A Ghost in the Machine Page 15

  He said, “Hello,” in a forced, hearty manner.

  “Mallory,” said Benny. “We’ve been so worried.” Mallory frowned and Benny thought that had been the wrong thing to say. “What I mean is, I have.” That wasn’t right either. It sounded as if Kate hadn’t been worried at all. “That is…”

  But he wasn’t listening.

  “Well,” concluded Benny feeling suddenly awkward, though she couldn’t have said why. “I’m off to sunny Bedford. Would you say good night to Kate for me, please?” She pulled the heavy front door closed behind her and made her way across the stable yard. Climbing the wooden steps to the flat over the horse’s mews, Benny found herself even more than usual looking forward to being at home. Truly, as the poet said, there was no place like it. First she would have a warm bath, then make a nice cup of cocoa, pile up the pillows on her bed and settle down with the latest edition of the parish magazine.

  Kate, having spent the previous two hours struggling to disperse a huge knot of rancorous ill feeling, felt it regather with energetic force the moment she heard Mallory’s voice in the hall. To restrain a terrible impulse to stand up and start shouting, Kate struggled to play devil’s advocate. At least find out why he’s so late. It’s probably not his fault. What if he’d had an accident – think how you’d be feeling then. Be grateful he’s here at last, alive and well. She wished she hadn’t drunk so much.

  “Kate – I’m terribly—”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What use is sorry? This was going to be our evening—remember?”

  “Of course I—”

  “A special day.”

  “I know that.”

  “The first day of the rest of our lives as The Little Book of Psychobabble would doubtless have it.”

  “What on earth’s got into you?”

  “Well, let’s see. Disappointment. Escalating boredom. Irritation. Mounting resentment—”

  “And quite a bit of alcohol from the look of it.”

  “Yes, that too. Shock, horror.”

  “I can explain.”

  “So explain.”

  “The car wouldn’t start.”

  “Mallory, Mallory. Five hours and that’s the best you can come up with?”

  On the contrary Mallory had come up with many alternatives driving down but he knew that, from him, they would all sound unbelievable. This was not because they were in any way extraordinary. It was enough that they were not true. Even at the age when children fib as easily as they breathe and with as little concern, he could never do it. He would turn scarlet and shuffle and wriggle and cry. Naturally now he did none of these things but the lie still lay, sharp as a bee sting, on his tongue.

  The truth was that he and Polly had sat for a while drinking tea. Then she had suggested they grab a quick bite at Orlando’s just round the corner. It would be empty so early in the evening. They’d be served straight away; just a plate of pasta. In and out, twenty minutes tops.

  It took Mallory barely five seconds to see the reasonableness of this. Even if he set off now they would probably have already eaten at Appleby House by the time he arrived. It would be pretty selfish to expect them to start cooking all over again.

  Sitting in Orlando’s, which was nearly full, Mallory realised that this was the first time he and his daughter had been out and about on their own since she was quite small. He noticed people staring at her and was not surprised. She had on a tight, short-sleeved jumper of some gauzy black stuff. It was scrawled all over with silver pen markings and, even to Mallory’s inexpert eye, looked very expensive. She had done something to her hair, which showed rich, red glints where it took the light. The soft, curly mass was piled on top of her head and secured by a bronze comb studded with pearls and turquoises and tiny shards of coral. That looked expensive too.

  They waited nearly half an hour for their tonnarelle alla paesana, nibbling bread sticks and drinking Rosso de Verona with Polly making up cruel and funny stories about the other diners’ private lives. Then, halfway through the pasta, she started to talk, quietly and seriously, about her own. Mainly about her course at the LSE and problems with her tutor in Business Statistics. Mallory, who, like Kate, had been subsisting on a crumb of information tossed occasionally his way for years, soaked up every word.

  Polly had just got on to the other students, who seemed to fall into two categories: those who wanted desperately to be her friend and wouldn’t leave her alone, and the rest who were simply jealous, when Mallory noticed the time. Polly begged for a zabaglione because, “They are my utterly absolute favourite, Dad and they’re all on the trolly look, it won’t take a second and I can eat it while you’re paying the bill.”

  It didn’t work out quite like that because she ordered a cappuccino at the same time, then disappeared into the ladies’ for what seemed like hours but was actually only ten minutes.

  The lights were against Mallory at almost every stop in London and once he got on to the M40 and was able briefly to put his foot down, the dreaded cones appeared, leading directly into a one-mile tailback.

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you ring?”

  “The mobile was down.”

  “How convenient.”

  “I’m tired.” Now Mallory was becoming resentful. Hell, it wasn’t just his daughter he was saving from financial ruin.

  “It was only serviced last week.”

  “What was?”

  “The bloody car!” Kate sat down suddenly. She felt as if someone had taken a chisel to her skull. “Did you ring the AA? Or the garage?”

  “…Um…no…Turned out to be damp plugs.”

  “Damp…? It’s been twenty-two degrees all day.”

  “Oh – for Christ’s sake, leave me alone!”

  They stared at each other, suddenly aghast. Two strangers in a strange room. Aghast and afraid.

  If only I hadn’t promised Polly, thought Mallory. I was wrong to promise not to tell. And wrong to go out and eat when I knew Kate would be waiting. Now she’s angry and suspicious and I’m standing here full of mysteries and lies.

  If only I hadn’t been drinking, thought Kate. Her mind replayed Mallory’s arrival differently now. She saw herself going up to him, relieved at his safe arrival, hugging him. Producing food kept warm or making something fresh. They would laugh and talk and drink some wine then go to bed and make love on this, the first day of the rest of their lives. Instead he stood there, exhausted and bad-tempered while she struggled not to give way and start crying. But perhaps it was not too late.

  Kate forced a smile and said: “You must be starving, Mal. Let me get you something.”

  “That’s OK. I’ve already—”

  “Have you, really?”

  “I mean, it’s too late…”

  “Got it in one,” said Kate. And walked out.

  The next morning Mallory, who had spent the night on the library sofa, made some tea as soon as the hour seemed civilised. He took the tray to Kate’s room. She was deeply asleep. Soft light, gradually spreading into the room through semi-transparent curtains showed clearly where tears had dried, imprinted on her cheeks. Tenderness for her mingled with shame over his own behaviour consumed Mallory. He put the tea down on the bedside table very gently, but Kate opened her eyes and was immediately awake. She struggled to sit, pushing herself up against the headboard.

  “Darling Kate – I’m so sorry about last night.” Mallory sat on the side of the bed. “I really, truly am.”

  “No, no.” She was talking over him. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’d been drinking…worrying if you were—”

  “Listen. I want to tell you—”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does.” He took her hand in both of his own. “I was with someone who is in real trouble. They asked for help and I couldn’t refuse. It took longer than I expected.”

  “Was it someone at school?” Already Ka
te’s warm heart was drawn to this unhappy soul. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I promised not to discuss it with anyone.”

  Then Kate understood. And Mallory knew that she did. He reached out and took her other hand. Gripped them both. And hung on.

  Here we go again, thought Kate. Two against one. In spades, this time. In bloody spades. At least up until now everything that happened between the three of them – discussions, rows, jokes, arguments had been just that – between the three of them. Or had it? That was the whole point of secrets. Those outside never knew there was something they didn’t know. How could they?

  Kate had always considered herself a pragmatist. Someone in the family had to be. Clear-eyed, she understood how things really were, though accepting things as they really were had never been easy. She remembered Polly as a tiny child climbing on her daddy’s knee. Playing with his tie, putting her arms around his neck, whispering in his ear. Winding her silky hair around his fingers.

  And now she was in “real trouble,” her mother was not allowed to help. Was not even allowed to know what the trouble was. To Kate’s surprise – for had she not found herself only the other day wondering if she still loved her daughter? – this hurt a lot. She went with the pain, bowing over slightly, one hand against her breast. Mallory put his arms around her and they rocked gently for a while back and forth.

  Eventually he said, “I thought I’d get breakfast today.”

  “Brilliant,” said Kate. She took a deep calming breath. And then another. “I’ll have a shower and come right down.”

  “And afterwards we’ll have our first business meeting.”

  8

  Benny had been invited to dine at Kinders. She was looking forward to it immensely, and not just for the pleasure of Dennis’s company, for he was also a wonderful cook.

  She arrived about seven, carrying a bottle of Carey’s apple wine and a stephanotis she had been bringing on in the greenhouse. She balanced the pot awkwardly in the crook of her arm to open the gate. Dennis’s strip of garden, running around the base of the house and full of agapanthus and marguerites, looked bone dry and Benny itched to get her hands on a watering can. She knocked quietly on the blue front door and waited. No one came so she did it again, as loudly as her shyness would allow, but with the same result.

  Then she made her way through the garage, squeezing past the car and up the double steps to the kitchen door. It was unlocked. Stepping inside she was filled with apprehension. If Dennis was in and had not heard her knocking there was only one place he could be. The kitchen was full of warm, delicious smells. Benny put her plant and wine on the spotless draining board, then stepped into the carpeted passage that led to the rest of the flat.

  “Cooee?”

  Pointlessly she peeped into the sitting room. Evening sunshine illumined the lovely Chinese rugs and gilded the ornate picture frames. There were some yellow roses and lots of books and newspapers. A quiet, sad wailing came from the hi-fi speakers and she recognised Dennis’s Saracen songs from the crusades.

  Benny hurried past the bathroom and paused briefly outside the single, monkish room where Dennis slept. The door was ajar. She coughed hoarsely into the aperture and called again. Silence. Now all that was left was the war room.

  The flat had lightweight walls, which were about ten feet high, and artificial ceilings. Once inside, as with any other building, the surrounding landscape was invisible and consequently unthreatening. But observed through one of the arrow-slit windows under Kinders’ high roof it must have looked extremely fragile. Vulnerable too, like a climber’s hut crouching between steep and silent cliffs of white plaster and menaced by the great dinosaurs of iron and steel and wood that stalked the shining floors.

  Benny, standing by the door that led to this great space, already had her strategy planned. She would sweep the room with a single glance, swift but thorough. This would show her whether Dennis was there and, if he was, where he was. Then she would go directly across to him, walking carefully and looking only at the ground. Having done this once it would inevitably be less frightening the next time. Even less the next. And so on…

  “And after all,” murmured Benny, her hand already trembling the latch upwards, “it’s not as if they’re alive.”

  She saw him straight away. He was standing in front of the giant slingy one looking up at the high rack of heavy wooden balls and the fearsome ropes and ratchets. He stood motionless like a statue, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Though full of trepidation Benny walked quickly to his side.

  “Dennis?” She waited, hesitating. “My dear, are you all right?”

  There was a short silence, then Dennis shook his head and sighed.

  “What is it?” urged Benny. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. Nothing, probably.” He smiled but his expression remained uneasy. Then turning away he added in an absent-minded manner, almost as if talking to himself, “Or perhaps…a ghost in the machine.”

  “Oh!” Benny gasped as if cold water had been thrown in her face. “How awful! Ghosts, oh!”

  Dennis linked arms. Something he had never done before. He must be really worried, thought Benny. Gladly she turned with him away from the death-dealing mechanism and they walked away, soon to be out of the fearful place.

  “It’s good to see you, Benny. I’m sorry I wasn’t present when you came.” Dennis poured a glass of Madeira to which Benny had become extremely partial. She sat at the kitchen table while he took a small blue iron casserole out of the oven. “It’s turbot in a white wine sauce.”

  “Lovely. D’you think it’s true that fish is good for the brain?”

  “Not so good,” said Dennis, adding tiny carrots and new potatoes to warm plates, “as reading and music and paintings.”

  They ate in the dining room, sitting in soft, springy armchairs with trays on their laps. The sort that were really comfortable, with big bags underneath, full of granules, so the tray didn’t slip and slither and upset your food. Benny confidently accepted another drink, this time white wine. She knew she could handle it. It wouldn’t be like it was the other night with Kate. She didn’t get all giggly or silly or stupid with Dennis. He brought out the best in her. His grave attention to everything she said made what she said more considered. She was never compelled to rush into speech to cover gaps in conversation as she did with strangers. Instead the pauses felt more like little comfort stops along a delightful walk.

  “This turbot is just beautiful.”

  “That’s a relief. I bought it on Thursday, then got home too late to cook it.”

  “Was that pressure of work, Dennis?”

  “In a way.”

  Benny was the last person he could unburden himself to. An incident merely out of the ordinary would worry her. A genuine mystery and she’d be consumed with anxiety on his behalf. But Dennis did want to discuss his concern. He hoped that another point of view might put the business of the lights in some sort of perspective. Show it up for the trivial bit of nonsense it might well prove to be. He had been thinking about this all morning and had almost decided to talk to Mallory.

  “We had our first meeting today.”

  “Really?” Dennis felt rather disappointed. As the new company’s financial advisor he had hoped to be present at this. “How did it go?”

  “It was so exciting! We didn’t talk about money, of course, because you weren’t there, but Kate’s worked out a brief advertisement that should be in The Times on Monday. And we decided on the company’s name. Excuse me.”

  Benny took a break to finish her turbot and drink the rest of her wine. Dennis, entertained by all the “we’s” waited, smiling.

  “Obviously we had quite a list and, I must admit, some were a bit out of the way. But eventually we got them down to three. The Pierrot Press, which was Kate’s suggestion, Fireproof Books from Mallory—”

  “I like that,” interrupted Dennis. He recalled newsreels showing towers of flaming boo
ks in countries under the rape of tyranny. “That’s good. Fireproof Books.”

  “It is,” agreed Benny, “but Kate thought not everyone would understand the sym— Um…symbols…”

  “You mean they might take the title literally?”

  “Exactly. So anyway, what happened was…” Benny squirmed with embarrassment and delight. She could hardly speak and her next words seemed to be squeezed out against their will. “They chose mine.”

  “Benny!”

  “Yes, they did.” Her face shone, radiant with success. She nodded her head. “Mine.”

  They sat beaming at each other, equally thrilled. Dennis said, “Well?”

  “I thought of it because they’re all over the orchard in the spring and Carey was very fond of them. Also there’s a lovely watercolour in the library that Kate thinks we could use as our trademark. So we’re going to be called…the Celandine Press!”

  “This should be champagne.” Dennis poured them both some more wine. “How clever you are, Benny.”

  Benny felt her face go all hot and prickly. As far as she could remember no one in all her life had ever told her she was clever. “Tomorrow we’re going to start looking at equipment. Computers, printers and suchlike.”

  “On Sunday?” Dennis was disappointed. Tomorrow would have been the ideal time to have a talk with Mallory.

  “Places are open every day now,” said Benny. “They’ll bring me back, then they’re going home for a couple of days to start packing up.”

  “I see.” A couple of days wasn’t long. He would try to ring Mallory before they left. Set a definite time. “Would you like some chocolate tart?”

  “Yes, please.”

  After Dennis had served the tart and Jersey clotted cream in glass bowls shaped like waterlilies he put his own dish down on a little side table.

  “The thing is…erm…I have this friend.”

  “Oh, yes?” Benny, tucking carelessly in, now had a little brown and cream moustache on her top lip. “This is truly scrumptious.”