The Haunting of Harriet (10 page)

T
hat summer of 1940 was heaven, a glorious season of continuous sunshine. War was raging over Europe but in this tiny pocket of Kent life was blissful. The twins watched the planes with old Tom, who would abandon his digging to wave at the tiny Spitfires and the great Lancasters that flew past on missions, having taken off from the nearby airfield at West Malling. Tom said they were “off to bomb the bloody Hun” and taught them to count them out then count them back again, saying a quiet prayer for any brave pilot who failed to return. The Hun was far away; an unknown monster in a funny-shaped helmet. To the children, war was an exciting but distant adventure. To Mrs P, the stalwart rotund housekeeper, it was a great excuse to deny any request they made with the stock answer, “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” To their poor father it was an added burden of shame, sending him deeper into his miserable shell.

Old Tom was too old to be called up but suffered none of his employer’s guilt. He had done his bit in the last war. Once was enough. He never wanted to go through “that lot” again. He had tried rather half-heartedly to enlist for this second lot but age was against him. He was turned down. To avoid feeling useless he dug for England. He grew it and his wife, the indomitable Mrs P pickled, preserved, potted or embalmed it. They would certainly not starve while she was in charge. Beckmans became a production line with chickens pecking round the orchard and ducks inhabiting the small island in the centre of the lake. No one minded or noticed if the Pritchard’s meagre income was supplemented with the occasional clutch of eggs or a freshly plucked chicken.

Old Tom could never deny the children anything, especially his time, and they loved him for it. His resourcefulness knew no bounds but he excelled himself when he came home with a dilapidated old dinghy. He presented it to the ecstatic children, who with his help, made her sea-worthy in no time. They christened her the
Jolly Roger
and she was launched at precisely midday with a shot from David’s toy cannon and a bottle of ginger beer smashed across her bow. Tom had also acquired a boat hook, long and wooden with a large brass hook on the end. Best of all was the fact that he had taken the time to carve their initials into the end of the long shaft, which made it theirs alone. It was the best present the twins had ever had. From the moment she was launched the boat became the centre of their lives. Harriet did most of the rowing, being the stronger, but David’s keen eyes made him a great navigator. He could spot a shark or an enemy vessel long before anyone else. By the end of summer their father was confined to a wheelchair but on a good day Tom would wheel him down the garden to watch the buccaneers in action. No pleasure registered on his distorted face yet his daughter knew that he was smiling inside.

Mama had taken to lying in her solitary bed, seldom rising before two in the afternoon, when she would waft downstairs clad in her silk kimono and clouds of perfume and smoke. Gliding into the drawing-room, she would pour herself a drink, then stand at the long French windows gazing out across the lawn, her black cigarette firmly planted in its holder, smoke billowing from her red lips. She had a perfect view of the lake from this vantage point. She must have seen the little boat and its crew merrily cavorting around the island but she never mentioned it. She appeared disinterested in anything to do with her family or the house. She had become disconnected, a celluloid shadow without weight or form.

Harriet practised the art of self-sufficiency to a degree that was unnatural for someone of her age. Brother and sister had learned to lean on each other in times of crisis, although David did most of the leaning. Having no other friends, they spent a great deal of time together. The dinghy rendered them inseparable, made them a team: a crew. Messing about in the boat was their passion. When Mama threw one of her increasingly frequent tantrums they would grab a chunk of bread, some fruit and a bottle of water and take to the high seas. That whole summer the sun shone down on them and the skull and crossbones fluttered rebelliously above the
Jolly Roger
.

On the odd occasion when they were deemed too noisy they were banished to the loft. Their mother thought this an effective way to make them repent. The loft space at Beckmans ran the entire length of the house and this had been their territory long before they conquered the lake. This vast empty room was almost as magical as the water. It was their private universe. Ritual demanded that they stand stock-still in the centre until at an agreed signal the spinning would start. Throwing their heads back, their arms held straight out to each side, they become human planets, whirling dervishes, rotating and spinning, slowly at first then gathering momentum with each twist. All this was accompanied by a low moan, which like a dynamo increased at each turn, building up in a deafening crescendo that emptied their lungs and turned them the colour of Mrs P’s boiled beetroot. The sky winked at them through the missing peg tiles until, giddy and exhausted, they fell to the floor in a disorientated heap, laughing and gasping, waiting for their heads to catch up with their bodies. They were invincible, whether in their planetarium or on the high seas. They were the two musketeers and Harriet vowed to keep it that way for ever…however long that was.

Two days after the twins’ tenth birthday David was sent away to school. No warning was given, no time for goodbyes. A trunk was packed, a car arrived and David was gone. Harriet rowed herself to the middle of the lake and howled like a dog. The house was full of emptiness. Father’s nurse was bathing him, which meant no one was to disturb them. Mama had gone out and Harriet found herself alone. She did not dislike her own company but this was different. For the first time she felt lonely. Returning to the house she climbed up the main stairs. She examined the first floor, room by room, finding them boring and unused; even the bathroom echoed with nothingness. She slammed each door behind her, hoping to find some comfort in the angry noise. The attic too was empty. There were no moons or stars, just a large hollow room smelling of damp. Returning down the back stairs she inspected the sculleries and kitchen. Nothing bubbled on the stoves and the wet garments on the clothes-horse draped there abandoned. She too had been hung out to dry. The world was stuffed full of nothing. What was she going to do without her brother? London was being bombed every night and the fear that his life was endangered clung to her like a cobweb. She dragged her heavy feet back across the hall, the rubber soles of her sandals leaving long scuff marks on the polished wood.

Selecting a favourite book, she mooched off down to the boathouse, forcing the most mournful tune she could think of through her pursed lips in a thin wailing whistle. She had so much time, too much time; time to kill, time to be killed. Boring winter days stretched out before her. She had been given a prison sentence to be spent in solitary confinement. She had to learn to be alone. She must teach herself to be self-sufficient. The boathouse was cold and the September sun was too low to reach its windows. Spiders were spinning, ready to take over for the winter. She did not want to stay here. Harriet took off her shorts and shirt, kicking off her shoes at the same time, and stood there in her navy knickers, back straight and chest flat, her book clutched in her hand. Stepping out into the sunshine she climbed down into the
Jolly Roger
. With one oar she pushed the boat free of the jetty; securing the oar, she lay flat and gave herself up to the gentle movement of the drifting dinghy with the warmth of the sun on her skin.

She must have dozed off and she woke up with goose bumps. The sun was setting behind her as she took up the oars and rowed back to the jetty. Her fingers were cold as she tied the little boat to its post. Someone stepped over her grave and she shuddered, but not in an uncomfortable way. She wondered how it would feel to have someone actually walk over you when you were dead. How would you know when you were dead? She had just stepped into the boathouse when she heard a voice talking loudly and excitedly, the words slurred, the way her father had sounded after his stroke. But this was her mother’s voice; had she been struck too?

Harriet grabbed her clothes as the door opened and a stranger entered. He was not as tall as her father and considerably younger. His hair was slicked back with grease, suiting his cocky attitude. A smell of whisky combined with the sickly stale smell of tobacco came in with him. She watched a curl of yellow smoke leave his nostrils and weave itself into his hair. His mouth was smiling but not the sort of smile that encouraged you to join in. The cigarette dangling from his lips dropped its heavy ash on the boathouse floor and he spoke from between half-closed teeth. Harriet dived under the window seat, still clutching her bundle of clothes.

From her hiding place she could see her mother and the strange man clearly. They stood very close, kissing. He had his arms about her waist and was pulling at her skirt, easing it up over her hips, revealing her stocking-tops and suspenders. Harriet could see those fascinating black French knickers she had tried on so often when her mother had been out. Now this man was touching them, tearing at them, at the same time as slobbering over her mother’s face and neck. The sound of saliva as he covered her face with his open mouth made Harriet want to vomit. The ivory statue was transforming into a vulgar woman tugging at the man’s belt buckle. She was undoing his trousers. Harriet recoiled as she watched the frantic woman sink to her knees and kiss him, down there. She pressed her hand tightly over her mouth and hid her face in her clothes. A burning acrid liquid filled her mouth and she swallowed hard before looking out again.

They were on the floor. The man was on top, forcing the woman’s legs apart with his body. Her thighs spread wide, she gripped her legs around his bare buttocks as he pushed against her with strong thrusts. The woman made strange, pathetic moaning noises and scratched at his back with long crimson nails. She pulled him over so that she was astride him, riding him obscenely and hungrily, like an animal, her head tossing back and forth with each grotesque rise and fall. Harriet buried her face and ears in her clothes as the noises reached a crescendo. Then suddenly it was over and with a loud ugly shudder the man rolled off the woman.

When Harriet looked again they were lying quietly side by side. The man was lighting two cigarettes. Harriet inched back further into the shadows, frightened of being seen in the light of the flame. Her mother was staring up at the ceiling dragging hard and noisily on her cigarette, the tip surged brightly as the oxygen coursed through the tobacco. The man got up, his cigarette dangling from his lips. “You are amazing. You look like some sacred goddess but you fuck like a damned whore.” He adjusted his pants before he sleeked back his short greasy hair with his fingers, then tucked his shirt back into his trousers. He stood awkwardly leaning to one side as his did up the buttons of his flies. Her mother was pouting into her mirror reapplying her mask.

“And you, my darling, are a fucking bastard.” Her fingers wiped the scarlet grease from the corners of her beautiful mouth then she too adjusted her clothes. She smoothed her hair and patted it fondly. The marble statue was restored.