The Haunting of Harriet

In memory of Peter

O
nly
angels and saints have the ability to view life from a wider perspective than us. Their elevated position allows them to peer around corners unimpeded by the obstacles that obscure our selfish, limited vision. They predict which paths we will take; while we simply blunder on, blindly relying on the odd signpost or an occasional flash of instinct. As mere mortals the scene from our own little window on the world is restricted to a personal, petty frame of reference. Still we plod along, placing one foot ahead of the other, and nod to those we encounter along the way, forgetting that their lives are what they are focused on. They are at the centre of their own unique universe and to them we are the outsider.

So, fixed on our own journey, we live out our short span between life and death using only the cards we have been dealt. On occasion we recognize a rare quality in a fellow traveller; one who appears to be holding all the aces; and we call them “special”. Whether we believe in Destiny, Divine Decree or the luck of the cards is of little account. All we can do is play the game, even if this means our sole purpose on earth is to serve as catalysts and enablers for those “special” people who are destined to achieve great things.

At least that is what some say……

H
arriet felt old and she hated it. Fate had played cruel tricks on her and left her wanting, without love and alone. Now, although still tall and upright, she used her father’s cane from necessity rather than style. The silver handle matched her silver hair; that mass of tangled ginger frizz at last drained of pigment and free will. At times she wondered why she clung with such tenacity to this empty life. Was it her stubborn nature or the burning conviction that she had not yet fulfilled her destiny? Fate would have to get a move on. She could not have much longer. Besides she was tired. She longed to lie down and slip away unnoticed and un-mourned. But not yet – not today. She must wait just a bit longer, after all waiting wasn’t hard and she had plenty of practice.

Liz believed in luck, especially good luck and why shouldn’t she with life spread out before her like a smorgasbord of tasty morsels, hers for the picking? The millennium evening belonged to her as she stood surrounded by the people she loved most in the world. She just knew something momentous was about to happen. She was on the brink of a new adventure. It was exhilarating and a bit scary but the night air was crisp and vital. Breathing it in, she filled her lungs and offered herself to the future. She had never before felt so alive, so receptive; every cell, every fibre of her body tingled. Edward let go of her hand and smiled at her, before disappearing into the night, laughing and chatting in his easy-going way.

She had met Edward on a blind date, an evening planned by her old school friend, Carol. It was supposed to be a foursome but Carol failed to turn up, having gone off with Liz’s prospective date. So the two rejects, dumped, feeling unwanted and rather stupid, decided to make the best of it and go it alone. By the end of the evening they were in love. Whether this was the hand of fate or a stroke of luck is debatable. Either way, just one week later Edward and Liz moved in together and were married the following month. The Jessops, as they were now known, bought a modest flat on the sort of South London estate that was aimed at first-time buyers, and began to build their nest. They both earned good money and Liz’s inheritance from the sale of her parents’ house enabled them to move quickly up the ladder to a smart three-bedroomed house suitable to accommodate a family. Edward’s determination to succeed was literally paying dividends and propelled him into the high-earning echelons of the money market. Now, several lucrative years on, another substantial move up the property ladder was on the cards.

They had been on the lookout for the ideal house, but so far nothing matching their requirements had turned up. Liz wanted to replicate the home she had been raised in: a solid Edwardian house filled with solid old-fashioned furniture and extolling solid old-fashioned values. Edward dreamed of a modern architect-designed showpiece in which to parade the outward signs of his success. Confident that the perfect property was out there somewhere Liz was content to wait for luck to play its part; but when a nasty bout of food poisoning turned out to be a well advanced pregnancy she panicked.

At first, the idea of a baby put the fear of God in her. But once her natural confidence took hold she began to look forward to motherhood. This confidence ended abruptly when it was announced that she was carrying twins. One baby was manageable but two together! She knew she would fail; the babies would die and Edward would hate her forever. Convinced that she was woefully inadequate to cope she began to sink into a state of anxiety-led depression. House-hunting was put on the back burner until more pressing issues were resolved.

It was then that she hit on her brilliant plan. She bought a puppy. To her hormone-crazed brain it made perfect sense: try everything out on the dog first. If it survived then it would probably be safe for the babies. Of course, if the pup died she would have to rethink her strategy. Luckily, the acquisition of a puppy proved a stroke of genius. It was another case of love at first sight. The tiny creature thrived. Her experiment worked. From day one the guinea pig ruled the house with a paw of iron, earning him the title of The Potentate; Supreme Ruler: The Pote for short.

Caring for the puppy came so naturally to Liz that she convinced herself once again that motherhood would be a doddle. By the time the twins arrived she was ready for anything life could throw at her. Her career was shelved and she became a full-time housewife and mother, which to everyone’s amazement suited her really well. Edward relaxed, content that his wife was happy. Secretly he was delighted to have his woman where she belonged; not exactly barefoot and pregnant but at home, a fixed nucleus at the centre of their lives. Suddenly the only problem in their otherwise ideal lives was the house. It shrank overnight. They had to move on up the ladder and soon.

It was over breakfast one Sunday that Edward spotted the advert in the paper. He thought it sounded nice, Liz thought it sounded perfect. According to the ad, the house boasted a mature garden with a lake, a boathouse and a beck, whatever that was and “a wealth of original features”. It sounded intriguing: “Beckmans. A grade two listed building. Originally a timber framed Tudor house dating from 1540; the main part of the existing house being late Georgian. The house boasts a wealth of original features. Situated on the side of the Kentish Weald; sheltered to the north by woodland and facing south to the river Medway this is an outstanding property. Having been unoccupied for some time it is in need of some repair.”

The idea of living in a really old house had not occurred to either of them. However, Liz’s curiosity was more than aroused and being a creature of impulse she had to investigate further.
This is the way luck works
, she thought.
You have to recognize an opportunity, then grasp it.
So she did just that. Now, three months one week and two days later, she was living in her perfect house, about to embark on a whole new adventure. How lucky was that?

The evening of the millennium brought with it a new beginning in a new home. They were all standing on the bank of the little lake that dominated the lower part of the gardens at Beckmans. In front of them was what remained of a small wooden bridge that would once have offered passage across the water to the old boathouse, whose shadowy ruin loomed to their left. Behind them at some distance stood the rear of the house itself, the light from the French windows flooding out across the lawn. Upstairs the twins and Robert, Brenda’s and Donald’s son were (hopefully) sleeping, with The Pote babysitting in tandem with Sue’s daughter Emily. Their closest friends, Mel, Bob, David and Sue, were staying for a few days and Liz had invited some of their neighbours to join the celebrations and watch the firework display. Edward had thought this an odd mix but it had worked well. The discovery of new friendships and the solidifying of old ones added to the air of expectancy that buzzed and fizzed around them like the champagne they guzzled down. They could feel it. It was as potent as the sound of laughter.

From somewhere beyond her safe warm cocoon it began to call her. An uneasy feeling wrapped around her; someone was watching her, watching her and willing her not to ask questions, to let the past rest. She had seen it lying on the bottom of the stream on the first day she had explored the garden and she could feel it now although she could not see it from where she was standing. It was there, though, just beneath the water, as it had been then. “It’s always been there.” The words tumbled out of Liz’s mouth by themselves. They made no sense; and why she had said them was a complete mystery. She knew she was referring to the old boat but why should the pathetic image of a sunken rowing boat haunt her? Why did she feel such a connection to it? It was puzzling. Someone was questioning her. What was she talking about?

“The boathouse…no one knows when it was built. It seems it has always been there!”

The lie hung heavily on her lips and she washed it down with a gulp of champagne. Her mind flashed back over the events of the last few months. Everything had happened so quickly. She smiled as she remembered it all. The very next day after reading the ad Edward had to go to the city as usual so she had dumped the twins with her best friend Mel and set off with The Pote on her intrepid journey south, to darkest Kent.

It was one of those bright October mornings when the sky is clear blue and the trees are just beginning to turn. On leaving the motorway Liz followed the directions in the agent’s letter. She recalled how happy and carefree she had been, actually enjoying driving for a change. After her parents were killed in a stupid accident Liz had become a bit of a car phobic. But that was long ago; it was time to put it behind her. This was her chance to prove to Edward she could do things on her own; and she was finding asserting her independence pleasurable.

The estate agents had written apologizing for not having anyone free to show her around the property; however, the keys were held at Watermere Post Office and she was welcome to view it on her own. They explained that although the house itself was safe the boathouse was unsound and advised that for reasons of health and safety it be viewed from a sensible distance. They took care to stress that they would accept no responsibility for any accidents should this warning go unheeded. The keys were to be returned to the postmistress by six pm. They had included a map to help her locate the property.