The Ghost (14 page)

“How is it going?” she said eventually.

“The book? It’s not, to be honest.”

“Why’s that—apart from the obvious reason?”

I hesitated.

“Can I talk frankly?”

“Of course.”

“I find it difficult to understand him.”

“Oh?” She was drinking iced water now. Over the rim of her glass, her dark eyes gave me one of her double-barreled-shotgun looks. “In what way?”

“I can’t understand why this good-looking eighteen-year-old lad who goes to Cambridge without the slightest interest in politics, and who spends his time acting and drinking and chasing girls, suddenly ends up—”

“Married to me?”

“No, no, not that. Not that at all.” (Yes, is what I meant: yes, yes, that; of course.) “No. I don’t understand why, by the time he’s twenty-two or twenty-three, he’s suddenly a member of a political party. Where’s that coming from?”

“Didn’t you ask him?”

“He told me he joined because of you. That you came and canvassed him, and that he was attracted to you, and that he followed you into politics out of love, essentially. To see more of you. I mean,
that
I can relate to. It
ought
to be true.”

“But it isn’t?”

“You know it isn’t. He was a party member for at least a year before he even met you.”

“Was he?” She wrinkled her forehead and sipped some more water. “But that story he always tells about what drew him into politics—I do have a distinct memory of that episode, because I canvassed in the London elections of seventy-seven, and I definitely knocked on his door, and after that was when he started showing up at party meetings regularly. So there has to be a grain of truth in it.”

“A grain,” I conceded. “Maybe he’d joined in seventy-five, hardly showed any interest for two years, and then he met you and became more active. It still doesn’t answer the basic question of what took him into a political party in the first place.”

“Is it really that important?”

Dep arrived to clear away the soup plates, and during the pause in our conversation I considered Ruth’s question.

“Yes,” I said when we were alone again, “oddly enough I think it is important.”

“Why?”

“Because even though it’s a tiny detail, it still means he isn’t quite who we think he is. I’m not even sure he’s quite who
he
thinks he is—and that’s really difficult, if you’ve got to write the guy’s memoirs. I just feel I don’t know him at all. I can’t catch his voice.”

Ruth frowned at the table and made minute adjustments to the placing of her knife and fork. She said, without looking up, “How do you know he joined in seventy-five?”

I had a moment’s alarm that I’d said too much. But there seemed no reason not to tell her. “Mike McAra found Adam’s original party membership card in the Cambridge archives.”

“Christ,” she said, “those archives! They’ve got everything, from his infant school reports to our laundry bills. Typical Mike, to ruin a good story by too much research.”

“He also dug out some obscure party newsletter that shows Adam canvassing in seventy-seven.”

“That must be after he met me.”

“Maybe.”

I could tell something was troubling her. Another volley of rain burst against the window and she put the tips of her fingers to the heavy glass, as if she wanted to trace the raindrops. The effect of the lighting in the garden made it look like the ocean bed: all waving fronds and thin gray tree trunks, rising like the spars of sunken boats. Dep came in with the main course—steamed fish, noodles, and some kind of obscure pale green vegetable that resembled a weed, probably
was
a weed. I ostentatiously poured the last of the wine into my glass and studied the bottle.

Dep said, “You want another, sir?”

“I don’t suppose you have any whiskey, do you?”

The housekeeper looked to Ruth for guidance.

“Oh, bring him some bloody whiskey,” said Ruth.

She returned with a bottle of fifty-year-old Chivas Regal Royal Salute and a cut-glass tumbler. Ruth started to eat. I mixed myself a scotch and water.

“This is delicious, Dep!” called Ruth. She dabbed her mouth with the corner of her napkin and then inspected the smear of lipstick on the white linen with surprise, as if she thought she might have started bleeding. “Coming back to your question,” she said to me, “I don’t think you should try to find mystery where there is none. Adam always had a social conscience—he inherited that from his mother—and I know that after he left Cambridge and moved to London he became very unhappy. I believe he was actually clinically depressed.”

“Clinically depressed? He may have had treatment for it? Really?” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice. If this was true, it was the best piece of news I’d received all day. Nothing sells a memoir quite so well as a good dose of misery. Childhood sexual abuse, grinding poverty, quadriplegia: in the right hands, these are money in the bank. There ought to be a separate section in bookshops labeled “schadenfreude.”

“Put yourself in his place.” Ruth continued eating, gesturing with her laden fork. “His mother and father were both dead. He’d left university, which he’d loved. Many of his acting friends had agents and were getting offers of work. But he wasn’t. I think he was lost, and I think he turned to political activity to compensate. He might not want to put it in those terms—he’s not one for self-analysis—but that’s my reading of what happened. You’d be surprised how many people end up in politics because they can’t succeed in their first choice of a career.”

“So meeting you must have been a very important moment for him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you had genuine political passion. And knowledge. And contacts in the party. You must have given him the focus to really go forward.” I felt as if a mist were clearing. “Do you mind if I make a note of this?”

“Go ahead. If you think it’s useful.”

“Oh, it is.” I put my knife and fork together—I’m not really a fish and weed man—took out my notebook, and opened it to a new page. I was imagining myself in Lang’s place again: in my early twenties, orphaned, alone, ambitious, talented but not quite talented enough, looking for a path to follow, taking a few tentative steps into politics, and then meeting a woman who suddenly made the future possible.

“Marrying you was a real turning point.”

“I was certainly a bit different from his Cambridge girlfriends, all those Jocastas and Pandoras. Even when I was a girl I was always more interested in politics than ponies.”

“Didn’t you ever want to be a proper politician in your own right?” I asked.

“Of course. Didn’t you ever want to be a proper writer?”

It was like being struck in the face. I’m not sure if I didn’t put down my notebook.

“Ouch,” I said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. But you must see that we’re in the same boat, you and I. I’ve always understood more about politics than Adam. And you know more about writing. But in the end, he’s the star, isn’t he? And we both know our job is to service the star. It’s his name on the book that’s going to sell it, not yours. It was the same for me. It didn’t take me long to realize that he could go all the way in politics. He had the looks and the charm. He was a great speaker. People liked him. Whereas I was always a bit of an ugly duckling, with this brilliant gift for putting my foot in it. As I’ve just demonstrated.” She put her hand on mine again. It was warm now, fleshier. “I’m so sorry. I’ve hurt your feelings. I suppose even ghosts must have feelings, just like the rest of us?”

“If you prick us,” I said, “we bleed.”

“You’ve finished eating? In that case, why don’t you show me this research that Mike dug out? It might jog my memory. I’m interested.”

I WENT DOWN TO
my room and retrieved McAra’s package. By the time I returned upstairs, Ruth had moved back to the sofa. Fresh logs had been thrown on the fire and the wind in the chimney was roaring, sucking up orange sparks. Dep was clearing away the dishes. I just managed to rescue my tumbler and the bottle of scotch.

“Would you like dessert?” asked Ruth. “Coffee?”

“I’m fine.”

“We’re finished, Dep. Thank you.” She moved up slightly, to indicate that I should sit next to her, but I pretended not to notice and took my former place opposite her, across the table. I was still smarting from her crack about my not being a proper writer. Perhaps I’m not. I’ve never composed poetry, it’s true. I don’t write sensitive explorations of my adolescent angst. I have no opinion on the human condition, except perhaps that it’s best not examined too closely. I see myself as the literary equivalent of a skilled lathe operator, or a basket weaver; a potter, maybe: I make mildly diverting objects that people want to buy.

I opened the envelope and took out the photocopies of Lang’s membership card and the articles about the London elections. I slid them across to her. She crossed her legs at the ankles, leaned forward to read, and I found myself staring into the surprisingly deep and shadowy valley of her cleavage.

“Well, there’s no arguing with that,” she said, putting the membership card to one side. “That’s his signature, all right.” She tapped the report on the canvassers in 1977. “And I recognize some of these faces. I must have been off that night, or campaigning with a different group. Otherwise I would have been in the picture with him.” She looked up. “What else have you got there?”

There didn’t seem much point in hiding anything, so I passed over the whole package. She inspected the name and address, and then the postmark, and then glanced across at me. “What was Mike up to, then?”

She opened the neck of the envelope and held it apart with her thumb and forefinger, and peered inside cautiously, as if there might be something in the padded interior that could bite her. Then she upended it and tipped the contents out over the table. I watched her intently, as she sorted through the photographs and programs, studied her pale, clever face for any clue as to why this might have been so important to McAra. I saw the hard lines soften as she picked out a photograph of Lang in his striped blazer on a dappled riverbank.

“Oh, look at him,” she said. “Isn’t he pretty?” She held it up next to her cheek.

“Irresistible,” I said.

She inspected the picture more closely. “My God, look at them. Look at his
hair
. It was another world, wasn’t it? I mean, what was happening while this was being taken? Vietnam. The cold war. The first miners’ strike in Britain since 1926. The military coup in Chile. And what do they do? They get a bottle of champagne and they go punting!”

“I’ll drink to that.”

She picked up one of the photocopies.

“Listen to this,” she said and started to read:

She smiled and shook her head. “I can’t even understand half of it. It’s in Cambridge code.”

“Bumps are college boat races,” I said. “Actually, you had those at Oxford as well, but you were probably too busy with the miners’ strike to notice. Mays are May balls—they’re at the beginning of June, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Trinners is Trinity College. Fenners is the university cricket ground.”

“And K.P.?”

“King’s Parade.”

“They wrote it to send the place up,” she said. “But now it sounds nostalgic.”

“That’s satire for you.”

“And what’s this telephone number?”

I should have known that nothing would escape her. She showed me the photograph with the number written on the back. I didn’t reply. I could feel my face beginning to flush. Of course, I ought to have told her earlier. Now I’d made myself look guilty.

“Well?” she insisted.

I said quietly, “It’s Richard Rycart’s.”

It was almost worth it just for her expression. She looked as though she’d swallowed a hornet. She put her hand to her throat.

“
You’ve
been calling Richard Rycart?” she gasped.

“
I
haven’t. It must have been McAra.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Who else could have written down that number?” I held out my cell phone. “Try it.”

She stared at me for a while, as if we were playing a game of Truth or Dare, then she reached over, took my phone, and entered the fourteen digits. She raised it to her ear and stared at me again. About thirty seconds later a flicker of alarm passed across her face. She fumbled to press the disconnect button, and put the phone back on the table.

“Did he answer?” I asked.

She nodded. “It sounded as though he was in a restaurant.”

The phone began to ring again, throbbing along the surface of the table as if it had come alive.

“What should I do?” I asked.

“Do what you want. It’s your phone.”

I turned it off. There was a silence, broken only by the roaring and cracking of the log fire.

She said, “When did you discover this?”

“Earlier today. When I moved into McAra’s room.”

“And then you went to Lambert’s Cove to look at where his body came ashore?”

“That’s right.”

“And why did you do that?” Her voice was very quiet. “Tell me honestly.”

“I’m not sure.” I paused. “There was a man there,” I blurted out. I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. “An old-timer, who’s familiar with the currents in Vineyard Sound. He says there’s no way, at this time of year, that a body from the Woods Hole ferry would wash up at Lambert’s Cove. And he also said another woman, who has a house just behind the dunes, had seen flashlights on the beach during the night when McAra went missing. But then she fell downstairs and is in a coma. So she can’t tell the police anything.” I spread my hands. “That’s all I know.”