The Haunting of Harriet (2 page)

Delighted to have the chance to nose around at leisure, Liz decided to make a day of it and brought a packed lunch with her. The village of Watermere was compact and practical rather than picturesque, and the post office was just where it should be, on the main street by the traffic lights. The postmistress gave her the third degree and told her with smug pleasure that she was one of a long list of potential buyers who had never returned. “Funny old place, I shall be interested to hear what you think of it.” She handed Liz an enormous bunch of keys and smiled knowingly. Liz smiled politely and left, her sense of wellbeing somewhat deflated. But when she turned her car into the drive at Beckmans any feelings of impending disappointment vanished, to be replaced by hundreds of butterflies flying around in her tummy, churning out an excited anticipation she had not felt since she was a child.

The chattering of her friends brought her back to the party, back to the garden beside the lake overlooking the boathouse; her boathouse. Here she was, living the dream. Those magical keys were in her keeping, unlocking the home she had always dreamed of. Hidden by the darkness Liz smiled to herself, remembering that first time she had held the jangling bunch in her hands; the sheer weight of them had taken her by surprise. Just touching them had linked her to an intriguing history; connecting her to generations of past guardians who had amassed them over the years. History was literally in her grasp. Until that moment her whole world had been secured with one ordinary Yale handed to her on the day she moved in with Edward. By adding a secure modern mortice to the motley bunch she proudly joined the long unseen line of custodians. Held together by a strong iron ring, the keys belonged to the house and the house belonged to itself, not to anybody, living or dead. How exciting was that!

“Come on, you lot, fill up. It’s almost time.” Liz smiled at her husband, watching him weave among their guests, playfully chiding as he filled their glasses. “Is everyone loaded? It’s the witching hour any second now.” He raised his glass to the group, who lifted theirs, eyeing one another with anticipation. Monitoring his watch he began: “Ten, nine, eight…” She could hear his childish excitement as his voice got louder with each second until:

“One!” He kissed her, then stepped back, startled by an explosion of sound and light.

He heard Liz whisper “Did the earth move for you?”

He shouted back: “It knocked me off my fucking feet!”

Liz took a sip of her champagne and closed her eyes to recapture the delight she had felt that moment when she first saw Beckmans. It had knocked her off her feet too.

Watermere was friendly, a sensible village, a good place to raise a family, and she was pleased that the house, which sat on the outskirts, was still within the community. As she stepped out of the car her feeling of euphoria dipped. Her heart sank. In front of the house was a nasty modern wall, totally out of keeping with the property. It stated the boundary but detracted from the allure that should surround a property of such stature. Builders’ rubble littered the entire forecourt, making the journey from car to front door a hazardous task that had to be undertaken with one’s eyes fixed on the ground. Looking up once she reached the steps, she saw the porch towering before her. It was quite splendid, Georgian, wide and welcoming. Its large Doric pillars were imposing even now, bereft of the original door that once stood between them. A tacky modern monstrosity stood there offering nothing but a sad apology. It looked incongruous and embarrassed and Liz felt sorry for it. There was no bell or knocker, just the ruined mechanism of a pulley hanging from the wall, long deprived of its pull-bar and bell. As Liz tapped on the ugly board her leather-gloved knuckles barely made a sound. She knew the house was empty but it seemed discourteous to enter without permission. Examining the weighty bunch she selected a shiny, but uninspiring modern Yale. With one half-turn the door swung open and she stepped over the threshold followed by The Pote, who was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by a tall, elderly woman. It was Harriet.

Harriet believed in Fate, so it came as both a surprise and a disappointment that in her long, at times overlong life, her own destiny had not yet revealed itself. She had been waiting for today. It was an auspicious day. At last something was about to happen. Life had been depressingly tedious with only memories as companions. Many of these unwanted memories had, for reasons of sanity, to be kept locked away. On long, cold nights she would release them in the vain hope that familiarity would grant her immunity from them. But they only brought distress and guilt and it alarmed her that the passing years were taking their toll on her own strength. Meanwhile her furies got even stronger, making it harder to contain and control them. These were her very own ghosts who crowded into the walls of the old house along with all the others that had left their vibrations behind when they went wherever it is ghosts go. Harriet’s spectres were always too eager to emerge and crowd her space and it was only a profound sense of loneliness that drove her to release them in the first place.

On this October day she was experiencing something rare, a feeling she had not had for many years. It was hope. The sound of a leathered glove rapping on the door startled Harriet into spilling her morning tea. As she rose from the table she was filled with an excited and pleasant expectancy. Her slippers made no sound as she crossed the tiled floor before placing her ear close to the door to listen, snorting in disgust at the smell of the ugly cheap pine that had replaced mahogany and stained glass. Harriet pressed her ear to the offensive wood but she heard no voices; nothing that filled her with alarm. Surprised by the ease with which they moved, she slipped the bolts free and stepped back into the shadows, while outside a key turned slowly in the lock. A young, slim woman crossed the threshold followed by what at first she thought was a rat. The rat sniffed at her and she recognized it as one of those funny German sausage dogs. She patted it on the head and listened to her house. It approved of these visitors and so did she. She opened her arms and the young woman accepted the embrace with a natural familiarity and courtesy of manner that both house and mistress found endearing.

“Welcome to Beckmans,” Harriet said.

“Thank you.” The reply came with mirrored courtesy and warmth. The young woman spoke softly with a pleasant, cultured accent. Harriet studied her at some length, liked what she saw and so together they set off, the one to guide and the other to explore yet both with a mutual feeling of belonging. Harriet felt no intrusion had taken place. She welcomed this person into her house and took delight in showing her around. Together they covered every inch of the house, with Harriet chatting away as she used to when she was a child, perfectly relaxed and happy to be sharing her love of Beckmans with another after all these years.

She had lost count of how many “viewers” there had been over the years. Not one of them had proved worthy of admittance, let alone a welcome. They had all been sent packing in no uncertain terms. Many years of practice at making people feel uneasy had paid off; she was an expert at it now and considered it a rather amusing pastime. This young lady was different. She fitted the bill nicely. There was a familiarity and a similarity that pleased them both. Harriet was delighted to show Liz her house. But she would show it through her own bright amber eyes, and only the parts that were filled with light, laughter and music. Not the other; not yet. Beckmans deserved nothing less than to be displayed in all its glory.

Although the entrance hall was shabby and smelt of decay, Liz felt warm arms envelope her. A comfortable feeling of coming home embraced her as she took her first tentative steps onto barely recognizable black-and-white marble floor tiles. Beckmans was making her welcome, which deserved a polite acknowledgement. Saying a courteous “Thank you” she opened the inner door, stopped in her tracks and let her mouth fall open. She was standing on years of dust and debris but beneath this demeaning layer of grime she could determine solid parquet flooring, herring-boned blocks of beech covering a magnificent circular hall that could swallow the entire first floor of their present house. The outside of the house belied these internal dimensions. The sense of space the architect had created was phenomenal. It was like entering the Tardis. Liz stood rooted to the spot but the house was drawing her in, oblivious to its present dilapidated state.

“Come in,” a voice said. “See Beckmans in all its glory.”

An explosion of lights shocked the millennium sky. For a split second Liz was lost, suspended between the past and the present. Her fingers stroked the rough wooden rail that ran the length of the little bridge, while her mind adjusted to the time change. A breeze moved her hair and she saw her own face gazing back at her beside the ruins of the old boathouse, both mirrored in the night-dark water. The second volley dashed her thoughts as the reflected fireworks sent illuminated litter scattering over the unbroken surface. In that moment Liz saw the faces of her friends next to her own, childlike, smiling out from the water. She looked up and caught their true faces pointing upwards as they waited in anticipation for the next burst, eclipsing the stars with their brilliance before they too burnt out and faded to a familiar rosy glow. The air was full of the acrid smell of saltpetre, and the rosy pink took her back to that unforgettable day when she first fell under Beckmans’ spell. It was the same colour as the morning light that flooded through the rose window. She easily willed herself back to the moment when she had first seen that window.

She was bathed in that light. Looking up she saw it. Large and round, it dominated the hall, even though partially boarded up for reasons of security or safety. She knew instinctively how it must once have looked. There was no need for Harriet’s description, Liz’s imagination filled in the gaps. It depicted a Tudor rose. Intricate black lead lines held the petals of glass, which deepened from blush-pink to rose-madder as they neared the heart of the flower. Liz took hold of the curved banister beside the staircase and a thick covering of dust parted as she ran her hand along the Georgian mahogany. Removing her glove, she let her bare skin touch the wood and slide sensuously along the curve of the rail. The wood was smooth-polished by years of hands doing exactly what she was doing now. Led on by Harriet, she climbed the first flight of stairs that swept up through the heart of the house before dividing on either side of a wide landing, which was dominated by the great window.