Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

The others looked at her. Even Mallory could not conceal his disappointment at this deliberate puncturing of such an exciting moment. He said “We’ll have to celebrate, Poll.”

“Let’s get some champagne on the way home.” Polly had stopped laughing but her voice was still unstable with merriment. It seemed that any minute it might tip over into a giggle. “And tonight we can go somewhere really super for dinner.” She paused then, perhaps becoming aware that such levity might be seen as insensitive, placed both hands in her lap and regarded them soberly. Mentally she counted to five, then looked up, her face grave.

“How very kind of Great-aunt Carey to remember me in this way.”

This sudden volte-face, unconvincing even to Mallory, led to a somewhat awkward pause.

Dennis skilfully bridged the gap. “You mentioned plans earlier,” he murmured, looking at Kate and Mallory in turn. “For the house?”

“Oh, yes,” said Kate, her face slowly lighting up with pleasure. “We’ve always had this dream—”

“Kate’s dream really,” explained Mallory.

“Of setting up our own business. Publishing good, really good fiction.”

“Been on the back burner for ages.”

“We were beginning to think it might never happen.”

“A big step,” said Dennis. “Needs careful planning. And sound financial advice.”

“Well, as to that…”

Kate and Mallory regarded Dennis with hopeful confidence. Polly turned her attention once more to the outer world. She had heard about her mother’s wonderful dream ad nauseam. A loser if ever there was one. Polly had better things to think about. Like how near, how wonderfully near was her escape now from the strangling grip of debt. But she certainly couldn’t afford to wait another ten months, not with compound interest at twenty-five per cent piling up. So how to get around such a stupid restriction?

The next morning Mallory returned to London. Polly, who was to have gone back with him, unaccountably now wanted to stay on and help her mother “sort things out and tidy up.”

Kate was disappointed. She had anticipated a quiet, pleasant if inevitably melancholy two or three days with Benny. She had pictured them going through Carey’s things, remembering when she had last worn a certain dress, read a certain book. They would comfort each other and, no doubt, weep a little. Now everything would be different. Kate had realised for a long time that she loved her daughter more when Polly wasn’t there. Now she struggled with the dreadful possibility that she didn’t love Polly at all unless she wasn’t there.

The annoying thing was Kate knew perfectly well that whatever reason Polly had for staying on it had nothing to do with sorting anything. Of course, she had no intention of provoking a row by saying so. Or by trying to discover the real reason, a hopeless task in any case. You couldn’t get Polly’s opinion on the weather if she didn’t choose to give it.

Suddenly Kate remembered the brief episode she had witnessed in the garden the day before yesterday between Polly and Ashley Parnell. Even from a distance Kate had sensed the scene’s extraordinary intensity. And then afterwards Polly’s stillness, her dreaming silence. She hoped with all her heart that Polly, young, vigorous, determined, beautiful, had not set her sights on even a mild flirtation with the poor man.

She and Benny planned to work for two hours, then stop for coffee. Kate decided to stay in the kitchen and check out the china and glass. There were masses of both and quite a lot of it was chipped or cracked. Polly agreed to sort through the two sideboards and huge chest of drawers in the dining room. These were full of napkins, embroidered place mats, runners and tablecloths.

Benny had offered to tackle the linen cupboard. As she trotted across the bare, polished boards of the landing she caught sight of the closed door of Carey’s bedroom and turned her head quickly away. She had been in there only once since Carey died, to strip the bed, throw out all the pills and medicines and do a quick tidy. It had hurt so much, handling her friend’s special things. The beautiful Chinese bowls and collection of elephants. The silver-framed photographs of family and friends – so many, and even more in the rooms downstairs. And the novel, The Flight from the Enchanter , which Benny had been reading aloud the last night of Carey’s life. Still open at page 176.

“Stop there,” Carey had said. “We’re nearly at my favourite bit – that wonderful shareholders’ meeting with the mad old ladies. Let’s save it for tomorrow.”

Recalling this Benny, suddenly overcome by grief and loneliness, started to cry. She ran to the nearest bedroom and buried her face in her apron to stifle the noise. Kate had more than enough to do without mopping up after moaning minnies. Also, Benny thought she might upset Polly. She was sure the girl must be taking Carey’s death much harder than she let on. Not everyone chose to make a display of their feelings.

Kate had opened a deep drawer containing nothing but tea towels. Crisp, white, perfectly ironed. At the very bottom there was a separate stack tied neatly with ribbon. As soft and weightless as beautifully darned tissue paper. As she delicately lifted them out Kate sensed someone standing in the doorway.

“Oh, Polly. Just look at these.”

“Mm,” said Polly. “Is it time for coffee?”

“No. We’ve only been going half an hour.”

“I’ve finished.” Polly wandered over to the window and stared out at a hot blue sky. “What a fabulous day.”

“What would you like to tackle next, then?”

“I shall definitely spend much more time down here.”

“There are two huge boxes of cutlery—”

“I thought I might go for a walk.”

“Right.”

“That sounded a bit tight-lipped.” Then, when Kate did not respond: “See you soon.”

“Why don’t you—”

But she was gone. Kate was going to suggest Polly put a jacket on. She knew the girl’s clothes were none of her business. Polly had worn exactly what she liked for as long as her mother could remember. But Forbes Abbot was not London. Kate hated the thought of Polly being talked about behind her back. Laughed at, even. Thought no better than she should be. Ridiculous archaism but people still used it. And everyone knew what it meant.

Polly had gone out wearing a tight white sleeveless top with a large triangle cut out of the front, revealing the top half of her breasts and a strange skirt made of assorted floaty panels, longer one side than the other but still pretty short. Though not quite transparent it was far from opaque. Round her neck she had slung a purse in the shape of a tiny star made of silver beads on a leather thong. Strangely the fact that she knew Polly would be totally indifferent to village opinion did not make Kate feel any less protective on her behalf.

She moved to the large sash window over the sink. Ashamed of herself for spying but driven just the same, Kate watched her daughter pass through the tall iron gates. Polly turned right and walked away. She hadn’t even glanced at the house opposite. Becoming irritated with herself now as well as ashamed, Kate wondered if she had imagined emotion that simply hadn’t been there in the scene at Carey’s funeral. Willing this to be so, then wanting to shake it from her mind, she decided to stop for coffee after all. She went into the hall to call Benny. There was no reply. Then she heard soft little whining noises, muffled as if through several fabric folds, and ran quickly upstairs.

Polly strolled along Forbes Abbot High Street, which was a pretty low street compared to, say, the King’s Road, but not without its charms. A stranger in a small community always provokes interest and although a lot of people, because of the funeral, remembered who Polly was, she still remained a relatively unknown quantity. So a few heads turned as she passed and one or two people said, “Good morning,” but there was nothing like the amount of interest, admiration and resentment that Polly expected. Then she noticed how people were talking together in groups of two or three, their faces grave but also somewhat excited. This did not disturb Polly overmuch. She presumed it was some trivial local matter blown up out of all proportion by people who had nothing better to do with their time.