A Ghost in the Machine (2 page)

“I think more than enough people are looking at Polly as it is.”

This was true. Nearly everyone – and not only the men – were looking at Polly while pretending not to. Mainly they were looking at her slender, never-ending legs in their sheeny black tights. She also wore a black linen, long-line jacket apparently over nothing at all. Polly's skirt, usually no deeper than a cake frill, no doubt in deference to the gravity of the occasion was somewhat longer than usual. This one could almost have supported a soufflé.

Kate felt awkward then, feeling her terse comment had indicated resentment or, worse, jealousy of her daughter. Surely this couldn't be true? As a small, gingery man came towards them across the grass she smiled a relieved greeting, welcoming the distraction.

“Dennis!” Mallory spoke with great warmth. “It's good to see you.”

“We'll be meeting tomorrow, as you know. But I just wanted to offer my sympathy. Mallory – my dear fellow.” Dennis Brinkley held out his hand, the back of which was lightly stroked with reddish-gold hairs. “Your aunt really was a quite exceptional person.”

“Shall I take those for you?” Kate offered to relieve Dennis of his half-full plate. She had tasted the walnut swirls and sausage twists as Benny was arranging them in the kitchen.

“No, indeed.” Dennis gripped his plate. “I shall eat up every bit.”

You'll be the only one who does then, thought Kate. We'll be finding twists and swirls in the garden urns and undergrowth for years to come. Archeologists, centuries hence, would be chipping away at the extraordinary shapes, bewildered as to what use they could ever have been put. Kate, long familiar with Benny's culinary skills, had brought down several boxes of party bits from Marks & Spencer, taking care to explain they were for emergencies only. Before leaving for the church she had discreetly placed them on an out-of-the-way table in the shrubbery. Long before her return all had vanished.

Mallory was thanking Dennis for his help at the time of Carey's death. For taking charge of what he called “all the technical stuff.” He was also thinking how fit and full of vitality Dennis appeared. There were nine years between them and Mallory couldn't help thinking a stranger could well guess wrongly which way the difference lay.

Mallory had been eleven when Dennis Brinkley had first come to his aunt's house to check over some details on her foreign investments. Newly attached to a brokerage house and financial consultancy, Dennis was extremely intelligent and articulate when it came to discussing figures, but otherwise paralysingly shy. The firm was then known as Fallon and Pearson, though the latter had long since died. By the time George Fallon retired Dennis had been with the firm thirty years, for the last twenty as a full partner. Inevitably he had opened up and become more confident over such a long period but there were still few people to whom he was really close. Mallory was one. Benny Frayle, another.

“Is a morning appointment all right for you, Kate? I expect there'll be a lot of…um…straightening-up to do.” Dennis sounded uncertain, not quite sure what “straightening” involved. He himself was extremely neat and tidy, both about his person and his affairs. His daily cleaner – that same Mrs. Crudge – and excellent secretary were hardly run off their feet.

Kate assured him that the morning would be fine.

A sudden burst of raucous jollity, quickly shushed, caused all three to turn their heads.

“Ah,” said Mallory. “I see Drew and Gilda have been kind enough to come and pay their respects.”

“Not at my invitation, I assure you.” The absence of any trace of warmth in Dennis's voice said it all. Andrew Latham was the other partner at what had now become Brinkley and Latham. He had never had any dealings with Mallory's aunt. Indeed, as she rarely went into the office, they had probably not even met.

“No doubt he has his reasons.” Mallory's tone was dry in its turn.

“Oh, yes. He'll have those all right.”

Kate murmured an excuse and turned again towards the assembled company, hoping to be of some use rather than simply absorb yet more consoling sound bites.

She saw David and Helen Morrison standing by themselves and looking rather isolated. They were representing Pippins Direct, the firm that had rented the orchard from Carey for the past twenty years, maintained it and sold the apples and their juice. Kate knew that Mallory was keen for this arrangement to continue. But as she started to make her way towards them another couple beat her to it, introduced themselves and all four started talking.

One of the Oasis T-shirts was sitting under a monkey puzzle tree drinking apple wine and had plainly been doing so for some time. Kate sighed and looked about for the other, who seemed to have disappeared. But she could see Benny's wig with its fat, golden curls like brass sausages, bobbing about. Benny herself, hot and flustered, was collecting plates and glasses, and stacking them on a nearby tray.

“Mother!” Polly sprang up as Kate approached, abandoning Brigadier Ruff-Bunney, the elderly, wheelchair-bound relative from Aberdeen. The poor man, vividly describing his cataract operation under local anaesthetic, was left in mid-scrape.

“It was so nice talking to you.” Polly gave him a brilliant smile, took Kate's arm and pulled her away. “Hope I die before I get old.”

“Bet The Who aren't singing that today. Have you seen that girl who's supposed to be helping?”

“You mean the one getting legless under the monkey tree?”

“No. I mean the other one.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Someone should give poor Benny a hand.”

Benny Frayle had been “poor Benny” for as long as Polly could remember. As a little girl she had run the words together, thinking this one long sound was Benny's true name. One day Kate overheard her, explained, then asked Polly not to do it again as it might be thought hurtful.

Now Polly watched her mother relieving Great-aunt Carey's companion of a heavy tray. Noticed how she managed to do it casually without fuss; without the slightest implication that Benny had taken on more than she could handle. She was good at that. Polly could never imagine her mother deliberately setting out to make someone feel small. To find their weakest point and jab and jab. Her father either, come to that. Sometimes Polly, excellently versed in both these activities, wondered where she got it from.

“I'll come and help.” She called out the offer on impulse to Kate, just now passing within hearing distance. Then was immediately resentful at making a decision so much to her own disadvantage. Still, at least she'd be out of the crumblies' bony reach. Quite honestly, for one or two it hardly seemed worth the trip back from the graveyard.

“Fine,” Kate shouted back, trying not to sound surprised. “See you in a minute, then.”

She made her way towards the house via the vegetable garden and across the croquet lawn. The kitchen opened off a rather grand, iron-ribbed Edwardian conservatory. A few people, all strangers to Kate, lolled, lightly comatose, on steamer chairs and a huge, rattan sofa. She smiled in a friendly and sympathetic manner as she climbed over their feet.

The kitchen was empty apart from Croydon, Aunt Carey's cat, asleep in his basket on which Benny had tied a black silk bow. Kate remembered the day Carey brought the animal home. Mallory's aunt had been making a visit to a friend that necessitated changing trains at Croydon where she found it in a wicker basket, jammed behind a stack of wooden crates. Both cat and carrier were absolutely filthy. Carey had described later how the half-starved creature had sat upright and with great dignity in piles of mess, looking hopefully about him and mewing.

After raging at the station staff for ten minutes without repeating herself Carey took a cab to the town centre, bought a basket, food, a dish and some towels, cancelled the rest of her journey and took the cat home. Cleaned, it proved to be extremely beautiful, with a cream and amber freckled coat, a reddish orange ruff and huge golden eyes. It proved as grateful as a cat could be – which admittedly isn't saying a lot – purring extensively and sitting on her lap whenever she wanted to work at her tapestry or read the papers.

Kate bent down and stroked Croydon. She said, “Don't be sad,” but the cat just yawned. It was hard to know whether it was sad or not. Cats' faces don't change much.

Kate pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, squirted some washing-up liquid into the sink and turned the taps full on. The glasses were rather beautiful and she didn't want to risk them in the machine. When the sink was half full she placed them gently into the sparkling suds and carefully washed them up. There was no sign of Polly. Kate had never really thought there would be. So, why offer? And what was Polly doing instead?

Even as she chided herself at the pettiness of such an exercise, Kate retreated to the dining room and through it to the terrace steps. She saw Polly straight away, sitting on a low wooden stool, talking, laughing, tossing her hair back from her face. She was with Ashley Parnell, Appleby House's nearest neighbour. He was in a green and white striped deckchair; resting as he always was, his state of health not being conducive to leaping about. But even at a distance, and not at all well, his beauty was still remarkable. Kate watched as he replied to Polly, who immediately became gravely attentive, locking her glance into his. Resting her chin in the palm of her hand and leaning forward.

Kate saw Ashley's wife, Judith, moving towards the couple, walking rather urgently as if in a hurry. She stood over them, brusquely interrupting their discourse and gesturing towards the lane. Then, half helping, half tugging her husband up from his chair they walked away, Ashley turning to smile goodbye.

Polly waved, then immediately got up and lay back in the deckchair he had just vacated. She didn't move for a long while. Just sat and sat, as if in a daze, gazing up at the clear blue sky.

 

Half an hour later and Judith Parnell was just beginning to recover, though still feeling somewhat shaky.

“Sorry about that – dragging you away. I really felt quite strange.”

“Are you all right now?”

“Fine. Just needed a rest.”

Judith looked across to where her husband was sitting in a high-backed wicker chair, an angora blanket thrown across his knees despite the heat of the day. He was gazing, rather longingly it seemed to her, across their front garden in the direction of Appleby House.

Judith observed his shining dark blue eyes, the elegant plane of his cheek and perfect jaw and momentarily felt sick in earnest. So far the ravages of this mysterious illness were slight. But these were early days – only three months since the first symptoms appeared. Unable to help herself Judith crossed the room and laid a hand on his soft, pale yellow hair. Ashley jerked his head away.

“Sorry, darling.” Lately he had begun to hate being touched. Judith frequently forgot this and now recalled that she had also tried to hold his hand at breakfast.

“No, I'm sorry.” He wrapped her fingers round his own and squeezed them gently. “My scalp hurts today, that's all.”

“Poor Ash.”

Could that be the real reason? Was a tender scalp a symptom of his illness? As they had still not discovered what that illness was, it proved impossible to say. He could be making it up, using it to keep her at a distance. Perhaps he was falling out of love.

There was a time she could have touched him anywhere and everywhere at any hour of the day or night. They had sex once in his office, sprawled across the desk behind unlocked doors minutes before a Japanese business delegation was due to be shown in. Now he had not approached her for weeks.

Judith would never admit to anyone, and had only once, in a painfully sharp moment of insight, admitted to herself, that she was glad Ashley was ill. Ill meant out of circulation. She wanted him to get better – of course she did – but perhaps not a hundred per cent better. Not restored to his former Apollonian strength and beauty, for then she would be back on the old treadmill. Jealously assessing every woman he looked at or spoke to, needing to denigrate everything about them: their hair, their skin, their eyes, their clothes. Not aloud, of course. It would never do for Ashley to become aware that she was terrified of losing him; to put the idea in his mind.

Judith's thoughts flew nervously back to the wake in Carey Lawson's garden. Tired as he was, Ashley had seemed really happy to be out and about, mixing with people. And genuinely regretful when she had dragged him home on the pretence of a sudden attack of nausea. Of course that might have been because of the Lawsons' ghastly daughter flashing her legs and teeth at him, half naked like a tart in a brothel. Teasing surely, for what interest could an ailing middle-aged man have for a young, strong, lovely…? Judith fought to remain calm, breathing slowly and evenly. She had got him away – that was the main thing. The girl was here for the funeral; a day or two would see the back of her.

But rumour in the village already had it that her parents might be moving down for good. So Kate, with her freckled, apricot skin and soft ash-blonde hair pinned up any-old-how, would be a stone's throw away. In her late forties she looked, in spite of the dreadful time she had been having with Mallory, a good ten years younger. Ashley had always liked Kate. She was gentle and intelligent, quite sexy in a school-marmish sort of way – oh sod it.

“What's the matter?”

“I'm all right.”

“Are you sure?” Ashley looked worried. He started nervously brushing the skin on his arms. “Maybe you could put off this meeting tonight, Jude. Say you're not well.”

“Better not. It's a new contact. Don't want to make a bad impression.”

“What does he do again?”

“Manufactures surgical instruments. A small firm but apparently stable. Seems his accountant's retiring so he's looking round.”

“Isn't it strange you're not meeting at the factory?”