Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“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.”