this crass at Stitchwell’s memorial.

‘Well . . . I realise there are many matters for you to deal with,’ says Stella, waggling her head as an especially arid piece of potato latches to my oesophagus. ‘But your promotion does leave Tiger Class without a form teacher. And given how important Year 6 is, we just wanted to make sure that everything is in hand?’

‘Everything will become much clearer this week,’ I lie, a little more smoothly than I care to admit. ‘Hold your soul in patience, Mrs McEnzie-Roberts.’

A reassuring smile seems to calm her down – or at least shut her up – and she and her acolytes fall out towards the buffet now the seal has been officially broken. I have no idea what to do with the Tigers. Like all schools, we are having a nightmare recruiting. Looks like supply teachers for the time being . . . I look at Tanya. She’s shaken.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask softly, immediately inspiring fresh tears.

‘Everyone blames me,’ she sobs.

‘They don’t,’ I lie.

‘They do,’ Priya confirms.

I snort at her directness. She’s a character. ‘What happened last week was a tragic accident,’ I tell Tanya. ‘No one is to blame.’

She looks at me hopefully.

‘You really believe that?’

I smile.

‘Yes,’ I lie for a third time. ‘Yes, I really do.’

The tears stay in their place. But her face brightens.

‘So . . . ,’ says Priya, staring narrowly at me. I don’t know if it’s because of her time on the force, or just because she’s Priya, but I often feel like I’m being interrogated by her. ‘You enjoying Hattie’s cooking class? I’m thinking of giving it a go.’

I let go a little. This feels like safe ground.

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s great,’ I reply. ‘High time I learned to cook. Of course, I might not make the next few what with . . . everything. But hoping to get back into it asap.’

‘That’s good to know,’ she says quickly. ‘So what kind of things do you make?’

‘Oh . . . I dunno. I’ve got a shocking memory . . .’

‘Give me an example? Like – what were you going to make the night Miss Stitchwell died? Presumably you remember that one?’

Shit. This is not safe ground.

‘I’m not sure . . . It was Chinese spare ribs, I think . . . ? But I might be getting my weeks muddled . . .’

‘Mmmm,’ says Priya, her eyes belying her suspicion. ‘Sounds yummy.’

‘I guess I’ll never know,’ I say, looking around in that way that suggests I’m too busy to stay in the conversation. ‘I’d better circulate . . .’

Priya stays a moment more than is comfortable, before taking the hint and wheeling towards the buffet table, accidentally (not accidentally) taking in a few toes from her friend’s detractors along the way.

‘Thank you,’ says Tanya, dabbing her eyes with one of the tissues no one needed at the service. ‘Thanks a lot. You’ve been such a huge support to me.’

I touch her lightly on the shoulder, noting it doesn’t conduct the electricity of Kiera’s touch. Tanya’s had a really rough time since the employment tribunal – no one wants an employee who takes their bosses to court, I’m guessing. And she’s been pretty lost. Some people are just born to work. I should know – I’m one of them. But Tanya has been throwing herself into school life in its absence, starting a PTA and generally being a force for good. I wish I could take this worry away for her. She’s a sweetheart – she doesn’t deserve to have a death on her conscience.

‘Why don’t you go home?’ I suggest. ‘You’ve been here since the crack of sparrow fart and we can tidy up here . . .’

‘Speak for yourself!’ Kiera huffs, coming up behind me again. ‘Some of us want to get home tonight. We’ve got our own families to pick up after. Your Gracie over the bug now, Tan?’

She squeezes past me carrying a pot of tea, her chest brushing against my back. There’s loads of room, was she . . . ? Did she do that on purpose? Jesus – what is wrong with me . . . ?

Is this why middle-aged men take up squash?

‘Yes, she’s fine now, thank you. And no, of course, I wouldn’t dream of . . .’ Tanya begins, starting to pick up some cups. Kiera comes back and slings her arm round her. Christ, that must feel good.

‘I’m only yanking your chain, Tan,’ she says, planting a friendly kiss on Tanya’s head. ‘We got this. Get out of here. I’m sure Mr Andrews and I can give these witches something else to talk about . . .’

She winks and it lands straight in my groin.

Holy Christ.

I need me a Littlewoods catalogue.

I can feel I’m lingering too long, so I excuse myself and head towards the condolence cards, which have been placed on the table next to Miss Stitchwell’s portrait. I find myself having to stifle a totally inappropriate giggle as I see how many are addressed to her. When did they think she was going to open them?

But a few are addressed directly to me, so it feels less intrusive to open those first. I open a white envelope, inside which there’s a child’s hand-drawn picture of what I think is supposed to be Miss Stitchwell with angel wings, but actually looks like a deranged vampire. Out of the crayons of babes . . .

Hi Mr Androos

Im sorry Mis Stichwell is ded.

Pleese can we play foot ball at play tyme agen??

Love,

Milly in Dolfin Class

I feel a surge of powerful hope. Yes, Milly. Yes, you can play football. You’re going to be able to do a lot of things you’ve been denied for too long.

Although I will be talking to Mrs Sutherford about your spelling.

I open the next.

Dear Mr Andrews,

My sincerest condolences with regard to the sad passing of Miss Stitchwell. She was a true original and I can’t think we’ll see her like again.

In confident anticipation of your forthcoming promotion, I wonder if I might schedule an appointment to discuss my Fabian’s reading level ? I have felt for sometime it is far below his capable attainment and would like to have a conversation at your earliest.

Warmest regards,

Alan Durant

Parents. Wow, man. I try not to laugh.

I open the last one.

But this one isn’t funny.

BEN

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO HER.

AND YOU NEED TO PAY.

￡10,000 IN CRYPTO.

OR I TALK.

Robocoppers

Priya, Al, Tanya

Friday 28 October

15.23

Priya

Tanya? Where are you?

I’m so sorry, that was shite.

Al

I’m just nipping home.

Casey’s locked herself in the bathroom.

Leo told her he had rabies.

What happened?

Priya

Bitches be bitches.

Tanya

It’s okay – I’m fine.

I’m just taking a sec outside before going back in.

Priya

Oh screw that.

My sister’s got Anya.

We’re going down the pub.

We’ve got stuff to discuss.

just lied to us.

Al

About what?

Priya

The cookery class.

Sharon takes it too, remember?

Hold on, I’ll find it. . .

Sharon

I won’t be there, Tanya – it’s Hattie’s cookery class tonight.

Coq au vin, right up my street !

Priya

He said Chinese ribs.

Al

How do you remember this stuff?

When you have taken Anya to school on the last three INSET days?

Priya

Occupational hazard.

Tanya

That’s a bit flimsy, isn’t it?

You heard him – he might have got his weeks muddled.

It’s a weird thing to lie about.

And he’s a busy man. . .

Priya

Maybe. . .

But you said you met him on the way to the shops that night, Tan.

I’d be interested to know what he bought.

Al

How the very hell are you going to do that?

Priya

I have my ways.

Speaking of which.

Here’s Kiera’s statement:

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 Kiera Fisher

Occupation Teaching Assistant

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:

Miss Stitchwell came in asking for tea, and helped herself to a piece of Tanya’s cake – couldn’t even wait for everyone else, the greedy cow. So I gave her the tea and she took it all back to her office.

We didn’t have enough of anything we needed, so Tanya went to the shops to get more supplies.

When she returned, she and I carried on setting up until came to ‘help’ around half five – although he actually just managed to knock over Stitchwell’s special wine and drop Creepy Jesus into the cake and sandwiches!

I was called in to see Stitchwell a bit before 5.45pm. Afterwards I went to the kitchen to help Hattie.

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.

It was too late anyway – Stitchwell was dead by about 6.45. I was going to help clear up afterwards, but my daughter was feeling unwell, so I took her home.

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