Haven't They Grown(35)

‘But I’m not loving it,’ I told him. ‘I hate it. It’s nearly impossible.’

‘So? Can you do nearly impossible things? Yes, of course you can. You love to do nearly impossible things.’ The following day he turned up at our flat with a sign he’d had made for me, saying, in capitals, ‘WE CAN DO NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE THINGS’. ‘I’m not leaving till it’s up on a wall,’ he said bossily. Would he be a great boss, or the worst in the world? It’s hard to know. Both, probably.

‘Er, Mother?’

‘Sorry, I was just …’

‘In a trance. I know. So, why are you so sure the Braid-slash-Cater kids go to this school?’

Excellent question. When I have to explain to Dom later why I let Zannah come with me when I should have made her stay at home and spend her pre-GCSE study leave revising, this is what I’ll tell him: she’s got a sharp mind and a powerful capacity to get to the heart of a problem. Nothing associated with school ever brings this out in her. Thinking about the Braid-slash-Cater problem does.

‘I know what type of school Lewis would pick for his kids,’ I tell her. ‘This type – of which this is the closest example to Wyddial Lane.’

‘But they might not be Lewis’s kids.’

‘I trust what I saw,’ I repeat my mantra. ‘I saw Thomas and Emily Braid, aged five and three. Or, at least … two children who looked so similar to them that they can only be Lewis and Flora’s.’

‘What school did other, older Thomas and Emily go to?’

‘Thomas had just started at King’s College School in Cambridge when we last saw them. Emily was signed up to go there too.’

‘Mum! Then that’s where we should be.’

‘I thought about it.’

‘And?’

‘Why would Flora have been in Huntingdon doing chores on a school-day morning? She wouldn’t. If Thomas – new Thomas – is at King’s, she’d drop him off, then do those chores in Cambridge. Bank, post office, nipping to a shop … whatever. Why would she drive to Huntingdon?’

‘Major logic fail,’ says Zan. ‘She could have gone to Huntingdon for a million reasons. Maybe she’s got a friend who works there and they were meeting for lunch, or—’

‘No. She was coming back to her car in the car park long before lunchtime.’

‘Coffee, then.’

‘It’s possible, but … I don’t know. I just figure: someone who’s in Huntingdon on a weekday morning is more likely to have a child here, at this school, than at a school in Cambridge. All other things being equal.’

‘Yeah, but all other things about this situation are so not equal, are they? All other things are, like, totally fucked.’

‘Zannah, stop swearing.’ I turn to face her. ‘I mean it. You need to behave properly. Not only to please me and Dad, but because you want to go out into the world as—’

‘Mum, stop trying to cram years of proper parenting into one little pep talk. You’re not a Mumsnet kind of mum, so don’t pretend you are.’

I don’t know what she means because I’ve never looked at Mumsnet. Actually, maybe that’s what she means.

‘Do you want to come in with me?’ I nod in the direction of the school.

‘Sure – but to do what? No school’s going to answer questions about its pupils from someone who just walked in off the street.’

‘Which is why we can’t ask questions. We have to pretend to know already. What’s tricky is working out what we’re going to pretend to know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, let’s go. I’ve got an idea. Your job is to stand behind me and smile, looking like the respectable daughter of a respectable mum. And no swearing. First we need to grab something from the boot that might belong to a five-year-old boy.’ My car’s boot operates as a kind of storage cupboard-cum-dustbin. There’s plenty in it to choose from.

Five minutes later, armed with a pale blue drawstring sports bag with a pair of socks inside it, Zannah and I are standing at the reception desk of Kimbolton Prep School. I press the buzzer and wait, rehearsing what I’m about to say.

A woman appears. She’s young and elegant, with short hair, a long slender neck and lovely earrings: small round pearls that look real, with solid silver flower shapes behind them. She reminds me of a swan, and looks friendly enough. ‘Can I help you?’ she says.

‘Yes, I hope so,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’m a friend of Jeanette Cater’s. She left this in my car boot …’ – I wave the bag in the air – ‘and I don’t have time to go to her house now and drop it off, so I thought … would it be okay to leave it with you?’

‘Sure. No problem at all.’

I fight the urge to say, ‘So you know Jeanette Cater, then? Her son is here, at this school?’

The receptionist reaches for a pad and pen that are over on the other side of the desk. ‘Let me write down your details, just so I can tell Jeanette what happened.’

Shit.

‘Beth Leeson,’ says Zannah cheerfully, while I’m frantically trying to think of a fake name I can give. Too late now. ‘Oh – sorry, that’s my mum. She’s Beth Leeson. I’m Zannah.’