Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

The best thing is that whatever choice I make about the sandwich, it won’t matter. Ellen won’t notice the difference; she eats everything. My decision will affect nothing, which makes me wonder if it counts as a decision at all. Probably not. I find this idea profoundly calming.

I stop in the hall when I see, framed in the kitchen doorway, a cereal bowl on the table with a half-drunk glass of orange juice and a carton of milk next to it. Splashes of milk on the wood: Ellen’s trademark.

Impossible . Ellen, awake and finished with breakfast by half past six?

She’s curled up on the kitchen sofa, already in her school uniform, typing on her laptop. I walk into the room and she shifts her body around so that I can’t see the screen.

This is unheard of. Normally I have to drag her out of bed at seven.

“Story?” I ask.

She nods from behind a curtain of hair. It’s not only her creative efforts she’s keen to conceal; she doesn’t want me to see her eyes, either.

“You’ve been crying.”

“No. I’m just tired. I woke up at five and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“Ellen, I’ve known you all your life. I know what tired looks like, and I know what recent weeping looks like.”

I’ve asked myself more than once if Speedwell House might be the problem. Does Ellen feel lonely here? Is it too isolated, too grand to feel like a proper home? Alex laughed when I put this question to him, and said, “Never say that in front of anyone but me. It sounds like passive-aggressive boasting: ‘Oh, it’s such a nightmare—my new house is so intimidatingly stunning.’ ”

But it is. I don’t mind being far away from other people—I love it, in fact; people are overrated—but I do sometimes feel as if I’m living inside a rare work of art and don’t belong here. I grew up in a redbrick government-owned semi in Manchester with mold on the walls. The house we sold in London was nothing special, though we loved it: it was exactly like every other house on our street—a two-up, two-down Victorian terrace with one bay window at the front.

Is that why I had that strange fantasy about 8 Panama Row when I saw it: because it felt more familiar, looked more like the sort of house someone like me ought to live in?

“Can I have the day off?” Ellen asks. “I don’t want to go to school. If I stay here, I can blitz my story and finish it by this evening. Look, I’m being honest—not faking illness, not saying I think I’m coming down with something.” She twists her mouth into an exaggerated smile. “If you want me to be happy and not cry, letting me miss school will do the trick.”

“Why don’t you want to go to school? You’ve always wanted to before.”

“I’m getting really into this.” She nods down at her computer. “I don’t want to have to stop. I don’t believe creative work should be interrupted for the sake of an oppressive work regime that dictates I have to do this kind of work, at this time, in this place.”

So this is how she plans to block me in future: with a rat-a-tat-tat of impressive words, devoid of all emotion. There’s a new brittleness to her voice that makes me want to howl and smash my fists against the wall. I’m scared that if I can’t think of a way to get through to her in the next twenty seconds, I might lose her forever.

“If I let you stay home, will you tell me what’s wrong? I’ve got no plans for the day. We can talk it all through— really talk.”

Ellen snaps her laptop shut. “Way to make me want to rush to school,” she says. “Have you considered a career in truancy prevention? Oh, sorry, you don’t want a career, do you?” She pushes past me on her way out of the room. I watch her in the hall as she pulls her bag off the peg by the door, thinking of all the things I absolutely mustn’t say. All right, you fuck off to school, then. I’ll just stay here all day and worry about you while you have fun with your friends.

Does she have any friends at the new school? She’s never asked to bring anyone home.

“Ellen, wait . . . Don’t . . . Where are you going?”

“School, Mother. I believe we’ve covered that. If I don’t go now, I’ll miss the bus.”

“Where’s your coat?”

She stiffens and stops near the door, as if she’s been zapped by invisible rays. “I don’t know. Maybe at school.”

“Will you have a look for it?”

“Yeah.”

“Ellen, wait! Turn around and look at me!” My Strict Mother voice. I haven’t needed to use it for well over five years. “I haven’t seen your coat for at least a week. I should have spotted it was missing before. Where is it? You need it. It’s chilly outside.”

“I told you: I’ll look at school.” Her bag slides off her shoulder, drops to the floor. I see uncertainty in her eyes.

“I get that you’re scared of telling me what’s going on,” I say. “But you’re going to because I need to know. If you want something to fear, start being scared of not telling me. That’s what’s going to make me angry. Tell me the truth, and I promise you won’t be in trouble.”

“I’m going to miss the school bus. Shouldn’t I be hurrying to school to track down my missing coat? Isn’t that what you want?”

Her callous tone nearly breaks me. It also reminds me of how much I hate to lose any battle.

Burying the hurt I feel, I say, “Tell you what, forget the school bus. I’ll drive you in. I’ve nothing else to do today.”

“No. No way! I’m getting the bus. Goodbye.” Ellen reaches for the door handle.

Two can play the nasty smirk game. “Fine. I’m going to drive to school anyway. I’ll look for your coat on my own, and you can devote your full attention to being oppressed by the regime. How does that sound?”

Her eyes fill with tears. “No.”

“Face it, Ellen. You can’t stop me from going to school if I’m determined to. What are you going to do, bash me over the head with an umbrella? Knock me unconscious, lock me in the cellar? If I want to wander the corridors asking everyone I pass about your coat—”

“All right.” She bursts into tears. “You want to know that much? I’ll tell you! See how much you enjoy knowing.”

I want to hug her and promise that everything will be okay. I stop myself. It’ll be easier for her to talk if I remain impassive. Please, please, let this be the moment when it all changes. Let this be the beginning of the end of Ellen’s pain, whatever its cause.

“Go ahead,” I say. “If you’re being bullied, we can tackle it however you want. If you’d like me to go in with all guns blazing, I will. If you want me to find you a different school, I will.”

“Bullied?” She blinks, as if the possibility hasn’t occurred to her. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m fine.”

So someone else isn’t?

“Then what?” I ask.

Ellen shakes her head and walks past me, back into the house. Too important a conversation to have in the hall.

I stand still for a few seconds, then follow her. I find her in the kitchen, filling the kettle with water. Wow. This is a first. Now she’s putting a teabag in a mug. Ellen doesn’t drink tea or coffee—she thinks both taste disgusting.

She’s making me a drink: something that hasn’t happened before. I watch in stunned silence as she adds the milk, then squashes the bag against the side of the mug with a teaspoon before throwing it in the bin. It’s going to be orange and revolting, but who cares. My daughter has made me a hot drink, unprompted. This is a historic occasion.

She brings the mug over to the table and puts it down where she wants me to sit: opposite her. “My best friend in the whole world was expelled yesterday,” she says. Then, rolling her eyes, “To which you’re going to reply, ‘I didn’t know you had a best friend in the world.’ ”