“I’ve already talked to Benny, soon after Miss Lawson’s death. Although Carey frequently attempted to reassure her as to her future, you know how…um…”
Utterly stupid? suggested Polly silently. Like, dim as a camel.
“…apprehensive she can be. I was able to reassure her. For as long as she wishes she may live in her flat over the stables. Should conditions arise that necessitate the sale of the house…” Dennis ended on an upwards inflection, his eyebrows twitching into auburn crescents.
“There’s no question of that.” Kate reached out and took her husband’s hand. “We have plans.”
“Excellent. But should it ever come about, funds must be found to purchase comparable accommodation, which must then be put in her name.”
Mallory said, “I understand.”
Polly gave a soft whistle.
Kate glared at Polly.
“Her pension fund, even allowing for the somewhat volatile market, is still very healthy. She should be able to live in a reasonable degree of comfort on the annuity. There is also a sizeable sum available in blue chips. In the case of her—” Dennis stopped speaking and stared bleakly for a moment into space. Then cleared his throat to continue – “shall we say, demise, this money will revert to the estate.
“Finally, Polly.” He smiled at her and waited a moment before speaking. He had the air of a man with one hand behind his back and that hand holding an exciting surprise. If he had not been such a nice person one would have said he looked sly.
Polly smiled back and, in spite of herself, felt again that flicker of excitement. She knew what the chances were of getting any serious money but even a mouldy old cameo brooch might fetch something. What if it turned out to be incredibly rare and famous, like that timepiece in Only Fools and Horses?
“Just over five years ago I advised your aunt to realise a portfolio of shares which were offering only mediocre returns and to invest the proceeds in pharmaceuticals. These have succeeded almost beyond my wildest expectations.”
There was an hiatus. No one liked to ask how wild these expectations had been in the first place. Not even Polly.
“Your aunt’s instructions were that these shares, valued as to the market’s closing index on the day of her death were to go to her great-niece—”
Polly sucked in air, a great indrawn gasp. Then apologetically covered her mouth with her hand. She did not breathe out.
“– on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday. The sum presently stands at a little over sixty thousand pounds.”
No one spoke. Dennis beamed kindly at Polly. Mallory smiled too, overwhelmed by this example of his aunt’s generosity. Kate did not smile. Even as she chided herself for meanness of spirit her heart sank. Polly exhaled with a “whoosh,” then started to laugh.
“God…” She thrust her hands through the air, reaching above her head. A triumphant winner’s gesture, seizing a crown. “I don’t believe it! Sixty K…”
“Congratulations, my dear,” said Dennis.
“And as I’m nearly twenty-one—”
“You were twenty last month,” snapped Kate.
The others looked at her. Even Mallory could not conceal his disappointment at this deliberate puncturing of such an exciting moment. He said “We’ll have to celebrate, Poll.”
“Let’s get some champagne on the way home.” Polly had stopped laughing but her voice was still unstable with merriment. It seemed that any minute it might tip over into a giggle. “And tonight we can go somewhere really super for dinner.” She paused then, perhaps becoming aware that such levity might be seen as insensitive, placed both hands in her lap and regarded them soberly. Mentally she counted to five, then looked up, her face grave.
“How very kind of Great-aunt Carey to remember me in this way.”
This sudden volte-face, unconvincing even to Mallory, led to a somewhat awkward pause.
Dennis skilfully bridged the gap. “You mentioned plans earlier,” he murmured, looking at Kate and Mallory in turn. “For the house?”
“Oh, yes,” said Kate, her face slowly lighting up with pleasure. “We’ve always had this dream—”
“Kate’s dream really,” explained Mallory.
“Of setting up our own business. Publishing good, really good fiction.”
“Been on the back burner for ages.”
“We were beginning to think it might never happen.”
“A big step,” said Dennis. “Needs careful planning. And sound financial advice.”
“Well, as to that…”
Kate and Mallory regarded Dennis with hopeful confidence. Polly turned her attention once more to the outer world. She had heard about her mother’s wonderful dream ad nauseam. A loser if ever there was one. Polly had better things to think about. Like how near, how wonderfully near was her escape now from the strangling grip of debt. But she certainly couldn’t afford to wait another ten months, not with compound interest at twenty-five per cent piling up. So how to get around such a stupid restriction?
The next morning Mallory returned to London. Polly, who was to have gone back with him, unaccountably now wanted to stay on and help her mother “sort things out and tidy up.”
Kate was disappointed. She had anticipated a quiet, pleasant if inevitably melancholy two or three days with Benny. She had pictured them going through Carey’s things, remembering when she had last worn a certain dress, read a certain book. They would comfort each other and, no doubt, weep a little. Now everything would be different. Kate had realised for a long time that she loved her daughter more when Polly wasn’t there. Now she struggled with the dreadful possibility that she didn’t love Polly at all unless she wasn’t there.
The annoying thing was Kate knew perfectly well that whatever reason Polly had for staying on it had nothing to do with sorting anything. Of course, she had no intention of provoking a row by saying so. Or by trying to discover the real reason, a hopeless task in any case. You couldn’t get Polly’s opinion on the weather if she didn’t choose to give it.
Suddenly Kate remembered the brief episode she had witnessed in the garden the day before yesterday between Polly and Ashley Parnell. Even from a distance Kate had sensed the scene’s extraordinary intensity. And then afterwards Polly’s stillness, her dreaming silence. She hoped with all her heart that Polly, young, vigorous, determined, beautiful, had not set her sights on even a mild flirtation with the poor man.
She and Benny planned to work for two hours, then stop for coffee. Kate decided to stay in the kitchen and check out the china and glass. There were masses of both and quite a lot of it was chipped or cracked. Polly agreed to sort through the two sideboards and huge chest of drawers in the dining room. These were full of napkins, embroidered place mats, runners and tablecloths.
Benny had offered to tackle the linen cupboard. As she trotted across the bare, polished boards of the landing she caught sight of the closed door of Carey’s bedroom and turned her head quickly away. She had been in there only once since Carey died, to strip the bed, throw out all the pills and medicines and do a quick tidy. It had hurt so much, handling her friend’s special things. The beautiful Chinese bowls and collection of elephants. The silver-framed photographs of family and friends – so many, and even more in the rooms downstairs. And the novel, The Flight from the Enchanter, which Benny had been reading aloud the last night of Carey’s life. Still open at page 176.
“Stop there,” Carey had said. “We’re nearly at my favourite bit – that wonderful shareholders’ meeting with the mad old ladies. Let’s save it for tomorrow.”
Recalling this Benny, suddenly overcome by grief and loneliness, started to cry. She ran to the nearest bedroom and buried her face in her apron to stifle the noise. Kate had more than enough to do without mopping up after moaning minnies. Also, Benny thought she might upset Polly. She was sure the girl must be taking Carey’s death much harder than she let on. Not everyone chose to make a display of their feelings.
Kate had op
ened a deep drawer containing nothing but tea towels. Crisp, white, perfectly ironed. At the very bottom there was a separate stack tied neatly with ribbon. As soft and weightless as beautifully darned tissue paper. As she delicately lifted them out Kate sensed someone standing in the doorway.
“Oh, Polly. Just look at these.”
“Mm,” said Polly. “Is it time for coffee?”
“No. We’ve only been going half an hour.”
“I’ve finished.” Polly wandered over to the window and stared out at a hot blue sky. “What a fabulous day.”
“What would you like to tackle next, then?”
“I shall definitely spend much more time down here.”
“There are two huge boxes of cutlery—”
“I thought I might go for a walk.”
“Right.”
“That sounded a bit tight-lipped.” Then, when Kate did not respond: “See you soon.”
“Why don’t you—”
But she was gone. Kate was going to suggest Polly put a jacket on. She knew the girl’s clothes were none of her business. Polly had worn exactly what she liked for as long as her mother could remember. But Forbes Abbot was not London. Kate hated the thought of Polly being talked about behind her back. Laughed at, even. Thought no better than she should be. Ridiculous archaism but people still used it. And everyone knew what it meant.
Polly had gone out wearing a tight white sleeveless top with a large triangle cut out of the front, revealing the top half of her breasts and a strange skirt made of assorted floaty panels, longer one side than the other but still pretty short. Though not quite transparent it was far from opaque. Round her neck she had slung a purse in the shape of a tiny star made of silver beads on a leather thong. Strangely the fact that she knew Polly would be totally indifferent to village opinion did not make Kate feel any less protective on her behalf.
She moved to the large sash window over the sink. Ashamed of herself for spying but driven just the same, Kate watched her daughter pass through the tall iron gates. Polly turned right and walked away. She hadn’t even glanced at the house opposite. Becoming irritated with herself now as well as ashamed, Kate wondered if she had imagined emotion that simply hadn’t been there in the scene at Carey’s funeral. Willing this to be so, then wanting to shake it from her mind, she decided to stop for coffee after all. She went into the hall to call Benny. There was no reply. Then she heard soft little whining noises, muffled as if through several fabric folds, and ran quickly upstairs.
Polly strolled along Forbes Abbot High Street, which was a pretty low street compared to, say, the King’s Road, but not without its charms. A stranger in a small community always provokes interest and although a lot of people, because of the funeral, remembered who Polly was, she still remained a relatively unknown quantity. So a few heads turned as she passed and one or two people said, “Good morning,” but there was nothing like the amount of interest, admiration and resentment that Polly expected. Then she noticed how people were talking together in groups of two or three, their faces grave but also somewhat excited. This did not disturb Polly overmuch. She presumed it was some trivial local matter blown up out of all proportion by people who had nothing better to do with their time.
Like almost everything else Polly undertook in her life this mid-morning amble was index-linked and had a dual purpose. Primarily there was the hope of bumping into the man she had met at the funeral – and no sooner met than, if not loved, fancied extremely. Reeling him in shouldn’t be a problem. Polly had never wanted a man who had not wanted her. And she had energy enough for two should things get deliciously out of hand.
Strangely, though she had thought of little else since yesterday, when she tried to recall his face feature by feature it proved impossible. But Polly remembered the look of Ashley, his golden hair and wasted, slender hands. She wondered what precisely was wrong with him. There was no doubt that, in the early stages, illness could be quite romantic. And in the later stages too on occasion – look at those illustrations in Victorian novels. Huge-eyed, wistful creatures lifting heavenwards on pillowy clouds, drifting gently from this life surrounded by heartbroken mourners, weeping and wringing their hands. Not that Polly would want any truck with the illness itself. Administering pills and medicines, giving jabs or mopping-up of any sort were definitely out. Especially the mopping-up.
But the object of her affection seemed not to be about. Polly passed the little tea shop, the Secret Garden, and glanced through the windows but without any real hope of success. Not much point in coming out for scones and a cuppa when you were three minutes away from access to your own. She had higher expectations from the village store, which doubled as post office and newsagent, but he was not in there either. Pricked on by disappointment, and wanting to upset someone, if only slightly, she asked for a copy of the Financial Times. Of course they only had it to order. Polly sighed and shook her head as the owner apologised, bought a small bottle of sparkling water and continued on her way, stopping occasionally to take a drink.
Polly’s second reason for being abroad was much more down to earth. She planned to call on Dennis Brinkley. There had been no point at all in attempting to establish any sort of relationship, business or otherwise, the previous day when her parents had been present. No point in attempting to soften up Dennis, to display how knowledgeable and skilled she could be in fiscal matters. In other words, how pointless it was to make her wait a full ten months before releasing money that, in any case, already belonged to her. No, she would need to be on her own with him for that.
These reflections inevitably brought Billy Slaughter to mind. Slimy, slithy, slippery Billy with his black heart and veins running with gold and venom. Polly’s thoughts took refuge, as they so often did, in an attitude of cruel superiority. She pictured herself now, tossing the money at his feet. Laughing to show her contempt as he struggled to get past his great belly to bend down and pick it up. What insults, selected and polished again and again during wasted hours of angry resentment, she would fling in his face. And then turn her back and slowly, insolently stroll away.
Although Polly did not remember the exact location of Dennis’s house she did know it was a conversion of the old village primary school and so should be easy enough to find. But so strange was its present appearance – rather like a towered fortress with high, arrow-slit windows – that she walked straight past and eventually had to ask someone.
While ringing the front doorbell Polly was already reconsidering her approach. Although it would certainly be sensible to appear confident, might it not also be a good idea to ask Dennis’s advice on handling her money? Of course she wouldn’t take it but what man was not susceptible to flattery?
Though she could hear the bell ringing loudly inside the house no one came to the door. A low wheezing sound, which Polly guessed came from a vacuum cleaner, unnerved her. Surely Dennis would not be doing his own housework?
She wandered round the side of the house and into the garage. It was almost empty. Just a few boxes, neatly stacked and some gardening tools. Right at the back was a pegboard on the wall with several keys. While Polly was reading the clearly written labels tied to these and wondering at the trusting foolishness of country dwellers the hoovering stopped. A door reinforced with steely mesh led directly into the house. Polly tapped gently on it. Receiving no response she tapped more loudly, then stepped inside.
A woman stood at a kitchen sink, clattering dishes about. A beefy, slab-faced woman with piggy eyes, one of which was turned firmly inwards, giving it a nice clear view of the bridge of her nose. The other glared at the stranger in the doorway.
“Oh!” cried Polly, blinking in surprise, then throwing away one of her freshest and most guileless smiles. “Hello.”
“Ain’t you never heard of knocking?”
“I did but I don’t think you—”
“What d’you want?”
Well really, thought Polly. To be spoken to in such a manner. And by someone who
was presumably a cleaner. To add to her discomfort she was sure she had met the woman before but could not think where. She said firmly, “I’m here to see Mr. Brinkley.”
“He know you’re comin’?”
“Naturally.”
“Funny he’s gone to work then.”
“Ah…yes…” Polly snapped her fingers while cursing that she had not thought to check. In the city no one worked on Saturday. “I remember now. He did say to meet in Causton.”
The turned-out eye roved over Polly, coming to rest eventually on the deeply revealing triangle. “Business, is it?”
“Mr. Brinkley is my financial advisor, yes.” Why am I talking to this ghastly person? I don’t have to explain myself to her. Poor Dennis. Fancy having to put up with this cross-eyed, ill-mannered lump trundling about the place.
The woman folded solid forearms gauntleted with sparkly foam. She didn’t speak again. Just stood very still and carried on staring.
Polly turned crisply on her heel and left. When she got to the gate and turned to close it the hideous old bat had come to the garage entrance, no doubt to see her safely off the premises. Polly was furious. Bloody cheek. And it wasn’t as if she could return to Appleby House and offload her anger. She had no intention of letting her mother know she was planning to soften up Dennis.
But by the time she had returned home Polly’s whole mood had changed. Hearing voices in the garden of the house opposite (the garden of the wondrously fanciable man), she began to slow her steps until, passing the gate, she had practically reached a standstill.
The Parnells were having lunch at a table on the lawn beneath the shade of a large flowered umbrella. Alas, it was Judith who was facing the hot, dusty road.
Polly gave a false but brilliant smile and waved, receiving a curt nod in response. Quite unput out – she had expected nothing else – she called: “Hi! Isn’t it a brilliant day?”
Ashley turned slowly in his chair to see who was speaking, looked out across the grass and recognised her immediately. Polly smiled again, this time with warm, pleasurable anticipation. Then sauntered slowly away.
A Ghost in the Machine Page 5
