Now both of the women who had contrived, one way or the other, to make his life a misery, had gone. Untethered, George felt very strange. So that he would not float away entirely he continued to structure his days in the usual manner, looking after the house, himself and the Church of the Near at Hand. This last proved to be a mixed blessing.
Sympathy there was in abundance, which was no more than he expected. What he wasn’t prepared for were stiflingly genteel romantic overtures. These took many forms. Gifts of food, invariably described as being more than enough for two would arrive, often with an offer to pop round and heat everything up for him. Secretarial help was also proposed, and here George was briefly tempted. After his mother’s death was reported in the Psychic News he had received an escalation of cards and letters. They contained mostly straightforward expressions of sympathy but a fair proportion also included messages or more often instructions purporting to come from Esmeralda herself. George began to get a feel for these missives. They were longer, for a start, and one or two correspondents did him the favour of delivering the extraterrestrial stuff in differently coloured ink. He binned them all, unread. Other members of the Near at Hand kept asking how he was coping with the shopping, as if he hadn’t already spent half his adult life hurtling round the aisles of Asda.
Ladies – George always thought of women as ladies – who did not want to do something for him wanted him to do something for them. Dripping taps, sagging shelves, sticking doors, blocked pipes. What, George couldn’t help wondering, had they done all the years up until now? He was also asked if he could mow a lawn, run someone to the chiropodist and take a pensioner’s elderly dog, Elaine, on a final visit to the vet. The reason for this last, explained the distressed owner, was that if she herself did the deed the spaniel might feel betrayed. George, feeling that calling a male animal Elaine was more than enough betrayal already, did agree, on this one occasion, to oblige.
There had also been several offers to help sort through his mother’s things. These came mainly from the Buckinghamshire section of the Worshipful Bowes Lyon Society, (hermaj/[email protected]). Esmeralda was not a member, though when the news of her collection got out the secretary had written urging her to join. It was, the missive seemed to imply, no more than her duty. When she declined, invitations to view the treasure were angled for and once even demanded, but also without success. So it was not entirely a surprise to George when, a few days after the funeral, a fierce rapping at the front door introduced the chairman of the group, Fabian Endgoose.
Surprisingly young, with cropped fair hair, Mr. Endgoose wore Himmler glasses and a floor-length black leather coat. A silk scarf showing the QM’s racing colours was twisted tightly round his neck. He had hardly opened his mouth before George attempted to close the door. Mr. Endgoose wedged a heavily studded boot in the gap. George threatened to call the police. It had all been most unpleasant.
Later, sitting in his mother’s armchair beside the now extinguished milky globe, he struggled to decide how best to handle matters. First, to ease the immediate pressure, he wrote to the society fibbing that his mother’s collection would be shortly going in its entirety to Sotheby’s. However, after posting the letter, it struck him that an auction might actually be quite a good idea and he spent the next few days writing to all the main houses to suggest this. Awaiting their response he locked the door of her room and was immediately overcome by such feelings of relief and happiness that he didn’t open it again until the day the archives were finally handed over.
He used the dining area to sit in, throwing out the ugly fumed-oak table and straight-backed chairs, then treating himself to a lovely striped sofa with a pouffe to rest his feet on, plus a large television set and matching video. These improvements made the faded wallpaper look so shabby that George decided to have first the room, then the whole house redecorated. To prepare for this he made a bonfire of all the old furniture including the butler, whose wings were the last to burn.
Sorting through Esmeralda’s personal belongings had an unexpected outcome. Having thrown most of her stuff straight into the bin, George was then left with assorted clothes and shoes. These were in beautiful condition, largely because his mother had lived for the last two decades wrapped in just a nightdress and a fluffy blanket. Unsure what to do next, he rang Help the Aged, who handled the house insurance. They suggested their charity shop in Uxbridge.
Carefully folding the mothballed dresses, George was especially attracted to what his mother would have called a tea gown. Grey georgette with a frilled hem and covered with splashy, peach-coloured flowers, it suddenly seemed to him quite irresistible. He took off his suit and shirt, unlaced his black Oxfords, removed his socks and put the dress on. It slid easily down his body as he was very thin. Unfortunately he was also very tall and it only came to…well, George blushed to look. He found a floor-length one, which was more respectable, and walked around in it for a while. It was amazingly comfortable. He couldn’t recall when he was so relaxed. In fact it was beginning to dawn on him that he had never before understood what the word really meant.
After he had delivered the rest of the clothes to Help the Aged he reconnoitred the other charity shops and department stores. Inventing a housebound sister (“very tall, about my height, size twelve”) he found all sorts of nice things, though shoes proved impossible. Eventually he bought a man’s pair in soft cream leather, pointed and elegant with little gold tassels. Unisex, really.
From then on George spent every evening in what he quickly came to think of as his real clothes. He grew his hair, throwing away the brilliantine, using instead fragrant shampoo, conditioner and an excellent hot oil treatment. He upgraded his dental fixative so his teeth stopped clicking and bathed every day in scented water. A CD player revealed the delights of light music, which quite eclipsed his previous passion for macramé. Sometimes George would dance, romancing the night away to Cole Porter. Other times he would favour a haunting, bitter lament from the pavement cafés of the Argentine. As the anguished violin began to sob he’d tango across the carpet with long, loping strides, snatching his head round sharply at the skirting board before loping back. All performances were usually rounded off with a glass or two of champagne.
Finally, tentatively embracing the twenty-first century, he ordered an answerphone. This turned out to be the solution to all his problems. It certainly settled the hash of the Church of the Near at Hand. People rang and left a message. He didn’t respond. They rang again, he didn’t respond. They rang again, then gave up. Bliss.
Doris was not really sorry when her hours at Appleby House were cut right back. To tell the truth, so much had happened in such a short while she was glad of a breather. She had four people to look after now instead of two and it was amazing how much extra work they made. Not that she minded. Doris had taken to her mother hen role with calm assurance. It was as if, she suggested to Benny during one of their now less frequent get-togethers, she had been in training for it all her life.
The real surprise had been the way Ernest had adapted to this new domestic situation. From the beginning he’d supported her a hundred per cent but he was a man in his sixties who liked a set routine and a bit of peace and quiet. As Karen began to spend more and more time at Dunroamin’ with Roy not far behind, Doris had pictured Ernest escaping from the house rather more often than was usual. Disappearing into the back yard to converse with his birds. Pottering in his shed.
Not a bit of it. He was completely involved from day one. He’d get Karen’s tea if Doris was tied up. Sit with her to watch television, try to comment on the pop stars and aliens, even though he was often unsure which was which. He even tried to help with her homework. She seemed to have an awful lot, and soon he and Doris became sharply conscious of the absence of books about the place. Ernest had a few about birds; Doris, some light romances plus cookery and knitting magazines. That was about it. They attempted to remedy the situation. Ernest found an encyclopedia in the church jumble; Doris joined
the mobile library. They had a lovely range. Also she discovered that you could order any book you liked and they’d get it, though that service wasn’t free.
There were hiccups, of course. And strangenesses. School was one area which proved surprisingly complicated. In her ignorance Doris had thought children went in the morning and came home in the afternoon, that being the end of it. Not so. She soon discovered there were also projects and special trips, after-school activities, pre-school activities. Sports days, end-of-term plays and concerts. Raffles, charity drives and something called the PTA. Karen, aware and ashamed that her real mother had never once shown her face, was proudly dragging Doris into any and every extracurricular activity.
Doris did her best. So far she had collected stamps for Blue Peter and made cakes for the guide dogs. She had agreed to help produce costumes for the choir’s October concert and collected branches from six different trees or shrubs for the nature table. Only the fact that she couldn’t drive and Ernest no longer risked it after dark kept them off the filing rota for the school and village archives.
Even then, Ernest did not escape entirely, having been persuaded – bullied he called it – into painting a gold and silver turreted fort for the end-of-term entertainment. This was eventually described in the programme as King Wenceslas’ last look-out. So far the play was called Holly and Ivy’s Big Adventure but Karen said that could easily change as they were writing it as they went along. Only once had Doris felt compelled to refuse a request, drawing the line at three lizards coming to stay over the Christmas break.
Money was a little bit tight at the moment, but would be easier when Karen’s allowance was properly sorted. The social services, who were considering an application to foster “very positively,” explained that this would be backdated. And Roy had given Doris over four hundred pounds, which he had found in Ava’s room. She and Ernest had decided to put half of this in a Post Office account for Karen and use the rest to give her and Roy really nice Christmas presents. Food wasn’t much of a problem. Doris did all her own cooking, not holding with what Ernest called “cobbled-up factory junk,” and it didn’t cost all that much more to double upon the amounts. Plus Roy was always bringing contributions from Tesco. Chops or fruit and suchlike; yesterday a lovely box of dates; last weekend, a beautiful ready-stuffed chicken.
Sadly the expected dividend from Doris’s small amount of shares in Brinkley and Latham had come to nothing. The firm collapsed shortly after the death of Mrs. Latham. No one had explained the ins and outs to Doris and she didn’t want to know. What she did know, and told anyone who would listen, was that it would have broken poor Mr. Brinkley’s heart.
However, in spite of this and other small disappointments, Doris had never been so happy. But happiness, as any parent could have told her, always comes at a price. In her case this was a continual anxiety over Karen’s health. Mainly pushed to the back of her mind during the day by sheer busyness, in rare periods of rest the worry would gather into a dark ball and roll around usually settling in the pit of her stomach. Sometimes she would even dream about the child and the dreams always ended sadly.
Karen’s headaches had not gone away. Gently talking around the idea of a visit to the doctor had not worked. After the terrible threat the child’s mother had made in this direction Doris was not surprised. She then tried bribery, which had always done the trick with her nephews and nieces, but that didn’t work either.
Not that Karen ever admitted to feeling bad. The fear equals doctor equation was too firmly established. But Doris noticed her screwing up her eyes sometimes and only last week she had her hands clamped over her ears and was trying not to cry. Overcome with worry, Doris had talked to her sister, who was convinced it was a brain tumour and that every minute counted.
Doris became desperate. She could not bear to put at risk the new and extremely precious relationship between herself and Karen. Imagine the damage, the breaking of all trust, if she attempted to trick the little girl into a surgery. And what if it was then decided that she needed an X-ray? Doris pictured the child somehow being forced “for her own good” to go through this distressing experience, surrounded by strange machinery and getting more and more panic-stricken.
Then, just a few days ago, Karen caught a cold. A late summer wheezing cough and cold. Something had to be done. Doris booked herself an appointment with Dr. Dickenson, now in his last couple of weeks with the practice. She said it was an emergency and was fitted in at the end of morning surgery. She told him everything from the very beginning, struggling to remain calm, not always succeeding.
The doctor said there were almost as many reasons for persistent headaches as there were headaches. He said that brain tumours were extremely rare in adults and even more so in children but that, of course, Karen must be seen by someone. He suggested Doris registered her with the practice as soon as possible and that he would call at Dunroamin’ on his rounds that afternoon. He had an idea, which Doris would perhaps consider, on how the visit might be handled.
So around four o’clock Dr. Dickenson arrived, leaving his bag in the hall. Ernest, primed, made some tea, took the tray in, with instructions to Karen to pour, then made himself scarce. As Karen gave the pot a stir, wondering if it was strong enough Doris rolled up her sleeve and had her wrist gently palpated.
“Why is he squeezing your arm, Aunty Doris?” asked Karen.
“Don’t say ‘he,’ Karen. It’s rude.”
“I’m your aunt’s doctor,” said Dr. Dickenson. “I’m afraid she’s got a bit of a sprain.”
“Oh! Does it hurt?”
“Could be worse,” said Doris, truthfully. Then, getting carried away. “Shall I have to wear a bandage?”
“Rest is the thing, Mrs. Crudge. And I can see you won’t be short of a helping hand.”
“She’s a good girl.” Doris smiled as Karen poured milk into rosebud-patterned cups. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Passing a plate of ginger parkin round, Karen started to cough, covering her mouth with her hand as Doris had shown her.
“You want some Buttercup Syrup for that,” said Dr. Dickenson.
“There’s no such thing.” Karen was uncertain, not sure if she was being teased. Whether it was all right to laugh. “Is there?”
“Get it at the Co-op.”
“Made from buttercups?”
“I had that years ago,” said Doris. “My mum used to swear by it.”
They ate and drank comfortably for a little while, Dr. Dickenson sitting back, smiling and munching, as if he had all the time in the world. Doris watching Karen without watching. Suddenly Karen sprang up.
“Uncle Ernest hasn’t had any tea.”
“I’ll get it.” Doris heaved herself out of the armchair. “Do me good to move about.”
“What about your arm?”
“I can manage a tray.” Doris brought a mug in from the kitchen, filled it then cut a large square of cake. “You look after Dr. Dickenson, Karen.”
“Actually, I have to be going in a minute.” But he didn’t get up. Instead he asked Karen if she watched a lot of television. Then, when she said, “No,” asked if she wore glasses and when she asked, “Why?” said she seemed to be screwing up her eyes a lot and he wondered if it could be eye strain.
“Um…I get headaches sometimes,” said Karen. Then, quickly: “That is, I used to.”
“My grandson – he’s about your age – gets terrible headaches.”
“Can’t you make him better?”
“I did, actually. Took some time – he had to have all sorts of tests.”
“Did they hurt?”
“Heavens, no. But it was bad news.”
Karen gaped and her eyes grew round.
“Turns out he’s allergic to chocolate.”
Doris, moving about in the kitchen, doing nothing special, listened to the low voices. Once Karen laughed and Doris sighed with relief. Surely that meant it was going to be all right? They talked fo
r quite a bit longer, then she heard Dr. Dickenson heaving and puffing his way out of the sofa and went back into the lounge.
“Karen’s going to come and see me about her cough.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Doris.
“Can I have some more parkin?” asked Karen.
“You’ll eat me out of house and home.” Doris showed the doctor into the hall and opened the front door. “Not that she can’t do with putting a bit of weight on.”
On the step he turned towards her and Doris saw his face clearly in the harsh sunlight. It was grave and sad. Her hand flew to her heart. Gasping, she cried out.
“What is it? Tell me.”
“I don’t know—”
“Tell me.”
“Please. She’ll hear you.” He backed away into the front garden. Doris stumbled after and, when they reached the gate, stood against it blocking the way.
“I’m her mother. I have a right to know.”
“I’d like someone else to see her. A specialist.”
“Is it a brain tumour?” Doris seized his jacket, her eyes dark with fear. “Will she have to have an operation?”
“No. I’m pretty sure it’s nothing…” He hesitated. “Nothing like that.”
What could he say? He was not capable of accurately diagnosing mental illness, though, God knew, he had seen enough seriously disturbed children in his time. He knew it could be linked to poverty, abuse or inadequate parenting. That last could certainly be a factor in this case. It could be genetic. It could spring up with devastating and frightful results in a formerly sunny-tempered child with a loving home. There was no accounting for terrible things.
A Ghost in the Machine Page 50
