Free Letters To My Daughter's Killer by Cath Staincliffe

her, but he thrashes about and runs off.
    Florence and I are alone. Florence is at the table eating some beans on toast. Kay has a meeting with the investigation team, Jack’s having a rest. We are still stumbling through our lives. I’m sorting through some clean clothes left neglected in the basket. Even this simple task seems to require a Herculean effort.
    One of my socks, old grey wool, has a hole in the toe. No point in keeping it. I stick my hand in, wiggle my finger through the hole, put on a funny fluting voice. ‘Hello.’ I make the sock bow.
    ‘What is it?’ says Florence.
    ‘I don’t know. Maybe . . .’ I gather the fabric and narrow it into a windsock shape, ‘maybe it’s a Clanger.’
    ‘What’s a Clanger?’
    ‘They were on the telly a long time ago. Lived on a planet with a soup dragon. They made a noise like this.’ I combine a hum and a whistle.
    ‘I want a Clanger,’ she says. ‘No – I want a sock cat. No – a kitten.’
    ‘A kitten, eh? What would it need?’
    ‘Some ears.’ She scoops up the last of her beans.
    ‘And whiskers?’
    ‘Yes, and paws.’
    My sewing skills are basic. ‘Paws might be tricky. Let’s see . . .’
    The sewing box yields enough black felt scraps to furnish two triangular ears and two round eyes, Florence chooses a brown leather button for a nose.
    ‘Look at Milky’s eyes,’ I say. Milky is sitting on the chair by the radiator. Florence kneels up in front of him and stares. Milky yawns, affecting disdain, but then his ears flatten and I can see he’s preparing for a rapid exit if she makes a lunge. ‘Yellow bits,’ she says.
    ‘What shape?’
    She sketches something unreadable with her hands.
    ‘Great.’
    I have some yellow cotton and use that to stitch a vertical line on the eyes. Plaited brown wool furnishes a tail. There’s nothing stiff enough for the whiskers, so we make do with more lengths of the wool, which hang down like a droopy moustache, but Florence seems happy.
    ‘She needs insides,’ Florence says. ‘She’s all flat.’
    ‘If we leave it empty, it can be a puppet,’ I say.
    ‘I don’t want a puppet,’ she scowls. ‘Not a puppet!’ Suddenly cross.
    ‘Okay.’
    A couple of J Cloths, torn into strips, serve as stuffing. I sew the top of the sock shut, biting the thread to cut it. ‘There we go.’
    Florence bounces the kitten along the table.
    ‘What will you call it?’
    ‘Kitten.’
    ‘Okay, highly original.’
    ‘No, Kit Kat,’ she says.
    ‘Right.’
    ‘No . . .’ She purses her mouth and furrows her brow as she thinks. ‘Matilda.’
    Where’s this come from? Has she had the book? Seen the film? The little girl who is neglected and bullied at home and school but who finds secret powers and blossoms in the love and care of her teacher.
    ‘Yes,’ she says firmly, ‘Matilda.’
    The door opens and I look up, expecting Lizzie, come to collect Florence. Tired from her journey but glad to be working, with stories from her day.
    I have forgotten, which means I have to remember anew. A lance in my heart. Swallowing the cry in my mouth, I fight to smile at Jack.
    Florence is in the living room with Kay, CBBC on the television. There is talk of the BBC moving to Manchester. Jack hopes it will happen; it might provide more work for him.
    ‘We should think about getting her back to school,’ I say.
    ‘I don’t think she’ll wear it,’ Jack says.
    ‘She’ll have to sooner or later, unless you plan to home-school her.’
    He gives me a sceptical look.
    ‘A phased return,’ I say. ‘We can work something out with the staff. Who is it, Mrs Bradshaw?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Even if we have to go and sit in with her for a month. You’ve no work lined up?’ I ask him.
    ‘No,’ he says, ‘I’ve not had an audition since I went up for
The History Boys.
I should speak to Veronica, tell her the situation.’
    Veronica is his agent. ‘She’ll have heard,’ I say. ‘There’s time.’
    ‘I should get a phone,’