Michael Litchfield - The Cutter

M ost people feel safe in their homes; Heather Barnett and her two children most certainly did a fatal mistake for which there would be no second chance.

Heather, at the age of 48, had built up a reputation as a skilled seamstress. Self-employed, there was no shortage of work. People from all over the county of Dorset came to her with sewing jobs from repairing curtains and shortening trousers to making dresses for weddings and other special occasions. She was a consummate professional with a keen eye for detail and an artistic temperament; a perfectionist in all that she undertook, but especially as a mother.

As you would expect, her home in Capstone Road, Bournemouth, was always tidy and cosy. She had made most of the curtains, cushions, tablecloths and furniture covers also many of her daughters clothes. Her children Terry, aged 14, and Caitlin, three years younger than her brother, though equally mature intellectually were always smartly turned out; they were Heathers pride and joy. Any patching of their clothes was cleverly camouflaged. The childrens friends often asked Heather to mend their frayed jackets or snagged leggings and she always obliged smilingly. Being a caring mother and a friend to her children and their companions was more important to her than anything else.

Most days she would be fielding phone calls incessantly from regular customers and others who had just heard about her services. Increasingly important to her as a single mother, her cottage industry flourished on the most effective form of advertising word of mouth.

Tuesday, 12 November 2002 dawned overcast and chilly. Bleak winter was in the air, even in Bournemouth, a coastal town renowned for its relatively mild climate. The weekday morning ritual was in full swing by 8.00am in the Barnett household: territorial fights over the bathroom, squabbles over countless petty issues, the usual brother versus sister friction, and breakfast on the run. A peck on the cheek for mum and jaunty waves as Heather dropped off the children at Summerbee School in Mallard Road at just after 8.30am.

Be careful, said Heather, as her children scrambled from the car. How ironic that her last words to her children were a caution to them.

Bournemouth was a busy town, with rush-hour gridlock to match any city. Commuters battling against the clock made roads hazardous, especially on a wet morning like that Tuesday. The pavements were scarcely any safer, having been turned into rat-runs by cyclists seeking refuge from aggressively-driven vehicles. A CCTV camera, attached to the Richmond Arms pub in Charminster Road, filmed Heathers white Fiat Punto turning into Capstone Road at 8.37am.

Heather had a daily routine. As soon as her children were at school, she would sit in the kitchen at home with a cup of tea, possibly nibbling a round of toast as she listed her schedule for the day in order of priority. There were costumes to be made for other childrens Christmas concerts and school plays; although not desperately urgent, she preferred to keep ahead of the game, if possible, rather than having to play catch-up, which was always stressful. Self-discipline was one of her business strengths.

There was already more than enough stress in her life with the demands of bringing up two children alone on limited resources. Not that Heather was a person to complain. She was more than happy with her lifestyle and considered herself fortunate to have such well-balanced and responsible children. She was optimistic about their future. She talked with motherly pride to friends and neighbours about Terry and Caitlin, especially with reference to their progress at school and how, despite difficult times ahead for job-seekers, she was convinced her children would be trailblazers in whatever careers they chose. In many respects, she was a mum on a mission.

Although the family did not want for anything, Heather, just like any other single parent, needed to keep a watchful eye on the budget. Any sudden, unexpected, sizeable expense was capable of knocking their economy off kilter. Nevertheless, the future looked rosy that November morning, despite the swiftly gathering clouds.

Commissions were coming in and Heather had even begun to plan for a bumper Christmas. She had already started a provisional list of Christmas presents to buy mainly for her children. She liked to be organised; it was good for business, demonstrating to customers that she was professional and no dilettante. It also boosted her confidence, making her feel in control of her own destiny the kind of fools paradise we all cocoon ourselves in, though few of us, fortunately, pay so dearly for our one-dimensional faith in self-determination.

After breakfast, she took a few phone calls but did not make any. The only call made that day from Heathers landline was at 5.53am that morning. Heather had been an early riser all her adult life and was a great believer in hitting every day on the run. She was very much a morning person, so typical of people born and raised in the country, well away from cities and urban sprawls. Its the early bird that catches the worm was one of her favourite maxims.

Everything in her life was so normal that Tuesday morning. No alarm bells or portent of the seismic events just around the corner. Known by one person only, the countdown towards oblivion had already begun. Without warning, without a chance to take avoiding action, without prior threats, death came cold-calling with a knock on the front door, probably a few minutes before 9.30am.

* * *

Now fast-forward the clock to mid-afternoon of the same day.

Terry and Caitlin left school shortly after 3.30pm and walked home together as usual. Their mothers car was parked in the drive. Everything appeared routine and normal so far. Their modest but comfortable home was the ground-floor flat and they made their way to the side of the house, where the entrance was situated.

Caitlin tried the door; it was unlocked. She opened it and skipped inside, happy to be home, as always. Another day of school over; always something to be celebrated! Going into the house ahead of her brother was yet another little afternoon ritual, a gesture of old-fashioned respect ladies first.

As soon as Terry had closed the front door behind him, Caitlin called to her mother, something else she always did on their return from school. There was no answer. Strange, thought Caitlin, especially as the car was outside. Heather always liked to be indoors to greet them with a hug, kisses and eager questions about their day at school. If there was any shopping to be done, she tried to do it in the morning.