It looks official.

White envelope. It’s made of heavy paper, expensive looking. My name and address on the front, and some other words in large, bold letters. I recognise some of the letters. A word starting with ‘P’ and with a ‘v’ in it. Probably ‘Private’. Not so sure about the other word, that’s just a jumble. As if someone simply grabbed a handful of the alphabet and dropped it onto the paper.

But the letter is definitely for me. I do recognise my name, my address. Maybe I should open it, try to decipher whatever’s inside.

I put the envelope, still unopened, back on my table. It leans against the cereal packet as I take a sip of my coffee and contemplate it grumpily. It’s been two days since the imposing looking white envelope plopped onto my doormat, and I’m no closer now to knowing what the contents might mean than I was when it first arrived. It could just be junk mail. Some organisations deliberately make their rubbish letters look real and important just to trap unwary or gullible people. I like to think I’m neither of those things, but the fact remains I have a letter propped against my cornflakes box which may or may not be important—it certainly looks the part—and it’s spent the last two days occupying pride of place on my fireplace taking the piss out of me. It’s likely to continue taking the piss for another week, until my friend Wendy who lives upstairs comes back from visiting her sister in the Cotswolds. Wendy does my reading for me when it can’t be avoided. Because I can’t.

Can’t read, don’t read. Never really learnt. And now it’s too late. Probably.

Childhood leukaemia effectively wiped out the first two years of my schooling. I was nearly eight before a bone marrow transplant finally did the trick and I was eventually pronounced cancer free, but by then the other children in my year were miles ahead of me. They all seemed to be able to read, and I still couldn’t. My school did try. They sent work home for me, and a teacher came to see me quite regularly. I was often too ill to listen to her though, and I didn’t feel like concentrating. In that cunning, manipulative way that children have sometimes, I soon realised that all I had to do was lie back and close my eyes, look a bit helpless, feeble, pained, and they’d back off immediately.

“Oh, she’s tired. Let her rest.” My mother was sick with worry about me, and fiercely protective. I milked that relentlessly, idle little slug that I was. Being ill was crap most of the time, but it had its up-side. No one hassled me, and if I didn’t want to bother with school stuff, no one would make me. My health was the only thing that mattered—I just had to concentrate on getting better.

And when I was better, school tried again. I had a special reading recovery tutor, they put me on accelerated reading programmes, spent a fortune no doubt on my remedial education, but none of it made much impression. I learnt the alphabet, learnt to recognise my own name then to write it. I can string together short words, simple words, and I’m sort of okay at guessing how to fill in the gaps. I’ve had a lot of practice at that over the years. But it’s an unreliable system, I make a lot of mistakes and I completely miss the meaning of most things. I never read newspapers, not even the red tops which I understand are written for people with a reading age of about seven. They’re too hard for me. I struggle to understand cooking instructions on food packets, but these days most are done with symbols so that’s easier. I can recognize a picture of a microwave, and single numbers are okay. Even double numbers at a pinch, but beyond that I get hopelessly lost. So I’m pretty much unable to read or write anything. Functionally illiterate, is the label they give to people like me, or so I understand.

I’m perhaps slightly better with numbers. I can add up in my head. Adding, subtracting, multiplication—I’m very good at all that mental arithmetic. It’s just that I struggle to untangle the lines of numbers when they’re written down.

My mother was just so relieved that I was alive, she was prepared to overlook my slow learning. Did I say slow? Of course, I mean I went at the speed of a dead snail. My mother insisted I’d catch up, but she thought I was delicate, and they needed to make allowances. It’s true that I had to continue to go back to the hospital on a regular basis for years after I was pronounced clear, for blood tests to make sure there was no recurrence. There never was, and in truth I felt fine.

School wasn’t all bad. I loved sports despite my mother’s anxiety that I might get over-tired, and I played in the netball team. I was the goal-shooter and pretty good. Nothing wrong with my hand-eye co-ordination. I could draw too, really well, actually. I quite enjoyed the practical aspects of art lessons. I did some nice work, but my art folder was a mess. I recall a lot of red pen in it—the teacher’s attempts to set me on the right path, obviously wasted on me.

Overall, my education was limited almost to the point of non-existence. And my initial disadvantages of poor health and laziness turned into embarrassment. The years went by and I made no progress—at least none that I could see—and others in my class moved on to read more and more adventurous books. I saw the Narnia films on the television or at the cinema, I loved Harry Potter and later Twilight, but while everyone else could read the books I could only enjoy the films. While others could use the Internet to find out the information they needed to do their homework, my homework just didn’t get done. I was moved into ‘special’ learning groups, and my school continued to make an effort. But it was half-hearted—I was a hopeless case. I certainly thought so, and I suppose that just clinched it. The best school in the land can’t do much with a student who doesn’t believe they can learn. By the time I was fourteen or so, they’d given up and so had I. I marked time with netball and art when I could dodge the zeal of the art teacher. She never quite relinquished the task. I left school at sixteen, with no qualifications and all the job prospects of a lettuce.

So now here I am—a twenty-two-year-old cleaner. Ironically, the place I now work, the only place I could manage to get a job at all, is my old primary school. I heard they were looking for temporary cleaners and it seemed better than staying on the dole, so I called in. Luckily the caretaker, Mr Cartwright, remembered me from when I was a gangly ten-year-old with a mop of ginger hair, and was prepared to give me a chance. I daresay all the staff and pupils at my primary school still remember me—I was ‘the poorly kid’, the one they had to be careful around, the one they had to avoid infecting with any nasty germs. Especially chickenpox.

Mr Cartwright’s leap of faith was four years ago, and I’ve worked hard ever since. I mopped and scrubbed and polished like a maniac, and when my temporary contract was up Mr Cartwright—Dave—was sufficiently impressed to keep me on permanently. So I have regular work, if low paid. And it’s enough—just about—to keep me in a small flat as long as I don’t eat too much or insist on having the place too warm in the winter.

It’s just me these days. For all her frantic worrying about me, my mother herself succumbed to cancer when I was nineteen. It was a shock, she was just fifty years old. I was stunned, I couldn’t believe what had happened. And so quickly. It seemed that one day she was fine, just had a bit of a cough. A persistent cough. She went to see her GP and was referred to a consultant. Within days she had a diagnosis of throat cancer, and it advanced so quickly, neither one of us had any chance to adjust. To come to terms. Not that we could have achieved that, no matter how long her illness had dragged on for. Looking back, perhaps, things were mercifully swift, though it didn’t feel like that at the time. It just felt horrendous. A mad, headlong dash toward the inevitable end. My mother was admitted to the intensive care oncology ward, and she died within six weeks of being diagnosed.

I got over it. Eventually. Or so I like to tell myself. In reality I had no choice. The Council wanted their three bedroomed family house back—can’t really blame them—but they offered me a one bedroom flat on the seventh floor in a tower block. It’s not bad, I have brilliant views over the rooftops of north Bradford and on a clear day I can just make out York Minster. Well, I think it’s York Minster—Wendy says it is.

So life is relatively untroubled, to the point of boring probably. But I’m safe, secure. I get by.

Then that bloody letter arrives to rock my calm little boat.

And instinctively I know, in my gut I know, that my boat is about to be seriously rocked. What I don’t know is how, why and by how much. I can’t wait for Wendy—I need to find out. Now. Today. I shove the envelope into my bag to take to work with me later. I’m quite good friends with Sally—Miss Moore to her year five charges. Sally’s a classroom assistant these days, but she was in my form at secondary school and also played netball. We get on okay. She knows I can’t read and has offered on many occasions to spend some time with me to help with that. She might even be able to do it—she’s done extra training as a literacy specialist and works with other children who struggle like I did. Sally’s lovely, and if she’d been there to help when I was at primary school, well, who knows? But like I said, it’s too late now.

But Sally will be able to read my letter and at least then I’ll know if it’s junk or not.

* * * *

Sally’s busy stacking books and sorting crayons as I tap on the open classroom door. The children have just left, and she usually hangs around to tidy up ready for the next day. Gina Simmonds, the year five teacher, is also there, at her desk, plowing her way through a pile of exercise books. Both heads turn as I hover in the doorway.

“Do you need us out of here?” Gina makes to pick up her stack of blue exercise books, no doubt intending to decamp and head for the staff room to make way for the serious business of wiping down windowsills.

I shake my head and gesture for her to stay. “No, really, I don’t want to disturb you. I’ll be back later to mop. I just wanted a quick word with Sally. If that’s alright.” I turn to my friend. “Do you have a minute? Not now, I can see you’re busy, but later? Before you get off?”

She smiles at me before turning her attention back to the crayons. “Sure. I’ll be about ten minutes. I’ll come and find you.”

“Cheers. I’ll be in the hall probably.”

She nods and waves. I smile apologetically at Gina as I back out of the room and close the door behind me. I can’t help thinking as I make my way to the school hall, dragging my mop and bucket with me, that Gina, Sally and me have a lot in common. We’re around the same age, give or take five years, and we all work together in a manner of speaking, and we’re all in the business of helping to educate the next generation. But even so, we’re a world apart. This is one of those moments when I bitterly regret my lost opportunities. Maybe I should give some serious thought to Sally’s offer.

The lady in question appears as I’m about a quarter of the way through mopping the floor in the school hall. I need to get it ready for tomorrow’s influx of little feet, all considerately wearing their regulation indoor black pumps, but nevertheless managing to leave an intricate pattern of scuff and skid marks all over the polished wood.

“Right, what’s this about then that you couldn’t say in front of Gina?” She settles herself at the end of the hall I haven’t got to yet, dumping her bag on the floor before sitting, her back propped against the wall and her long legs stretched out in front of her.

Sally has the longest legs I think I’ve ever seen. She was always about a foot taller than me, which was useful in netball. I could still out-shoot her though, on a good day. I grab my own battered holdall from one of the benches at the edge of the hall then go to join her. I settle myself alongside her before reaching to rummage in my bag. I pull out the envelope—now slightly less pristine after it’s been bumped around in my bag all afternoon—and pass it to her.

She frowns at me, puzzled, turning it in her hands. “You haven’t even opened it.”

I shrug. “No point.” Then, in a sudden and unexpected rush of self-awareness and honesty, I tell her the truth, “And I was scared.”

Sally chuckles. “Scared? Why? What have you been up to? In any case, it doesn’t look like a summons to me. I take it you want me to open it now?”

I nod. “Yes, please. Put me out of my misery.”

Her expression is scornful, but still friendly as she shoves the end of her right index finger under the flap and tears it along the top of the envelope. I wince, it seems somehow like an act of vandalism to ruin that white perfection, and I kept it so safe for two whole days. But the damage is done now, and Sally is extracting the contents. I see two sheets of paper, also expensive looking, and catch sight of a flowing signature on one of the sheets. The writer clearly intended to make an impression—the ink is bright and blue and contrasts sharply with the neat black typed writing covering both pages. She flattens the sheets and starts reading.

“It’s from a solicitor. In Leeds.”

Right. Probably not junk mail then. I sit quietly, watching her read. A few seconds later she glances at me, clearly surprised, but says nothing. Her eyes back on the letter, she continues to study the solicitor’s words, and looks to be concentrating hard. She places the first sheet face down on her knee and moves onto the second page. I lean forward, peering up to watch her eyes moving from side to side as she scans the words. That action, the subtle proof of reading, proper reading as opposed to the pretend looking at the page that I do, has always fascinated me. I don’t interrupt.

Sally places the second page on top of the first, and turns to look at me.

“Who’s James Parrish?”

I stare at her, perplexed. James Parrish? I’ve never heard of a James Parrish. I shrug. “I’ve no idea. Why?”

Sally taps the letter with her index finger. “Well, he must know you. He’s left you half his business in his will.”

I can only blink, totally baffled. This I absolutely did not expect. I’m not sure what exactly I did have in mind, what I did think might be lurking in that posh envelope, but an inheritance from a mystery benefactor? No. No way.

I must have made that last observation out loud, because Sally answers me, “Yes way. And actually, it’s more than half. She picks up the first sheet again to double check. “Yes, it says here. ‘A two thirds controlling interest’. Looks like you’re someone’s boss.” She smiles now—her grin broad. She’s clearly happy for me. “Hey, get you.”

I shake my head in absolute disbelief. “That can’t be right. I’ve never even heard of this James… James what?”

“Parrish,” Sally puts in helpfully. “The late James Parrish to be more accurate, who owned Parrish Construction. Sounds like a building firm. Anyway, they’re based in Berwick-upon-Tweed. In Northumberland. And this solicitor, Mr”—she turns back to the second sheet to check the signature—“Mr Stephenson, he wants you to make contact with him so he can put you in touch with the executor of Mr Parrish’s will. Apparently that’s a Mr Cain Parrish. Are you sure you’ve never heard of this lot? Some long-lost, distant relatives or something?”

For reasons I’m not entirely sure of and not about to analyze now, I’m starting to panic. This is just so bizarre. I shouldn’t take it out on Sally, but there’s no one else handy right now.

“No, I fucking haven’t heard of them. It must be some sort of a hoax, a sick joke. Perfect strangers don’t leave their businesses to other bloody strangers in their wills. It’s fucking ridiculous. Give it here.”

Unfazed by my outburst, Sally hands me back my letter, and I tear both sheets right down the middle. I’m about to go for it again, but Sally’s hands are on mine, stopping me.

“Honey, I don’t think this is a hoax. And if it isn’t, it won’t just go away because you tore up the letter. At least try the phone number. We can find out if the solicitor is genuine easily enough.”

My hands are shaking, and she easily extricates what’s left of the letter. She stuffs the four pieces of paper back into the envelope and pushes herself to her feet. She extends her hand down to me as I sit still slumped against the wall of the school hall. I’m dazed, confused and entirely out of my depth.

“Come on. Head’s office should be empty by now. We’ll call this lawyer chap from there, more private. Then we can have another think.”

Unresisting, I take her hand and scramble to my feet. Sally keeps a tight, protective hold on the envelope as we both pick up our bags and make our way along the corridor to the head teacher’s office. I shuffle along behind Sally. I’m still reeling as the possible implications start to cascade around my head, crashing into each other. What if it’s true? Will I have to do things? Difficult, complicated, papery things? Will I have to tell people what to do? Can I just refuse to take my inheritance? Surely no one can make me…

As Sally predicted, the room is empty. She shoves me into Mrs Boothroyd’s vacant chair behind the desk. “Do you have your phone?”

I nod then dig in my bag for it.

“Right.” Sally pulls the tattered sheets from the envelope and lays them out carefully on the desk. She grabs a yellow highlighter pen from Mrs Boothroyd’s desk tidy container and uses it to color in a row of numbers at the top of the right hand portion of the first sheet. “That’s the phone number. It says it’s a direct line, so this Mr Stephenson might answer. Or maybe his secretary. Get dialing.”

I shake my head. I don’t think I can do this.

“You can do it.” I must have been thinking aloud again, or maybe it was my expression doing the talking for me. In any case, Sally’s having none of it. She uses her best teacher voice and sternest expression to spur me into action.

“Just dial, and when someone answers say you want to talk to Mr Stephenson. And when you get him on the line, just say who you are, and that you’ve got his letter. And that you’re puzzled about why this Mr Parrish left anything to you in his will. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but…”

“Yes. So do it. When we’ve heard what he has to say, we’ll think again.”

“It’s a mistake, got to be…”

“Abigail! Dial the bloody number.” Sally has her teacher face on, and voice to match. Feeling not unlike one of her unruly year fives, I give in and obediently start to tap the sequence of numbers into my phone. I have to do it slowly, carefully, but I can manage. After a few seconds, I hear the ringing tone.

At least the number seems genuine.

Barely two rings later the phone is answered, “Good afternoon, Charles Stephenson.”

The crisp, male voice sounds very efficient, very—legal. I’m at a loss what to say now, despite Sally’s coaching.

“I… I…”

“Can I help you?” Mr Stephenson sounds marginally less official now.

“Hello. Yes, er, I— My name’s Abigail Fischer. You wrote to me…” Not terribly articulate. Still, I’m quite relieved to have managed to string a couple of of words together.

“Ah, yes, Miss Fischer. Thank you for getting in touch. Yes, you’ve taken some tracking down, I can tell you.”

His tone is becoming chattier by the second. He does indeed sound genuinely pleased to be talking to me. If it weren’t for his comment about tracking me down I might even start to relax, just a little. Even so, maybe I can explain—whatever—and all this will be straightened out. Feeling slightly more confident now, I try for assertive, and failing that, I might settle for polite.

“Mr Stephenson, I think you must be mistaken. I don’t know Mr Parrish. There’s no reason for him to leave me anything in his will. I think you must have got me mixed up with someone else.”

Mr Stephenson seems quite unmoved by that prospect. “We don’t usually get this sort of thing wrong, Miss Fischer, but I do have some checks I could make with you, if that would reassure you at all?”

“Oh, right. Yes please.” This should settle the matter.

“Your full name is Abigail Louise Fischer?”

“Yes.”

“And you were born in February 1991, the tenth to be exact, at Bradford Royal Infirmary?”

“Yes.” My heart’s sinking now.

“Your mother’s name is—was—Rachel Fischer. I understand she passed away three years ago.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“My condolences for your loss, Miss Fischer. You previously lived on the Ravenscliffe estate in Bradford?”

“I, yes. We did.”

“Then I’m reasonably certain we have the right Abigail Fischer. My client is the executor of the late Mr Parrish’s estate, his nephew, Mr Cain Parrish. Mr Parrish—the executor, not the deceased—asked me to invite you to meet with him and myself, at your convenience. Would you be able to come to our offices in Leeds, Miss Fischer?”

Meeting? Executor? Deceased? Offices in Leeds?

Despite Mr Stephenson’s amiable tone, I am overwhelmed, seized by a blind panic. I hit the ‘end call’ button. I drop my phone onto the desk with a clatter and gaze up at Sally who is just putting the finishing touches to piecing the letter together again. She’s re-attached the halves of the pages with sticky tape. The result is a bit crumpled, but passable I suppose.

“So, what did he say? Are we in the building trade then?” Her smile is bright, expectant.

Is she entirely mad?