denied existence of pupil is revealed to be . . .” What?
“Justine Merrison?” I look up to find a young woman smiling at me. “I’m PC Hilton. Call me Phoebe, though.” She doesn’t look much older than Ellen. Blond hair sprouts from the top of her head in a high ponytail.
Is it illegal for a head teacher to lie to a parent? I might ask. The mystery of George Donbavand is all I’m interested in discussing at the moment. I’m less worried about the nuisance phone calls; they’re a problem I might be able to solve without police help. If living in Devon means putting up with threats from strangers and sending my daughter to a school where pupils get “disappeared” in the manner of a fascist regime, then I have no desire to stay in the county. I don’t want to go back to London, either. Maybe the deranged lisper would accept a compromise: Somerset, or Cornwall.
I love Speedwell House, but I don’t love it that much. We could sell it in less than a week, probably—to one of the four families that lost out in the auction we won. Alex would insist that quitting is for cowards, but I’ve heard that nugget of alleged wisdom before and I’ve never agreed with it. If there’s an aspect of your life that’s making you unhappy and you can escape from it, why wait? Too many people stick around and try to improve things, which often means slogging your guts out to compensate for the deficiencies of others. Personally, I’m a fan of the discard: leave it; move on.
Or, as Ben Lourenco so memorably said the last time I spoke to him, “Chuck it in the fuck-it bucket.”
“Shall we go somewhere where we can talk in private?” Phoebe Hilton asks.
“I don’t mind. Here’s fine.”
“I think we’ll be better off in a less public place. Reception’s not usually this quiet. You never know who’ll turn up.”
“Fine.” Then why ask me? I don’t care. I want to get this over with so that I can go back to Beaconwood.
PC Hilton starts a conversation about the weather as we walk down a series of corridors. I do my best to participate without yawning. After we’ve established that it might or might not get colder over the next few days, she asks me about my accent. When I tell her I’m originally from Manchester, she says, “Whereabouts?”
“Northenden.”
“I knew it! Near me. I was born in Wythenshawe.”
“Really? You sound very Devon for a Mancunian.”
“We moved here when I was fifteen. I gave myself a quick change of voice, so as not to get the bejesus kicked out of me every day at school. Still go back to Manc, though—my nan’s been there all her life. Northenden’s posh, if you ask her. S’pose anywhere’s posh compared to Wythenshawe.”
“Apart from Miles Platting.” I smile.
Phoebe Hilton laughs. “Miles Platting! That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time.”
“I had a boyfriend who lived there. My dad and stepmum disapproved.” And my mum called them snobs and told them to get over themselves, because Northenden was hardly Mayfair.
What would PC Hilton say if I told her my mother was killed by a family tree? She’d probably say it can’t be true.
It isn’t. I know it isn’t. It only feels true.
Family trees are nothing more than pictures on paper. Do your worst, Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey. You can’t harm me, whoever you are.
We end up in a long rectangular room with horrible pleated orange curtains, and lots of chairs and tables pushed back against the walls as if to make space for an imminent barn dance. “Grab a chair,” PC Hilton says, doing so herself. She sits down and pulls a small notebook and pen out of her pocket. “Right. Tell me about these funny phone calls, then. Funny peculiar, I mean—not funny ha-ha.”
I start by describing my anonymous caller’s sort-of lisp, then do my best to reconstruct both conversations in their entirety. Next I explain the oddest part: that this woman talks as if we know each other well and have a history
“Justine Merrison?” I look up to find a young woman smiling at me. “I’m PC Hilton. Call me Phoebe, though.” She doesn’t look much older than Ellen. Blond hair sprouts from the top of her head in a high ponytail.
Is it illegal for a head teacher to lie to a parent? I might ask. The mystery of George Donbavand is all I’m interested in discussing at the moment. I’m less worried about the nuisance phone calls; they’re a problem I might be able to solve without police help. If living in Devon means putting up with threats from strangers and sending my daughter to a school where pupils get “disappeared” in the manner of a fascist regime, then I have no desire to stay in the county. I don’t want to go back to London, either. Maybe the deranged lisper would accept a compromise: Somerset, or Cornwall.
I love Speedwell House, but I don’t love it that much. We could sell it in less than a week, probably—to one of the four families that lost out in the auction we won. Alex would insist that quitting is for cowards, but I’ve heard that nugget of alleged wisdom before and I’ve never agreed with it. If there’s an aspect of your life that’s making you unhappy and you can escape from it, why wait? Too many people stick around and try to improve things, which often means slogging your guts out to compensate for the deficiencies of others. Personally, I’m a fan of the discard: leave it; move on.
Or, as Ben Lourenco so memorably said the last time I spoke to him, “Chuck it in the fuck-it bucket.”
“Shall we go somewhere where we can talk in private?” Phoebe Hilton asks.
“I don’t mind. Here’s fine.”
“I think we’ll be better off in a less public place. Reception’s not usually this quiet. You never know who’ll turn up.”
“Fine.” Then why ask me? I don’t care. I want to get this over with so that I can go back to Beaconwood.
PC Hilton starts a conversation about the weather as we walk down a series of corridors. I do my best to participate without yawning. After we’ve established that it might or might not get colder over the next few days, she asks me about my accent. When I tell her I’m originally from Manchester, she says, “Whereabouts?”
“Northenden.”
“I knew it! Near me. I was born in Wythenshawe.”
“Really? You sound very Devon for a Mancunian.”
“We moved here when I was fifteen. I gave myself a quick change of voice, so as not to get the bejesus kicked out of me every day at school. Still go back to Manc, though—my nan’s been there all her life. Northenden’s posh, if you ask her. S’pose anywhere’s posh compared to Wythenshawe.”
“Apart from Miles Platting.” I smile.
Phoebe Hilton laughs. “Miles Platting! That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time.”
“I had a boyfriend who lived there. My dad and stepmum disapproved.” And my mum called them snobs and told them to get over themselves, because Northenden was hardly Mayfair.
What would PC Hilton say if I told her my mother was killed by a family tree? She’d probably say it can’t be true.
It isn’t. I know it isn’t. It only feels true.
Family trees are nothing more than pictures on paper. Do your worst, Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey. You can’t harm me, whoever you are.
We end up in a long rectangular room with horrible pleated orange curtains, and lots of chairs and tables pushed back against the walls as if to make space for an imminent barn dance. “Grab a chair,” PC Hilton says, doing so herself. She sits down and pulls a small notebook and pen out of her pocket. “Right. Tell me about these funny phone calls, then. Funny peculiar, I mean—not funny ha-ha.”
I start by describing my anonymous caller’s sort-of lisp, then do my best to reconstruct both conversations in their entirety. Next I explain the oddest part: that this woman talks as if we know each other well and have a history
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