Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“Yeah, the swear box we haven’t got and have never had,” Ellen mutters.

“Thought that counts,” says Alex. “It’s unbelievable. A school expels a pupil for stealing a coat he didn’t steal—and they’ve been told he didn’t steal it by its original owner—and then they remove him from the classroom wall as if he never existed?”

“What did you mean about all the others being moved around?” I ask Ellen.

“I meant they didn’t only take George’s stuff down from the wall—that would have left some gaps, and there weren’t any. Someone took down the whole lot and put them up again so that there were no obvious spaces where George’s work used to be.”

“Ellen can’t go back there,” I say to Alex.

“Mum, I have to.”

“You two are arguing about the future. I’m still struggling to understand what’s happened so far,” says Alex. “Ellen, when did you speak to the teachers about George and the coat? On Tuesday? Before? Who did you speak to?”

“Miss Squires first and then Mrs. Griffiths, when Miss Squires told me to. I explained—”

“On Tuesday?” Alex cuts in. He’s not giving up on this timeline thing.

“No, Monday. George knew he was in trouble on Monday morning. He was crying in assembly.”

“This story makes me want to kill people,” I say through gritted teeth.

“George told me what he’d been accused of, and I told him not to worry. I made it worse by making him get his hopes up. I thought there was no way they wouldn’t listen to me—it was my coat! How could they still expel him once I’d told them I gave it to him as a present? Mrs. Griffiths was really nice when I told her, or pretended to be. She smiled and nodded as if she believed me, and praised me for being such a kind and loyal friend. And then she went and expelled George anyway! I thought back over everything she’d said to me, and I realized what was missing. All that smiley praise was to shut me up and get me out of her office. She never once said, ‘All right, George can stay. We won’t expel him now that we know the truth.’ ”

“But you assumed she wouldn’t,” says Alex.

“Totally. She seemed to believe me.”

“She did,” I say.

Alex and Ellen look at me.

“I mean, yes, she hoodwinked you, clearly—she wanted to expel George, and she let you think you’d changed her mind when you hadn’t. But I’m certain she believed you.”

“Presumably George protested his innocence too,” says Alex.

“Of course he did! He told Mrs. Griffiths exactly what I told her, but she didn’t believe him either. Why would she expel him if she knew he’d done nothing wrong?”

“The coat thing’s an excuse,” I say. “A smokescreen story.”

“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Donbavand in all this?” Alex asks. “Why are you the one going in to inquire and complain? Why not them? George is their son.”

“Dr. and Professor Donbavand,” Ellen corrects him. “They don’t care about their children. George hates them.”

“I’m sure they do care,” says Alex. “What does he look like, this George?” It’s a question I haven’t thought to ask.

Ellen wrinkles her nose. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m just interested. Is he tall, dark and handsome? Short, dark and weedy?”

Ellen sighs. “He’s a Caucasian male, about three inches taller than me, with light brown hair and blue eyes. Satisfied?”

George hates his parents. They don’t care about their children.

There’s a half-formed idea in my mind. I like it so far and can’t be bothered to wait. “I think Lesley Griffiths was trying to communicate something to me without being too explicit,” I say. “She was using a kind of code. Telling me everything’s all right, even if I think it isn’t. If I ignore her actual words, which were implausible at best, everything about her manner was saying, ‘Trust me, Justine. I’ve done the right thing. You’d agree with me if you knew what I know. Everything’s fine, really.’ Ellen, does that sound similar to how she was with you?”

Is it possible that Lesley expelled George to protect him from his parents in some way? I can’t think how that would work, though—that’s the only problem with my theory.

Ellen shrugs. “Have I got a clean uniform?”

“No.” In the chaos and drama of yesterday, I forgot about the laundry I’d been meaning to put in. “But you don’t need it.”

“Yes, I do. I’m going in. Can you drive me to school, Dad?”

“Absolutely not!” I’m on my feet, prepared to stop them forcibly if I have to.

“Will you both sit down?” says Alex. “No one’s going anywhere until I’ve had more coffee. This one’s cold.”

“That’ll happen if you don’t drink it,” Ellen tells him.

“We also need to discuss the homework-dodging issue.”

Shut up, Alex. Of all the stupid things to say.

“What?” Ellen spits the word out like a hard stone.

“You told your teachers Mum and I had said something we hadn’t said, El. That’s not ideal, is it?”

“Nor is bringing this up now, when she’s upset,” I say. “Can’t we tackle one thing at a time?”

“Dad thinks the two are connected,” Ellen says in a shaky voice. “Don’t you? You think me lying is the connection.”

“I’ve already said I believe you about George.”

“Only because you can’t prove it’s not true. Not because you trust me. What time is it?” Ellen asks me. “Is it half past nine yet?”

I look at the digital display on the microwave. “Just gone quarter past. Why?”

Triumph flares in Ellen’s eyes. Before I know its cause, I’m pleased for her. I want her to win everything. Yes, even arguments with her parents, paradoxically.

“I’ll prove to you that George exists. You can see him for yourselves! I know where he’s going to be at half past nine. Come on.” Ellen darts past me. I lunge to try and stop her, but she’s out of the door before I can grab hold of her pajama sleeve. Seconds later, the front door slams.

“We’re letting her go out without clothes?” Alex complains. The flat of his hand rests on the coffee plunger, as if he’s considering pressing an emergency alarm.

“She won’t go farther than the garden dressed like that,” I say, hoping it’s true.

“None of this makes any sense!” Alex is angry suddenly. “Is George Donbavand going to be in our garden at nine thirty? Why would he be? Is he even real? I mean, why would Lesley Griffiths deny the existence of a boy who, until the previous day, was a pupil at her school?”

“I don’t know, Alex. If we want answers, we need to follow Ellen.”

“We’re not dressed.”

“So what? The world won’t end if we go outside in pajamas. Ellen wants us to go with her. We need to move.” The river. Is that where she’s headed, to where the land belonging to Speedwell House ends and the water starts?

“Justine!”

I’m in the hall, about to open the front door when Alex calls my name.

“What? Aren’t you coming?”

“Do we believe in this George Donbavand?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I do.”

Ten minutes later, the three of us—Ellen, Alex and I—are standing at the lowest point of our garden, looking out over the wall. Sunlight spreads itself into the dimples on the water. It’s restful, just watching, forgetting I’m part of a story I don’t understand. I wonder if Ellen and Alex feel the same.

Waiting in silence. Not knowing what for, not in charge, unable to anticipate. This moment, out of time and context, is how I would like my whole life to be. This is it: what I want . Here and now is the first time I’ve found it—my own peculiar holy grail—since we moved to Devon. Then the questions rush in and ruin it: Is George Donbavand about to appear? From where? If he was only threatened with expulsion on Monday, why has Ellen been withdrawn and distant for so long? Was she so wrapped up in her new friendship with George that she lost interest in us, her family?