A Game for All the Family Page 21

  ‘Oh, so what? He’s doing some work for me, that’s all. We don’t need to be blood brothers.’

  We sit in silence for a while. I stroke Figgy’s chin with my knuckles and he makes a sound I’d call purring if he were a cat. Do dogs purr, or is there a different word for it?

  ‘I’m going to make another phone call you’ll disapprove of,’ I tell Alex. ‘To Olwen Brawn. I thought about asking her when I was at her house but I chickened out.’

  ‘Asking her …?’

  ‘If she’s heard of the Ingrey family.’

  ‘The …’ Alex’s baffled expression gives way to wide-eyed disbelief. ‘Seriously? You’re proposing to ask a random dog breeder if she knows some fictional characters invented by your daughter, and you’re calling Anne Donbavand disturbed?’

  ‘Ellen’s imagination didn’t produce what was on the pages I read. It was her handwriting, but not her creation. You have to trust me on that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have to,’ Alex mutters apologetically to his whisky glass. ‘I could disagree with you instead. I could say, “Does anyone know what another person’s imagination is capable of?”’

  George Donbavand’s imagination, for example …

  I swallow the last of my drink. ‘The anonymous caller called me “Sandie”. On the family tree attached to Ellen’s story, there’s someone called Allisande Ingrey. Sandie could be short for Allisande.’

  ‘Justine, stop.’

  ‘On the same family tree, there’s somebody called Ellen – sound familiar? – who appears to be married to one Urban Ingrey. He’s Allisande’s nephew, son of her older sister Lisette. Lisette and Allisande had a younger sister called Perrine—’

  ‘Darling, these people don’t exist!’

  ‘Perrine murdered a boy called Malachy Dodd and was then murdered herself. If the Ingreys are a real family, that means Lisette and Allisande suffered two fairly severe traumas – severe enough to explain Anne Donbavand’s neurosis.’

  ‘All right,’ Alex says slowly, thinking. ‘So your theory is what? Ellen’s story isn’t made up, it’s the true story of Anne Donbavand’s childhood? Told to Ellen by George, I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe. I think it’s possible.’

  ‘Lisette Ingrey is Anne Donbavand? Urban Ingrey must be George if he’s married to Ellen on the family tree.’

  ‘It’s exactly the sort of thing Ellen would do,’ I say. ‘It’s obvious she worships George. She’s making a family tree of his family, and she writes herself in as his future wife.’

  ‘Let’s assume that’s true,’ says Alex. ‘Lisette Ingrey has a – presumably equally traumatised by childhood events – sister called Allisande, but that isn’t you.’

  ‘Of course it’s not me. Though remember Ellen burst into tears when she heard me say, “My name isn’t Sandie” to the anonymous caller. And later she asked me if I’m really who I claim to be.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Alex shakes his head.

  ‘That makes perfect sense, doesn’t it, if George has told her all about his mother’s past? Sandie – Allisande – is evidently a force for darkness in the story – a threat, a danger to Lisette and her family. Ellen hears that I’ve been addressed as Sandie, and panics. Thinks, “What if my own mother is the person out to get George and his family?” And before she thought that, she thought it was someone at school making the calls. That’s why it seemed plausible to her that Lesley Griffiths might maliciously expel both George and Fleur. Maybe she thought Lesley was Anne Donbavand’s dangerous sister? Remember she asked you how old Lesley was?’

  ‘But if Anne Donbavand is or was Lisette Ingrey, she must know you aren’t her evil sister Allisande. And … all of this sounds made up,’ Alex rounds off dismissively.

  I hold my breath for as long as I can, then exhale slowly. ‘If she were sane, then, yes, she would know I’m not Allisande. Now think about what might happen if she isn’t. She’s had a terrible childhood – a murderer sister who’s then murdered. Somehow, she and her surviving sister end up as enemies. Lisette flees to get away from Allisande, whom she’s come to fear. She changes her name to Anne Donbavand, starts a new life, but grows increasingly neurotic, fearing that Allisande will track her down. Allisande never does, but the threat grows and grows in Anne’s mind. She keeps her kids under lock and key, scared her sister might harm them when she’s not there to protect them. Then she hears George has a friend – she does the maths and works out that this friend might have a mother roughly the age of scary sister Sandie, and a delusion is born. In her mind, I’m Sandie. She’s probably got some whole crazy narrative about how Sandie disguised herself as a TV development producer and changed her name to Justine Merrison, to make it easier to get close to Anne and her family without arousing suspicion. Which is why it’ll be great if this detective can find the real Sandie. Maybe then Anne will snap out of this fantasy of hers and realise it’s not me.’

  ‘You Googled all those Ingrey people and found nothing,’ Alex tells me, as if I might have forgotten. ‘If one of them had murdered someone called Malachy and been murdered herself, they’d all show up in an internet search. Guaranteed. And didn’t you say they lived in our house in the story?’

  ‘Yes, and I know no one called Ingrey has ever lived here. But what if Ellen changed the names as a security measure? I can see George asking her to do that, can’t you? Names changed to protect the guilty and the innocent – loads of writers do it. I’ve wondered if the characters’ names might all be anagrams. They’re so … unnatural sounding, somehow. I tried to rejig the letters of Ingrey in my head, but got nowhere.’

  ‘Anagrams? That sounds unlikely. I mean … more unlikely than everything else. Why don’t you ask Ellen? It’s her story.’

  No, it isn’t.

  ‘She wouldn’t tell me. I’ve tried. Now do you see why I rang a private investigator? He’ll be able to provide me with concrete facts: where Anne Donbavand grew up, what her name was, where her sister is now.’

  Alex nods. ‘Admittedly, facts would be useful. Though I still don’t see what Olwen Brawn has to do with any of this.’

  ‘Probably nothing. I just … I looked at her house the day we moved and had such a powerful feeling, as if someone were trying to tell me something. And then more weird things happened – lots more. What if …’

  What if Olwen Brawn is Allisande Ingrey, Anne Donbavand’s sister?

  I laugh at myself. That’s so stupid and irrational, I’m not going to say it out loud. Instead, I say, ‘You’re right. Probably Olwen has nothing to do with any of it, but asking her if she knows the Ingreys or the Donbavands won’t do any harm, will it?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much point,’ says Alex. ‘You’d be better off waiting for the police and this detective to do their jobs, and doing normal things in the meantime – like ringing The Car Men and arranging for the Range Rover to be valeted. All right, joke – joke! – but there’s no point keeping a dog and barking yourself. Is there, Figgs? You’re a dog – you should know. Let the investigators investigate.’

  Normal things. Alex might as well have suggested I fly to the moon. Normality is temporarily on hold. Hopefully not permanently.

  ‘Though if you are ringing Olwen, can you ask her advice about neutering? The vet said we absolutely should do it, but I don’t want to ruin Figgy’s future sex life for no good reason. It’d be useful to know Olwen’s view.’

  ‘I’ll call her now. Your question’ll be a good pretext.’

  I’m in the hall when Alex calls out, ‘What about school? Do we send Ellen back to Beaconwood or not?’

  ‘Neither name means anything to me,’ says Olwen. ‘I don’t know any Ingreys or Donbarrands.’

  ‘Donbavands.’

  ‘Or them. Who are they? Doggy people?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with dogs.’

  ‘I was going to say: if they were Bedlington breeders or Crufts people I’d know them, but I don’t know all kennel owners.’

  ‘No, I wo
uldn’t assume you did. Oh, well, never mind. It’s not important.’ I try to sound like someone making an ordinary chatty phone call.

  ‘Do they want puppies?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘These people – Donbavands and Ingreys.’

  ‘No. Really, it’s … unrelated.’ Clearly Olwen finds it hard to conceive of pockets of the universe that don’t centre around dogs.

  ‘Fair enough,’ she says. ‘It’s just I don’t think I’ll have another litter until this time next year. Are you all right? You sound tense.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Figgy giving you the runaround? It takes a bit of getting used to, you know. Especially for novices like you and your husband. But stick with him and Figgy’ll make a lovely family pet. Beds always do.’

  ‘He’s already a lovely family pet,’ I say defensively, remembering the way George said, ‘A game for all the family!’ so enthusiastically, like someone in an advertisement. ‘We’re managing really well, I’d say. He’s been having fun going on long walks, nosing around in shrubbery and long grass.’

  ‘Walks?’ Olwen sounds wary. ‘He shouldn’t be out and about until ten days after he’s had his second jabs.’

  ‘You said it was okay for him to be in the garden,’ I remind her, omitting to add that he’s also been to school.

  ‘Well, yes, but … you said long walks.’

  ‘We have a big garden.’

  ‘Big enough for a long walk?’

  Fantastic. This is exactly the sort of conversation I want to be having with a woman who lives in a small end-of-terrace next to London’s North Circular. No way for me to come out of it well. ‘Yes. Eighteen acres.’ Plus, it’s possible to walk around it more than once, and in different directions. Not that it’s any of your business.

  Does she think I’m lying?

  ‘Eighteen acres? So you live in a stately home?’

  The conversation is plunging headlong into the unacceptable. Ellen has appeared in the kitchen, which might be the only thing that stops me from telling Olwen to stick her questions where the sun doesn’t shine. ‘Remember the Germander/Speedwell thing I told you about?’ I say instead. ‘Speedwell House is where I live. Google it. It’s a Grade II listed house in Devon. If you think I’m lying about living there, let me have an email address and I’ll scan and send you a copy of the deeds.’

  Ellen, from the sofa, twists her face into a cartoon-like expression that says, ‘Weird conversation much?’

  ‘Justine – forgive me,’ Olwen says. ‘I’m being silly. And rude. Of course I don’t doubt you. I panicked when I heard you say Figgy had been out on long walks, and you did sound slightly … well, odd at the start of the conversation. You asked so insistently about those two names, as if you thought I ought to know them, then you changed tack and said it didn’t matter at all. The truth is, I’m hopeless at letting go of my dogs. I worry about them once they’ve gone, and always want to come and snatch them back for the first week or so.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ I say. ‘I’d never have thought it possible, especially not so soon but …’ I look down at Figgy. He’s yawning. He’s got some kind of seeds stuck in the fur around his mouth and nose. I’ll have to fish them out later.

  ‘That’s all I need to hear,’ says Olwen. ‘Your panic at the prospect of me wanting him back is extremely reassuring. Tell you what, though – I’d love to come and visit him in his new home.’

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  ‘How are you fixed for tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow? That’s … soon.’

  ‘I must admit, now that you’ve mentioned this grand house with eighteen acres, I’m itching to get a look at it. It’ll be like visiting a National Trust mansion. Tomorrow’s my only free day for the foreseeable future, but do say if it’s inconvenient. It can wait a few weeks.’

  ‘No, tomorrow’s fine.’

  Ellen does a pantomime ‘What now?’ face.

  Knowing that Olwen wants to come, I’m not inclined to delay it. There’s something not right about all this. How many dog breeders are so intrusive? How many would be willing to travel from London to Devon to visit a puppy they last saw less than a week ago?

  Is it a coincidence that I mentioned the names Donbavand and Ingrey, and almost immediately Olwen decided she wants to travel for hours to see Figgy?

  Perhaps, in spite of her apology, she’s still anxious about him and wants to give his new home the once-over. Or else she’s the ruthless and deranged Allisande Ingrey who grew up in Speedwell House, and that’s why she wants to come.

  And you’re letting her?

  It seems I am.

  Something’s on its way. Something’s going to happen, and I won’t know what it is until it has. I have to advance towards it, or draw it towards me.

  ‘What’s your email?’ I ask Olwen. ‘I’ll send you my full address.’

  As soon as I’m off the phone, Ellen says, ‘Dad says George wasn’t really expelled.’ I expected her to ask about the conversation she’s just half heard. I should have realised George would trump everything.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m going to tell him next time he comes,’ Ellen says defiantly. ‘That he was only pretend-expelled.’

  ‘You should,’ I say. ‘I think he deserves to know. Do you think there’ll be a next time? Sounds like it’s pretty difficult for him to get out of the house.’

  ‘He’ll come whenever his mum’s somewhere where she can’t ring up and ask to speak to him.’

  ‘You knew he was going to come today, didn’t you? That’s why you asked to stay off school.’

  Ellen nods.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘On Fleur’s last day, he gave her a note to deliver to me at school.’

  ‘El … if you don’t go back to Beaconwood, you’ll have to go to another school pretty soon. You can’t sit around the house every day on the off-chance that George might turn up.’

  ‘There are no off-chances involved, Mum. Me and George discussed it – yes, I know it’s George and I, I don’t care. Fleur’s not at school any more, so she won’t be able to deliver messages. So we’ve agreed that whenever George is planning to come round the next day, he’ll send a signal. Every evening at quarter to nine on the dot, I’ll stand by the kitchen window. That’s his house there, see – the one painted kind of tangerine colour, with the black-painted wood? George’s room is the one on the far left. His bedroom will be dark by quarter to nine – he has to turn his light off by eight thirty, can you believe that? He’s fourteen! Anyway, if he turns his bedside lamp on and off three times, that means he’s coming the next day. I’ll reply by turning the kitchen light on and off three times to let him know it’s okay to come.’

  I know what I ought to say: that if the next day is a school day, it won’t be okay because Ellen can’t miss school, ever, simply to see a friend.

  Yes, she can. If it’s a friend she loves, who loves her, whom she’d never see again otherwise.

  I should say that if George isn’t allowed by his parents to visit Ellen, then, however much I might sympathise with her predicament and however tyrannical his parents are, I won’t have him in the house.

  Fuck that. Fuck Professor Anne Donbavand and her vicious paranoia.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘Then that’s what you’ll do.’

  ‘Really?’ Ellen’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. She was expecting resistance.

  ‘Really. Let’s hope you’ll be able to squeeze the occasional day of school in between George’s visits, eh?’

  She throws her arms around me and squeezes me. ‘You’re so the best mum ever. It might only be once every six months. His mum’s out of the house quite often, but usually she rings every hour or so and she’d be suspicious if she couldn’t speak to him. This time he knew she’d be on a plane for seven hours flying back from America, so there was no chance of her ringing. Mum?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Wha
t did you think of George?’

  This is an answer I have to get right. When I lived in London and worked too hard, I was a less-than-ideal mother in many ways: often stressed and bad-tempered, never available to make Halloween costumes, or even to order them from Amazon. Sometimes Ellen used to creep up to me with a tentative ‘Mu-um …?’ and I’d snap, ‘No! Not now! Don’t ask me to do anything, don’t tell me you need something – I can’t! If you can’t sort it out yourself, the answer’s no.’ I feared that to be assigned one more task might have broken me.

  Terrible.

  I compensated by being wildly enthusiastic about all the things I could see Ellen loved, by making sure never to steer away from her own wishes and needs in order to fulfill mine – something I saw so many of the always-armed-with-top-notch-Halloween-costumes mothers doing.

  Top of Ellen’s list of loves at the moment is George Donbavand.

  ‘I think he seems amazing,’ I say. ‘You’re very lucky to have him as a best friend.’

  ‘You know when you asked about the curtains being closed – did you think we were kissing and stuff like that? Sex-type things?’

  ‘No.’ I give her a sharp look. ‘You’re fourteen: too young for all that.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Ellen agrees. Thank God. If someone had said that to me when I was fourteen, I’d have laughed till I cried.

  ‘No, that didn’t even cross my mind,’ I lie. ‘It struck me as odd to close someone else’s curtains, that’s all. And I knew you wouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Mum, can you keep a secret? I mean even from Dad, because he wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Are you sure? Dad’s quite enlightened.’

  ‘Not enough for this,’ says Ellen gravely. ‘You might not be either, but … I just really, really need you to be!’

  All right, get ready, Merrison. Whatever she’s about to tell you, you mustn’t blow this. You support her, whatever she wants. If she wants to have George’s name tattooed on her ankle …

  Oh, God, please let it not be that. Anything but that. She might not love him this time next year.

  ‘When we’re older – I mean much older, once we’ve been to university and everything – George and I are going to get married. He proposed to me and I said yes. We’re engaged.’