A Ghost in the Machine (10 page)

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 became 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.

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.

Polly ordered a Campari and soda with ice. The fortyish barmaid took her money and pushed the ice-bucket over with a sour attempt at a smile. Polly ignored this. She was used to sourness from middle-aged women. And middle-aged men too, once they realised they were being sent about their business. There were half a dozen or so propping up the bar. Polly picked up a crumpled copy of
The Times
, sat as far away from them as possible and drank her Campari, enjoying the tart, herby fragrance. As she put the glass down the ice cubes clinked and chimed, an exquisite sound on a hot day.

Sensing one of the figures at the bar starting to walk towards her, Polly opened the newspaper, turning to the financial pages. He drew a stool up to her table. She smelled beer, monosodium glutamate and something else best not gone into. Polly wrinkled her nose and held the paper in front of her face.

“Like another?”

Polly closed
The Times
, folded it. Stared at the man. Bumpkin turnip head, sprouts of coarse skimpy hair, unspeakable teeth. Grandpa Simpson to the life.

“Another what?”

“One of them.” He nodded at her empty glass.

“No.”

“No,
thank you.
”

Polly sighed, threw the paper down, reached for her bag.

“Ay, ay.” An elbow nudge. “Something tells me you're not from these parts.”

“What do you want?”

“Just making conversation.” A warty eyelid trembled into a wink. “No objections, I presume.”

“Let's put it this way. How would you feel if you were happily having a quiet drink and a deeply unattractive, foul-smelling old woman came over, sat practically in your lap and started chatting you up?”

Polly watched with interest as the man's mouth dropped open, giving an unwantedly intimate view of several stained, snaggle teeth. Gross.

Eventually he said: “Can't take a joke then?”

“It's your wife that has to take the joke,” replied Polly. “Not me.”

Deeply refreshed both by the cold drink and this sharp little exchange, she swept from the bar, pushed hard on a blue door displaying a penguin in a pinny and found herself in the ladies'. A satisfactory five minutes then drifted by as Polly considered her appearance.

She was wearing a plain blue dress with a calf-length skirt made of soft cotton. This had been filched from her mother's wardrobe during a recent visit to the house. With it Polly wore some flat white espadrilles, high-laced around golden, burnished legs. Her cloud of dark hair was confined at the nape of her neck within a black, petersham bow. She could not help looking beautiful – her cheeks glowed like peaches – but she had managed to look neither louche nor blatantly sexy. She applied Lancôme's Brilliant Beige, the most subdued shade she had ever worn, to her lips. For the first time in her life she wished she wore glasses. Horn rims would have been the finishing touch. They would have given her face focus and added a responsible, intelligent, trustworthy look. The look of a woman who could sensibly handle sixty thousand pounds.

As this cool assessment of her appearance continued, Polly's mind, just as cool, was busy anticipating the coming meeting. Funny things, meetings. They might be with people you knew or perfect strangers; you could have planned your strategy in advance or decided to think on your feet but the outcome was nearly always uncertain. In the fierce mock meetings on her course Polly had played things as they came. She found this exhilarating, like jumping into a river with unknown depths and strong currents. Careful planning was for wimps. But today was not a mock meeting. Today was for real. She must not be reckless: too much hung on the result. Softly, softly…

At this point in Polly's reflections the mean-faced barmaid came in with some rolls of cheap toilet paper, a canister of Vim and a J-cloth.

She said, with bitter satisfaction, “The toilet's closed for cleaning.”

“Would you like to try this?” Polly, who had been spraying her hair with Rive Gauche till it ran out, handed over the empty container with a smile of ineffable sweetness. “It's really awfully nice.”

Walking down the High Street in the sunshine, crossing the market square and checking her watch, Polly found she was on time to the second. As she approached the office she saw an Asian man, holding the hand of a small boy, opening the street door. The boy had a boat and was chattering excitedly as they climbed the stairs, Polly following. Then the man opened a second door and she glimpsed a further set of steps. So, there was a flat over the office. She wondered if this too belonged to Brinkley and Latham. Dennis must be pretty well off. Mallory had said once that one of his clients owned half Bucks county. Polly now found herself standing exactly where she had stood just a few days earlier but blessedly unencumbered of either parent.

“Miss…” the receptionist referred to her diary, “um…Layton?”

“Lawson.” Obviously Gail Fuller had decided to pretend not to remember her. Today was plainly the day for jealous women. This one was really knocking on. There was a silky moustache on her top lip, which Ms. Fuller had attempted to conceal by bleaching. Fine until it caught the light, as it did now, when it positively sparkled. A naturally coarse-grained complexion had been likewise disguised with a solid layer of rosy foundation. She looked, decided Polly, like a hairy raspberry ripple.

“I'm afraid Mr. Brinkley's running late.” A vague wave at a hard, narrow chair with wooden arms. “Do sit down.”