The Haunting of Harriet (26 page)

As her hands straightened the gilded frame, the answer became obvious. It was staring her in the face. She was holding it in her hands: her painting. Liz had been painting for several years now. It suited her temperament to have periods when she could be solitary and silent, with the added bonus of an end result that solicited praise. A local frame-maker helped her select the exact colour and size of mount to compliment her work, which now adorned the stairwell, spilling over to the corridor above. The walls of many of her dear friends also displayed an original Liz Jessop. Edward said they were taking over the world, but was secretly proud of his wife’s achievements.

She would mount an exhibition of her work, nothing too grand – just enough to launch herself as a local artist. Surely she could get a few commissions and the frame-maker would, no doubt, be glad of the extra work. The objective was not to make loads of money, although that would be nice as an indicator of her work’s worth. Nor was it to become famous, although that too would be fun. No, this was to establish her identity; to reclaim herself from the role of wife and mother and establish herself as a person in her own right. And it wouldn’t hurt to show Mel that she still had it in her! Should she revert to her maiden name or would that be too obvious a statement? The realization that she had already signed her work with her married name came as a slight annoyance. She convinced herself that it really did not matter which name she used. It was not a name that decided who she was inside. There would be no more moaning or bleating about her empty life. From now on she would fill it. Mel had accused her of complacency and self-pity. Well, no more wallowing. These paintings would sell, everybody loved them and goodness knows she could well afford to mount an exhibition. She had enough contacts to fill a private viewing and drown the punters in vintage Champagne. Yes, as dear, mad Mel had so eloquently put it, she should get off her effing butt and do something.

Harriet had been listening to Liz’s soliloquy with great excitement. It had occurred to her before now that Liz was wasting her talents merely producing the odd Christmas present or two. Her painting was becoming more and more accomplished and should be displayed where it would be appreciated by a wider public. She also craved the chance to bask in Liz’s glory. All her life she had painted, and her paintings were good. But who had seen them? Now they were all destroyed or lost. Only that pathetic sampler remained to show her artistic talents. It had been crafted with love and had taken weeks of concentration, her poor little fingers pricked to pieces by needles that refused to behave. She could not think why she had not done a painting for her father. Then she remembered. Mama disapproved of paints. They were messy things and she would not allow them in the house. So, this was her chance too. She would paint through Liz and take revenge on her hateful Mama at the same time. What could be better than that?

Liz set to work immediately. She contacted several small galleries in Tunbridge Wells and one agreed to look at samples of her work. If they liked it and she was prepared to fund her own show they saw no reason why she should not mount an exhibition in the autumn. She had selected ten of her favourite pictures and reckoned she could produce a further ten before her show. She had started on the design for a catalogue and had some business cards printed. She had even drafted a letter of invitation to send to a few watercolour dealers informing them of the private viewing. Her greatest achievement to date was that she had managed to keep the whole thing a secret from everybody, apart from Jenny, who seemed to know everything that was going on without being told.

When Liz finally told Mel, the reaction she received was not what she hoped for nor expected. Mel was decidedly indifferent. Her usual wild enthusiasm was painfully absent. She was not against the idea, just not interested. Worse, she did not seem to care. Liz was baffled. The venture had been Mel’s idea; at least it was Mel who had motivated her into action. Now she did not want to know. When Liz suggested that Mel should be in charge of the private view she was horrified to hear her friend announce that she would probably not be there. Liz was perplexed and mortified. She had not realized she had offended Mel so deeply, but each time she broached the subject Mel ducked out, barely offering an excuse.

Doubts began to rise once more as to Mel’s relationship with Edward. Had the attack on her inadequacy been a cleverly concocted smoke screen behind which she had been taken for a complete fool? Liz had already choked on a large portion of humble pie. She was not ready for desserts just yet, but she knew that if she wanted to keep Mel’s friendship she had to hold her tongue and let things be or bite the bullet and wait for the fireworks. There was no one to confide in. The one person she would have talked to was in the centre of the intrigue. Just as she was despairing, help came from an unexpected but close source.

Jenny had known about her mother’s plans from the off. Harriet had been so excited that she had confided in the child. She had told her that her mother was going to need her support. Jenny proved amazingly expert when it came to choosing what went into the exhibition and what was needed to supplement the existing work. She identified the prospective market, and James then researched into the estimated price her paintings could hope to achieve. Their combined resourcefulness left Liz speechless. Nothing was beyond their grasp. As James explained, it was only a mouse’s click away. While she had been busy dealing with her own problems these incredible youngsters were growing into fully functioning people with skills and talents she had not dreamed they possessed. They were also caring people who were interested in her as a person. They did not see her as just a mother; someone who washed their clothes and put food in their stomachs. When she attempted to express this pride to them, James knocked the whole thing into perspective by exclaiming that he never realized anyone actually washed his clothes. He had put it down to the soap Fairy. It was not until Jenny pointed out that James had never heard of Fairy as a washing product that Liz realized he was not being intentionally witty. He really had never considered laundry before. It simply did not feature on his agenda. There was so much she had to find out about her twins and so much for them to discover about her. She felt lucky to have been given such a fabulous chance to get to know them, but she could not help wishing Mel was sharing it too. She was missing her friend badly.

By mid-March Mel looked positively ill. “It’s cancer.” She said it without ceremony or drama. The two women were drinking coffee in the breakfast-room. Liz had managed to persuade Mel to spend some time with her. They had planned to grab some lunch out in Tunbridge Wells when Mel announced she would prefer a quiet lunch at Beckmans. Cancer! The word hit Liz in the pit of her stomach. Her coffee cup spilled over, covering the table top with a dark brown slick that dripped on to the floor. The Pote rushed to lap it up, but retreated as the hot bitter coffee burned his tongue. Questions churned through Liz’s brain, turning it to mush. Where? What sort? And, worst of all, how long? They all sounded so negative and she must be positive.

“Are they sure?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Mel had got up and was wiping the table and floor with liberal amounts of kitchen paper. She tossed the soggy mess in the bin and picked up the peeved dog. He lay in her arms like a baby, flat on his back shamelessly displaying those precious private bits he had retained. His tongue reached out to lick Mel’s hands and she buried her nose in his warm coat. “I’ve been having tests since November,” she said.

“You knew all over Christmas! Why on earth didn’t you tell me?” Liz was hurt.

“Because first there was all that business with David and Sue, then there was my unholy row with the sacred Brenda. Then what with the damned recession and Bob’s business taking a nose-dive, well… and actually this was to do with me, not you.” Mel was rocking the dog as if it were a sleeping child. She nuzzled his fur again. “I love that biscuity smell. It’s like toast. Poor old Pote, he must be getting on now. Sometimes I wish I’d had a baby.”

“He’s nearly ten, but I wish you’d told me sooner. I’m your friend Mel.”

“I know. But I had to deal with this. I didn’t want to confuse things by having to deal with other people’s reactions too. It’s been hard enough coping with my own.”

“I’m not ‘other people’. I’m me.” Liz’s hurt came through loud and clear.

“That’s exactly what I mean. This is about me. It’s my problem. I had to decide when and if I was ready to share it. Nothing was definite before. The first biopsies were inconclusive. Why should a whole bunch of people worry about nothing? Anyway, I’m telling you now because now I know what I’m facing, and I need your support.” Mel smiled.

Liz was a good friend, but she tended to judge everything from her own narrow standpoint. Her view of life radiated from that central fixed position. It never occurred to her that perspectives change radically with a shift of vantage point, informed by observation, reflection and the exchange of ideas. Liz was a great jumper to conclusions. She got up and walked over to Mel. She wanted to find something clever and profound to say to show that she understood, but she could not. She felt rage and impotency. So instead she wrapped her arms around her friend and the two women held each other close. “You’ll be fine,” Liz said, but behind Mel she sensed a tall figure in a long black cloak staring back at her with tears in its shrouded eyes.

Mel’s cancer was in her left breast. She had already had a lumpectomy and this procedure had revealed a malignant tumour requiring further, urgent surgery. This was to be followed up with radiotherapy and possible chemo. She told Liz that she was booked in for the following day and would probably be in hospital for five or six days, maximum.

“I’m a tough old bird, you know,” laughed Mel.

“I know, but… oh, Mel, I don’t know what to say.”

“My guardian angel is feeling very positive so don’t worry. I want a daily supply of expensive chocolates, and balloons. They don’t let you have flowers, the rotten sods. So I’ll have those when I get out, bucket loads of exotic blooms. I’ve bought the most gorgeous silk pyjamas and dressing-gown, so I’ll be wowing them in Maidstone hospital and if I don’t catch some god-awful bug I shall be out demanding champagne before you even miss me.” Mel was rummaging in the kitchen fridge. “Where does your mean bastard of a husband hide the booze?”

“In the drinks fridge, as you should know!” said Liz. “What happened between you and Brenda? I must have missed that. What happened? What are you looking for?”

“Champagne.” Mel’s hunt had proved productive and she was removing the wire from a bottle of Moet as she spoke. “Let’s celebrate. I have no intention of dying just yet.” She laughed as the bubbles forced the wine to shoot out of the bottle into the waiting glass. “Cheers. No, don’t say anything else. I shall be fine.”

Liz raised her glass. They each took a healthy swig before Mel refilled their glasses.

“So what happened with Brenda?” Liz hoped a change of subject would lighten things. She was in a state of shock, but did not want to pursue the matter against Mel’s wishes.

“The blessed Brenda! Oh, it was only a minor bust up. She started off on one of her bloody crusades. You know, all that guff in the Bible about the witch of Endor? She’s convinced I’m in league with the devil and should be burned as a heretic. It‘s my own fault; I can’t resist riling her. She’s so bloody pious. Donald had been asking me how business was and I happened to mention that the spirits were quiet at the moment. I wasn’t going to explain that I’ve had to stop all that malarkey for now, but she wouldn’t let it go. ‘If the dead want to be contacted they don’t need a medium…’ well, you know the speeches as well as I do. I told her I hadn’t expected the Spanish Inquisition and she said…this is Brenda, remember: severe lack of humour. She said: ‘Well, it might have done you some good!’ Honest to God, the woman’s a lunatic.”

They paused for a while to giggle at Brenda’s expense. It was good to be relaxed again, enjoying one another’s company.

“What you said before, Mel… did you really want children?”

“No way, I can’t stand the little buggers!”

“Seriously? You’d have made super parents. Why didn’t you have any?”

“I couldn’t, simple as that.”

“Did you want a family?”

“I suppose so, but we have to accept what is given and it obviously wasn’t meant. Bob never seemed to mind so it’s worked out OK in the end. How about you? Do you want more?”

“Gosh. I don’t know. I took it for granted that I would have kids. Do I want more? Yes. I hadn’t thought about it but, yes. I do want another one. Wow. That’s a revelation, isn’t it?”

“Maybe you should tell Edward?”

“Hmm…maybe, maybe not.”

The subject hardly seemed appropriate so they reverted to picking poor Brenda to pieces.

T
he waiting began. Mel had her surgery, a mastectomy and the removal of the lymph nodes from under her left arm. It was extensive and invasive, but she never complained or bemoaned her lot. Every day for two weeks she had radiotherapy, then three weeks of chemo, during which her mane of magenta hair thinned drastically. In solidarity with her new-found sisters in the oncology department she shaved off the remains of her hair and flatly refused to wear a wig. She wore her baldness with pride, only resorting to a hat when the temperature plummeted well into April. Late frosts had turned the wisteria buds to grey powder and spring nearly did not bother to appear at all it was so cold. Then suddenly it was May and the twin’s tenth birthday loomed large.