The Haunting of Harriet (27 page)

Mel was still poorly, but insistent that the twin’s tenth birthday was too important an event to be shelved because of a “bit of cancer”. Throughout the ordeal Mel was strong and defiant. She had shown Liz her scar just a few days after the amputation. Liz had mumbled something about how neat it was, but inside she was horrified. If that happened to her she would die. Her breasts were an important part of who she was as a woman. How could one ever come to terms with losing one? Edward would never cope with it, not like Bob. Edward would be repulsed. He would see her as deformed and incomplete. His instinctive reaction would be to pretend it had not happened. She could never again undress in front of him or walk around in the nude. He would see it as a thing of shame, a failure. Oh, he would never say so in as many words, but she would always know what he was thinking and have to hide herself so as not to offend or hurt him. Bob was unbelievable. He gave nothing but full support. It was obvious that he felt his wife’s pain and her loss, but that did not alter his feelings for her in any way. She was still the sexy, crazy girl he had married and nothing would change that. He adored her.

Harriet witnessed all this from her discreet distance. She was full of admiration for Mel’s courage and ability to put on such a brave face. Try as she would Liz was not capable of being as stalwart. She had been terrified at the thought of losing Mel and found it impossible to hide her emotions. Although she tried not to cry in front of Mel she was always on the brink of spilling over or just mopping up after having done so. Mel forgave her, of course, but congratulated herself on having had the foresight not to reveal too much too soon. Liz swore never to take her friendship for granted again, while Mel just swore. Old-fashioned profanities kept her going in times of crisis and the air in the hospital ward was still blue as testament to her determination to win through. Brenda turned a deaf ear to these and adopted a professional objectivity while offering up a great many Hail Mary’s to her Catholic unforgiving God.

As the late spring gave way to an early summer, life was bursting out everywhere including Mel’s head. Her new shoots were straight and silver. They lay close to her head, forming an urchin cap that suited her amazingly well. Her feisty personality bounced back with a vengeance and she embraced her renaissance with a verve that left the rest of them exhausted. Jenny was the first to remark on the new Mel and in her usual forthright way suggested it was probably the fact that she had stared death in the face and beaten him that had brought about such a splendid transformation. Of course she was right. Harriet knew that better than most, but Mel was not ignorant of the facts either. She had come close to discovering that greatest of life’s mysteries; death. She also knew that her battle was the first skirmish of what would be a long, hard war.

The consultant told her the cancer had moved to her lymph nodes. So far it had not shown up anywhere else and it was possible that they had caught it in time. Mel knew she had more chemo to face, but was determined to face it alone. She had seen the drama friends had made of her plight. Their concern and misplaced good deeds made her resolve to get on with things in her own way. Even Bob did not know. Only her guides and unseen helpers were allowed this privileged information. It was to them that she turned for strength and healing. She was not going to die; not for a long time; but her life might be very different for a considerable time.

She sought counselling from a psychic medium in whose circle she had sat for many years. This now elderly woman offered Mel all the reassurance she needed. They meditated together for long quiet hours during which Mel felt safe enough to allow her spirit the freedom to release itself and lose the baggage that weighed it down to the physical world. She emerged rejuvenated and cleansed by these sessions. They gave her not only the confidence to trust in, but also the strength to return to her own psychic work, with a renewed energy and increased insight. Her body’s capacity to heal itself and the speed with which it did so astounded her doctors. By May she declared herself a cancer-free zone and defied anyone to say otherwise.

Having shed her magenta locks Mel decided to restyle herself. She became a creature of silver, adopting various shades of greys and silvery whites for her new spring wardrobe. Her jewellery was still heavy and flamboyant, the coral and jade replaced by silver and crystal. The clothes she chose wafted and drifted in chiffons and silks as she abandoned the velvets for a lighter, gossamer look. She had lost a good two stones in as many months and suddenly everything about her appeared lifted and freer. Mel had always claimed to “go-with-the-flow”, but now she embraced the current with a resolute, almost manic determination.

This year, the twins’ birthday fell on a Thursday, so it was decided to hold their party the following Saturday. In the past Mel, Sue, Brenda and Liz had helped with the children’s parties. They enjoyed sharing the planning and the execution, with the three more able caterers keeping the fourth wild card out of harm’s way. The wild card was, of course, poor Brenda. How she had become a Ward Sister was a wonder. There was nothing in the least domesticated or organized about her. She was a disaster waiting to happen and was usually assigned harmless tasks such as blowing up the balloons or folding napkins. Even then she had to be overseen with discreet diligence. “What can possibly go wrong?” was not a phrase one used around her as it tempted providence to the limit. This year everything was up for grabs. The circle had to be reinvented. Sue was far away in the West Country and Brenda announced rather unconvincingly that she was not sure what her schedule was. In reality she was still smarting from her contretemps with Mel.

Brenda was the only one of the group who could harbour a grudge for any length of time. She wore her Catholicism like a coat of armour. It shielded her from evil but also shut her away from the real world, predisposing her to misinterpret others’ motives and emotions. Beneath this armour-plating she was extremely soft-skinned. As a nurse she had learned the art of clinical detachment; unfortunately it had become an intrinsic part of her make-up. Her faith was important to her, but she had a tendency to take it literally. Mel said Brenda had been born into the wrong century; Mel had actually called her a leftover from the dark ages. This remark had never been forgotten, as both parties knew there was a great deal of truth in it. The difficulty was that while one found this a good thing, the other saw it as a definite flaw. Mostly they managed to contain their differences to light-hearted banter. But with such a fundamental disagreement between friends it is not surprising that every now and then jihad broke out.

Mel had no formal religion to quote from. She had been born seeing angels and spirits, a benefit or burden hard to refute. One might consider the accompanying gift of clairvoyance as delusional, but Mel’s trust in her spirit world was every bit as solid as were Brenda’s Catholic beliefs. The differences, however, were profound. Mel knew what she knew and did not rely on faith. She had no way of proving anything to anyone else and proselytizing was not her thing. If her readings gave someone the surety that their loved ones were still near and still cared, all well and good. She knew why she did what she did and the fact that it helped people in times of need was enough for her. Admittedly the church offered comfort to many, but it came with too many conditions for a free spirit like Mel. Her persuasion left no room for man-made creeds or rules. Fat bishops and dissolute clergy were not her idea of feet planted on a spiritual path, so until she met an actual saint she was content to follow her own convictions.

Liz had never thought hard about her own beliefs. Life had not tested her enough for her to discover who or what she would call upon as a last resort. Her Church of England upbringing had been tame and conventional. She had worn a cross as a teenager, but only because it was a gift to her and was very pretty. In fact she still had it, keeping it out of sentiment. Someday she would give it to Jenny. Every little girl should have a silver cross to wear if she so chose. Liz had been married in church and the twins had been christened. It was the thing to do, so she had done it. Mel and Bob were godparents even though they were not churchgoers. The occasional spats between Mel and Brenda upset her as she had no understanding where they came from. She was not the stuff of martyrs and was glad of that. Religious fervour bordering on mania seemed to cause little joy for poor old Brenda. Mel’s beliefs were weird, off the wall at times, but it was fascinating to watch her read those damned cards, although of course they meant absolutely nothing. Why the two of them could not agree to differ was baffling. It was not something to fall out over and it was messing with her plans, which made it serious.

Instead of her usual euphoric excitement at the prospect of a party, Liz was plunging into depression. Belief in luck was all very well when life was fine and dandy, but now she was experiencing a strong feeling of foreboding. Although she had come to terms with Edward’s transgression and forgiven his appalling behaviour, it was not forgotten; it was stored as ammunition for any future battles. She tried to keep it out of her thoughts, but it had shaken her core belief in their charmed life, begging the questions: was luck a renewable source that one could recharge by displaying prudence, like turning off lights to save electricity? Or did it come in a finite pot, once used never to be refilled? Was everyone given the same amount, which some squandered and others buried like the talents in the Bible? She began to dread that her luck was running out, but she could not for the life of her think how to conserve it. No one had told her where the switch was.

T
hursday dawned and the twins were up long before they needed to leave for school. Edward blindfolded them and frog-marched them down to the jetty. They squealed with delight every step of the way. Liz had grave misgivings, strengthened by her forebodings, about Edward’s choice of present. These he dismissed as trivial, insisting the twins were old enough. So, knowing they would love it, she had capitulated. But now the moment was here, her motherly instincts told her she had been right. Edward had succeeded in whipping the twins into an uncontrolled frenzy, which Liz knew only too well could end in tears. They were jumping up and down screaming in anticipation while Edward urged her to get a move on. It was too late to do anything but go with the flow, as Mel would say.

The early summer day made Liz feel churlish to let such negative vibes dampen the atmosphere. Arum lilies flanked the margins of the beck and yellow water irises stood tall, commandeering the best view. Nestling among the conifers and laburnums stood the newly built boathouse, in a coat of green paint as soft as moss and complementing the wooden tiled roof and dovecote in which two white doves had already taken up residence. It would make a splendid painting. Maybe later if she had time.

After a great deal of argy-bargy the twins were assembled on the jetty. Their blindfolds were removed and their surprise was facing them. Moored beside the jetty lay a small wooden boat. The little craft bobbed, dipped and rolled, tugging at her ropes.

“Well, what do you think?” Edward was almost as excited as the twins.

“It’s wicked. Thank you, Daddy.” James threw his arms around his father’s waist in a rare physical demonstration of affection.

“She’s phenomenal!” shrieked Jenny, leaping up and wrapping her legs around her father as she hugged his neck and showered him with kisses. There was nothing reticent about Jenny. “She’s the most phenomenal vessel that ever sailed. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Edward looked at Liz standing quietly holding an agitated dachshund in her arms. “I think they like it.” He reached out his hand to Liz. The Pote growled and Liz laughed.

“Look, have you seen what’s written on the bow?” Her voice trembled slightly and she hoped they would interpret this as excitement rather than fear. The children shared none of her forebodings. They rushed to the edge of the jetty. There on both sides of the bow, in bold red and black letters was the name,
The Olly Ro.