Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“Couple of months.”

“Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you found out?”

“I didn’t know how you’d react. For all I knew, you’d start wiffling on about the name connection being even more of a sign that you were destined to live there one day.”

“Yet you’ve told me now.”

I’m glad she did, even if it doesn’t cancel out the strong feeling I had.

“What made you Google that house, months after we drove past it?” I ask.

“Nothing. I don’t remember. I was probably bored one day. Have you finished interrogating me now? Because it’s getting old.”

“Sorry.” No further questions. “I’ll go and get your story.”

“No, chuck it,” says Ellen. “I’ve already typed it up. I’m writing the rest on my laptop.”

For which I know the four-digit access code.

“Don’t waste your time,” Ellen says with quiet efficiency. “I’ve password-protected the file.”

Later that night when she’s asleep, I sit down to do the online search I probably should have done a long time ago. What did Ellen type into the Google box? “German, 8 Panama Row, London”? I try it. I didn’t do it sooner because I didn’t think there was any point. What could the internet tell me that would be useful? “This house is famous for provoking spooky feelings of belonging in people who have no connection with it”?

Here it is: Germander, and the correct address. I’m looking at some kind of planning application document. The owner of 8 Panama Row seems to be an Olwen Brawn, or at least that was who wanted to stick a conservatory on the side of the house in June 2012. She might have moved by now, I suppose.

A conservatory? With a lovely view of the six-lane North Circular? Evidently she decided against it or else permission wasn’t granted. There was no side conservatory when I saw the house four months ago.

Olwen Brawn. The name has no effect on me at all, which is a relief.

Could Ellen be right? Was it the first six letters of Germander that did it, and Alex pointing and saying, “There’s the house we’ve bought”? And the heat, the stress of moving day, the traffic jam . . .

I’d like to believe that’s all it was.

The computer screen in front of me is too tempting. I go back to the Google page and type “Bascom Sorrel Ingrey Speedwell” into the search box. Nothing useful comes up, though I do find a man by the unlikely name of Bascom Sorrell, with two l ’s, in Nicholas County, Kentucky.

I try “Perrine Ingrey Malachy Dodd.” Nothing. “Ingrey Allisande Lisette,” “Ingrey Garnet Urban”—nothing.

A full-body shiver makes my skin prickle. Garnet. Urban. According to the family tree, they’re Lisette Ingrey’s children. Their names both sound Victorian English. So do the names Bascom and Sorrel—their grandparents. Lisette, Allisande and Perrine, on the other hand, sound French. Different parents and generations; different tastes in names.

Would a fourteen-year-old think of that?

Yes. Ellen did. That’s why it’s in her story, and that’s all it is: a story.

I’m not convinced. The names seem far too esoteric for even the brightest, most mature teenager to come up with.

As for Ellen password-protecting the file, that’s easily explicable: reticence, embarrassment, a defense of privacy against a parent’s desire to know everything—all children do it at some point.

I sip my tea, which is now lukewarm and so might as well be freezing cold.

There’s no reason to believe that the weirdest family in Kingswear once lived in our house. They’re made up. Fictional characters.

There is no Perrine Ingrey. My daughter’s bedroom did not once belong to her.

Chapter 1

The Killing of Malachy Dodd (continued)

You see, unlike most parents, especially so long ago, Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey couldn’t agree on anything. They never had been able to, from the moment they met. They were opposites in every way. It is amazing that they managed to agree to get married, in fact. Ask any of their three daughters and they will tell you (well, apart from Perrine, who got murdered, but before that she would have said so too) that every time Bascom Ingrey expressed an opinion on any topic, his wife quickly spoke up and contradicted him. He did the same to her. And their behavior showed how opposite they were as much as their opinions did.

Bascom Ingrey liked to plan everything in detail because he was a pessimist who believed that disaster would strike if you weren’t well prepared. Sorrel Ingrey was not like that at all. She was an optimist and thought that everything would work out fine if you left it to chance. She was very spontaneous and did what felt right at the time, and she enjoyed it when life surprised her (apart from when her youngest daughter became a murderer and was then murdered—but let’s not get ahead of ourselves).

Bascom liked to be very early. Sorrel always arrived late. Bascom liked to read but never watched TV. Sorrel liked TV and never read. Bascom always voted Labour, and Sorrel always voted Conservative. Bascom always sat with his back straight and his feet on the floor, even when he was in a comfortable armchair. Sorrel stretched out horizontally, kicked off her shoes and took up a whole sofa. She liked bright colors like turquoise and raspberry pink, which her husband hated. He only liked neutral colors like beige, gray and white. Bascom was obsessively tidy and could not bear it when any of his possessions was not in its proper place. Sorrel was happy for things to be a mess—she hardly noticed. If she needed something urgently and couldn’t find it because it was buried under a pile of random jumpers, she didn’t care. She would laugh and say, “I’ll have to buy a new one.”

You’re probably thinking that all this disagreement meant that Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey had a terrible relationship, but the opposite is true (which, if you think about it, is predictable for a couple who are so opposite to one another). They were very happily married. This was because they did have an important thing in common: neither of them was the sort of person who agreed with their spouse just because it would be easier to do so. They respected this about each other, and they both learned the art of compromise—an art rarely learned by married people in marriages where one is definitely the boss. Both Bascom and Sorrel became brilliant compromisers.

Their three daughters (well, perhaps not Perrine but definitely Lisette and Allisande) were pleased that both of their parents had strong principles that they stuck to, though they wished they didn’t have to listen to so many back-and-forth discussions about whether to go on holiday to a golden sandy beach in a hot country (Sorrel) or to a European city with lots of art galleries and museums (Bascom), or whether to go swimming as the main activity on a Saturday (Sorrel) or to the library (Bascom), or whether to fill the house with cute, furry pets (Sorrel) or have no pets at all, not even a goldfish (Bascom). When Lisette, Allisande and Perrine visited their friends’ houses, they noticed at once that there was not always a “No, this / No, that” debate going on. Many of their friends’ parents hardly spoke at all.

Lisette, Allisande and Perrine had been brought up very differently from their friends. Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey couldn’t agree about anything, as I have explained above, and this included how to bring up a child. Bascom firmly believed that children need fixed routines and strict rules if they are going to grow up to become civilized people. If you let a child do what it wants, he thought, it will never learn virtues like hard work, obedience and self-discipline. Also, if you let children eat what they want, and sleep when they want, they will end up exhausted all the time with greasy spotty faces. Grown-ups, he believed, must impose their will on children.