A Ghost in the Machine

by Caroline Graham

  “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.

  Also, at this time, his nightly perambulations around the war machines would become slower and more reflective. Dennis would pause frequently to study the framed notes that detailed their fearful capabilities. The notes that had so alarmed Mrs. Crudge. These were illustrated by drawings of human beings, mainly for the purpose of scale. Now, his imagination well and truly stirred, Dennis began to examine the figures more closely. Fleshing out their images in his mind he started to name them, making a note of their age and probable occupation. Inevitably they became increasingly real. Dennis placed them more precisely in an imaginary landscape of soft green hills and waterfalls and white turreted castles, backgrounds familiar from early religious paintings he had seen in Florence and Rome. He blessed them with wives and children and adventures. Cursed them with enemies. Gradually one man, more vivid and passionate than the rest, came to the fore.

  It was at this point that he abandoned the simple notebook and Biro previously used to take his dream notes. Shy to acknowledge, even to himself, what was actually going on, he nevertheless began to take the whole business very seriously. He went out and obtained several reams of best-quality cream vellum and some black ink. Even as he bought a Mont Blanc pen he found himself regretting there was no feather to sharpen. A swan or goose quill, perhaps, or, best of all, one from a crow as was the way of the master mapmakers. The vague notion of himself as a writer persisted, becoming clearer and eventually inescapable as the piles of carefully inscribed paper grew. He would hurry home from work in the evening, sometimes barely pausing to eat before reimmersing himself in the medieval world.

  He named his protagonist Jean de Mares and brought him to life in the year 1340 in the village of Cocheral in Normandy. Jean became apprenticed to the local blacksmith and grew up to be a superb swordsmith and designer of shields. As his reputation grew, noblemen and their knights spoke of him in such terms as eventually to attract the attention of the great mercenary, Sir John Hawkwood. Summoned to Paris, de Mares and his wife, a simple country girl, struggled to adapt to the world of mystery, betrayal and intrigue surrounding the court of Charles the Fifth. But almost immediately the honest smith fell foul of treacherous Pierre d’Orgement, head of the King’s judiciary. This powerful antagonist used his mistress, a beautiful sorceress, to cast a spell on Jean, temporarily capturing his heart. Enmeshed in plot and counterplot, not knowing who was friend or foe, he be
came trapped into seeming to betray the King. His punishment? To charge and tilt in open combat against Bertrand du Guesclin, a thuggish, unscrupulous guerrilla fighter, brilliant at strategy, indifferent to the rules of tournament.

  This was the great set piece and conclusion of the novel. When Dennis had, after nearly a year, finally reached this scene, he wrote it at great speed, his brain spinning with excitement and emotion. When it was all over (three o’clock in the morning) he raised his head and gazed about him in bewilderment. The orderly, homely surroundings of his sitting room seemed insubstantial, part of another world. It was the jousting tournament that was real to him. The fluttering pennants and swaying silken tents under a copper sky. The clash of steel and thunder of smoking hoofs. Creaking leather, horse muck and horse sweat. Humans screaming hatred and shouting encouragement. Blood everywhere.

  When he was calmer, over the next two evenings, he rewrote this final scene, pacing it more effectively while struggling to keep the blazing colour and fierce energy, the power that drove the novel inexorably to its dark conclusion.

  By now Dennis’s right hand felt as if it were dropping off. Quite early on he had recognised the preciousness of his earlier affectation but had not been able to bring himself to change methods in mid-flow. Now he transferred The King’s Armourer to a computer, polishing as he went. He still remembered the thrilling sensation of authority when typing the first line, the sheer strangeness of creating a human being out of thin air.

  The completed manuscript ran to nearly five hundred pages, and once it was completed Dennis was rather at a loss. He felt exhausted but in a satisfied way. And his dreams were different. Infrequent, muted, without danger. Even though he now had a novel living and breathing in his army officer’s trunk in the sitting room, its creation was still a mystery to him. How could a man possibly be a writer and live for over fifty years without knowing? Unbelievable. He wouldn’t tell anyone, of course. It would be too embarrassing. It was enough simply to have written it.

  5

  Barely a week after 13 Cordwainer Road was put on the market the house was sold. They got five thousand over their first offer and Mallory said, “I told you so.”

  Kate felt only slightly guilty about this, for the man who was gazumped had been awful. A stout city porker, he had strolled around hardly bothering to conceal his contempt for the Lawsons’ shabby furnishings and well-worn carpets. Kate’s suggestion that there might be fixtures or fittings he’d like them to leave behind was greeted with a barely concealed snigger.

  The people who bought the house had a young daughter and wanted to move into the area, as the Lawsons had, because of the schools. Fortunately they were not part of a buyer/seller chain and so a contract could be drawn up straight away. They were an amiable couple, chatting, asking questions about the area, talking a little about their life, recently lived in Hong Kong. They were still there when Mallory came home. He opened a bottle and they all had a drink and shook hands over the deal.

  All this happened on Monday evening, the beginning of his final week at the Ewan Sedgewick. Later, while devouring Marks & Spencer battered haddock and potato croquettes and broccoli washed down with Tavel rosé, they started to plan the move.

  Kate had finished editing her last manuscript the previous month. All her publishing contacts knew of the grand plan. All offered masses of encouragement, while indicating their doors would remain open should, well, things not quite work out. Consequently, unencumbered by any other pressures, Kate was free to start sorting, packing, getting removal estimates and generally clearing out stuff. She looked forward to all this tremendously, having always experienced the most intense satisfaction from throwing things away. Even a single empty jar or can hurled into the bin made her feel good. Momentarily in her life there seemed to be less muddle. She sometimes felt that if she could throw everything in the world away – except her family, a few close friends, books and music – she would finally enter a serene and balanced world full of fresh air and clear light and loving kindness. Ha!

  “What d’you mean – ‘ha’?”

  “Oh – dreaming of Utopia.”

  “I’m dreaming of bread-and-butter pudding.”

  “Won’t be long.” Kate went to the kitchen and checked the oven. She called over her shoulder: “We’ll have to get Polly over to sort her stuff out. And decide what furniture to take.”

  “I think,” said Mallory, “we should offer Benny anything she wants from Appleby House.”

  “Of course, we must.” Kate came in with the pudding. “It’s a sad lot of stuff in that flat.”

  “But it’s her stuff. We’ll have to be very tactful. She’s quite capable of parting with things she’s really fond of, then accepting all sorts of things she doesn’t want just to please us.”

  As they were musing on the impossibility of ever getting a simple, direct, uncomplicated response from Benny, the telephone rang. Mallory was nearest.

  “Poll!” Mallory beamed. His eyes screwed up with pleasure as if blinking against the sun. “Hey – the house is sold.”

  “We haven’t exchanged contracts yet,” called Kate.

  “Take no notice of your mother.” Mallory waved his hand back and forth against Kate’s objection. “It’s in the bag.” He listened. “I am happy…How kind…Very thoughtful, darling…Don’t forget to give her our love. Ring when you get back.”

  Kate heard the phone click. As Mallory sat down again she said, “What was all that about?”

  “Polly thought she’d go down to Appleby House for a little while.”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. She’s a bit worried about Benny being on her own. You know how Ben panics over the smallest thing.”

  “That’s why I tried to persuade her to come back with us.”

  “She’ll be more comfortable with someone there.” Then, when Kate remained silent, Mallory added defensively, “I think it’s very sweet of Poll.”

  Kate did not believe a word of it. Whatever the reason for her daughter’s sudden return to Appleby House she was sure it would have naught to do with anyone’s comfort but Polly’s own.

  That girl was down again. The one who walked around with almost nothing on. Someone had seen her getting out of a taxi in the drive of Carey Lawson’s house, wearing a frock no bigger than a dishcloth, held up by a thread of ribbon. Also, added the perspiring observer (Mr. Lattice from Mon Repos) as far as he could see, just from a quick glance you understand, there seemed to be no back or front to it.

  Polly had not thought to telephone and tell Benny she was coming. The first Benny knew of her arrival was the clicking of anonymous heels across the hall’s worn flagstones. Then there was a thud as something was dropped and the heels continued clicking across the wooden parquet of the living room.

  Benny, invisible, huddled in a tall chair by the empty fireplace. Her face was pale with fright. She couldn’t help recalling the creepy exchange with Doris just the other day. Would simply talking about ghosts be regarded as an invitation to one to materialise? Did they do it in the daytime? Surely they didn’t make a noise – what would they have to make a noise with? And then there was that awful crime at Badger’s Drift. No one had been caught so far. What if that youth the police suspected had not gone to London after all, as the police thought? What if he had come to Forbes Abbot instead? Benny held her breath and peered timidly round a corner of the chair. Then cried out, “Oohhh…”

  Polly nearly jumped out of her triple wedges. “For heaven’s sake!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “My fault, just walking in.” Stupid woman. If she’s that hysterical why not lock the front door?

  Benny thought, but I locked the door, didn’t I? And it would soon be getting dark. If she could forget something as important as that…Scrambling to her feet she began, in her clumsy way, to look after Polly.

  “Have you eaten, dear? I could do an omelette. Perhaps you’d like a wash first?”


  “No, thanks. Wouldn’t mind a bath, though, before turning in.”

  “It shouldn’t take long to heat the water.”

  “What?”

  “But it can be temperamental.”

  “Forget it. I’ll just have a shower.”

  “I’m afraid we never got round to putting in a shower.”

  Polly sighed, then, with an air of great fortitude: “Is there any form of running water at all here, Benny?”

  Polly retired then, taking Benny’s radio which she played, quite loudly, till the small hours.

  Benny woke very early and immediately started worrying about Polly’s breakfast. She had taken some sausages and bacon out of the freezer the night before but now realised this was not at all the kind of food a slim and glamorous young woman would want to start the day. She would probably ask for fruit. Fresh orange juice and the stuff Kate and Mallory liked – all grains and nuts and gritty bits. But Kate had taken the nearly full box back with her. All Benny had were porridge oats. Would raw porridge be acceptable? It didn’t sound very nice.

  But Polly didn’t want any of those things. She finally appeared at noon looking, to Benny’s unsophisticated gaze, like a princess in a fairy tale. She lit a cigarette, asked for coffee then said, “Christ, instant,” though it was Sainsbury’s best. All the shiny oranges, the speckle-free bananas, even a ripe mango, Benny had managed to find in Forbes Abbot’s tiny Spar lay unwanted on the table.

  “I always think missing breakfast,” she said, “gives you a wonderful appetite for lunch. Do you fancy anything special, Polly?”

  “I’ll get something in Causton. I’ve an appointment there this afternoon.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “Oh, do stop fussing, Ben.” With a bit of luck she would be on a Green Line going home by then. “There’s bound to be something in the cupboard.”

  The cab put Polly down outside the Magpie Inn. Determined to be punctual for her meeting she had allowed so much time she was now twenty minutes early. Entering the pub, Polly immediately wished she hadn’t. There was a stuffy, postprandial atmosphere. A smell of fried food, stale spices and cigarette smoke wafted out from the empty dining room. Polly glanced in as she wandered by. A penguin motif held sway. They were everywhere: posing in niches, perched on ashtrays, running wild over curtains and upholstery, jammed into high chairs. A tall wooden one wearing a real bow tie, held a “Welcome” board inscribed with the menu.