Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

“I’ve got a very soft spot for Karen. She’s a lovely kiddie. Very quiet and shy.”

“I don’t know…”

“After the service there’s a slap-up spread: fruit buns, gingerbread. Roulade sarnies.”

Benny looked bewildered.

“Like a Swiss Roll but with a toothpick.”

“I see.”

“And when we’ve all had a lovely set-to there’s the laying on of hands.”

“Oh dear.”

“Healing’s not compulsory. Although…” Her own rough hand slipped over the check tablecloth, covered Benny’s and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Couldn’t you do with a bit of help in that department at the moment, love?”

Not that sort of help, thought Benny. Not supernatural help, thanks very much. She had known as soon as Carey died that this moment would be forthcoming and was only grateful for Doris’s restraint in letting a whole fortnight elapse. What a pity she had chosen Friday the thirteenth to speak out.

Over the past twenty-odd years Benny had got to know a great deal about her friend’s religion, which she herself described as “down to earth but spirit-based.” Benny had picked up the information in dribs and drabs. The subject would be dropped, sometimes for weeks on end. Then a further astounding revelation from beyond the grave would lead to more excitable whispering. Mrs. Crudge, after fervently praising the medium in question at great length, always concluded with the same unanswerable and triumphant cry: “Now, how could she possibly have known that !”

These tête-à-têtes only took place in their employer’s absence. Quite early on, when Doris Cotterby, as she was then, had first come clean as to her secret leanings, Carey had jumped fair and square on what she called “such barmy burbling.” So Benny now felt quite justified in saying, “I’m sure Carey wouldn’t like it.”

“Of course she’ll like it! I bet she’s dying for the chance to talk to you.”

“She always said the dead had nothing to do with us.”

“That was in earth space. Now Carey lives in the light. And knows the truth.”

“Mmm.”

“Seize the moment, Ben. While she’s still on the first etheric level.”

Benny was not convinced. In the unlikely event that Carey was still on the first etheric level Benny was sure she would not relish being ordered back to earth space. She would probably be swigging a cocktail, drawing deep on one of her cigars and trying to set up a rubber of bridge. Any interruption would turn the ether blue.

“I don’t think one should meddle with these things.” She hesitated. It was Benny’s nature never to offend. She took this trait to extremes, even attempting conciliation with Croydon should he become sulky, or just mildly reticent.

“Also, I’ve heard such creepy stories. About weegy boards and crystal balls. People sitting in the dark holding hands. Things tapping on the table…ghosts…”

“Nobody holds anyone’s hand. Not unless you want them to.”

Benny noticed she hadn’t said anything about the ghosts.

“And we certainly don’t sit in the dark. The Church of the Near at Hand is the cheerfullest place you could possibly imagine.”

Benny had walked past the building many times and one word she would never have used to describe it was cheerful. However, even as she told herself she was being utterly foolish, she couldn’t help thinking what a wonderful comfort a message from Carey would really be. Perhaps in her very own voice.

She took a deep breath, said, “I’ll think about it,” and quickly changed the subject.

“Mallory rang up last night. He wanted to talk about the new business.”

“What’s that then?”

“Book publishing. They’re anxious for me to be involved. We’ll be talking about it when they come down next weekend.”

“You’d be good at that. Being a reader, like.”

“I think I’d be most useful in reception. Meeting people, putting them at their ease. Carey used to say I had a real gift for it. I could give the authors tea. Maybe even some of my special twists.”

“That should hit the spot,” said Mrs. Crudge.

Dennis had listened to Kate and Mallory expounding on their new business subject in his office with judicious calm. But underneath this professional exterior he was, in fact, pretty excited. Forbes Abbot, which had always thought there was more to that Mr. Brinkley than met the eye, was absolutely right. By day successful financial strategist, by inclination collector of alarmingly strange machinery; the third string to Dennis’s bow had so far been revealed to no one. Not even Benny.

When transcribing his dreams, as the therapist suggested, Dennis had been surprised to find this occupation extremely pleasurable. Exciting even. He began to get up an hour earlier than usual while the dreams were still fresh in his mind. Far from resenting this he looked forward to it, occasionally beginning to write even before he had had his tea.

Sometimes there was nothing to record but Dennis sat down anyway, reading through his previous notes and trying to see if there was any connecting thread. Sometimes there appeared to be a link but mainly not. If this was the case Dennis would forge one of his own in an attempt to make some sort of sense of the night-time chaos. Although he had never been good at English as a child, he found this creative process came quite easily.

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.