Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

No, there was nothing mysterious about the cruel killing of Malachy. Both of the families, the Ingreys and the Dodds, knew the truth, and soon everybody in Kingswear and the surrounding towns and villages knew it too. You cannot keep anything quiet in a place like Devon, where the main hobby is spreading cream and jam onto scones and gossiping about everything you’ve heard that day.

It came as a surprise to absolutely nobody that one of the Ingreys had committed a murder, because they were such a weird family—the weirdest that Kingswear and its environs had ever known. But there was one big shock for everyone when they heard the news. People should have realized that the most bizarre family for miles around would do the opposite of what you’d expect, or else they would have no right to retain their title of weirdest family. And what most of the nearby town and village folk would have expected was that if 1) there was a murder and 2) the killer was one of the three Ingrey sisters, it was bound to be either Lisette, the eldest, or Allisande, the middle sister. Certainly not Perrine, the youngest, who was the only one who had had what you might call a properly balanced upbringing.

You see, unlike most parents, especially so long ago, Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey couldn’t

1

Ellen?” I knock on her bedroom door, even though it’s ajar and I can see her sitting on her bed. When she doesn’t respond, I walk in. “What’s this?” I hold up the papers.

She doesn’t look at me, but continues to stare out of the window. I can’t help looking too. I still haven’t gotten used to the beauty of where we live. Ellen’s room and the kitchen directly beneath it have the best views in the house: the fountain and gazebo to the left, and, straight ahead, the gentle downward curve of the grass bank that stretches all the way from our front door to the River Dart, studded with rhododendrons, magnolia trees, camellias. When we first came to see Speedwell House in April, there were bluebells, primroses, cyclamen and periwinkles in bloom, poking out of ground ivy and grass: little bursts of brightness interrupting the lush green. I can’t wait for those spots of color to reappear next spring.

In the distance, the water sparkles in the bright light like a flowing liquid diamond. On the other side of the river, there’s wooded hillside with a few wooden boathouses down at the bottom, and, above them, a scattering of pink, yellow and white cottages protruding from the greenery. From this distance, it looks as if someone has dropped pick-and-mix sweets from the window of an airplane and they’ve landed among the trees.

Since we moved here, Alex has said at least three times, “It’s a funny thing about the English coastline: the land just stops. It’s like the interior of the country, and then it suddenly plunges into the sea without any interim bit. I mean, look.” At this point he always nods across the river. “That could be in the middle of the Peak District.”

I don’t know what he means. Maybe I’m shallow, but I don’t much care about understanding the scenery. If it looks gorgeous, that’s good enough for me.

Boats drift past: sailing dinghies, small yachts, pleasure boats and the occasional schooner. There’s one passing now that looks like a child’s sketch of a boat: wooden, with a mast and a red sail. Most have less elegant outlines and would be fiddlier to draw.

These are the things I can see out of Ellen’s window. Can she see any of them? She’s looking out, but there’s a shut-off air about her, as if she’s not really present in the room with me.

“El. What’s this?” I say again, waving the pieces of paper at her. I don’t like what I’ve read. I don’t like it at all, however imaginative and accomplished a piece of writing it might be for a fourteen-year-old. It scares me.

“What’s what?” Ellen says tonelessly.

“This family tree and beginning of a story about a family called the Ingreys.”

“It’s for school.”

Worst possible answer. Too short, too lacking in attitude. The Ellen I know—the Ellen I desperately miss—would have said, “Um, it’s a family tree? And a story about a family called the Ingreys? The answer’s kind of contained in the question.” How long has it been since she last yelled “Objection!” swiftly followed by “Sustained!”? At least a month.

Whatever Alex says, there’s something wrong with our daughter. He doesn’t see it because he doesn’t want it to be true. When he’s home, she makes a special effort to be normal in front of him. She knows that if she can fool him, he’ll do his best to persuade me that I’m wrong, that this is standard teenage behavior.

I know it’s not true. I know my daughter, and this isn’t her. This isn’t how even the most alarming teenage version of her would behave.

Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey. It’s Ellen’s handwriting, but I don’t believe she would have made up those names. Allisande, Malachy Dodd, Garnet and Urban . . . Could she have copied it out from somewhere?

I’m trying to work out how I can tactfully ask what prompted her to invent the alarming Perrine Ingrey, whom I resent for splattering my lovely terrace with blood and brains and celebrating with a “Ha!,” when the phone starts to ring downstairs. I would leave it, but it might be Alex. As I run to get it, I remind myself that I must call about having some more telephone points put in.

Must. I hate that word. In my old life, it meant “Move fast! Panic! Prepare for catastrophe! Turn it into success by the end of the day! Keep two people happy who want incompatible outcomes! Be brilliant or lose everything!” Fifty times a day, “must” could have signified any of those things, or all of them simultaneously.

I stop at the bottom of the stairs, out of breath. I refuse to hurry. There is no urgency about anything. Calm down. Remember your mission and purpose. If you’re fretting, you’re not doing Nothing.

I’m not going to worry about missing Alex’s call. And if it isn’t him on the phone, I’m not going to wonder why he hasn’t called today. I know he’s fine—being fawned over by acolytes in Berlin. Discussing the Ellen situation with him can wait.

Worries are pack animals as well as cowards: too flimsy and insubstantial to do much damage alone, they signal for backup. Pretty soon there’s a whole gang of them circling you and you can’t push your way out. Stuff the lot of them , I think as I cross the wide black and white tiled hall on my way to the kitchen. I’m lucky to be happy and to have this amazing new life. I don’t have much to be anxious about, certainly not compared to most people. There are only two points of concern in my current existence: Ellen’s odd behavior, and—though I’m ashamed to be obsessing about it still—the house by the side of the North Circular. 8 Panama Row.

I’ve dreamed about it often since the day we moved, dreamed of trying to get there—on foot, by car, by train—but never quite making it. The closest I got was in a taxi. The driver pulled up, and I climbed out and stood on the pavement. The front door of the house opened, and then I woke up.

I pick up the phone and say, “Hello?,” remembering Alex’s pretending-to-be-serious insistence that we must all from now on greet anyone who calls with the words “Speedwell House, good morning/afternoon/evening.” “That’s how people who live in big country piles answer their phones,” he said. “I saw it on . . . something, I’m sure.”

Our new house’s solitary phone is not portable. It’s next to the kitchen window, attached to the wall by a curly wire that makes a plasticky squeaking sound when pulled. Finally at the age of forty-three I have a big, comfy sofa in a kitchen that isn’t too small, and I’m unable to reach it to sit down when I make or answer a phone call. I have to stand and look at it instead, while imagining my legs are aching more than they are. My mobile can’t help me; there’s no reception inside the house yet. Coverage seems only to start at the end of our drive.