A Game For All The Family (22 page)

“No puppy today?” he says.

“I left him with my husband. And Ellen. She’s at home today.”

“Is she okay?”

“No. When I woke her up this morning, she told me she didn’t want to go to school. I said, ‘Wonderful. Hooray.’ I’ve been encouraging her to stay away from Beaconwood since pupils started vanishing into thin air and having their existences erased, so . . . today’s a good result for me.”

“I understand your anger,” says Lesley. “No doubt I deserve it. This is an unusual situation, and I suspect I’ve made a mess of it. The handling of it, I mean. Only I’m not sure how else I could have dealt with it without—” She breaks off and sighs. “Would you like a cup of tea before I launch in? I could certainly do with one. Lachlan?”

“Glass of water for me, please.”

They’re both looking at me, waiting for my order.

“Before we get on to drinks . . . Lesley, was there a boy at this school until a few days ago called George Donbavand?” I am actually holding my breath.

There’s a gap that no one’s putting any words into. I stare at the clock on the desk, reminded of its presence by the ticking that’s suddenly audible.

“Yes,” Lesley says eventually. “There was.”

I knew that already. I knew it. I didn’t need you to tell me.

“He was in my form,” says Mr. Fisher.

“So you lied to me?” I say to Lesley.

“Yes, I did.”

Presented with a longed-for, long-suspected fact, my first impulse is to doubt more strenuously. Suddenly, I’m being told there
is
a George Donbavand—but what if the truth after the lie is just another lie?

“Did you expel him?” I ask Lesley.

“No.”

“Did you expel his sister, Fleur?”

“Again, no.”

“Is she still a pupil here?”

“No. Much to my regret. Justine, I know why you think I expelled George. I pretended to.”

“You . . .” I sit forward in my chair. “You
pretended
to expel him?”

“I did, yes. George believes he was expelled.”

“Right. The only problem with that is: It doesn’t happen, does it? Ever. Why would a child who hasn’t been expelled believe that he had been?”

“This is what I’m going to try and explain to you,” says Lesley. “Are you sure you don’t want tea or coffee before we start?”

“I’ll have a coffee.” Damn. The words slipped out before I could stop them. I haven’t drunk coffee since leaving London. Haven’t felt the need for it. I do now, and that’s a bad sign. If I’m craving an energy boost, that means I’m veering off my true path.

One cup. A solitary exception, not a relapse.

Lesley rings someone—probably Helen Minchin—and asks for a tea, a coffee and a water. Then she says, “All right, might as well start. No point us all milling around awkwardly while we wait for drinks. Justine, what you said before—‘That doesn’t happen, ever’—I must warn you that there’s a lot of that in what you’re about to hear. Unfortunately, many things one expects will never happen—because, frankly, one can’t credit them—have been happening. As to how to deal with them . . . I’ve been in a bit of a quandary.”

“Go on,” I say.

Lesley glances over her shoulder at Lachlan Fisher, who nods his approval.

“George and Fleur Donbavand—both pupils at Beaconwood since preschool. Parents? My first impression was: nice, normal dad and unhappy, neurotic mum. Mum in charge, sadly. Dad totally under the thumb—a Prefect Parent if ever I saw one.”

“Prefect Parent?”

“Yes: parent in name only. More like an older child with special privileges—ones bestowed by the Power Parent, who could remove them at any time. Anyway. Mum Donbavand wore all available trousers, so unhappy and neurotic carried the day as far as the family went. Always a shame when the better parent is the dormant one, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think you’re any sort of good parent if you sit back and let your other half harm the kids,” I say. Then I wonder if I’ve been unfair. I haven’t met Anne Donbavand. Do I have the right to imply she’s damaging her children based on a few second-hand comments?

“Oh, me too,” Lesley agrees. “I didn’t say ‘good,’ though. I said ‘better.’ ”

“You’re suggesting it’s not difficult to be a better parent than Anne Donbavand?”

“What I’m
not
doing is denying that Stephen Donbavand could and should be stronger. But he isn’t, and wasn’t, so. After a while, over a period of some years, the parental anxiety levels became a problem. Emails asking for details of who was preparing the hot lunches, and did we make sure to get proper references for all those people. Demands to be informed whenever an exchange student or nonpermanent teacher came to school, the same questions about references there. In the end I invited Parents Donbavand in for a chat, hoping to get to the bottom of it all. I’ve met many an anxious parent in my time, but this was different. The security questions they asked . . . It was as if they thought someone was intent on attacking their children. So I got them in and asked them directly: ‘Do you think someone’s out to get Fleur and George? Someone who might stoop to applying for a job in our canteen so as to poison them?’ ”

“And? What was the answer?”

“Lots of incoherent screaming from Mum: Why was I asking? What did I know? That sort of thing. It was a short meeting. She stormed out almost immediately and Dad scuttled after her. A few days later there was an email from Dad: Could they come in again? They’d obviously decided—well,
she’d
decided—that she wanted to talk. I said yes, of course. She was perfectly calm for our next meeting. Apologized for her behavior on the previous occasion, then told me she and her family don’t exist.”

“What?”

“Her very words. I’ll never forget it. No such people as Anne, Stephen, Fleur and George Donbavand. Those are false names, she said, because they’re in hiding. In answer to my question from last time—was someone out to get her children?—she told me that, yes, she feared they were. Someone was out to get all of them, hence the assumed identities.”

Is this some kind of joke? Apparently not.

“How long had Fleur and George been at the school when you had this conversation?” There’s so much I want to ask, I don’t know where to start.

“Hm.” Lesley’s mouth twists as she tries to work it out. “I could dig out my old diaries and check, but . . . Fleur and George were both still in Juniors.”

“A long time ago, then?”

“Oh yes. We at Beaconwood have been living with this knowledge of the threat to the Donbavands for years. Each new member of staff we hire has to be informed. Lachlan’ll tell you.”

“It’s true, Justine. I think we must be the most security-conscious school in the country because of it. Once you hear something like that, you can’t help but worry. You’re in charge of protecting two students whose parents have told you they’re endangered. You start to see threats everywhere: visiting speakers, other children’s parents . . .”

“We got used to it,” says Lesley. “You get used to anything, don’t you? We watched George and Fleur like hawks all day long, vetted everyone who entered the building as diligently as we could. Anne Donbavand asked to be informed in advance of anyone Fleur and George might come into contact with, so that she could vet them too.”

“It was time-consuming,” says Lachlan. “Long emails had to be sent every week: the names of anyone new who was due to be in school the following week, any new families starting at the school . . .”

“Wait. You’re telling me that when Ellen came to Beaconwood, you had to email Anne Donbavand and give her our names, so that she could check us out?”

Lachlan hard-blinks at me a few times before turning to Lesley. He wants her to deliver the unwelcome news.

“I don’t think she can have investigated every name we gave her, else she’d have gotten no work done—the woman’s a workaholic from what I can gather—but yes,” says Lesley. “When I knew that Ellen was coming to Beaconwood, I emailed Anne to tell her. I did it whenever we had a new family.”

I’m annoyed to find myself believing what I’m hearing: believing, at least, that Lesley’s no longer lying to me. I’d be happier if I still had doubts. This story is already too disturbing, and we haven’t gotten to the expulsion part. Sorry: pretend expulsion.

“The first time Alex and I came to look round, without Ellen—did you warn Anne Donbavand in advance that we were coming?”

“Yes.”

“This is unbelievable.”

“Isn’t it just? Thing is, we’ve never had a visitor to the school for whom secrecy is a priority. You and Alex weren’t concerned that no one should find out you’d been here, were you?”

“No, but—”

“No one is,” Lesley glides smoothly over my unfinished objection. “I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to anyone else if I . . . kept Anne informed. Kept her off my back, more importantly.”

“Didn’t she also threaten to take Fleur and George out of Beaconwood?” asks Lachlan.

“Yes. Sorry, I missed out that part. It became clear at a certain point that if we weren’t prepared to put these . . . reassurance measures in place, the ones Anne demanded, then she would remove both children.” Lesley’s mouth sets in a firm line. “I wasn’t having that. At least with Fleur and George at Beaconwood I could guarantee they’d be exposed to six hours of sanity, five days a week.”

“Hold on.” I’m confused. “Are you saying Anne’s insane, and there’s no real threat to the family?”

“No, I believed her,” Lesley says. “But think about living like that—in hiding, knowing that if anyone finds out who you are, it might be curtains for you. Imagine it! Anyone’d go loopy. I think that’s what happened to Anne Donbavand. She wasn’t as bad when I first knew her. She got worse. Told me she’d nearly not risked sending George and Fleur to school in their new life. Toss-up between us and homeschooling, it was. I thought about poor old Fleur and George in that house all day long, with Anne’s dark, paranoid fears for company—frankly, I’d have done anything to keep them here, as long as it didn’t harm anyone else. So, yes, I went along with most of Anne’s strange requests.”

“You believe her, yet she’s also paranoid?” I say.

“She’s a woman who makes heavy weather of things.” Lesley’s tone suggests this is a serious understatement. “For all I know, the danger she’s forever referring to isn’t something that would have induced a more . . . well-balanced person to start a new life with a new name.”

“Wait. You’re surely not saying you don’t know what the threat is?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, who’s making it?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Person or persons unknown.
This would be funny if it weren’t so appalling.

“So you’ve brought me in here to tell me a story you don’t know yourself. Fantastic.”

“I’m telling you what I know,” says Lesley. “Should have done it sooner. I’m ashamed that it took Lachlan’s involvement to make me see sense, but . . .”

Here comes the excuse.

“Paranoid neurosis—it’s a funny thing. Ingest enough and it starts to infect you. Anne has impressed on me so many times that I must never breathe a word to anyone. I was afraid that if I told you the truth, something might happen to Fleur and George.”

“Wow.” Breathe, Justine, breathe. “You’re not joking, are you? You’re actually serious about all of this.”

Two troubled faces stare back at me.

Not joking, then. Definitely not. Joking ruled out, despite being the only halfway plausible option.

“So you don’t know who’s after the Donbavands, or why, or what they used to be called before they were the Donbavands?”

Lesley nods. “Anne said—and on this I was with her all the way—it would be reckless of her to tell me. The less we at Beaconwood know, the more protected we are. I’ve no desire to be privy to details that might put my colleagues and pupils in danger.”

“Is that what Anne said? That knowing would put you at risk?”

“Not explicitly. She said I was safer not knowing. I don’t think she was necessarily implying that being in possession of the full story would be life-threatening for me. Could have been a case of ‘Trust me, you’d rather not know.’ She was dead right! Something so dreadful that you’d flee your former life and change your name . . . I’m happy to remain in the dark, thank you very much!”

Hearing this, I could almost start to suspect Lesley of lying all over again. Is she an idiot? There’s no greater danger than not knowing exactly what and who you’re up against. However awful the truth might be, how could Lesley have preferred to be ignorant?

“Have you—”

Loud knocking interrupts my question.

Our drinks are brought in not by Helen Minchin but by Kendra Squires. She puts the tray down on the table with a nervous smile. I manage not to push her out of the way to get to my coffee, which smells divine. I’m going to pretend to myself that I have no intention of drinking it until I take the first sip. Then I’ll down the rest in a few gulps, so that I can get it over with quickly and resolve never to weaken again. That should trim away a bit of the feeling of failure at each end.

“You were saying,” Lesley picks up once Kendra’s gone. “Have I . . . ?”

For a moment, my mind is blank. Then I remember what I was on the point of asking.

I’ll sound crazy if the answer’s no.

On the other hand, the lingering traces of my sanity are making me stand out like a sore thumb around here.

“Has Anne Donbavand ever mentioned the name Ingrey?” I say.

Lesley fires questions at me for ten full minutes: “Whose name is that?” “Are you saying the Donbavands used to be called Ingrey?” “Why mention it in this context if it’s nothing to do with the Donbavands?” “Is Ingrey a real name?” “Oh—you’ve only seen the first three pages of the story? Why won’t Ellen show you the rest?”

It seems she’s suddenly acquired a wish to be privy to details.

“I’ve shared as much as I want to for the time being,” I say. It’s a line from
The Good Wife
. Lesley and Mr. Fisher are unlikely to be fans who know each episode by heart.
Too busy storyboarding for their own series,
The Dysfunctional School.