Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“Oh, I can do it,” Sorrel offered cheerfully.

“Hmm. I’m not sure,” said Bascom. “No offense, but—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t just play them old Rolling Stones albums.”

“Oh good.”

“I’ll make them learn ‘Sloop John B’ by the Beach Boys, and then we can all sing it together, with the harmonies and everything.” Sorrel was proud of her ambitious plan.

“No, no!” said Bascom, annoyed. “That’s not what I mean at all. I mean proper music. Classical.”

“Oh, don’t be a snoot-nose!” Sorrel teased him.

“Sorrel, this is vitally important. We need to get someone in. A specialist.”

“From Nottingham?” Sorrel asked.

“No, not necessarily. I’ll make some inquiries.”

“All right, darling, but please don’t get your hopes up. I do worry that it might not work.”

“It has to work,” said Bascom. “It will work.”

And so it was that, a few weeks later, David Butcher, a former organ scholar of King’s College, Cambridge, arrived at Speedwell House with no idea at all of what was in store for him.

9

Thanks for coming in, Justine.” Lesley Griffiths isn’t smiling. She hasn’t since I arrived. Oddly, this gives me hope. I’ve seen too many people slap a smile on a lie recently, to make it look better. If the truth is about to arrive on the scene, it’s fitting that it should wear a serious face.

Lachlan Fisher didn’t call me last night as I hoped he would. Instead, Lesley called to say she’d spoken to Mr. Fisher, and was I available to come in for a chat tomorrow afternoon? If so, they would both clear their diaries.

And now tomorrow is today and here I am in Lesley’s office. She’s sitting at her desk, with Lachlan Fisher behind her in the armchair in the corner of the room. I wish he’d pull it forward. He looks like a child who’s been dragged along to an event against his will and told to sit quietly until the grown-ups have finished talking.

I want him in this conversation. Without his intervention, I’m convinced it wouldn’t be happening.

“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.”