Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

I glance at Alex, whose face is caught halfway between a smile and a grimace. He can’t decide if George is joking.

I’m sure he isn’t.

“Where does your dad think you are now?” I ask.

“He has no idea. I’m hoping to keep it that way.”

“But if you’re not allowed to go anywhere, how did you . . . ?”

“A very good question!” George follows this compliment with a small bow. “I snuck out. Is it sneaked or snuck? I think it’s snuck. I left a note saying I’d gone out for a long walk. My mother’s away at a conference, which makes life easier—in too many ways to list. I waited until I knew she wouldn’t be able to call for several hours, then I wrote a note for Dad and slipped out.”

Seeing my look of concern, George adds in his strange, booming voice, “It’s perfectly all right, really. You’re safe. Dad’s more likely to saw off his own head than tell Mum, even if he finds out where I’ve been. She’d make him suffer horribly.”

You’re safe. He takes for granted that the whole world is as afraid of his mother as his father is. And as he is, despite his bold manner. This isn’t confidence I’m looking at; it’s a very frightened boy, putting on an act.

I ought to tell him that if he isn’t allowed by his parents to be here, then he can’t stay.

And send him back to the madhouse halfway up the hill? Ellen would never forgive you.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, George,” I say. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you, Justine. You’re too kind. As long as I like would be forever, which is impractical. Still.” He sighs. “I wish I had a nice, normal mother like you. Oh!” He turns from me to Alex. “Would the two of you like to join Ellen and me in our Monopoly tournament? It would be a convenient excuse to scrap the game we’re in the middle of—the one I’m losing—and start a new one. You’d be helping me out greatly.”

He’s real, I find myself thinking, but is he really fourteen? While knowing that he is, I am simultaneously wondering if there’s any way at all that he might not be. Could he be a seventy-five-year-old trapped in a child’s body? He’s so polite, yet he calls me “Justine” without waiting to be asked. Scrupulously polite and overly familiar—it’s an odd combination.

“But if you abandon a game—any game—then whoever’s winning at the moment of abandonment has won,” Ellen teases him. That’s my daughter, who, until today, thought board games were the dullest thing in the world.

“The moment of abandonment,” George repeats, amplifying each word. “What a marvelous phrase. Doesn’t it sound like a romantic novel?”

“You’ve got a better chance of not losing if you keep playing,” says Ellen. “It’s your only hope, however remote.”

George turns to me and rolls his eyes conspiratorially. “Your offspring is an evil genius. I am completely in thrall to her. Next time I come, I’ll make sure to bring a jigsaw puzzle instead. Collaboration, not competition! That’s the way forward.”

No doubt New Ellen will declare herself to be a devotee of jigsaws any moment now.

“Righto,” says Alex decisively. “Justine and I’ll leave you to it. We’d better go and track down the dog, who at this moment is probably crossing ‘Destroy the entire downstairs’ off his to-do list.”

Ellen laughs. “You’re funny, Dad.”

“Oh.” George looks disappointed. “Well, if you change your minds, you’d be most welcome to join us at any time. The dog too! Monopoly’s fun with two players but four or five is ideal. It’s a game for all the family!”

Two hours later, with my mobile phone hot in my pocket from a long call, I’m returning to my house again, this time in a dripping raincoat and drenched running shoes and socks. Figgy is soaked too. Without the padding of dry, fluffy fur, his legs look perilously thin. Luckily he doesn’t seem to mind. He and I have walked three times around the perimeter of Speedwell House’s grounds, on the inside. I’d have ventured beyond the big iron gates, but Alex, shocked to hear that I took Figgy to Beaconwood, was adamant that he can’t leave our land again until he’s had his second lot of vaccinations. I think he’s being neurotic, but arguing would have kept me in the house longer.

I had to get out. Being told by George that I would be “most welcome” to join an activity taking place in my own house made me feel the opposite. I escaped so that I wouldn’t have to speak to him again before he left.

I don’t dislike him. How I could I fail to like a boy who’s so lovely and complimentary to Ellen, and so charming to me? I fled because I was upset for him—too upset to stay and endure any more of his weird conversation, to watch him set off for what passes for home and his god-awful parents, knowing there’s nothing I can do to help him. If I can’t solve a problem, I don’t want to be around it.

You’re a coward.

I unlock the front door and open it. Figgy rushes into the house ahead of me, only to be jerked back by his leash. I unclip him and he goes racing toward the kitchen to find his food bowl.

“Is that you?” Alex calls out from the family room. “I was about to send a search party.”

“Sorry. I had an important call to make.” It’s not the sort of thing someone who does Nothing should be saying, but I’m too tired to worry about my life plan having drifted off course. “Where’s Ellen?”

“In her room iPod-ing. Or Instagram-ing, or Video Star-ing. George left about an hour ago. Come and tell me about the call, which I assume was George-related. Bring alcohol if so inclined.”

I pull off my raincoat, hang it up in the hall, and swap my soaked socks and running shoes for my indoor flip-flops.

Alcohol. Excellent idea. On my way to the fridge for tonic water to add to my gin, I stop in front of the kitchen window, raise the blind that George lowered, and stare out. All I can see in the blackness is moonlight bouncing on the water and small, square patches of gold from across the river: the windows of the cottages opposite.

One of those houses belongs to the Donbavands. Which one? I’m not close enough to see what’s going on in any of the rooms, though I can see flickers of movement. Perhaps with binoculars . . .

I don’t have any, and I doubt there’s anywhere nearby where I could get some. When I lived in London, if I didn’t have something I wanted, I went out and bought it. Since we’ve moved here, I’ve adopted a different attitude: anything I haven’t already got, I accept that I can’t have. When the view from your every window is leaves and water, it seems a sensible and hassle-free approach to take. If I ever wake up and find a department store on my lawn, I’ll rethink my policy.

Alex has made a fire in the family room, the only one with a working fireplace at the moment. All the others need attention before they can safely be used. Personally I’d rather manage with just the one than have to call a chimney sweep, but Alex might disagree strongly enough to sort it out himself.

I pass him his whisky and tell him I’ve hired a private detective.

“ What? You’ve done what? Tell me you haven’t!”

“I have. Don’t worry, it’s a reputable firm. They’ve got coverage all over the UK, a website, thousands of Twitter followers.”

“Justine, are you demented or something?”

“Not when I last checked. Why? Do I seem it?” I sit down on the floor in front of the fire with my drink. Figgy dashes in from the hall and plonks himself down in my lap. Great. Another soaking from his wet fur.

“Is there such a thing as a reputable private detective?” Alex asks. “Aren’t they all crooks?”