A Game For All The Family (15 page)

“But you and Mum both have jobs,” said Lisette.

This was true. Bascom worked as a supervisor in a timber frame factory, and Sorrel worked part-time as a receptionist for a vet in Kingswear. She would have hated to work full-time, or be a boss, whereas Bascom was ideally suited to a managerial role. He enjoyed delegating work, nurturing employees and being responsible for bringing everything together. Even when one of his workers fell into one of the machines at the timber factory and lost an arm, Bascom was pleased that he was the one sorting it all out (though there was nothing he could do about the lost arm, sadly).

“We will give up our jobs,” Bascom told his three daughters. “We’ll manage. We have some money saved up. This is why it’s so sensible to save for a rainy day.”

At that moment, the twilight sky lost all its color and turned jet black, and rain started to pour forth from above, drumming and hammering on the roof of Speedwell House. The Ingreys huddled together for comfort, but it was hard to feel safe when it seemed as if even the weather had turned against you.

6

I
’m sitting in my car on Cravestock Road, a narrow one-way street of redbrick interwar semis. Less than ten meters away are Panama Row and Germander; less than twenty, my old friend the North Circular Road. I’m trying to convince myself that coming here isn’t the most senseless thing I’ve ever done.

There’s no reason to believe that my anonymous caller is Olwen Brawn, a woman I’ve never met. I know this. I also know I’m going to suspect her until I prove that she’s not the culprit.

If we speak—if her tongue doesn’t catch on her teeth and she has nothing resembling a lisp—then I’ll have made progress. I’ll have ruled her out. I should get on with it. Get out of the car and do this.

Just once more: Why, exactly?

Silently, I present my justification to the imaginary judge in my head, who is a physically implausible composite of all the judges I’ve seen in
The Good Wife
.

Strange things have been happening lately: the anonymous calls; the overpowering feeling I had when I first saw 8 Panama Row; the fragment of Ellen’s story I found, containing bizarre names I don’t believe my daughter would invent; George Donbavand, who either isn’t real or else was expelled for something he didn’t do and then erased from the school’s collective memory; Ellen telling me she Googled the house I’d been unable to forget, and discovered that its name was Germander.

She’s keeping something from me for sure, and she was interested enough in 8 Panama Row to try to find out more about it. Maybe those two things are linked. Maybe my reaction to Germander was triggered by something I sensed in Ellen—a powerful emotional response? It must happen occasionally that a mother picks up on her child’s unspoken feelings.

That’s why I’m here. If I want to find my threatening caller, it seems sensible to start searching in the compartment of my life labeled “Freakish Things I Can’t Explain,” rather than in “Absolutely Ordinary.” Most of the people in “Freakish Things” have voices I’ve heard more than once—the women at Beaconwood, for example. Lesley Griffiths, Kendra Squires, Ayesha Al-Ghannam, Helen Minchin and the rest. I’ve been through every female member of staff, and I’m certain it’s none of them.

Olwen Brawn, owner and resident of 8 Panama Row, is the only woman in “Freakish Things” whose name I know and whose voice I’ve never heard. That’s why I’m about to knock on her door.

Alex thinks I’m being irrational.

“Speedwell House,” I said to him over breakfast this morning. “Germander. Germander Speedwell. You really think it’s a coincidence?”

“Yes,” he said emphatically, as if he’d been waiting to say the word all his life. “Why would Olwen Brawn, resident of a random ugly house beside the North Circular, be the person making these calls?”

I don’t know. I’ve driven all this way to find out and I’m too scared to get out of the car.

I force myself, finally, by imagining the Range Rover is about to burst into flames. Then, as I walk toward 8 Panama Row, I imagine myself walking in the opposite direction—later, once this is all over, as it soon will be.

I ring Germander’s doorbell and trigger a chorus of barking. At least two dogs in the house, if not more. I hear a woman’s voice telling the dogs to calm down, not to be silly. Olwen Brawn?

If so, she’s not my telephone stalker. There’s no lisp, and her voice has a higher pitch.
Too late to run away.

The door opens and I find myself face to face with a woman who looks a few years older than me—late forties. Her dark brown hair is short and spiky at the front. She’s wearing a waistless black knitted dress with black tights and bright pink sandals. Dark red lipstick. Around her legs and behind her, there’s a collection of what look like small bluish gray sheep, except sheep don’t bark or have long, pointy faces. Therefore: strange dogs, each with a ridge of curly fur protruding between its eyes. One is more neatly groomed than the others. Its long ears end in perfectly round fur pompoms, like earrings: dog-cum-topiary.

Before I have a chance to say “Sorry, wrong house,” the woman smiles and says, “He . . . eey!,” as if she’s been waiting to welcome me for hours. “You’re here for Yonder!”

“I . . . Pardon?” I must have misheard.

“He’s in the back garden with his remaining brother.” She extends her hand. “I’m Olwen Brawn. And you must be Deborah Fuller.”

Instead of thinking “No, I’m not, and I’d better say so,” I find myself wondering if that’s what’s wrong: it’s only because I think I’m Justine Merrison that nothing in my life makes sense. The moment I admit I’m Deborah Fuller, everything will fall into place.

“Come in, come in.” Olwen Brawn disappears into her house, clearly expecting me to follow. I should make a run for it, before the real Deborah Fuller arrives, but I want to see inside—see if there’s anything in Olwen’s home that explains the feeling I had when I first saw it.

The narrow hall has a wood-laminate floor and pale blue walls covered with framed photographs of dogs—different colors and sizes, but all with the same topiary look, and some wearing rosettes. Unsurprisingly, the house has a strong animal smell.

“Come through,” Olwen calls out. Then she yells, “Yonder Star!” She’s in the living room at the end of the hall, rearranging dogs on a sofa.

Yonder Star? As in “Star of wonder, star of night” from the Christmas carol?

A tiny gray furball of a puppy trots over to me and tries to climb up my leg. “Down, Figgy!” shouts Olwen. To me, she says, “That’s Figgy Pudding pestering you there—Yonder’s little brother. Oh, damn, he’s got mud all over you. He’s just come in from the garden.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I think back to what Olwen said before:
his remaining brother.
Okay, I’ve got it: Yonder Star is the name of a puppy. No one would talk about dead brothers in such a cheerful way, so “remaining” must mean the puppies that haven’t yet gone to new homes. Figgy Pudding, presumably, is one of these.

He’s still attached to my leg, looking up at me hopefully. “Hello,” I say. What else can one say to a dog? Not much point asking if he’s read any good books lately.

He jumps up, trying to bite the bottom of my coat, but he can’t reach it.

“You’re all named after bits of Christmas carols, are you?” I whisper to him. “That’s . . . unusual.”

He barks and darts off up the stairs, leaving me free to follow Olwen to the living room.

As well as a sofa, two chairs and a television, there’s a large metal cage, like a room within a room, running nearly the full length of one wall. It’s full of squashed beanbags and stained mats. And more dogs—mainly larger, older-looking ones. On one of the armchairs a chunky puppy—bigger than Figgy Pudding—is vigorously chewing a cushion.

I’m picking up nothing significant inside Germander—no feeling of belonging, no atmosphere. I ought to be relieved, but I’m disappointed. I’m not going to be solving any mysteries today. There will be no reward for hours and hours on the motorway.

Olwen’s living room leads to a narrow galley kitchen with French doors that are standing open. Beyond these, there’s a long, thin garden, all scruffy grass and dog-chewed tennis balls.

I want to ask why the house is called Germander, but Olwen only wants to talk about dogs. “This is him.” She beams and points to the puppy attacking the cushion. “Yonder, don’t
chew
! You have to be firm with him about chewing.”

“I’m not Deborah Fuller.”

She stares at me. Laughs. “What?”

“I’m not Deborah. I haven’t come to pick up a puppy.”

“Oh.” Olwen giggles. “I’m sorry, I just assumed—”

“Please don’t apologize. I’m the one who should apologize.”

“If you’re not Deborah, here to collect Yonder, who are you and what do you want? Oh—do sit down! Here, let me shift Beth out of your way. Don’t worry, there’s no hair—they don’t shed. Come on, Bethlehem, off you pop. I sometimes think they forget they’re dogs, the way I spoil them. Go on, go and run around in the garden! Cup of tea? Coffee?”

“No thanks.” I’m finding her lack of suspicion a little unnatural. “It’s very trusting of you to offer me a drink. You don’t know who I am.”

“Oh, you’re a good enough egg.” Olwen smiles. “I can always tell. And . . . well, I’ll be blunt: I’ve still got one puppy to place—Figgy, the one you met in the hall—and I’m
desperate
to find a good home for him. He’s so bright and sweet-natured, but he was also the littlest of this particular litter—I
hate
the word runt, I refuse to use it—and so people don’t want him because of all the bilge that gets spouted about how the smallest is likely to have health problems. It’s nonsense.”

Olwen sits in the chair opposite me, scooping Yonder up into her lap. He has to make more of an effort to chew the seat cushion now, but he seems to think it’s worth it.

“Figgy’s a perfectly healthy lovely boy. I mean, you saw him. Did he look like a weak and feeble runt to you?”

“No. He looked . . . fine.” Until today, I wouldn’t have believed myself capable of having this long a conversation about anything to do with dogs.

“He
is
fine. But all the buyers rejected him in favor of his bigger siblings, and even after Yonder goes, when Figgy’s the only one, people will say, ‘Why’s he the one left over? Why did no one want him? Was he the runt?’ I’m not going to lie to them, but it’s disheartening the way they’re all so
stupid
.”

“Yes.” Here I can agree wholeheartedly. “I know nothing about dogs—I’m not an animal person, I’m afraid—but the bottomless stupidity of almost everyone you’re likely to meet is deeply depressing.”
I gave up work forever because of it.

Olwen laughs. “Well, since you’re evidently not stupid yourself, I won’t try to hoodwink you. If you’re wondering why I offer refreshments to any old stranger who turns up, this is why: Figgy needs a good home. You look like you might have one. And . . .” She shakes her head. “Okay, this is going to sound weird, but when you told me you’re not Deborah, I had this really funny feeling—like a shiver all up and down my spine. I thought, ‘This is Figgy’s new owner.’ Actually, I didn’t even
think
it—the words were just there, in my mind.”

No. Oh no. That’s not fair.
I smile and try to stay calm. The words “I am not Figgy’s new owner” are powerfully present in my mind, and mine counts for as much as Olwen’s. So what if she had a feeling? Feelings are nothing.
Do not attach significance to this.

“I don’t want a dog,” I say. “That’s not why I came.”

I’ve nearly finished telling Olwen about my peculiar North Circular experience when my phone rings in my pocket. “Sorry,” I say. “I’d better . . .”

“No problem.” She hauls herself out of her chair. “I’m going to nip upstairs and retrieve Figgy. He’s probably weeing and pooing everywhere, bless him.”

Yes, bless him—as long as he lives in this house, not in mine.

It’s Alex on the phone. “I’ll have to be quick,” I tell him. “I’m midconversation.”

“Did you find her? Is she the one making the calls?”

“Yes, and no, she isn’t. She’s a very nice breeder of . . . odd-looking dogs. Can we talk later?”

“Sure. I just wanted to let you know I’ve been on to the police. They’re coming to talk to us tomorrow and they’ve promised not to send PC Hilton.”

“Great. I’ll see you this evening. Before midnight, with any luck.”

“Here he is!” Olwen bounces back into the room with Figgy under one arm. “Oops, sorry! Didn’t realize you were still talking.”

I make a “no problem” face at her.

“Is that her?” Alex asks. “Who’s ‘he’?”

“Figgy Pudding. I’ll explain later.” I press the “end call” button.

Olwen drops Figgy into my lap without asking if I want him there. “So carry on,” she says. “You’d got to the part about your daughter telling you the name.”

“Right.” Is it acceptable to foist a dog onto someone who has expressed no wish to hold said dog? Figgy settles in and starts to lick the fingers of my right hand. “Yes, Ellen told me she’d Googled your address and found the house name: Germander, not German.”

“Both equally awful, if you ask me,” says Olwen. “The name was here when I moved in, and not my doing. I meant to take the sign down, but I was always too busy with the Beds, so I opted to let the letters fall off one by one instead. Three down, six to go.”

“The . . . beds?”

“Bedlingtons. Ha! Of course, you’re not Deborah. She’s a Beds nut like me, or so she said on the phone.” Olwen glances at her watch. “She’s not turning up, by the look of it—probably another fantasist who never had any intention of buying Yonder. I get them all the time. But, yes, Bedlington terriers. All my dogs are Beds. They’re the loveliest breed.”

Figgy stops licking and looks up at me, as if to make sure that I’m taking this pep talk seriously.

Don’t stare at me like that, please.