A Ghost in the Machine (9 page)

Though he had always known he would inherit Appleby House, Mallory had never thought to rely on this or take it into any of his calculations. It was his aunt's home, not a counter to play with in the property game. In any case, he loved her far too much to anticipate her death. But when she did eventually pass away Mallory, even while still in shock, could not help being aware of the difference this would make to him and marvelled that a window had opened at last in the hellhole that was his life, admitting light and hope.

In the middle of the week after the funeral he and Kate were sitting in the walled space behind their terraced house drinking Meursault and watching the sun go down. Kate had painted the walls a soft, washed-out blue. Some Greek pots holding honeysuckle and clematis and a tiny lion's head wall fountain prettified the area somewhat, but failed to disguise the fact that it was basically a very small brick and concrete back yard. She still found it hard to believe their property was on the market for four hundred thousand pounds.

Rock music thudded away next door, Big Lucy was belting out “Nessun dorma” on the other side and planes roared overhead. To Mallory, chaos permanently raging both inside and outside his head, neighbourhood noise had barely registered. But Kate, especially when Polly had still been living at home, found it hard to handle and frequently resorted to foam earplugs. She used to long for the time when they would visit Forbes Abbot again. Sometimes she dreamed about the place. Bathed in sunlight she would be walking in the still, calm air through cornfields or avenues of May blossom. Once, in a vision, she had seen herself crossing Sawyer's Lake on foot. The water had felt cool and slightly springy, like soft grass. That she would be going to live there always now, growing old with Mallory, filled Kate with happiness. Of course it wouldn't be tomorrow or even next week. Lots of things were still to be sorted and it would all take time, but soon…

They had spent the last three hours talking about money. Mallory was retiring early so could not expect to receive a full pension. Even so he had worked for twenty-six years, the last seven at the top of his profession, and could expect to pull in around twenty-three thousand per annum. Hardly untold wealth but it would cover their basic expenses. The money from his aunt's estate would remain sensibly invested. The rent from the apple orchard would be put towards Polly's maintenance in her final year. After that she would be on her own and, fortunately, far from penniless.

As for the house, if they got the asking price, and Kate had been assured that they would, the mortgage would be cleared and they would have made a profit of almost a hundred thousand pounds.

“So with that,” she was presently explaining, “and my savings, such as they are, we're in business.”

“And on rent-free premises!” exclaimed Mallory. “The experts would be impressed.”

He referred to the authors of a pile of glossy packages crammed with advice from assorted banks and financial advisors: “How to Start Your Own Business,” “You and Your Future,” “Be Your Own Boss,” all stacked up on the computer table. Though assured of Dennis's help and advice, Kate wanted to show that she had made at least some effort on her own behalf.

Alas, though all the banks and advisors seemed keen to lend her money, the brochures harped boringly on about the necessity of being sure to find a gap in the market for her product first. She was only too aware that it was thought, and by people who knew the business inside out, that there was no gap for the type of literary novel she hoped to bring out.

This was not to say they were never published. There were always a few in every successful firm's catalogue. And, very occasionally, one would astonish the trade by making money. The whole world now knew about Captain Corelli and his mandolin. But this was extremely rare. Most were published for the kudos and invariably made a loss, though this would be more than recouped by sales of the latest Tom Clancy or Danielle Steel.

Kate did not doubt that good stuff was out there. She had read three manuscripts over the previous year that seemed to her absolutely outstanding. She had fought for them all but, with one exception, they had been turned down as hopelessly uncommercial. The one that did get through was already winning prizes. Now she recalled her first shock of pleasure when scanning the first pages and her excitement when told it would definitely be published.

“You're not listening.”

“What?”

“You're not listening, Kate.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What did I just say?”

“You're not listening, Kate.”

“Before that?”

“Don't know.”

“This is important.”

“Sorry.”

“I said, don't forget that the first viewing is eleven thirty tomorrow.” Mallory nodded at the telephone message from the estate agents that lay between them on the round zinc table. “So don't wander off.”

“As if.” Kate picked up the notes. There were three appointments and she had only taken the details in a couple of hours ago. “I can't believe what they're asking. These used to be workmen's cottages.”

“Now the chap who reads the news on ITV lives round the corner.”

“Does he?”

Kate hardly knew a soul. People came and went, bought and sold. The idea that London was actually made up of lots of little villages had not proved to be the case in her experience. Or perhaps she had just not made the effort to mix.

She said, “Do you think I should get some of that stuff you can spray about?”

“What stuff?”

“Smells like fresh-baked bread or bacon sandwiches. Supposed to make people long to move in.”

“What if they're vegetarians?”

“We want to sell it, Mal.”

“It'll sell. And then we shall move down to Forbes Abbot and live in the peace and quiet of the English countryside, eating apples and publishing wonderful books—what could be nicer?”

He poured some more wine. Kate took up her glass and drank deeply of the greeny-gold liquid. Then she rested her head against the striped cushion of her chair, closed her eyes and slipped back into lazy daydreaming. The words, peace and quiet…English countryside…eating apples…wonderful books…running through her mind, twisting and twining, a golden thread of pure delight.

 

“Don't say no.” Mrs. Crudge, having rinsed through the final tea towel, was draping it on the airer. “Say maybe.”

“Mmm.” Benny was constantly recognising habits and rituals of half a lifetime that could now be honourably broken. The other day she had thrown away the screaming kettle. Now it would be all right just to put tea towels in the washing machine instead of soaking them overnight and simmering them for hours in the little zinc boiler. This understanding gave her no pleasure.

“Woof…” Mrs. Crudge heaved on the nylon rope, hand over hand like a sailor doing a hornpipe. The airer creaked up to the ceiling. She wound the cord tightly around a peg on the wall, calling over her shoulder, “All done and dusted.” Then, “How about a cuppa, Ben?”

Five minutes later the two women sat facing each other, stirring freshly made tea. Mrs. Crudge returned to the attack as Benny had known she would. But attack was the wrong word. She genuinely wanted to help. It was just unfortunate that her suggestion was outrageous. Quite impossible. And not only impossible but rather frightening.

Benny said: “But I'm C. of E., Doris.”

“A person's religion is immaterial,” insisted Mrs. Crudge. No pun intended.

“Not if we're talking about heaven, surely?”

“We're talking about the world of spirit.”

“Carey said it was all in the mind.”

“Mrs. Fawcett in the Gardening Club, what does that meditation,” Doris sniffed the final word with great scorn, “she reckons the mind's a void.”

“That can't be right,” said Benny. “There must be some backing. Otherwise how would you see all the pictures?”

Mrs. Grudge poured Twining's Breakfast into her mouth. She didn't seem to swallow like other people. Just opened her mouth and tipped the stuff in. Apart from a very occasional gulp it could have been water disappearing down a drain. Even after twenty years Benny was still impressed by the strangeness of it. Doris seemed quite unaware of this unnatural proclivity. She put her empty cup down and leaned forward. Benny held her ground.

“You'll meet some lovely people, Ben. Very sincere.”

“I'm sure they are.”

“And children come. You like children.”

That was true. Benny was very drawn to children.

“One of the mediums always brings her little girl.”

“It's not that I'm not grateful—”

“I've got a very soft spot for Karen. She's a lovely kiddie. Very quiet and shy.”

“I don't know…”

“After the service there's a slap-up spread: fruit buns, gingerbread. Roulade sarnies.”

Benny looked bewildered.

“Like a Swiss Roll but with a toothpick.”

“I see.”

“And when we've all had a lovely set-to there's the laying on of hands.”

“Oh dear.”

“Healing's not compulsory. Although…” Her own rough hand slipped over the check tablecloth, covered Benny's and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Couldn't you do with a bit of help in that department at the moment, love?”

Not that sort of help, thought Benny. Not supernatural help, thanks very much. She had known as soon as Carey died that this moment would be forthcoming and was only grateful for Doris's restraint in letting a whole fortnight elapse. What a pity she had chosen Friday the thirteenth to speak out.

Over the past twenty-odd years Benny had got to know a great deal about her friend's religion, which she herself described as “down to earth but spirit-based.” Benny had picked up the information in dribs and drabs. The subject would be dropped, sometimes for weeks on end. Then a further astounding revelation from beyond the grave would lead to more excitable whispering. Mrs. Crudge, after fervently praising the medium in question at great length, always concluded with the same unanswerable and triumphant cry: “Now, how could she possibly have known
that
!”

These tête-à-têtes only took place in their employer's absence. Quite early on, when Doris Cotterby, as she was then, had first come clean as to her secret leanings, Carey had jumped fair and square on what she called “such barmy burbling.” So Benny now felt quite justified in saying, “I'm sure Carey wouldn't like it.”

“Of course she'll like it! I bet she's dying for the chance to talk to you.”

“She always said the dead had nothing to do with us.”

“That was in earth space. Now Carey lives in the light. And knows the truth.”

“Mmm.”

“Seize the moment, Ben. While she's still on the first etheric level.”

Benny was not convinced. In the unlikely event that Carey was still on the first etheric level Benny was sure she would not relish being ordered back to earth space. She would probably be swigging a cocktail, drawing deep on one of her cigars and trying to set up a rubber of bridge. Any interruption would turn the ether blue.

“I don't think one should meddle with these things.” She hesitated. It was Benny's nature never to offend. She took this trait to extremes, even attempting conciliation with Croydon should he become sulky, or just mildly reticent.

“Also, I've heard such creepy stories. About weegy boards and crystal balls. People sitting in the dark holding hands. Things tapping on the table…ghosts…”

“Nobody holds anyone's hand. Not unless you want them to.”

Benny noticed she hadn't said anything about the ghosts.

“And we certainly don't sit in the dark. The Church of the Near at Hand is the cheerfullest place you could possibly imagine.”

Benny had walked past the building many times and one word she would never have used to describe it was cheerful. However, even as she told herself she was being utterly foolish, she couldn't help thinking what a wonderful comfort a message from Carey would really be. Perhaps in her very own voice.

She took a deep breath, said, “I'll think about it,” and quickly changed the subject.

“Mallory rang up last night. He wanted to talk about the new business.”

“What's that then?”

“Book publishing. They're anxious for me to be involved. We'll be talking about it when they come down next weekend.”

“You'd be good at that. Being a reader, like.”

“I think I'd be most useful in reception. Meeting people, putting them at their ease. Carey used to say I had a real gift for it. I could give the authors tea. Maybe even some of my special twists.”

“That should hit the spot,” said Mrs. Crudge.

 

Dennis had listened to Kate and Mallory expounding on their new business subject in his office with judicious calm. But underneath this professional exterior he was, in fact, pretty excited. Forbes Abbot, which had always thought there was more to that Mr. Brinkley than met the eye, was absolutely right. By day successful financial strategist, by inclination collector of alarmingly strange machinery; the third string to Dennis's bow had so far been revealed to no one. Not even Benny.

When transcribing his dreams, as the therapist suggested, Dennis had been surprised to find this occupation extremely pleasurable. Exciting even. He began to get up an hour earlier than usual while the dreams were still fresh in his mind. Far from resenting this he looked forward to it, occasionally beginning to write even before he had had his tea.

Sometimes there was nothing to record but Dennis sat down anyway, reading through his previous notes and trying to see if there was any connecting thread. Sometimes there appeared to be a link but mainly not. If this was the case Dennis would forge one of his own in an attempt to make some sort of sense of the night-time chaos. Although he had never been good at English as a child, he found this creative process came quite easily.