The Haunting of Harriet (12 page)

“Mother’s the one who should go. They should put her in the nuthouse with all the other whores. She’s a fucking whore!”

“Stop it, stop it…. Don’t say that…. I won’t let you.” David’s brain was spinning. His loyalties were divided and he hit out at the thing nearest to him. The sickening thud as her head hit the deck was the last thing she remembered for a very long time.

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What is the point of having a large house if you don’t intend to fill it?” This had been Liz’s philosophy since they had moved in to Beckmans. Time had flown by and this was their fifth Christmas. The house buzzed with the noise of friends at one with their own company and surroundings. The tree groaned beneath its weight of tinsel, baubles and fairy lights; enough, according to Edward, to confound the National Grid. Lights flickered and danced among the myriad new and familiar decorations below the ancient Christmas fairy, who balanced precariously on top, just as she had when Liz was a child. She was much too old to be performing such death-defying feats but Liz was too sentimental to think of ever replacing her.

Harriet brushed her fingers along the prickly pine, releasing a pungent scent that took her back to her childhood. She smiled as she wondered what Mama would think of her now. As children they had been forbidden to touch the tree in case they damaged it. The tree would appear in the hall on Christmas Eve morning, tall and proud and dressed, so for many years she had assumed it came fully decorated. This family let the twins choose each bauble and hang it exactly where they wanted, creating a spontaneous display that made up for any loss of designer elegance with originality and enthusiasm; so different from the totem pole Harriet remembered.

Sue, Mel and Brenda scuttled to and fro, ushered by Liz. They emerged from the steamy kitchen laden with an apparently endless stream of dishes. Crispy buttery parsnips, roasted potatoes, sprouts with lardons and chestnuts, red cabbage gleaming with butter and smelling of spice, along with gravies, sauces, sausages and bacon rolls, all the paraphernalia of a traditional English Christmas blow-out were paraded for the feast. This was a time for excess and Liz was in her element: entertaining. The house had proved to be everything she had wanted and then some. It suited her. It suited them all. They belonged here, safely wrapped in that warm embrace that had first greeted her all those years ago, and what better time than Christmas to share it?

The Jessop twins, Jenny and James, were now mischievous eight-year-olds who knew exactly what Christmas was about. They leant across the table, egged on by the older and wiser Robert and Emily, pulling more and more crackers, squealing with delight at the rubbishy treasures that spilled out after each bang. The men opened bottles, oblivious to the mountain of litter the children were creating. They were being boys again, resplendent in the stupid, ill-fitting paper hats the children foisted on them, laughing at appalling jokes, while consuming rather than tasting the various wines.

Harriet watched from a distance. She was thinking of her father, before he was confined to the Tudor room, seated in his dinner suit at the end of the long polished table, with her mother, exquisitely dressed, so far away at the other. She and her brother sat somewhere in between. Mama considered crackers to be vulgar and untidy, an attitude that cast a formal, stiff shadow over the whole festival. An ostentatious wreath hung on the front door, lying to the world that this was a house of festive cheer. Then there was the tree, which had given up its life to stand all alone in the cold hall for a few miserable days. Harriet remembered crying one year when, shortly after Boxing Day, Tom dragged it off to the bonfire to be burned before its needles could drop and cause unnecessary mess. Christmas was a time of painful memories and increased loneliness, so for most of her life she had chosen to ignore it, overshadowed as it had become with ghosts and demons. Anyway, that was all so long ago. It no longer mattered. Christmas was indeed a festive season now; she did not want old memories spoiling things.

So much had changed. For one thing, no one smoked anymore. Everyone smoked then, that wonderful aroma of exotic tobaccos filling the air, while adding a degree of decadence and devil-may-care nonchalance to the atmosphere. The elegance of long cigarette holders and the sight of gentlemen leaning over to light their ladies’ Russian or Turkish cigarettes had all gone. Time had relaxed everything. No one followed the rituals. Manners were ignored to the point of non-existence and children mixed with the adults displaying a natural ease and assurance that amused and delighted Harriet. The women lingered at the dining-table long after the meal was over and the gentlemen left them to attend to their own chairs without so much as rising from theirs. Harriet wished she was beginning her own life as a young adult in this emancipated, free age, with fewer rules and the company of such bright young people as these surrounding her now.

The women carted the dishes, now stacked and empty, back into the kitchen, laughing and joking about their lazy men. Harriet noticed that it was still the women, working together, making light of their work. Some things never change. But stacking, that was another thing. Her mother never let the servants stack dishes. Nor would she ever actually touch one herself. How she would have disapproved. But tonight the clearing-up provided a source of fun for the four friends as they bustled about, filling dishwashers, sorting glassware and yelling at Brenda to get out of the way. In time, the exhausted twins were settled upstairs and the teenagers, Emily and Robert sloped off to listen to their new CDs, allowing the Circus to settle around the fire that crackled in the great marble fireplace in the lounge. Candles shone from every surface and eventually the women joined their men. Everyone was merry with the atmosphere and the wine.

Mel took out her Tarot pack. Donald groaned and Brenda sniffed her disapproval, David and Edward feigned indifference, but Bob smiled. He knew it was pointless to try to stop his wife. Liz and Sue were with Mel, eagerly clearing a space on the floor for her to spread the deck. The air was heavy with expectancy. Even those who did not share Mel’s beliefs were gripped by a certain thrill of anticipation, that possible glimpse into the future. Deftly she shuffled her well-worn cards, her dark eyes shining with mischief as they glanced in turn at each of the friends. Suddenly, as if she had been told where to go, the cards were handed to Liz, who cut the pack before handing them back. Overcome by an inexplicable sense of foreboding Harriet removed herself to the back of the room.

Mel’s thick hair mimicked the flames as it caught their light with each movement of her head. She spread the cards face-down in a horseshoe. This was her preferred method of giving a reading. If all went well she would be given a clear insight into the past and the present, making any predictions about the future far more plausible and acceptable to whosoever the reading was for. Slowly and deliberately her black-painted fingernails rapped on the first card. This was her trade and she was good at it. There was more than a touch of the showman about Mel, which was what kept her in popular demand as a psychic.

Mel tapped on the card at the apex of the horseshoe, the one furthest from her. Her long, dramatic nail hesitated before moving on to rest on the card nearest to her. This she turned slowly to reveal the picture of a tall woman seated on a throne: a queen with blonde hair piled beneath a crown and holding a sword. Mel stroked the card, then flipped the next one. This contained the image of a dark-haired king. He too was seated on an elaborate throne but in his hands held a simple staff. The two figures sat passively facing each other. Mel mused, “This is the Queen of Swords – it is you, blonde, strong-minded. This card is strength. Swords are air signs. This,” her finger pushed at the second card, “is fire. The King of Wands; he has strength too, energy: businesslike, dependable. Edward. You’re facing each other, communicating. Or it could mean conflict; air and fire, interesting. Now let’s see.” She smiled at Liz, another mischievous little grin as she turned the next card. Mel was enjoying herself.

The next card showed the picture of a large man standing in a small boat. He held a long pole in his hands with which he steered the little craft.

“This is the boatman. The Six of Swords,” said Mel. “Remember, swords are strength. Look, there are two smaller figures in the boat. He is steering them and see, the water this side is smooth, but on the other side it’s rough.”

“But what does it mean?” Liz was getting impatient and Mel reprimanded her.

“All in good time; you mustn’t hurry the cards.” She tut-tutted to herself as her fingers drummed on the upturned face of the fourth card.

Mel spent her life reading the Tarot. To her the cards were simply a tool; a thing to be respected, but used. To Liz they were beginning to represent a window into a whole new world; a world of the unknown, the mystical world of spirits. Or they could be rubbish. This fourth card looked to Liz like two figures quarrelling but Mel had seen far more. She announced:

“Cups are emotions. This is a very emotionally charged card. The Six of Cups is a family card. Bringing together or moving apart; it means either a separation or a connection.”

“Who are the two figures?”

“Children, probably yours; but look, there’s a third one, much smaller, in the background. Let’s see if we can find out who they are. Are you okay with this?” Mel looked at Liz, her smile asking for permission to continue.

“Yes. This is fascinating. What’s next?”

The Knight of Pentacles followed: a dark youth on a black-spirited steed, bright, alert, ready for action. Mel described him as a young man going places. His horse was raring to go, the reins held firmly in the young man’s grip. He held a pentacle, the sign of money. He was riding towards wealth and achievement. Liz thought of James. This was so like him, self-assured and positive about his life. How could Mel see so much in a simple picture? Liz was hooked.

The next card sent Liz into a fit of the giggles. It was Jenny, there was no mistaking her. The Page of Swords looked more like a girl than a boy, a Joan of Arc figure standing on sturdy legs, holding a heavy sword above her head. “Swords are for mind and thought,” Mel said and described this as a younger version of the first card; strong-minded, a free spirit, a sign of the air. Primed and ready for action, this was a brave figure at the beginning of a remarkable life. Nothing would deter her but she was not too proud to serve. Yes, this was Jenny all right, lion-hearted and valiant, always steadfast and firm on her strong long legs as she took her familiar resolute stance. Was she destined for great things? Liz was excited. Here before her was her family, her life and it looked wonderful.

The next cards brought change, challenges, suspicion and betrayal. Liz began to feel uneasy. Mel was telling her she held the sword, the strength was in her hands, but what did that mean? Her mother always told her to be strong when something awful was about to happen. Was she going to split up with Edward? Was this a warning? Was her luck running out? Was her life about to take a turn for the worse? Mel sensed that Liz was getting edgy. She needed to lighten the mood. Harriet too was unhappy at the way Mel was interpreting the cards. She crept closer with each revelation, bridling at each fresh pronouncement. Now the stupid woman was telling Liz she had inherited her mother’s voice. She’d be telling her to take up singing next!

“No, no, no, that’s all wrong. The gift has skipped a generation.” Harriet was trying to be discreet as she whispered in Mel’s ear. Mel rubbed her ear; it was burning hot. As she moved away from the fire she tossed her head and her hair fell across Harriet’s face. Harriet and Liz snorted in unison, that short, sharp dismissive laugh they now both affected.

“Jenny’s the only one in the family who can sing. I’m tone deaf.”

Harriet sighed with relief. Liz was laughing again and at last someone was on the right wave-length. She drew closer to Mel and hissed, “You see, at least someone is listening. Liz has a voice like a fog-horn. But she can paint a bit and I’m going to teach her to be really good.”