The Haunting of Harriet (16 page)

Removing the large iron key with the griffin’s head, she entered her father’s room and positioned the key in the lock behind her. Turning it with both hands she felt its powerful resistance before it gave way, releasing the heavy tumbler, which clunked as it fell into place. Leaving the key in the door she crossed the room to her father’s small desk. She laid the rest of the keys in the drawer beside his watch and his pipe. She stepped over to the fireplace, where her sampler still hung on the hook her father had hammered into the solid Tudor oak. The letters of the alphabet, both upper- and lower-case, some birds, recognizable as bluebirds by their colour, a rainbow with a few too many colours and in the wrong order and the words “Happy little bluebirds” had been lovingly embroidered on a bluish-grey background. The whole was worked in a wobbly version of cross-stitch and had taken her months of sweat and tears. She had signed it “
H.M. 1939”
and thought she would burst with pride when her father insisted it be framed, and hung it in his room on a pretty little hook in the shape of a bluebird. Her fingers reached out to touch it briefly before she sank back in the leather armchair and wept.

The next morning she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders more for comfort than warmth. She knew what she must do if she was to live here with any semblance of peace. Her long legs propelled her swiftly across the lawn to the beck, where she stopped beside the little bridge that led to the boathouse. The
Jolly Roger
lay at its berth beside the jetty, its mooring ropes worn but still clinging tightly to its secret. She stared at it, willing it to tell her the truth. It refused to divulge any of the mystery. Any facts that might help her piece together the last moments of David’s life remained an enigma. Suddenly what she had to do was so blindingly apparent she almost laughed with relief. Taking a deep breath, she marched over the bridge. Steeling herself to visit it again, she marched straight into the boathouse and grabbed the boat hook. As she lifted it a shudder went through her and she knew that it too was withholding evidence from her. Outside again, she breathed in the fresh air. So far, so good! Motivated by an overwhelming sense of purpose she untied the little boat and pulled it round to the far side of the building before striking at it with the unwieldy hook. It took several strikes, using all her strength, to penetrate the hull, but eventually she saw the water begin to seep in and spread. She had pierced its heart. Their beautiful boat was sinking. The ties that held them were severed. They shared no history. The boat was no longer connected to her. It was just an old wreck that had always been there and she would tell anyone who asked that: “It has always been there.”

Next she cast the boat hook into the lake along with the submerging dinghy, but not before she let her fingers touch the lovingly carved initials
H
and
D
. She said a silent prayer for old Tom as she watched the murky water close over her past. Then, throwing her cloak around her in preparation for her grand finale, she strode back into the boathouse. Inside it was dark and cold. The smell of damp was everywhere, but she could also smell the stench of sex. Even when she closed her eyes she could see her mother writhing on the floor with that horrible stranger. Selecting some kindling wood and paper from the log box by the grate, she proceeded to set them in a small pyramid right in the centre of the floor. It was the exact spot where she had seen them perform. She struck the match and stood back to watch the flames greedily consume the paper. They weakened as they attacked the kindling, crackling as they bit into the dried wood. Then as they gathered strength the fascination of the fire took hold of her. Nothing could stop it now. She was a natural arsonist. The fire took on a life of its own, way beyond her control. The force of the blaze both horrified and thrilled her. She backed out of the boathouse and turned her back on the inferno. Its hold on her was loosening as the hungry flames licked at her, washing her clean.

She awoke to find herself in a new millennium, sitting alone in the Tudor room, her memories still burning in her mind’s eye. Forcing the past to retreat, she wrapped her faithful cloak about her once more, crossed the hall and marched through the breakfast-room into the garden. Liz was standing on the near bank. It was dusk and the silhouette of the boathouse stood out against the darkening sky. She pinched her arm to remind herself that this was the twenty-first century and she was here with her friend. Memories still crowded in on her. She had opened the floodgates and nothing would hold them back now. Thoughts and images she had suppressed for a lifetime were flying free. Well, let them do their worst. They no longer filled her with hatred nor had the power to destroy her. She let loose an alarmingly loud, defiant laugh that dared her furies to show their ugly faces one last time. All the dark trappings of her early life melted. Life was about to begin again, charged by the energy usually reserved for the young. The future held no fears; in fact, she welcomed it.

Harriet turned to look at the young woman standing beside her. This was her friend and it was fate that had thrown them together. Through this vital young woman she could reach out and touch life, free to follow its twists and turns, no longer afraid of what lay around the next bend. Together the two women watched the old boathouse, one seeing it consumed in flames the other rebuilding it in her mind’s eye.

They turned and walked back to the house, Harriet at last ready to face her fate, Liz thanking her lucky stars she had been dealt such a fabulous hand. Harriet wrapped her cloak around Liz’s shoulders as together they watched some tiny birds flying high in the sky overhead. Liz thought they might be bluebirds and wondered why she suddenly felt so deliciously warm.

T
he first of August was deemed an apposite day for the actual building work to begin. It happened to be Liz’s thirty-fifth birthday and as it was her pet project what better choice of day could there be? Bob wanted to remove the old structure, clean out the lake and clear the site thoroughly well before that date. He estimated it would take two or three weeks. If they started now that allowed enough time to draw up the plans and steer them through any bureaucratic hiccups. They all prayed for an Indian summer so that the really messy work would be over before the wet winter the forecasters had promised began in earnest. The enthusiasm to get started gripped everyone, except poor Liz. The old boat was in the way of any future construction work and her fears were staring her in the face.

She knew the first thing the men intended to do was raise the wreck. The very thought of this apparently trivial act filled her with a dreadful foreboding that could reduce her to tears. Telling herself that she was getting things out of proportion – it was just an old dinghy - did nothing to lift her anxiety. Why the mystery? Vivid memories of how violently she had reacted on the night of the millennium would leap out of nowhere, still with the power to terrify her. It was all linked to a feeling of complicity. Guilt pressed down on her whenever she thought of it, making it difficult to breathe, her chest hurt so much. Now she had to go through it all again. What they were about to do was an act of desecration. Hoping it would lessen the strain she had persuaded them to complete the salvage work on the day before her birthday, but now the day had arrived she was not sure she could go through with it.

If she shouted to them to stop they would have to listen to her. After all, it had been her idea to pull down the boathouse; she could simply say she had changed her mind, it was a ridiculous waste of money and they should call it a day. Before she could speak, her head began to swim and she felt herself swaying. A slight nausea crept over her as she struggled to stay upright. The light-headedness spread through her body. It was as though she were floating a few inches above the ground. Her senses functioned; she could hear and see, but nothing felt normal. When she tried to move she could not. Something was raising her up, lifting her to a point where she could see without the limitations of perspective and reality.

She had distanced herself from the others by standing on the near bank beneath the willow. The boat was not visible from here, but she preferred that. Harriet placed herself behind Liz; they could see Mel standing with the twins on the far bank where they had a good view of the proceedings. Liz was no longer shaking with fear. She was paralysed. Harriet moved closer until they were standing shoulder to shoulder. Outwardly they appeared calm and composed. Inside their shared feelings were complex. Neither wanted to face what was about to surface.

Bob, clad only in his shorts and a huge grin, lowered himself into the water shuddering at the unexpected chill as it reached his nether regions. They watched as he tied various lengths of rope around the rotting hull before instructing Edward to haul it in. The twins rushed forward to help their struggling father until with a loud crack the first plank broke loose and crashed on to the bank. The three fell backwards in a heap, to be met by a rousing cheer from Mel. Sliver by sliver, plank by rotten plank it was wrenched free, no longer held together by knotted reeds and years of compacted mud. Gradually what remained of the little boat was laid out on the bank, like a giant half-eaten jigsaw. It was hardly recognizable as a boat, just fragments of wood caked with mud, algae and lichen. It smelt rank.

“Look at this!” Bob exclaimed, holding aloft a length of hull with a jagged hole at its centre. “Pierced through the heart, looks like she was scuppered… what d’ye think, me ‘earties?” He pulled a face with one eye closed, the other opened wide, and he hopped around ridiculously on one leg. James and Mel took up the pirate theme but Jenny was too busy. She was examining a piece of wood with a thoroughness which would have met with the approval of Sherlock Holmes himself. They were barely visible, but fragments of red paint had not escaped Jenny’s eagle eyes. After close scrutiny she exclaimed the strange words: “
olly Ro
.”

“The
Olly Ro
,” squealed James. “Wow, what a cool name.”

Jenny, who was still examining the remains, corrected him. “No, look, the ‘o’ is small but the ‘R’ is a capital letter. I do believe you are right, Captain Bob, we have a pirate vessel here. I present
The Jolly Roger
. God bless her and all who sail in her!”

Mel was kneeling beside her God-daughter. Edward scratched his head. Whose daughter was this? She never failed to amaze him. Jenny winked at Mel before pulling her brother down onto the grass beside her, holding him in an arm-lock akin to a half-Nelson.

“
Olly Ro
,
Olly Ro
,
Olly Ro
,” he chanted until she too took up the cry and they found themselves in a shouting competition. The Pote joined in, barking at full voice and trying to nip the odd ankle as it presented itself. Bob was still waist-deep in the water. “Someone fetch a rake. There’s something else buried in the mud down here. I need something long to pull it out.”

“No! Leave that where it is.” Liz’s command stopped the men in their tracks.

Throughout the whole salvage procedure Liz and Harriet had been standing at the far bank beneath the willow, lost in their own strange world. It was a hot July day yet Liz felt chilled through to the marrow. Her body ached with an inexplicable overwhelming sadness. Tears streamed from her eyes as she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked to and fro.

“It’s a boat hook,” she said. Her voice was deep, and detached. As the company turned to look at her she remained rooted to the spot, staring into the depths of the lake. Her face was drained of colour and tears poured down her cheeks. Her hand rose to push back the stray lock of hair that was stuck to her face with hot pain-filled tears.

“Leave it there! Leave it alone!” Liz was hysterical. Abruptly, she turned and marched across the lawn to the house. Mel clambered up from her kneeling position beside the salvaged wreck, signalling for the others to stay put while she followed her friend inside. Blinking against the sudden darkness, Liz crossed through the kitchen, pausing to collect the iron key from its secret ledge. Crossing the hall she stopped outside the Fourth Room, then opened the oak door and stepped inside. She was sobbing uncontrollably, each sob taking her closer to hysterics, until she was shouting and ranting at the room, “What do you want from me? Tell me, for Christ’s sake tell me or leave me alone. I can’t take much more.”

Mel caught up with her and followed her into the room. “It’s all right, Liz, I’m here.”

“Nothing’s bloody well all right. Can’t you feel it? You’re supposed to be a psychic, so tell me what’s going on. What’s happening to me?”

Mel moved into the centre of the room. She was unfamiliar with this place. Liz tended to keep it locked, referring to it merely as “the Fourth Room”, undesignated and undecorated. Mel peered around her in the gloom. The room was square, with a large oak fireplace on one wall and a deep bay window, with leaded diamond panes, on another. The ceiling was lower than in the other reception rooms, and covered with oak beams, giving the room a claustrophobic atmosphere. There were no nooks or crannies, no pretence, just four honest corners and one very wide door to enter and leave by; a straightforward Tudor room: a waiting-room.

The two women stood together in the middle. Like this room, they too were in limbo. Mel stretched out her arms, palms upturned, and took long deliberate breaths through her nose. Her eyes were gently closed and she lifted her head to face the ceiling. The lack of natural light in the room dulled her normally bright hair to a deep matt brown. It was not yet dusk, but she left the lights off, preferring to let the room grow dark with the evening and blend in with the gathering shadows. Liz‘s head was pounding. Blood was coursing through her ears and she raised her hands to block out the sound. Mel lowered her arms and moved across to an old sofa that stood in the window bay. Removing a pair of cricket pads and a pile of old curtains she sat in the middle of the seat, patting the cushion beside her. Liz crossed the room to join her. Harriet was already seated. Her patience was growing thin and she wondered why this was taking them so long.