Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

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?”