The Ghost

quite talented enough, looking for a path to follow, taking a few tentative steps into politics, and then meeting a woman who suddenly made the future possible.
    “Marrying you was a real turning point.”
    “I was certainly a bit different from his Cambridge girlfriends, all those Jocastas and Pandoras. Even when I was a girl I was always more interested in politics than ponies.”
    “Didn’t you ever want to be a proper politician in your own right?” I asked.
    “Of course. Didn’t you ever want to be a proper writer?”
    It was like being struck in the face. I’m not sure if I didn’t put down my notebook.
    “Ouch,” I said.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. But you must see that we’re in the same boat, you and I. I’ve always understood more about politics than Adam. And you know more about writing. But in the end, he’s the star, isn’t he? And we both know our job is to service the star. It’s his name on the book that’s going to sell it, not yours. It was the same for me. It didn’t take me long to realize that he could go all the way in politics. He had the looks and the charm. He was a great speaker. People liked him. Whereas I was always a bit of an ugly duckling, with this brilliant gift for putting my foot in it. As I’ve just demonstrated.” She put her hand on mine again. It was warm now, fleshier. “I’m so sorry. I’ve hurt your feelings. I suppose even ghosts must have feelings, just like the rest of us?”
    “If you prick us,” I said, “we bleed.”
    “You’ve finished eating? In that case, why don’t you show me this research that Mike dug out? It might jog my memory. I’m interested.”

    I WENT DOWN TO my room and retrieved McAra’s package. By the time I returned upstairs, Ruth had moved back to the sofa. Fresh logs had been thrown on the fire and the wind in the chimney was roaring, sucking up orange sparks. Dep was clearing away the dishes. I just managed to rescue my tumbler and the bottle of scotch.
    “Would you like dessert?” asked Ruth. “Coffee?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “We’re finished, Dep. Thank you.” She moved up slightly, to indicate that I should sit next to her, but I pretended not to notice and took my former place opposite her, across the table. I was still smarting from her crack about my not being a proper writer. Perhaps I’m not. I’ve never composed poetry, it’s true. I don’t write sensitive explorations of my adolescent angst. I have no opinion on the human condition, except perhaps that it’s best not examined too closely. I see myself as the literary equivalent of a skilled lathe operator, or a basket weaver; a potter, maybe: I make mildly diverting objects that people want to buy.
    I opened the envelope and took out the photocopies of Lang’s membership card and the articles about the London elections. I slid them across to her. She crossed her legs at the ankles, leaned forward to read, and I found myself staring into the surprisingly deep and shadowy valley of her cleavage.
    “Well, there’s no arguing with that,” she said, putting the membership card to one side. “That’s his signature, all right.” She tapped the report on the canvassers in 1977. “And I recognize some of these faces. I must have been off that night, or campaigning with a different group. Otherwise I would have been in the picture with him.” She looked up. “What else have you got there?”
    There didn’t seem much point in hiding anything, so I passed over the whole package. She inspected the name and address, and then the postmark, and then glanced across at me. “What was Mike up to, then?”
    She opened the neck of the envelope and held it apart with her thumb and forefinger, and peered inside cautiously, as if there might be something in the padded interior that could bite her. Then she upended it and tipped the contents out over the table. I watched her intently, as she sorted through the photographs and programs, studied her pale, clever face for any clue as to why this might have been so important to McAra. I saw the hard lines soften as she picked out a photograph of Lang in his striped blazer on a dappled riverbank.
    “Oh, look at him,” she said. “Isn’t he pretty?” She held it up next to her cheek.
    “Irresistible,” I said.
    She inspected the picture more closely. “My God, look at them. Look at his hair . It was another world, wasn’t it? I mean, what was happening while this was being taken? Vietnam.