Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

Mallory Lawson’s aunt had been a relative in a million.

Throughout his childhood her large, rambling house and semi-wild garden had afforded unlimited scope for adventurous games during the school holidays. Aunt Carey seemed to know instinctively when he wanted to be left alone and when he wanted company. She fed him drippingly scrumptious, massively calorific food that would have had his mother fainting with horror. Frequently, when leaving, more money was slipped into his pocket than he would earn in a year washing the family car. Kindest of all, when Mallory was fourteen she had encouraged him to smoke one of her special Havana Cohiba cigars to the very end, which made him so violently sick he was never able to touch tobacco again.

And now, peacefully in her sleep during her eighty-ninth year, the old lady had died. As perceptive and understanding as ever, she had accomplished this just as her beloved nephew’s mental and physical health was at breaking point. He thought then and for a long time afterwards that coming into his inheritance when he did saved his sanity. Perhaps even his life.

The news of his aunt’s death broke in the middle of a family argument. Kate, Mallory’s wife, was putting all the difficult, row-inducing points that anxious parents feel sometimes compelled to put to their children, even when such children are officially adults. This burden, for some time now, had fallen upon her. Mallory, even if he had not spoiled their daughter since the day she was born, was too broken-backed to enter even the mildest affray.

Polly had just completed her second year at the London School of Economics, reading Accounting and Finance. Though the Lawsons’ house was a mere fifteen minutes from the LSE by Tube, she had insisted on finding her own place to live. For the first year this had meant staying in the halls of residence. Then, after the long vac, she had found a flat share in Dalston. Her allowance was enough to cover the rent and food, with a modest amount left over for pocket money.

During the first twelve months her parents had seen little of Polly. Mallory had been extremely hurt but Kate had understood. Their daughter was on the threshold of a new world, a new life, and Kate regarded it as a compliment that Polly couldn’t wait to run out on to the high board, hold her nose and jump in at the deep end. She was bright, extremely pretty and confident. Psychologically speaking, she could swim. But financially? Well, that was something else. And that was what this set-to was all about.

Polly apparently now planned to move again. She had found a two-bedroom flat in Shoreditch. Her intention was to let both rooms to cover the rent. The agency wanted a three-month deposit to be returned when giving up the tenancy and a quarter’s rent in advance.

“So where will you sleep?” asked her mother.

“There’s a space I can cram a futon in – roll it up during the day. They do it all the time in Japan.” Polly, never patient, took a long, slow breath. The discussion, which had already been going on for half an hour, was proving tougher than she had expected. If only her mother wasn’t here. “Don’t look so appalled. Anyone’d think I was going to sleep on the Embankment.”

“Is it furnished?”

“No…”

“So you’ll need extra money on top of—”

“I’m saving you money, for Christ’s sake!”

“Don’t talk to your mother like that, Polly.” Mallory frowned, the deeply graven lines between his brows drawing together. His fingers plucked nervously at his shirt cuffs. “She’s worried about you.”

“But, don’t you see, it means you won’t have to pay my rent any more?”

“So you’re doing it for us?”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic.”

Kate could have bitten her tongue. She thought, why am I like this? Mal can be patient with her – listening, understanding. Giving way more often than not and receiving hugs and kisses in return. But herself – the slightest criticism, any attempt to stand firm against unreasonable demands or establish even a modest degree of routine or discipline, even when Polly was small, had brought the constant accusation from the child that her mother had never really loved her. More often it seemed to Kate the other way round. Still, her remark had been uncalled for. She was about to apologise when Mallory spoke.

“About this furniture—”

“‘This furniture.’ I’m not going to Heal’s. Just round skips and junk shops.”

“You can’t charge two hundred pounds a week for bedsits full of rubbish—”

“They’re not bedsits!” Polly stopped, took a deep breath and counted aloud to ten. “I told you – it’ll be a flat share.”

Kate hesitated. She had always thought flat shares were cheaper than bedsits. And wasn’t it usually a month’s deposit people wanted?

“Anyway, you know nothing about skip culture. People throw the most amazing things away.”

“We’d have to have a look at it,” said Kate.

“Why?” Then, when her mother looked taken aback: “I’m asking for a measly ten grand. I’ll repay it – with interest, if that’s what you want.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“And what’s it to you? It won’t be your money.”

It could well be, thought Kate. For she was still working practically full time. But she didn’t care about that. Her concern was over what the money was really for. She remembered an item on a radio programme only days ago saying that something like seventy per cent of the banknotes circulating in the banking area of the inner City showed traces of cocaine. If Polly, God forbid, needed money for that…

“It would be nice, though, love,” Mallory tried to ease the tension, “to see where you’re going to live.”

“The thing is…” Polly looked frankly at both her parents, looked them warmly straight in the eye. She did not know that, since she was very small, her mother had recognised this as a sure sign that her daughter was lying. “There are still people in there. It won’t actually be vacant for a couple of weeks.”

Kate said, “I still don’t see any point—”

“I want a bigger place, all right? More room.”

“But if there’s three of you—”

“Oh, sod this. I’m sick of being cross-questioned as if I’m some sort of criminal. If you don’t want to lend me the money just say so and I’ll piss off.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

This remark was the opener to a long harangue about since when had either of them ever offered anybody any real support or genuine concern in their entire self-centred lives. And now there was a chance to do something to help someone, and that person their only daughter, but she should have known—they’d always been so bloody tight-fisted. Well, she would just have to borrow from the bank and when she was hopelessly in debt because of the astronomical rate of—

That was when the telephone rang. The Lawsons’ answerphone, always on even when they were there, bleeped and wheezed. Distressed cries and squawks could be heard.

“It’s Benny!” Mallory rushed to the phone. Listened and gently spoke. His wife and daughter saw his face suddenly transformed by shock and sorrow, and their anger evaporated into thin air.