Ava gave an exaggerated wince and closed her eyes. Sometimes she found it hard to believe Karen was actually her child. Apart from the dreary plainness of her appearance she was just not intelligent. Bottom of the class in almost everything. Incredible to think her father had been to a public school. Sometimes Ava wondered if he had lied about that. God knows, he had lied about everything else. She turned her attention back to the television but was not allowed to enjoy it for long.
“Ava?”
“Look at him.” Ava shook her head, laughing. “That Richard Whiteley.”
“Could we have some fish and chips to celebrate?”
“I must make contact. Get him on my show.”
“It’s the Rumbling Tum, Wednesday.”
This mobile chippy came to Forbes Abbot once a week. It did only modest business in the village proper, where people were a bit shamefaced to be seen queuing at the counter and hurrying home with greasy parcels. But almost everyone in the Crescent would be buying. The fish and chips were excellent. Crisp and hot with little triangular boxes of tartare sauce for only twenty p extra. Roy had treated Karen one time and she thought she had never tasted anything so delicious.
“Ava?”
“Celebrate what?”
“Your new spot.”
“Slot.” But a little celebration was not a bad idea. She could afford it And it would stop Karen doing her starving waif act. Though Ava had to admit, grudgingly, that she did it very well. She was her mother’s child and appeared to have inherited her remarkable acting talent. But, alas, none of her unstoppable drive. Bit of a waste really.
“What time do they come?”
“Oh, oh!” cried Karen, jumping up and down. “Can we get some for Roy as well?”
Mallory, having had a brief respite from his paternal anxieties by immersing himself in a truly gripping historical novel discovered in the final post bag, was once more at a loose end. Kate had now started the book. He could see her at the end of the croquet lawn, lying in a hammock strung up between the catalpa trees. In the dappled light her blue and white dress was patterned with reflections from the trumpet-shaped flowers. But there was nothing dreamy about her pose. She was reading quickly, flipping the pages over, her profile alert and concentrated.
Mallory began to wander around the large, three-quarters empty house. The dealer from Aylesbury had returned that morning and most rooms were now practically empty. Everything in the kitchen stayed. Here they planned to replace stuff gradually – a decent fridge, some fitted cupboards, a dishwasher.
Mallory’s continued anxiety about Polly quite blunted the sadness he had expected to feel as he watched his aunt’s belongings carried away by indifferent hauliers. Beautiful things that he had been familiar with all his life. Furniture that he had slept on, hidden inside, rearranged to make forts or cars or planes or boats. Boxes of games, mirrors, pictures, ornaments, china. He ticked them all off the list with the man from Aylesbury and felt not a qualm.
As soon as the van drove away he went to the phone and rang Polly’s number. Knowing how much this continual vigilance annoyed Kate he had taken to using the box in the village if she was in the house. Once or twice during the day and most evenings he would go out “for a little stroll.” Sometimes he would manage to nip out and back before she realised he had gone.
But tomorrow – ah, tomorrow he should be able to go round to the flat in person. In the morning he and Kate planned to make a really early start, driving back to London to sort out any last-minute packing at Cordwainer Road. A final reading of the electricity meter and a telephone disconnection and they’d be all set to move out that day.
He wished they could leave now. He was sick of killing time, poodling about. He wanted to get on with life. To do something definite and practical, showing real results. Moving would definitely accomplish that. But he also believed, for no sensible reason at all, that once they were properly settled at Appleby House all manner of other things would quite suddenly be well. The Celandine Press would be properly set up and begin to function. He and Kate would get to know people and perhaps become involved in village affairs, as his aunt had been. His probably baseless worries about Polly would be resolved. Maybe she had just taken off somewhere with friends. Students do, after all. And now was the time for it. The autumn term didn’t start for nearly six weeks.
He and Kate were taking Benny with them to London. They had talked this over and decided it was not wise to leave her alone in her present state. Also they were concerned as to what she might get up to. She had already boasted at lunch of one more visit to the police station and of laying new evidence as to Dennis’s death before the CID. Her grip on reality seemed to be slackening by the minute. She didn’t want to go. Mallory persuaded her by pretending that there was still so much to sort out at the other end that he doubted they’d be able to cope alone.
Now he wandered the desolate spaces on the ground floor of Appleby House with all these thoughts running endlessly round and round and round like a mouse in his skull. He needed to be with someone. To have a banal, pointless conversation. Benny seemed to have disappeared. Kate was reading. So Mallory came to wondering if the Parnells had got back from their mid-morning appointment at Harley Street. Earlier on they had left some spinach in the porch of Appleby House. He decided to return the basket and say “thank you.”
No one seemed to hear his knock so Mallory just walked in. A furious tapping and clattering was coming from Judith’s office as well as urgent wheezes from her fax machine. He put his head round the door and she directed a vivid strained grimace in his direction, which he decided was meant to be a smile. Then he was waved away.
Ashley was in the wicker armchair by the sitting-room window, reading The Times. Or rather, holding it in a listless manner while staring out at the raggle-taggle garden. Mallory wondered if the news from the specialist had not been good but hesitated to ask.
Ashley said, “Listen to that.” There was a pause. The racket from Judith’s office continued unabated. “She’s searching the Net.”
“For?”
“This Harley Street bloke gave us a list of clinics that specialise in treating my disease. France, Switzerland, America, Cuba, would you believe? So Judith’s checking them out.”
“I hope it all works out.”
“Christ – so do I. I’m trying not to dwell on it, you know?”
Mallory silently thanked God he didn’t know. The only pain he experienced was the dull ache of ongoing worry. Though he could feel it slowly grinding him down, at least it wouldn’t finish him off. Then he remembered a book he’d read once called More Die of Heartbreak and couldn’t help wondering.
The silence when the machines suddenly stopped, though beautiful, was brief. Judith burst in waving a piece of paper, crying: “This is the place!” Followed by, “Ah – Mallory.” The subtext – you still here? – was practically audible.
So Mallory found himself once again out in the fruitful, fragrant garden and easing his way through the broken wooden gate. Tired of the village street and the shop and the phone box and the duck pond he walked in the other direction, drawn by the sound of water babbling sweetly over stones.
But as he was passing the churchyard he heard a human voice, quietly murmuring to itself. He stepped up and over the low brick wall on to the soft grass, then walked towards the back of St. Anselm’s. Here were two new graves, both covered with wreaths. On the nearest the flowers were so fresh the colours shone. On the much smaller plot, containing Dennis’s ashes, they were already half dead and turning brown.
Benny was sitting on a little fold-up stool of the type used in theatre queues. Sitting as near to the flowers as she possibly could without treading on them. She was pushing her head right down as if addressing not the dead but the merely deaf.
Concerned and anxious, Mallory moved nearer. He was not afraid of disturbing her. All her energy and concentration was focused on the square of dry brown earth. She wasn’t crying, she did
n’t even look unhappy, just incredibly intense. Her voice, though it had an extremely urgent under-tow, was muted and he could hardly make out the words, though now and again the odd one was suddenly clear. “Promise…” he heard. “Believe” and “true.” Then “authorities” and “promise” again. And again.
His heart moved to pity, Mallory hesitated. He hated just to walk away. On the other hand, plainly this was something extremely private that Benny needed to do. Perhaps it was her own way of mourning. She had chosen a time in the late afternoon when the churchyard was empty and she might well become distressed at the discovery that someone had been watching. Mallory backed off silently, then turned to leave. As he did so a flock of rooks rose from the elms, cawing and croaking. Benny, scrambling to her feet and flinging both arms across her face, screamed.
“Benny…”
She jumped and cried out again, shrinking from him.
“It’s all right, it’s me. It’s Mallory.” Gently he took her hand then tucked her trembling arm through his own. He kissed her cheek. It was cold as ice. “Time for tea. We were wondering where you were.” Then, as she stood unmoving, staring at him, “Come home, Ben.”
She came with him and not reluctantly. But as they neared the lych-gate she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. It was a deeply worried look. “Do you think he understood, Mallory?”
Mallory checked a sigh. What could he say? His tenderness for her sorrow was mingled with irritation that made him ashamed.
Ava was at the gate of Rainbow Lodge, wearing her floaty black and gold kaftan and ostensibly watching out for the Rumbling Tum. She had been in and out several times, to Roy and Karen’s surprise, for Ava had never before shown the slightest interest in fish and chips. This was her fourth outing. So far there hadn’t been a soul to notice her. No one in their garden, no one outside waiting for the chippy or gossiping over the fence. No one to hiss: “There she is. Look—she was on the radio. You know? Corey’s People? It was ever so good. Swayne Crescent’s really going up in the world.” They nearly all listened to the local station. Ava tuned in to Radio Two but switched to Four if anyone called at the house or the phone rang.
Finally someone did emerge. The awful Mr. Carboy at number seventeen, preparing to clean his Metro. Still, he was better than nothing. Ava waited until he was looking in her direction, then raised a gracious hand. He stared back for a moment, then threw a bucket of water over the car. Ava smiled ruefully and shook her head. How quickly she was being shown the underside to fame. But the resentment of little people with narrow, boring lives would soon be left behind. Her position at the Almeida would inevitably lead to other engagements. More and more people would know her name for she would insist on being listed in the programme as Spiritual Consultant. There would be other newspaper interviews but this time in the posh Sundays. “A Life in the Day of…” One thing was for sure, she couldn’t stay in this dump. Imagine Parkinson having to come to Rainbow Lodge. Or, even worse, Richard and Judy. Time to move on.
“Problem,” Karen was saying inside the house. “I don’t think we’ll get three fish and chips for five pound. Chips are fifty p minimum and cod’s really expensive.”
“Haddock’s worse,” said Roy, now up, washed (well, a lick and a promise) and dressed. He had money in his pocket but this was supposed to be his supper, already paid for. Why should he chip in? Ha ha. “Ask her for some more then.”
“She won’t give me any more.”
“Yes, she will. Tell her you’ll be shown up in front of the queue and they’ll all be talking about how stingy she is.”
“That’s a good idea.” Roy was better at this sort of thing than she was. Of course he was older and Ava wasn’t his mother. “But then she might just change her mind altogether.”
They looked gloomily at the table already set with three knives and forks, the rest of the curly bread, a tub of margarine and Sarson’s vinegar.
Karen made a worried sound. She could never understand why they were so poor. She knew what her mother got from the social for the two of them because she’d seen the books. And there was Roy’s contribution as well as the collection from the church. But last week, when her socks had gone into holes and she’d asked for some more, Ava had shouted, “D’you think I’m made of money?” That same night Karen saw her mother in a dream and she really had been made of money. She was standing very still like a dummy in a shop window and was stuck all over with notes. She had a long tongue made of copper that rolled and unrolled all the time, like a frog’s. And her breath was a mist of gold.
“Are you listening?”
“Sorry, Roy.”
“I said, alternatively…” He got up and went over to the sink. On the windowsill, cleverly concealed behind the curtain and so plainly visible to anyone walking up the garden path, was Ava’s purse. He opened it and waved a second note in the air.
“We can’t do that!”
“She owes me.”
“I’ll get the blame. I’ll be in terrible trouble.”
Roy, recognising the truth in this, replaced the note and returned to the table, digging in to his own pocket. What else could he do?
Ava, half through the door but speaking backwards loudly: “I’m expecting a message from the theatre any minute.” Then she came inside and continued in her normal voice. “I rang their admin number earlier to check on the Blithe Spirit schedule but all I got was an answerphone. You’d think a top venue like that would be a bit more on the kew veeve.”
“They’ll ring back,” said Karen.
“Naturally. But, just in case I’m in the la-la, say, ‘Mrs. Garret’s on the other line,’ and tell them to hold.”
“What if they won’t?”
“I think I’m calling the shots on this one, Roy.” Ava smiled. “Did you hear my broadcast?”
“’Course I did.” Load of crap it was, an’ all. “Took a late lunch and listened on the tranny.”
“What did George say about it?” asked Karen. She really liked George. He was always buying her sweets and crisps, which her mother had promised it was perfectly OK to accept. It had taken Ava all of five seconds accurately to sum up George’s sexuality as nil and his masculinity as minus ten.
“Ah,” she sighed now. “Poor fellow. I’m afraid he won’t be representing me in future.”
“Why not?” cried Karen.
“It’s a matter of savoir faire, really,” said Ava. “That and contacts. I tried to let him down lightly.”
It hadn’t been pleasant. George had done a lot of bleating about how much he had done for her and how loyal he’d been.
Ava had replied, “Loyal doesn’t cut it with me, George.” Then, when he had protested further, “If I’d wanted loyal I’d’ve got a dog.” At this point in her present reflections the telephone rang.
“That’s them,” cried Ava. “I mean, they. Quick –” she seized Karen, dragged her from the table, pinching her arm – “answer it.”
“Me?”
“Find out who it is. Say you’re Ava Garret’s secretary.”
“Ow—that hurts.”
“Just do it.”
Karen, her eyes watering, picked up the phone. “Hello. This is Ava Garret’s secretary. Who is calling, please?” She stared at the other two, then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “It’s the BBC.”
Ava gave a single sharp intake of breath. She murmured, “So soon” and began to walk with slow, fate-filled steps across the room.
“This is Ava Garret herself, in person. How may I help you?…I’d be happy to, though I am rather overwhelmed with…I see. Just a preliminary chat? Well, I’m sure I can fit that in…” Frantic silent mouthings: “Paper, paper…pen, pen.” Roy grabbed a double-glazing leaflet and a pencil stub.
“Your name is…yes, got that…I am as it happens…” She glanced at the kitchen clock. “Seven would be fine…And will that be at the ‘Beeb,’ as I believe you media people call it?…Langham Place. Near Oxford Circus…Reception desk�
��Oh! That is a good idea. Just in case, quite. Una momento…” More mouthing: “Mobile, mobile…quick…quick…”
Karen passed over her phone. Ava dictated her number and said her goodbyes. She turned to the others with great solemnity. “This must be he.”
“Who?”
“The stranger who will broaden my horizons.”
“Thought that was Corey Panting,” said Roy.
“He wants to take me out to dinner.”
“You’re going to be R and F all right.”
“You know what this means, Karen?”
Karen didn’t speak. She hoped it didn’t mean that she was going to have to pretend to be her mother’s sister’s child like she had when Ava joined the divorced and separated club. “Just in case,” Ava had explained, “I meet somebody.” Karen often used to wonder what would happen to her if Ava, suddenly ten years lighter, actually did meet somebody. Especially as no sister ever existed. Before she could respond to her mother’s question Roy shouted, “The chippie’s here!”
Karen pushed her chair back and ran out. Ava hurried after, paused briefly at the gate, then called loudly, “None for me, darling. I’ll be dining at the BBC.” She smiled graciously on her return at Roy. She could afford to smile now she would soon be seeing the back of him. “One could hardly arrive smelling of fish and chips.”
“You could wear some scent,” suggested Roy. “Ivy at work reckons a squirt of pong’s worth a pound of soap.”
“Does she really?” said Ava. God – how had she stood it? Look at him. Spots, greasy hair, spindly arms and legs, tattoos, all those dangling rings. He even had them in his nose like a prize bull, except that Roy would never win a prize unless it was for the dimmest, most charmless male animal in the entire universe. He wasn’t even properly clean.
“How’re you getting there?”
“Not sure.” Ava glanced at the clock. It was 5:15. How hasty she had been. How foolish. She should have thought it through; asked for a later time.
A Ghost in the Machine Page 27
