A Game For All The Family (9 page)

“Don’t be daft.” At least now I get a turn to sound like the sensible one.

“Then I don’t see what you’re worried about. Is this going to be another weird obsession that drags on, like 8 Panama Row?”

“Who can tell?” I say breezily.

“Darling, don’t jump down my throat, but how sure are you that all this obsessing over trivia isn’t some kind of stress hangover from the Ben Lourenco business?”

I feel either sadness or a sort of amused disbelief when I hear Ben’s name these days, not boiling anger. I’m over it. I hope he is too.

“Very sure. All Ben Lourenco stress was blissfully canceled out when I decided never to work again,” I say.

“Good.” Alex sounds doubtful. “I suppose there’s a common theme: Ben, like this George Donbavand, was unfairly maligned and accused. Look, either Ellen’s written this story herself, and thought of the names herself—Googled ‘unusual Victorian names’ or whatever—or she’s copied it from somewhere. Ask her.”

“I tried. She was cagey as anything. Oh, she’s put her own name on the family tree too, so there’s an Ellen in the story. Urban Ingrey’s wife is Ellen.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” says Alex emphatically. Of all the not-worrying things I have told him, he has identified this one as the least worrying. “Writing’s a kind of fantasizing, isn’t it? Ellen’s probably cast herself in the heroine’s role. Look, I’d better go. Dieter and—”

“Wait.” I wasn’t planning to tell him the rest, but it seems crazy not to. I don’t want to alarm him; on the other hand, he is as anxiety-proof as it’s possible for a human being to be. “I’ve had two threatening calls. One this morning and one yesterday.”

“What? Threatening how?”

I take him through the two conversations word for word.

“Jesus, Justine! You’ve wasted ten minutes on Victorian character names when you’re being pursued by a fucking psycho? Why didn’t you tell me straightaway?”

“Alex, calm down. I’m hardly being pursued—”

“Twice in two days, threatening to hurt you if you don’t go back to your old life in London? I call that being pursued. Please tell me you’ve told the police.”

“No, I—”

“Right. I’ll get off the phone and let you do that straightaway while I book a flight home. Tell them—”

“Book a flight home?” I cut him off. “You can’t come back. You’ve got concerts.”

“Justine, we need to take this seriously. Promise me you’ll call the police, and look after yourself and Ellen
properly
until I get back. Okay?”

“All right, but . . . please don’t cut short your tour just for this. I agree, it’s worrying, but I don’t think we need to panic.”

“I don’t intend to panic, but I’m also not going to swan around Germany singing
Die schöne Müllerin
while a psychopath eyes up my home and family with a view to attacking them,” says Alex impatiently. “I hope you’ll agree that’s reasonable?” In a kinder voice, he says, “I can’t help being a heroic man of action. I’ve got my own coat and everything. Bought it myself. Didn’t have it given to me by a girl.”

I smile. “Well, if I can’t talk you out of it . . .”

“Text me when you’ve spoken to the police. I’ll go and get this flight booked. See you soon.”

I smile as I put my phone back in my pocket. I’m pleased Alex is coming home. If there’s any danger at all, I decide, it will now sense that my husband is on his way and beat a shamefaced retreat.

All of which means the police can wait half an hour or so. First, it’s time for school.

Lesley Griffiths, a chunkily built woman in her late fifties with waist-length silver hair, welcomes me into her office with chalk all over her clothes and a cake tin stuffed under one arm. She neither explains nor apologizes for her appearance—which I’m used to by now—and radiates the sort of confidence and authority I would expect from the CEO of a multibillion-dollar company. Each time I see Lesley, she resembles a scarecrow that’s had random objects stuck to it; last time she was holding a potted cactus in one hand for no discernible reason.

“Justine! This is a nice surprise. We never see you! That’s the school bus for you—never see the bus parents! Sit, sit.” Lesley points me toward the chair opposite her desk, and I hurry to seat myself as quickly as I know she wants me to. She’s a clever and efficient woman who can often anticipate where things are heading, and her tendency is to try to speed them toward their final destination. I’ve been physically pushed down into this same chair before when I dawdled for too long. The challenge today will be to remain in Lesley’s office long enough to get answers to my questions. I’ve let her hustle me out into the corridor prematurely on previous occasions, then had to knock on her door twenty seconds later and say, “Sorry, me again. I did have one other thing to ask . . .”

Above Lesley’s desk there’s a framed collage of holiday photos, mainly taken at her house in the south of France. Most are of her husband and three children messing around in their pool, but two are of Lesley in a green kaftan, reading in a deckchair. The kaftan looks much worse in one picture than in another—torn and faded. I suspect about ten years passed between photograph one and photograph two.

Apart from the collage, Lesley has nothing on her office walls apart from framed hunting and shooting pictures, which look like illustrations from old books. It’s odd to see so many images of guns in a head teacher’s office. Beaconwood is an eccentric school. I used to think this was a good thing.

I’m wondering where and how to start when Lesley says, “How’s your girl getting on with that creative writing project of hers? I’m going to have trouble keeping her teachers at bay if she doesn’t get some speed up. Has she hung a sign on her bedroom door: ‘Do Not Disturb, Genius At Work’?”

“I wanted to ask you about that. I bumped into Kendra Squires on my way in. She seems to think I asked for Ellen not to be given any other homework until she’s finished her story.”

“That’s right. Parents’ orders.” Lesley sits down at her desk and looks at it as if something’s missing that ought to be there.

“In that case, there’s been a misunderstanding,” I say. “I’m Ellen’s parent and I haven’t ordered anything of the sort. It’s fine for her to be given other homework. Especially maths, where she needs all the practice she can get.”

Lesley squints at me. It’s as if, by saying what I’ve said, I have made myself less visible somehow. “You didn’t say no other homework while she writes this story?”

“No.”

“Hm. That’s interesting. Ellen told me you did. She was quite unambiguous about it. It didn’t occur to me to doubt her.” Finally, Lesley removes the cake tin from under her arm and drops it on the desk between us. It sounds like a small cymbal as it lands.

“Well, I’ll sort out the misunderstanding.” Lesley chuckles. “Ellen won’t thank you for all the extra homework. Pretty single-minded about that story, she is. She’s spending every spare second on it. On the bus, break times, lunchtime. Budding Jane Austen you’ve got there, I reckon.”

“Break times
and
lunchtime?”

“Lately, yes. You can’t drag her out of the library. We’ve all said to her, ‘You’ll give yourself RSI at this rate,’ but she’s hooked. It’s no bad thing. They say children ought to go out three times a day and get fresh air, but look where we are.” Lesley raises and spreads her arms—to indicate Devon, I think, though it’s not absolutely clear. “Can’t avoid clean air round here, inside or outside. It’s not as if we’re in Hammersmith or . . .” She shrugs, apparently unable to name another polluted part of London. “But, yes, absolutely. Normal homework for Ellen as of now.”

“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” I say quickly, recognizing Lesley’s I’m-about-to-throw-you-out voice.

“Oh?” She taps her fingernails on the lid of the cake tin.

“Sorry. It won’t take long.” I try to persuade myself that this will be easy. Perhaps Lesley will be grateful to me for setting her straight.

“It’s about George Donbavand, and Ellen’s coat. Ellen’s quite upset about it. She thinks you don’t believe her, and I can totally understand why it might seem as if she’s protecting George—”

“Justine, I think we’d better—”

“The thing is, George honestly didn’t steal the coat.” It’s so unusual for Lesley to interrupt me that I decide to pretend she hasn’t. “Ellen gave it to him as a present, which I know is a bizarre thing to do, but—”

“Justine.”

“What?”

“Dear oh dear.” Lesley sighs. The fingernail rapping on the cake-tin lid grows louder and more insistent, then stops altogether. “Times like this, I wish I were a different sort of person. I know I can be blunt and undiplomatic, and it’s not always what people want.”

“What do you mean? Be as blunt as you like. I have been. George didn’t steal Ellen’s coat. He doesn’t deserve to be expelled. It’s very wrong that he has been. There, you can’t get much blunter than that.” I smile in an attempt to soften the blow.

“Justine, there is no George.”

“No . . .” It’s the last thing I expected her to say. “Pardon?”

“There is no boy called George at this school.”

We stare at one another. At a loss, I say, “I don’t mean this to sound sarcastic, but . . . isn’t that because you’ve just expelled him?”

“No. There never was a boy called George Donbavand at Beaconwood. No one has been expelled for stealing a coat they didn’t steal. What you’re worried about . . .” She looks doubtful for a second.

“Yes?”

“It didn’t happen. Now, I have too much to do, as ever . . .” She stands up.

“Wait. I’m sorry, no. You’re asking me to believe that Ellen dreamed up a boy called George Donbavand out of nowhere? She told me he was her best friend in the whole world.”

Lesley is wearing a determinedly patient smile. “Justine, again, let me reassure you. There is no George, there never was, and nobody has been falsely accused or wrongfully expelled.” She moves toward the door of her office and clearly intends for me to do the same.

I sit in silence for a few seconds, trying to process what I’ve heard.

Finally I say, “Then . . . if there’s no George Donbavand and there never was, you should know I’m not going to be reassured at all. Much as I don’t want to see innocent boys punished, I’m going to be a hell of a lot more worried if I think my daughter’s insane or a complete fantasist.”

Halfway through my speech, Lesley ditched her fake smile. She’s not even looking at me anymore. She doesn’t answer.

“What’s going on, Lesley? When you said ‘Dear oh dear’ before—you weren’t surprised that I’d brought up this nonexistent boy, were you? You knew exactly who and what I was talking about. How come, if there’s no George Donbavand at Beaconwood and never was?”

“Justine, I’m so sorry—really—but I’m going to have to draw a line under this now. Ellen’s a lovely girl. We love having her here. You can rest assured that there’s no problem at Beaconwood. I’ve never expelled a child from this school, and I hope I never will.”

I cannot fucking believe this.

“Is that a threat?” My palms are hot and itchy. I could so easily leap out of my chair and . . .

“A threat? No, of course not.”

“So you weren’t insinuating that if I don’t drop this and agree to pretend George Donbavand never existed, you’ll expel Ellen?”

“No.” Lesley looks shocked. “Not in any shape or form.”

“Oh. Okay, well . . . that’s something at least. Can you come and sit down? I can’t think straight with you hovering by the door.”

Lesley hesitates. I’m surprised when she returns to her chair.

Good. This is progress.

“Listen,” I say. “Ellen’s not been herself lately. Not at all. I’ve begged her to tell me what’s wrong but she won’t. She’s kept whatever it is entirely to herself until today, when she told me about George Donbavand, the coat, him getting expelled—the story that I
know
you know as well as I do.”

Lesley nods—or at least, I think she does. The visual evidence is inconclusive. She’s not committing herself to anything.

“Lesley, if my daughter has invented a whole narrative involving the persecution of a boy who isn’t real, you have to tell me. If the reason you know the George story is that Ellen’s been in here, sitting where I am now and pleading with you not to expel her friend
who doesn’t exist
, that’s something I need to know. I needed to know it five seconds after it happened.”

“Do you trust me, Justine?”

“Not recently,” I mutter—an immature response, but I can’t help it.

“Yes, you do,” Lesley corrects me with a smile that looks more genuine than its predecessor. “You entrusted Ellen to me and to this school, and I fully intend to honor that trust. I’m a mother too, remember.”

“I do. As one mother to another: tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“Take it from me, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Ellen.”

My body sags with relief. Then I’m annoyed with myself for taking her word for anything.

“I don’t mean she isn’t unhappy,” Lesley qualifies. “I agree, she’s seemed rather down in the dumps lately. But there’s nothing wrong with her psychologically. She’s not living in a fantasy world if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“All right.” I try to breathe evenly. “In that case, her best friend George Donbavand has just been expelled for stealing her coat. Hasn’t he?”

Lesley says nothing.

“At least you’ve stopped denying it. I suppose that’s something. Lesley, Ellen gave George the coat as a gift. Apparently he lost his, and his mum would have given him a hard time, so Ellen—who has a sap for a mother, willing to buy endless coats—gave him hers as a present. Please unexpel him.”

“I can’t.” Something passes across Lesley’s face. For a second, she looks crushed. Defeated. Moments later, I wonder if I imagined it.

“Why not?” I ask.

“I’ve told you why. We haven’t expelled a George Donbavand. There’s no wrong to put right here. If there were, I would rectify it immediately, I promise you.”

“You haven’t expelled him,” I repeat in a stunned monotone. Can this really be happening?

“That’s right. We haven’t,” says Lesley. “There is no George Donbavand. He was never here at the school for us to expel.”