A Game For All The Family (8 page)

Perrine wanted Malachy to love her even though she hated him—this is an illustration of how warped a child she was. The fateful visit, the one that included the sadistic untimely death of Malachy, was to be the last, Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey had decided, unless some remarkable improvement occurred.

I think we can all agree that splattering all over a terrace and dying in agony is not an improvement. The friendship between the Dodds and the Ingreys, such as it was, ended on that day.

How, you might be wondering, was Perrine’s jealousy to blame for all the misfortune that befell her? Well, she would never have risked murdering Malachy if the two of them had not been alone in her bedroom together, and they were alone up there for one reason and one reason only: Bascom Ingrey agreed with Perrine that Malachy preferred Lisette and Allisande to her, and decreed that he should not be given yet another chance to ignore Perrine in favor of her more appealing sisters. Sorrel disagreed with her husband and didn’t like the idea of trying to force a bond between Perrine and Malachy if it wasn’t happening naturally. “Wouldn’t it be a better idea to cancel the Dodds’ next visit and never invite them again?” she suggested. Bascom said, “Yes. That will be an excellent idea, once we know for sure that there’s no way of making it work. Let’s try it my way first, and then, if that fails, we’ll put your plan into action.”

“Why is it always your way first?” Sorrel asked. “I’ve noticed that in any situation where we take turns, your turn always comes before mine.”

“You’re right,” said Bascom, who was a little nonplussed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“It must be because you’re a man,” said Sorrel. “It’s the unavoidable sexism of everyday life.”

“No, dear, it is not,” said Bascom. “It’s that I’m a person who prefers to take action, and you are a person who prefers to let things happen. It stands to reason that someone with my personality type would be keen to act, and would therefore go first, while someone with your personality type would never be in a hurry about anything.”

“True,” Sorrel agreed. “Though in this case, I’m keen to prevent yet another tooth-grindingly awful afternoon with the Dodds from taking place.”

“Yes,” said her husband. “But I’m afraid that here once again, we have to let me have my turn first. The other way around would be scientifically impossible. We can’t cancel the Dodds, never invite them again, and then, next time they come, arrange for Perrine and Malachy to spend some time alone together—because there wouldn’t be a next time, would there?”

Sorrel admitted that he was right. “There will, however, be a next time that we disagree about what to do and how to do it,” she said. “And whenever that is, whatever the subject of disagreement, it’s my turn first.”

“Absolutely,” Bascom agreed.

And that’s how it was decided that on the fateful day of the Dodds’ final visit to the Ingreys’ house, Perrine and Malachy should be sent up to Perrine’s bedroom together, so that they could properly get to know each other. But as we know, no bonding took place that day, only the crunch of bone and the seeping of blood on the terrace beside the fountain.

3

I
knew Beaconwood was the right school for Ellen before I’d set foot inside it. The building is a former manor house, longer and deeper than it is tall. It’s painted pink on the outside, with elaborate pargeting all over the front wall. There are beautiful formal gardens of the sort that wouldn’t look out of place outside a stately home, as well as a wildflower meadow and acres of rolling green lawns for the children to make use of. The first time we came here, while we were waiting to meet the head, Alex whispered to me, “Keep an open mind, okay? We’re not going to send Ellen here just because the grounds and the building are stunning.”

“Not
just
because of that, no,” I said. “And not
just
because I went to a secondary school that looked and felt like a high-security prison, but maybe a bit because of those things.”

My mind was open enough; if we’d walked into Beaconwood and found sadists in billowing black capes cackling as they whipped the children, I’d have thought twice. Instead, Alex and I found Lesley Griffiths, the head, wearing blue plastic carrier bags over her shoes to protect them from mud while she watered plants in the flowerbeds outside her office. I knew at once that I was in the right place.

I lean against the car and draft a text to Alex, telling him I need to talk to him as soon as possible. Then I button up the coat I still own because I haven’t donated it to a friend in need, and walk up the long path to the school’s front door. Ellen leapt out of the car, mumbled, “See you later,” and ran away before I’d turned the engine off. She wants no part of what I’m about to do, even though I’m doing it to help her best friend in the whole world.

“Justine!” a woman’s voice calls out.

I turn around. It’s Kendra Squires, the young Canadian teaching assistant who inflicts extra one-to-one maths sessions on those children like Ellen who hate the subject most. Despite this regular torture, Kendra is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. If she were an actress, she would be endlessly cast as the good-hearted innocent who dies tragically young.

“Is Ellen with you?” she asks me. “I mean—sorry, of course I can see she’s not
with
you, but is she in school now?”

“Sorry, we had a late start this morning. Yeah, she’s there now. Did she miss a session with you?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I wanted to talk to her, though. Unless . . .” Kendra tucks a stray strand of her wispy blond hair behind her ear. “Well, maybe I could . . . we could . . . ?”

“You want to talk to me instead?”

“I feel . . . I mean, I don’t want to put any extra pressure on her, but there are times when it would really help me if I could set her some work sheets for homework? You know, covering what we’ve done together that day? Like I used to?”

“That’s fine. I didn’t realize you’d stopped.”

“I know I’m supposed to wait until she’s finished this story she’s writing for English, but—”

“What?”

“She’s writing a story? A murder mystery, I was told.” Something about the way Kendra says it suggests that the person who told her wasn’t Ellen.

“You were told?”

“Yes, by Mrs. Griffiths. She said you don’t want Ellen getting other homework until she’s finished her story. Is that not right?” Kendra’s forehead creases in concern.

It’s certainly not right—I said no such thing—but I’m keen to avoid the torrent of apologies that would follow if I set her straight. I smile and say, “It’s no problem. I’ll talk to Lesley about it. But yeah, from my point of view, I’m happy for you to set Ellen some maths to do at home.”

“Fantastic!” Kendra beams. “I’d better scoot—can’t keep the little darlings waiting!” She gives me a cheery wave and rushes on ahead of me.

My phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I pull it out to see if I want to answer, half-expecting to see the words “Anonymous Lunatic” on the screen. Thankfully, there’s no evidence as yet that the loon knows my mobile number.

It’s Alex. “Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “I wasn’t expecting you to call so soon.”

“Your text made it sound important. Everything okay?”

“Um . . . I think so, but . . . Look, can I call you back later?”

“What’s going on, Justine?”

“Nothing. How’s Berlin? How’s it all going?”

“Great. All’s well my end. What about you? Has something happened?”

“No, nothing. Look, you must be busy, and I’m . . . out and about. Let’s talk tonight.”

“I’m not busy. I’ll be busy later, and you sound shifty. What aren’t you telling me?”

The same thing I asked Ellen less than an hour ago. I know how infuriating it is to be fobbed off.

“Don’t make it sound like some kind of conspiracy,” I say, feeling guilty.

“Don’t try to put off telling me, hoping you can sort it out on your own and pretend there was never a problem.”

I sigh. “All right, just . . . I hope you’re in a patient mood.” I sit down on the wide stone steps in front of the school, and start listing all the things I’m worried about: unjustly punished George Donbavand, Ellen’s best friend in the whole world that I hadn’t heard of before today; the peculiar family tree and story fragment; George’s strange-sounding parents; Ellen’s suspicion that his sister Fleur is also about to be unfairly expelled; the weird misunderstanding about Ellen’s homework; 8 Panama Row—or Germander, as I suppose I ought now to think of it—and my inability to push it out of my mind.

That’s a long enough list for the time being. Plenty to be going on with.

“I’m at school now,” I tell Alex. “Why don’t I talk to Lesley, then call you back?” I can hear another country’s traffic in my ear, and plenty of it. It’s distracting.

“The homework thing’s pitifully obvious, isn’t it?” Alex says. “No mystery there. El’s keen on this story assignment. She doesn’t want to waste her time on anything else, so she fibbed to ward off boring maths homework.” He chuckles. “Ingenious. I suppose we’ll have to come down hard on her about it.”

Did we make a mistake? Choose the wrong school? Most would require a note from a parent in a matter of this sort. Only at an eccentric private school like Beaconwood would they take a child’s word for it if she told them she wasn’t to be given any homework. In my first conversation with Lesley Griffiths, I asked her if Beaconwood was a school that made exceptions—that could be flexible. “I can’t do
anything
,” I warned her, “so Ellen needs to go to a school that asks nothing of me—literally, nothing. I can’t make Viking costumes, or send tins of soup for the harvest festival, or bake cakes for a fundraiser, or manage a stall at the Christmas fair—nothing. And Ellen might turn up without her gym bag one day or her school bag or homework—that all has to be okay. Whatever I
say
is okay, with regard to my daughter, has to be fine with you. Any other regime’s going to be too stressful for me.”

Like Ellen’s current school
, I thought but didn’t say,
where I’m made to feel like a reprobate by the head and the other parents, because I’m too busy and keep messing up all the things mothers are expected to get right, and I can’t take it anymore.

“You don’t need to worry at all,” Lesley Griffiths chuckled. “We’re about as eccentric and family accommodating as it’s possible to be. Examples: we have one family that goes to Denmark for a long weekend every single week. There’s a lonely and infirm grandparent situation, and so the children don’t come to school on Fridays or Mondays. We accept that.” She shrugged. “There’s also—between you, me and the gatepost—a mother who drops her child off every morning, then comes back just before lunchtime to inspect the food we’re about to dish out and check that it’s nutritious enough and appetizing enough. I’ve offered to let her see our menus in advance, but that won’t do—she wants to see each day’s lunch with her own eyes and monitor how much her child eats. Really, you’re likely to be one of the least unusual families at Beaconwood if you do come here.”

I found this reassuring. Alex didn’t. “Everyone there sounds like an oddball,” he muttered as we left. “Everyone everywhere is an oddball,” I reminded him. “Think of Ellen’s current school—the parents, I mean.” He rolled his eyes. I didn’t need to say any more.

“Why does this story matter so much to Ellen?” I ask him now. “I’ve seen her write stories before. This one’s different. She’s password-protected it on her computer. And why didn’t she tell us about this George ages ago? If he’s her best friend—”

“Her
male
best friend,” Alex cuts in. “We all know what that means. Hopefully young George will soon be given his marching orders, and Ellen’s next love interest will be someone able to provide his own clothing.”

“I’m glad you think it’s all so funny,” I say as if I don’t mean it, though in fact it’s true: I am glad. Alex’s levity makes me feel better. “I read a bit of her story, not only the family tree. It was creepy, and I don’t mean it’s a scary story. It’s . . . you’d have to read it to understand. I can’t believe she made it up.”

“You think she copied it from somewhere?”

“No. That’s the strange thing. I don’t think she’d do that, but I also don’t think the three pages that I read are the product of her imagination. And those are the only two possibilities, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, no,” says Alex cheerfully. “There are always other possibilities, ones you haven’t thought of.”

“Even the names . . .
Especially
the names.” I shake my head, convincing myself once again that something’s wrong. Can I convince Alex? “There are three generations of the same family: a married couple, Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey, with three daughters called Lisette, Allisande and Perrine. Then Lisette’s got two children called Garnet and Urban. Do those sound like names Ellen would have chosen to put in a story?”

“Yes. They’re over the top and weird. Sounds exactly like a fourteen-year-old’s invention to me.”

“I’d agree if the names were, I don’t know, Florentina and Star, but Bascom Ingrey? Urban Ingrey? They’re so austere and Victorian. I keep telling myself I’m making a fuss about nothing, and then I think of those names and I
know
it’s not right. They live in our house.”

“Who does?”

“The Ingreys. Except they don’t and never have, only in Ellen’s story. I’ve Googled. There’s definitely never been a family called Ingrey at Speedwell House. Our home is officially an architectural treasure, so there are online records going back to the year dot.”

The next words I hear are quiet and German. They fade quickly. Someone walking past, no doubt.

“Please tell me your paranoia isn’t veering toward the supernatural,” says Alex. “Is that what you’re hinting at? Speedwell House is haunted by a ghostly family called the Ingreys, and their spirits have infiltrated our daughter and made her ghost-write—ha, get it?—their family history?”