“Anything else for the hospice shop?”
“Don’t think so.” Kate had been ruthless with her wardrobe. It was amazing how much stuff fell into the if-not-worn-for-one-year-dump category. “Although…” She hesitated, then ran upstairs and quickly down again, carrying a hat, which she placed on top of the pile.
“Not your beekeeper’s hat!”
The hat was made of natural straw, modelled directly after that of a real beekeeper, the crown rising directly upwards from the brim and coming to a half-point, like a soft little acorn. The wide upturned brim was thickly swathed in black mesh veiling, studded with dozens of tiny jewelled bees.
Kate loved the hat. Had spent a huge amount of money on it for a wedding instead of sensibly hiring one, and had never put it on since. Well, occasionally on a sunny day in the back yard. She associated it with balmy weather and good luck.
“Sorry.” Mallory took it from the box. “The bees stay in the picture.”
“But I never wear it.”
“I’ll get some hives; put them in the orchard.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Kate started to laugh. “We can’t take up beekeeping just because I’ve got the right hat.”
But Mallory could see she was pleased. He placed the hat carefully on her head, tilting it so her eyes were half concealed by the veil. “You look very mysterious.” He kissed her. “And lovely.” The room was filled with a shrill, loud ringing.
“Why do telephones always sound angry?” Kate answered it. Said, “Fine…Yes, thank you…in about ten minutes…It’s the charity shop,” she explained to Mal, hanging up. “Someone’s coming round.”
“There’ll be more stuff, I suppose, once we manage to get hold of Polly.”
They’d been trying on and off all day yesterday, plus a couple of attempts that morning. At least, Mallory had been trying. As the actual move wouldn’t be for another fortnight Kate didn’t regard it as all that urgent. But she could see that he was getting worried. She wondered if this was because of the trouble Polly was in that she, Kate, dare not ask about. Now Mallory was dialling again. Listening, frowning, putting the receiver back.
“I can’t understand it. Where could she be?”
Kate tried to look concerned but, in truth, was merely bewildered. They had not known where Polly was at any given time for the past two years and it had never seemed to bother Mallory before. Children grow up and fly away. Life is like that.
As the pause lengthened and Mallory appeared more and more distressed she tried to think of a way to change the subject. Some way that wouldn’t appear gratingly contrived.
“Shouldn’t we ring Benny, Mal? Remind her we’re bringing food for the dinner tomorrow? As there’ll be four of us she’s probably getting into a tizz already.”
“Of course. What a good idea.” But before he could pick up the phone the doorbell went. So Kate got to make the call and Mallory helped the charity people move the boxes. He put his head round the sitting-room door when they’d been loaded and said, “I’m going to give them a hand at the other end.”
“Fine.” And pigs’ll dance the polka. “See you later, then.”
Mallory got stuck in the worst of the school run. The road was full of Volvos, Golfs and four-wheel drives, the latter unsullied by any trace of mud. Screaming infants ran about swinging rucksacks that looked like furry animals. Whole bundles of children climbed into assorted vehicles and in one case straight out again. Car doors swung open at random, not always on the pavement side. Cries of “Fiona!” and “Tarquin!” rent the air.
Mallory sat and cursed. It had not occurred to him that a private school might still be up and running or he would have taken another route. He couldn’t go back and he couldn’t move forward. A taxi behind him started hooting.
And, of course, he was wasting his time anyway, because Polly wasn’t in. If she was in she would answer the phone. And if she was in and couldn’t answer the phone then there was also nothing Mallory could do because he didn’t have a key so wouldn’t know whether she was there or not. Still, he had to try.
The truth was he was worried sick over this obscene, disgusting man – this Billy Slaughter. Surely Polly couldn’t be with him? There’d be no reason other than settling her debt and she had promised to forward the banker’s draft by registered post.
She couldn’t have forgotten. Or deliberately broken her promise. He couldn’t believe that. Kate would easily believe it and the thought made Mallory sad. Sometimes, discussing their daughter, they seemed to be talking about two different people.
The school run dispersed, the taxi driver took his finger off the horn, stuck it through the open window then thrust it violently into the air against the departure of the final Volvo. Mallory moved off.
The place that Polly shared was just off Queensbridge Road. She was on her own at the moment, Mallory knew, since the departure of one flatmate, post exams, to the Lebanon and the other more recently for a lengthy yoga and meditation retreat in Majorca.
Mallory climbed the steps, worn to a scoop in the centre by age. The shabby Edwardian house was on five levels and the bell board listed twelve names. Mallory read through them quickly. Polly’s wasn’t there. He wasn’t altogether surprised – she had always guarded her privacy fiercely. The trouble was he didn’t know the names of the other girls either. He pressed all the bells in turn on the off chance, but without any response. Presumably everyone was out at work. Then, turning away, he noticed some narrow steps leading to a basement. They were very steep but there was a metal rail to hold. A door at the bottom, glass-panelled with iron bars protecting the glass had a printed card pinned to it. “Fforbes-Snaithe. Hartogensis. Lawson.” There was no bell.
Mallory banged the knocker fiercely. He kneeled down and tried to peer through the letter box but some sort of felt hanging blocked the view. Curtains, none too clean, at the large bay window, were closely drawn. Mallory, treading over old newspapers, orange peel and takeaway cartons, tried to peer through a tiny gap at the furthest end. He squinted but could see only darkness.
He rapped on the glass and called, “Polly?”
A man walking his Jack Russell stopped while it took a wee against the basement railings. He looked suspiciously at Mallory, who said, “I’m trying to find my daughter.”
The man, a picture of disbelief, carried on staring. Mallory didn’t blame him. He would have done the same. He climbed back up to the street just as an elderly woman laden with Safeway shopping bags was entering the house. He called: “Excuse me,” and moved quickly towards her. She turned a frightened face towards him and rushed inside, almost dropping the bags in her anxiety to close the door. Mallory, just close enough to put his foot in it, couldn’t bring himself to do so.
Cursing softly, he hurried back to the car. He shouldn’t have come and wished he hadn’t seen where Polly lived. And to really put the lid on it, he’d been gone well over an hour, leaving Kate to cope on her own with the packing. He checked his watch – half-past three. And they had planned to leave before four to escape the worst of the traffic.
Seconds after Mallory had driven away Polly came swinging round the corner. Carrying a bottle of champagne, she was dancing on air and laughing to herself. Bursting with joie de vivre, she looked very beautiful in a floaty dress and sparkly high-heeled shoes.
By 7:30 Dennis was back in Causton. There were a lot of cars parked on the square, presumably customers of the Magpie, for Causton, like most small market towns once the shops and offices had closed, was dead as mutton. Dennis tucked in the Lexus as far away from the bank building as possible and went into the pub.
This was such a rare occurrence that he didn’t know what to ask for. The whisky was cheap blended stuff and he wasn’t keen on any other spirits. He ordered a glass of white wine, was offered sweet or medium dry and took the second. It wasn’t very nice but, on the positive side, he nabbed an excellent observation post from the window seat.
Dennis had brought his Telegra
ph to act as a sort of screen while watching. He had seen people doing this in television dramas: plainclothes chaps in cars, though they were usually hiding behind the Mirror or The Sun. He also thought that, should the guilty party walk past the Magpie, or worse, into it, they might recognise him.
The atmosphere was really most unpleasant – overheated, smoke-filled and very noisy. Any pub habitué could have told Dennis that the noise level in fact was pretty reasonable, but to him it was like being shut in a tin box, the outside then being hammered by hobnail boots. At the far end of the room a group of women were screeching with satisfaction at a joke well told. Men grouped at the bar argued, their voices raised and raised and raised again to make their point or shout down someone else’s. A machine with a lot of lights was being manhandled by a youth who kept banging the sides and whooping. And there was music, if you could call it that. Why did people come to such dreadful places, wondered Dennis. And – the women let out more mirth-filled shrieks – what on earth did they find to laugh at?
“Anything else for you?” The bar manager had picked up the empty wineglass.
“Oh – thank you.” Dennis looked at his watch and realised he had been there half an hour. Though unfamiliar with ale house etiquette he was pretty sure he couldn’t continue to occupy a seat without buying something more. “The same, please.”
When the drink was brought the man bent down and whispered, “Doing a bit of surveillance, sir?”
“Um…” Dennis produced a note to pay. “Well…”
“Say no more.” He tapped the side of his nose, pocketing the ten pounds. “I can keep as schtum as the next man.”
Dennis moved his head from side to side and up and down. His neck had got quite stiff by staring at a fixed angle through the window for so long. He drank some of the wine, which was different from the first, being at once more fruity and considerably warmer.
He needed the lavatory. No way round that. He was tempted to go to the office so as not to miss a moment but was terrified of colliding coming out with the very person he was watching out for coming in. So the Magpie it was. In and out – spit spot – and back to his post.
Another half-hour dragged by. Dennis, deciding not to drink any more so as to stay alert, thought it best to leave. Resigning himself to no change – he just could not seem to catch the barman’s eye – he went outside and got in the car.
More time passed. There was an exciting moment when some people opened the street door leading to Brinkley and Latham but it was just the family from the top-floor flat.
Dennis switched on the radio, sticking to music so he didn’t get involved in some gripping narrative and lose concentration. It started to get dark. He began to feel not only tired but extremely self-conscious. What on earth was he doing playing detective at his time of life? How undignified. How foolish. Colouring up now, recalling his earlier enthusiasm, Dennis decided enough was enough and slipped his key into the ignition.
A cab drew up outside the bank. Holding his breath, Dennis also cursed under it for the cab was blocking all sight of whoever had got out. What’s more, if it didn’t drive away sharpish they’d be through the street door and safely inside. Dennis scrambled from his seat and eased his way between the cars, ready at any second to duck. He craned his neck slightly – all discomfort gone now – so that he could see better.
Mr. Allibone did not need to crane his neck. Having just taken one of his casual glances from the sitting-room window he had both Dennis and the passenger from the taxi clearly in his sights. She turned round, Dennis dodged down, she put a key in the door and went inside. Very interesting.
Dennis climbed back stiffly into the Lexus. He gripped the steering wheel to stop his hands from shaking and sat very still for a while, wishing with all his heart he had never embarked on this enterprise. He felt an intense desire for sleep, for oblivion. For the simple happiness he had once known as a child. He put the car into gear and drove away.
10
Kate was stuffing a large duck with apricots and hazel-nuts. She’d brought her food processor down and Benny had produced soft white breadcrumbs and ground the nuts. She was as delighted with the machine as a child with a new toy and questioned Kate eagerly about its exact capabilities.
“It’s a miracle!” she exclaimed. The kitchen at Appleby House was totally gadget free. Carey thought two or three good sharp knives could cope with anything and had been deeply puzzled when Benny once requested a potato peeler for her birthday.
Kate, still nursing a certain amount of resentment over the journey down last night, was filling up the bird more forcefully than was strictly necessary. Mallory had disappeared for nearly two hours, then made things worse by lying clumsily about being dragged into helping at the charity shop. Kate had finally driven away from Parsons Green into the worst traffic imaginable. The misery of their row the previous week still fresh in her mind and determined not to go down that road again she could not even give vent to her feelings, so the duck was for it. A final fistful of stuffing, a savage shove up the bottom, pricked all over and into the oven it went.
“There’s lots of potatoes ready to lift,” Benny was saying. “Shall I get some in?”
“I’ll do that. And we’ll need vegetables, courgettes maybe?”
“Dennis is very partial to broad beans.”
“And what about you, Benny. What do you like?”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s just so lovely for us all to be having dinner together.”
Benny’s happiness was palpable. Kate, looking at her open, radiant face, thought how marvellous to be so uncomplicated. All that joy simply because two or three friends were gathering to sit down and eat. Impulsively she moved around the table and gave Benny a hug.
“It just wouldn’t be the same, coming down, if you weren’t here.”
“Oh,” cried Benny, trembling with pleasure. She wasn’t used to being hugged.
“And that is the most gorgeous outfit.”
Benny had on a peacock-blue silky jacket and matching skirt. She was even wearing earrings and had abandoned her usual T-bar sandals for shiny court shoes.
She had taken great trouble with the dining arrangements too. Kate had decided to use the oval Sheraton table with a beautiful inlaid key design around the edge, and Benny had arranged summer-flowering jasmine and tea roses in the centre and put out Carey’s most beautiful Venetian glasses. There were tall ivory candles in the candelabrum, which she had spent all morning cleaning, along with the cutlery, polishing so hard she could see her face in the spoons. The reflections were elongated, as in a fairground mirror.
“Perhaps, Kate, after dinner, we could look at the manuscripts?” Benny had already learned not to call them books. “Maybe read bits out?”
“That’s an idea.”
Kate had been astonished when the postman delivered a heavy canvas bag, drawstrung and stencilled with black letters, early that morning. Astonished and then depressed, for there was something ominous about the rapidity of this in-flux. Instinctively she felt the contents of the bag were not new books. Not freshly written, hot from a gifted author’s fingertips but tired and grey, exhausted from doing the rounds, maybe stained by the occasional tea ring. She had come across plenty of those in her time and they were nearly always unreadable.
“I’d better get moving.” Kate picked up her sunglasses from the dresser. “Courgettes and beans, right?”
“Broad beans.”
“Keep an eye on the duck, would you? You might need to pour off some fat.”
Left alone Benny remembered she had promised Mallory to make some Pimm’s. Carey had always loved a glass at lunchtime in the summer so Benny started to feel quite sad as she sliced up a cucumber. For distraction she turned her thoughts around to the previous Sunday when she had attended the Church of the Near at Hand with Doris.
Message-wise the visit had not been a success. In spite of Doris’s enthusiastic decoding of the telephone receiver’s strange behaviour Carey di
d not come through. Doris suggested the reason could be she was in a queue. Benny doubted that. Carey had never queued for anything in her life, even when there were things worth queuing for, so she certainly wouldn’t be starting now. Perhaps she just didn’t fancy the medium, who had been a great disappointment, striding about all in black and looking like the wicked queen in Snow White. Benny had been hoping for someone more ethereal, perhaps in gauzy garments and with a delicate, uplifting voice. This woman had sounded quite common.
But, as promised, the tea was delicious and the congregation friendly. Benny had met the medium’s little girl, though met was perhaps too precise a word. A plain, shrinking little soul, she had been timidly talking to Doris, accepting cakes and a drink of squash. But when Benny said “hello” she ran away. Doris explained later that it had taken her months to get Karen to take as much as a biscuit. Her mother disapproved of too much mingling.
In spite of her disappointment Benny decided, after talking it over with the man in charge of the service, to give it another go. Fortunately the times didn’t clash with St. Anselm’s so, with a bit of luck, the vicar would never know.
In the vegetable garden Kate found an old wicker basket lying on its side by a wigwam of runner beans. She picked some courgettes, warm and shiny in her hands, half hidden behind glowing yellow flowers. There was summer savory to go with the beans and mint for the potatoes. The earth was pale in the heat and bone dry. She traced the hose, snaking between rows of newly planted broccoli, to its source and turned on the tap.
Moderating the flow, Kate watered dreamily in a silence broken only by the heady thrumming from the orchard of hundreds of wasps and bees. The gentle splash as the water soaked the ground and the rich vanilla fragrance of bean flowers combined to effect a trance-like involvement in the moment that wiped all else from her mind.
When Mallory touched her hair she jumped. He said, “Sorry. Were you miles away?”
“Yes – well, no. I was absolutely here. But in a way I can’t quite describe.” At the sight of him the final shreds of Kate’s resentment vanished. Mallory’s shoulders were stooped, weariness lay upon him. He looked as he had coming home at night from the Ewan Sedgewick.
A Ghost in the Machine Page 17
