Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

Suddenly headlights swept the faded walls, bathing them briefly in a flood of amber light. A car drew up outside and Benny hurried to open the door. It was Mallory.

He said, “Hello,” in a forced, hearty manner.

“Mallory,” said Benny. “We’ve been so worried.” Mallory frowned and Benny thought that had been the wrong thing to say. “What I mean is, I have.” That wasn’t right either. It sounded as if Kate hadn’t been worried at all. “That is…”

But he wasn’t listening.

“Well,” concluded Benny feeling suddenly awkward, though she couldn’t have said why. “I’m off to sunny Bedford. Would you say good night to Kate for me, please?” She pulled the heavy front door closed behind her and made her way across the stable yard. Climbing the wooden steps to the flat over the horse’s mews, Benny found herself even more than usual looking forward to being at home. Truly, as the poet said, there was no place like it. First she would have a warm bath, then make a nice cup of cocoa, pile up the pillows on her bed and settle down with the latest edition of the parish magazine.

Kate, having spent the previous two hours struggling to disperse a huge knot of rancorous ill feeling, felt it regather with energetic force the moment she heard Mallory’s voice in the hall. To restrain a terrible impulse to stand up and start shouting, Kate struggled to play devil’s advocate. At least find out why he’s so late. It’s probably not his fault. What if he’d had an accident – think how you’d be feeling then. Be grateful he’s here at last, alive and well. She wished she hadn’t drunk so much.

“Kate – I’m terribly—”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? What use is sorry? This was going to be our evening—remember?”

“Of course I—”

“A special day.”

“I know that.”

“The first day of the rest of our lives as The Little Book of Psychobabble would doubtless have it.”

“What on earth’s got into you?”

“Well, let’s see. Disappointment. Escalating boredom. Irritation. Mounting resentment—”

“And quite a bit of alcohol from the look of it.”

“Yes, that too. Shock, horror.”

“I can explain.”

“So explain.”

“The car wouldn’t start.”

“Mallory, Mallory. Five hours and that’s the best you can come up with?”

On the contrary Mallory had come up with many alternatives driving down but he knew that, from him, they would all sound unbelievable. This was not because they were in any way extraordinary. It was enough that they were not true. Even at the age when children fib as easily as they breathe and with as little concern, he could never do it. He would turn scarlet and shuffle and wriggle and cry. Naturally now he did none of these things but the lie still lay, sharp as a bee sting, on his tongue.

The truth was that he and Polly had sat for a while drinking tea. Then she had suggested they grab a quick bite at Orlando’s just round the corner. It would be empty so early in the evening. They’d be served straight away; just a plate of pasta. In and out, twenty minutes tops.

It took Mallory barely five seconds to see the reasonableness of this. Even if he set off now they would probably have already eaten at Appleby House by the time he arrived. It would be pretty selfish to expect them to start cooking all over again.

Sitting in Orlando’s, which was nearly full, Mallory realised that this was the first time he and his daughter had been out and about on their own since she was quite small. He noticed people staring at her and was not surprised. She had on a tight, short-sleeved jumper of some gauzy black stuff. It was scrawled all over with silver pen markings and, even to Mallory’s inexpert eye, looked very expensive. She had done something to her hair, which showed rich, red glints where it took the light. The soft, curly mass was piled on top of her head and secured by a bronze comb studded with pearls and turquoises and tiny shards of coral. That looked expensive too.

They waited nearly half an hour for their tonnarelle alla paesana, nibbling bread sticks and drinking Rosso de Verona with Polly making up cruel and funny stories about the other diners’ private lives. Then, halfway through the pasta, she started to talk, quietly and seriously, about her own. Mainly about her course at the LSE and problems with her tutor in Business Statistics. Mallory, who, like Kate, had been subsisting on a crumb of information tossed occasionally his way for years, soaked up every word.

Polly had just got on to the other students, who seemed to fall into two categories: those who wanted desperately to be her friend and wouldn’t leave her alone, and the rest who were simply jealous, when Mallory noticed the time. Polly begged for a zabaglione because, “They are my utterly absolute favourite, Dad and they’re all on the trolly look, it won’t take a second and I can eat it while you’re paying the bill.”

It didn’t work out quite like that because she ordered a cappuccino at the same time, then disappeared into the ladies’ for what seemed like hours but was actually only ten minutes.

The lights were against Mallory at almost every stop in London and once he got on to the M40 and was able briefly to put his foot down, the dreaded cones appeared, leading directly into a one-mile tailback.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you ring?”

“The mobile was down.”

“How convenient.”

“I’m tired.” Now Mallory was becoming resentful. Hell, it wasn’t just his daughter he was saving from financial ruin.

“It was only serviced last week.”

“What was?”

“The bloody car!” Kate sat down suddenly. She felt as if someone had taken a chisel to her skull. “Did you ring the AA? Or the garage?”

“…Um…no…Turned out to be damp plugs.”

“Damp…? It’s been twenty-two degrees all day.”

“Oh – for Christ’s sake, leave me alone!”

They stared at each other, suddenly aghast. Two strangers in a strange room. Aghast and afraid.

If only I hadn’t promised Polly, thought Mallory. I was wrong to promise not to tell. And wrong to go out and eat when I knew Kate would be waiting. Now she’s angry and suspicious and I’m standing here full of mysteries and lies.

If only I hadn’t been drinking, thought Kate. Her mind replayed Mallory’s arrival differently now. She saw herself going up to him, relieved at his safe arrival, hugging him. Producing food kept warm or making something fresh. They would laugh and talk and drink some wine then go to bed and make love on this, the first day of the rest of their lives. Instead he stood there, exhausted and bad-tempered while she struggled not to give way and start crying. But perhaps it was not too late.

Kate forced a smile and said: “You must be starving, Mal. Let me get you something.”

“That’s OK. I’ve already—”

“Have you, really?”

“I mean, it’s too late…”

“Got it in one,” said Kate. And walked out.

The next morning Mallory, who had spent the night on the library sofa, made some tea as soon as the hour seemed civilised. He took the tray to Kate’s room. She was deeply asleep. Soft light, gradually spreading into the room through semi-transparent curtains showed clearly where tears had dried, imprinted on her cheeks. Tenderness for her mingled with shame over his own behaviour consumed Mallory. He put the tea down on the bedside table very gently, but Kate opened her eyes and was immediately awake. She struggled to sit, pushing herself up against the headboard.

“Darling Kate – I’m so sorry about last night.” Mallory sat on the side of the bed. “I really, truly am.”