A Ghost in the Machine

by Caroline Graham

  His face was as ugly as his opinions and almost as ugly as his furniture. Andrew, knowing how much hung on this foul creature’s opinion of him, tried to be pleasant without appearing ingratiating. He nodded and smiled from time to time and occasionally exchanged affectionate glances with Gilda. He felt almost fond of her at that moment, and certainly sympathetic. What a life, he thought, growing up with this God-awful cretin. It’s remarkable she’s as nice as she is.

  When he judged the time to be right – i.e. when he was down to his last two hundred quid – Andrew proposed. Gilda radiantly accepted, her happiness palpable. So much so that Andrew had to make quite an effort to detach himself emotionally. Such joy made him quite uncomfortable.

  Quickly summoned to Mount Pleasant, as he approached the house he heard, through an open window, Berryman bellowing and Gilda weeping. She cried out: “You do…you know you do…every time…”

  Andrew rang the bell. It was almost ten minutes before the door was opened. Berryman jerked his head, walked back into the huge, thickly carpeted hall and stood leaning on a marble table with one hand inside his jacket, resting against his chest like Napoleon. Behind him a job lot of large, gilt-framed oil paintings – mayors, aldermen or other civic worthies – lined the walls of the stairwell. No doubt one was meant to assume they were Berryman’s ancestors. If it hadn’t been such a crucially important moment in his life Andrew would have laughed in the man’s face.

  “Mr. Berryman.”

  “I understand you want to marry Gilda.”

  “Yes. I promise to try—”

  “And I can promise you something, sunshine. The day you marry her is the last day she gets a penny out of me. Alive or dead. And that goes for you an’ all.” His speech finished, he stood there, watching Andrew closely.

  Andrew could see, in spite of the belligerence of his words, that Berryman wasn’t really angry. His eyes sparkled with spite, his lips kept tweaking at the corners into a grin.

  Andrew fought to keep his expression blank while his mind ran around like a rat in a cage. Was Berryman’s threat truly meant? Would he hold fast to it if Gilda defied him? Or was it bluff – designed to test his, Andrew’s, motives?

  Memory spoke and he suddenly heard Tania talking about Gilda’s boyfriends. “She’d go out with them for a bit but then something always went wrong.” This is it, thought Andrew. This is what goes wrong.

  So, what to do now? He wouldn’t let go – not at this stage. He had made an investment, both serious and costly, in his future. He couldn’t abandon it – he couldn’t go back to the costive blood-letting jobs in hellish offices for rotten money. Or dreams and schemes that fate decided would always be stillborn. He would call the bastard’s bluff and play the cards as they came.

  “I don’t want your money, Mr. Berryman. I want Gilda. I love her.”

  He heard a soft, plaintive cry then, a little whimper from behind a door, half open at the far end of the hall. She must have been standing there all the time.

  “My daughter’s got expensive tastes.”

  “I’ll look after her.” Andrew, about to run expressively on, checked himself. Quit while you’re ahead, boyo. While you can still sound sincere.

  “You’ll have to look after her. ’Cause I shan’t lift a bloody finger.”

  “Frankly, Mr. Berryman,” said Andrew, “I don’t give a damn.”

  At this Gilda had come charging across the shag pile and into his arms. Then she turned and seared the distance between herself and her father with a hate-filled glance.

  He bared his teeth and said, “Plenty of time.”

  Gilda wanted the date set straight away. The earliest the registrar’s offices were available was in one month less three days; as it happened, Andrew’s birthday. He returned to the bank in Causton for another loan. Unsurprisingly, as he had made not a single repayment on the previous one, it was refused. He explained that the present application was for wedding expenses and mentioned the bride’s name. Magic! The forms materialised as if conjured from the air, as did a cup of Earl Grey and some chocolate Bath Olivers, or would he rather have a sherry? Andrew chose the sherry, agreed that five thousand pounds was nothing for a wedding these days and accepted double.

  Afterwards he stood on the pavement in Causton High Street and seriously considered doing a runner. He was ten grand up and he still had the suit. Within days, if not hours, the money would start seeping out of his wallet on its way to enrich caterers, florists, printers and car-hire merchants. And all for nothing. Wasn’t it?

  Andrew bought a copy of The Times and slipped into the Soft Shoe Café for a cappuccino and a bit of a think. He had gambled all his life. As a child he could not even play conkers without betting on the outcome. Now here he was at the last crap table in town.

  The choices were limited. He could risk going through with the whole grisly procedure, betting on a change of heart from Berryman once he realised Gilda was getting married anyway, even without a penny piece to her name. He could go through with it accepting that Berryman might well not come round for a very long time, if at all. Unless…weren’t grandchildren supposed to heal rifts of this nature? At the very thought Andrew’s lips congealed. He nearly regurgitated his coffee. There would be no children. He loathed children. Final option, he could just scarper.

  Even as he brought this idea forward Andrew knew it was a no-no. He had never, ever been this close to this much money in his whole life and he knew the odds against it happening again were astronomical. So he went along with it, admired invitation cards embossed with silver bells and ribbons, discussed the merits of mignonette as opposed to gypsophila to accompany pink rosebuds, and struggled to stay awake as Gilda went in and out of fitting rooms wearing various outfits, size eighteen. When he proposed, she had been a sixteen but every day since, she admitted coyly, had somehow added a pound or two of sheer happiness. In the few hours she had to spare they looked at houses.

  He wondered more than once during this waiting period what, if anything, Gilda might be bringing to the marriage in her own right. Savings, jewellery, a share portfolio. Did the BMW actually belong to her? Far too canny to ask even the most oblique questions in this regard, Andrew kept his fingers crossed as more days ticked by.

  Then, a few hours before the wedding eve, there was a message that Charlie Berryman wanted to see him. This time the meeting was at a solicitor’s office in Uxbridge. Andrew presented himself – not too apprehensive. He was marrying money in two days’ time and believed no one could stop him.

  It was Berryman himself who sat behind the desk; the solicitor leaned up against the water cooler. Andrew was not asked to sit down. It was explained to him that he had been investigated and found wanting on the matter of property ownership in foreign parts – or anywhere else come to that. As regarded financial or any other sort of integrity his reputation stank.

  “You’re a gold-digging tosser,” concluded Berryman. “But my daughter loves you. And, unlike the others, you seem prepared to see this farce through to the bitter end to get your snout in the trough.”

  “That’s not fair!” cried Andrew. “I shall marry her even if—”

  “Spare me the bullshit. We both know what you are.” Charlie beckoned the solicitor, who came forward and handed a paper to Andrew. “Sign that.”

  “What is it?” He made no attempt to read the document.

  “A pre-nuptial agreement,” explained the solicitor. “In the event of irrevocable marital breakdown or divorce you are entitled to nothing.”

  “Not a bleeding penny,” said Berryman.

  “Well,” Andrew, his heartbeat quickening, threw the paper on the desk, “as you’ve cast her off without ‘a bleeding penny,’ this is hardly relevant.”

  “Gilda won’t want for anything, I’ll make sure of that. Sign it.”

  Andrew shrugged, the epitome of cool. But his fingers, hardly able to hold the pen for excitement and relief, gave him away. He signed.

  Berryman took back th
e contract. “You’re a heap of shit, Latham. And I hope before I snuff it I see you back in the gutter where you belong.”

  Alas for Charlie’s hopes, he died of a stroke followed by a brain haemorrhage just three years later. But he lived long enough to be reconciled to his daughter, who eventually had to agree that he had had her best interests at heart.

  It was unfortunate for Andrew that the old man lived so long. Coming across the pre-nuptial amongst Berryman’s papers Gilda returned it to the family solicitor with the instruction that it should still stand. Up to a year after the wedding or perhaps even a little longer, she might have torn it up, but by this time, in spite of Andrew’s untiring, exhaustive efforts to act the part of devoted husband and lover, even she was beginning to see cracks in the façade, and sense behind them fear, greed and, worse of all, a massive indifference as to her welfare and happiness.

  They lived comfortably, at least in material terms, in a handsome ranch-style bungalow with green shutters and a wide veranda. Ten rooms surrounded by an acre of attractive gardens and an open-air pool. The house, which Gilda had christened Bellissima, was in her name. She also had a decent allowance – enough, anyway, to buy Andrew a car on his forty-second birthday – a yellow Punto, R reg., but in pretty fair condition. The cream coupé, which she still drove, turned out to belong to Berryman and he refused to reinsure it to include another driver.

  Andrew was expected to earn his living. At his age and with his work record there seemed – and here Berryman jabbed a calloused finger hard into his son-in-law’s solar plexus – little point in writing letters and seeking interviews.

  George Fallon of Fallon and Brinkley, who had handled Berryman’s affairs since he was heaving scrap iron about in the early seventies, was on the point of retiring. Charlie got his account safely transferred to Dennis Brinkley, then made an offer for Fallon’s half of the business. As a fellow Lion and member of the Rotary Club he knew his approach would be favoured over several others.

  There were two reasons for this purchase, neither even faintly altruistic. First, the company had grown to about ten strong and was doing extremely well, making the acquisition a good investment. And second, Gilda was becoming extremely uncomfortable at having a husband who either sat about the house all day or insisted on accompanying her wherever she went, even if it was just to see a girl friend. “Also,” she further explained to her father, “people are talking. I overheard this attendant at the pool – she was calling Andy a sycophantic leech.” Berryman did not know sycophantic but he knew leech all right and thought the smart little tottie had got it in one.

  It took a long time for Gilda’s disillusionment to become complete. Finally having found someone who loved her for herself alone, even when she started to suspect this was not true she could not bear to let the illusion go. She hung on through the discovery of her husband’s lies about the past, his secret gambling and mounting debts. And through her never proven suspicions of other women. But each revelation gnawed and nibbled away at the heart of her earlier bewitchment until she awoke one morning and found that the illusion was no more and love had gone. And the dieback had been so gradual that this final discovery didn’t even hurt.

  Freedom felt strange at first, clean and empty like a cavity when a rotten tooth has been drawn. But, the human mind being what it is, the cavity did not remain empty for long. And in Gilda’s case it was filled, degree by slow pleasurable degree, with the understanding that she now had another human being completely in her power. Without her, Andrew, by now in his late forties, had nothing. No home, no food, no money. And no prospects of getting any of these either. His weakness, his inability ever to get his act together, had left him stranded. All washed up like the soft-shelled creatures left helpless on their backs when the tide goes out. Very occasionally he would murmur a request – perhaps for a new jacket, or some books. Or, even more occasionally, he might make a mild complaint when it would be briskly pointed out that if he didn’t like the way things were round here he could always go. Except that he couldn’t because he had nowhere to go.

  Not a happy state of affairs. Gilda sometimes thought she might never experience happiness again – had indeed almost forgotten what it felt like. But one thing she did know: if you couldn’t have happiness, power was definitely the next best thing.

  2

  The Lawsons’ appointment, already referred to by Dennis Brinkley, was for 10:30. At 10 a.m. Polly was still not up. She had been called twice and replied twice that she was getting dressed. Finally, instead of calling, Kate went into her room to find Polly still in bed. She wasn’t even pretending to be asleep; just lying on her back and gazing at the ceiling.

  “You know we’re due in Causton at half-past ten.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I told you when I brought your tea.”

  “So?” Polly sat up, shaking her dark curly hair. Scratching her scalp. Sighing. “Why do I have to come anyway?”

  “Because you have a bequest in her will.”

  “Bequest.” The word was a scornful snort. “Bet it’s that rubbish cameo—”

  “Listen!” Kate seized her daughter by the arm and half dragged her off the mattress. “Don’t you ever talk about Carey or her things like that. Especially in front of your father.”

  “OK…OK…”

  “You know how much he loved her.” Kate, exhausted by the previous day’s activity and comforting her husband through a sleepless night, struggled to banish tears of weakness. “I want you downstairs and ready to leave in ten minutes.”

  In fact they were only slightly late for their appointment. It was 10:35 when they entered the light and elegant reception area, to be welcomed by a smartly dressed buxom woman with a slightly too gracious manner. An inscribed wooden Toblerone explained that she wished to be known as Gail Fuller. Next to the sign was a large bouquet of roses and creamy lilies in a crystal vase. Polly was impressed. She had pictured Dennis all on his own in a poky little hole surrounded by dusty box files and a prehistoric Amstrad.

  Her impressedness deepened as they were led through the main office, which was large and open plan, taking up the whole floor of the building. Here were lots more desks, all personalised in some way: photographs, a smart executive toy, a plant, a stuffed animal, a cartoon. Each supported an iMac, the keyboards of which were pretty busy. A photocopier hummed. At diagonal corners of this space were two quite large glassed-in enclosures. Gail Fuller opened the door of the one with Dennis’s name on and announced them.

  Polly apologised prettily to Dennis as soon as they were all seated. She said their late arrival was all her fault and he must forgive her. This was said with much eyelash fluttering which, to Kate’s secret satisfaction, hardly seemed to register.

  “This is so exciting,” trilled Polly, thinking Dennis must be older than he looked. She remembered him, of course. As a child she had rather admired his red-gold, close-cropped hair, freckly countenance and chestnut-brown moustache. He had reminded her of Squirrel Nutkin. Now the gingery paws were opening a heavy crimson envelope; easing out the will. Dennis smoothed the heavy parchment, pinning it down under a butterfly paperweight. In spite of her totally negligible expectations Polly couldn’t help a sudden tightening in her throat. It was like a scene in one of those old-fashioned crime stories that turned up sometimes on the box. Except then there would’ve been a murder first. Now that would liven things up. Dennis had started speaking.

  “As I know you are already aware,” he smiled directly at Mallory, “Appleby House and all the grounds pass without entail directly to yourself. I hope the arrangement with Pippins Direct will continue.”

  “We’ve already spoken,” said Mallory. “They’re happy to carry on. And I’ll be confirming it in writing later this week.”

  “The rent at ten thousand pounds is modest but they are a small firm, organic and deeply conscientious. Your aunt would have been pleased at your decision.”

  Polly wondered what profits this “
small firm” were actually raking in. It sounded to her as if the old lady had been a pushover and they were now creaming it. Maybe she could get her dad to take a closer look.

  “There follows a number of small bequests,” continued Dennis, “which, as executor, I will be glad to undertake.”

  He started to list these in a droning monotone. Polly switched off and began to look about her, observing the activity outside. She pictured herself this time next year in the heart of the City in just such an environment and wondered what she would put on her desk. Something cool, certainly. No clacking silver balls – that was for sure. No photographs either – who would she want a photograph of? And if there was any green stuff it would definitely not be some run-of-the-mill garden centre takeaway.

  As she mused along the lines of what form her rare exotic plant might take – weren’t orchids rather common? And didn’t they need a particular environment? – the door of the other private office opened. A man came out and strode across the room. A shortish dark man, somewhat younger than Dennis as well as much better-looking. She recognised him from the funeral where he had been laughing immoderately and drinking too much. She could see papers in his hand and watched as he gave them to a girl at the photocopier with a wide smile. All his actions appeared vigorous and lively, yet there was a strange artificiality about them as if he were acting a vitality he didn’t really feel.

  Polly wondered about him but in a detached, disinterested way. No man could possibly attract her at the moment. Overnight she had become immune to that particular virus.

  Tuning back into the meeting (surely it must be her turn soon?) Polly heard Dennis say, “After these bequests have been paid the residue of your aunt’s estate, including her portfolio of investment trusts, is valued at just over three hundred thousand pounds.”

  “I had no idea…” Mallory stumbled over the words. “That is…thank you.”

  “Regarding Benny Frayle—”

  “Shouldn’t she be here with us?” asked Kate.