The Haunting of Harriet (35 page)

Meanwhile, James ever the pragmatist had wriggled free from his father’s vice-like grip and stood before his sister. He had adopted her stance: fists planted firmly on his waist and his powerful legs planted squarely, and for once there was no mistaking that they were twins.

“So? Who pulled me out?”

That was too much for Jenny. “How many times do I have to tell you? It was Harriet. She handed me the boat hook. I felt the funny marks on the end where Tom carved their initials. They were what helped me grip it. She pulled us both out: me first, then you. She told me how to give you the kiss of life. She made me keep going when I wanted to give up and die. She saved your life and she’s my friend. Look, over there; the tall lady in the long cloak. She has thick white hair and wears it with a comb like Mummy’s. She’s my singing teacher. She paints like Mummy, in fact she teaches her. Look, she’s standing over there. For Heaven’s sake, there’s only us and her!”

Jenny was pointing to the corner of the boathouse. She looked imploringly at her mother for help. While Jenny was talking, Harriet had been standing close by, encouraging and prompting her prodigy. Liz was torn. She had always tried to be totally open and honest with her children. Should she lie now to support Jenny? To claim she could see someone who was not there seemed hypocritical, but here was her daughter desperate for her to corroborate her story.

The girl threw a desperate glance to Harriet and said, “I’m so sorry. They can’t or won’t see you.” She looked at her family in bewilderment and not without accusation.

With the bluntness of the young, James said, “There’s nobody there, Stupido.”

In all honesty Liz could not see any woman, let alone an imposing white-haired one, yet the words of gratitude that tumbled out of her were addressed convincingly to the empty spot by the boathouse, surprising herself as much as the others:

“I don’t know who you are, but from the bottom of my heart I thank you. Because of you my children are safe. You’ve given them back to me and I shall never forget that. If I can repay you in any way I will.” Then she too blew a kiss into the ether. Had she spoken in solidarity with her daughter, or was it a subconscious desire to believe? It hardly seemed to matter, nor did she feel a complete idiot for doing it.

A falling leaf brushed her hair and she raised her hand to catch it. It felt as light as a kiss.

L
iz’s Private View was a resounding success. She sold three and took five commissions. One of the buyers was a dealer from London, a friend of Mel’s, and the other two were neighbours; but even so it augured well. The cards had been right. Her career was taking off. The whole family was swept up with the euphoria of the occasion. The gallery was delighted and agreed to hold another show in a year’s time which meant Liz would be kept occupied increasing her portfolio. When Edward voiced his doubts as to the viability of the project he was quickly shouted down. The idea had never been to make money, which as he justly pointed out was lucky, because actually they hadn’t. More champagne was passed around and eventually even he had to concede it was a successful night. Her paintings hung for three weeks and although no more sold there was always a chance of more commissions.

The accident was done and dusted, as far as everyone was concerned; everyone but Jenny. For her, there were still issues to be resolved. Her mother’s address to Harriet had helped her contain her anger, but it was not yet a closed book. Then there was the other book and the small matter of the presentation. Harriet was completely in the dark as to Jenny’s secret sleuthing. She was unaware of all the time and effort that had gone into researching her life, her family and her death. All the gathered information had been assembled and compiled into a large red book on which were embossed in large gold letters the words: “This Is Your Life, Harriet Marchant: 1931-1971.” Jenny did not feel guilty about having commissioned this (at some considerable expense) from her mother’s frame-maker without telling anyone or offering to pay for it herself; it seemed fair recompense for being doubted. She was still smarting from the fact that no one believed her. Worse, no one believed in Harriet. As for Harriet, she found it amusing to be considered an imaginary friend and dismissed it without a second thought. To Jenny it was an insult. Harriet resolved to think up a scheme that would exonerate Jenny, as an act of solidarity and to prove once and for all that she was very much alive. But that might take time.

Their lesson ended as usual with the two of them singing together. As often happened, Jenny would come with a request but this time she did not know the name of the piece or even the composer. As she began to hum it, Harriet took up the melody and performed it with such emotion that Jenny knew she must learn it too. Harriet was more than willing, for it was one of her all-time favourites. Originally a French peasant song, it had a pure, untainted quality that perfectly suited Jenny’s voice. It was one of Canteloube’s
“Songs of the Auvergne”
and although she was not yet aware of it, this would become Jenny’s signature piece.

Exhilarated by the discovery of such a musical gem, Jenny deemed the time right to present her friend with the book. She had left it in the boathouse, wrapped in gift paper with a card that had a picture of a boat on it, in which she expressed her heartfelt thanks for a valued friendship. As Harriet opened it Jenny could hardly contain herself.

Harriet read the card and smiled. It was so long since she had received a gift, she had forgotten the thrill of tearing at ribbons and paper to get to the treasure inside. Her eyes read the inscription and she visibly stiffened. Her back upright and proud, she exuded a terrifying power. Her white head lifted to an even higher plane as she breathed in and turned to the opening page.

Jenny began to doubt the wisdom of her project. Harriet was a very private person and here before her was her life laid out for all to see. Jenny swallowed hard. The first page showed a photograph of Harriet’s mother before her marriage, when she was still Alice Weatherby; a beautiful young woman in her debutante dress of white satin, a corsage of orchids on her pale, slim shoulder. Her long, silky hair was swept up into a simple chignon and held a discreet diamond tiara that shone beneath the studio lights. She had clearly been a real head-turner and Jenny was thrilled to have found this photo, albeit black and white, in an edition of
The Queen
, published in 1928. Harriet snorted loudly; not the reaction Jenny had hoped for. The page was turned roughly and the reader found herself staring at her parents on their wedding day. She began to flick through the book with an almost frenzied attack, pausing haphazardly to give an aggressive grunt. Then her eyes rested on a recent photo of the four local headstones, one of which bore her name and the dates of her birth and supposed death. It was too much for her. The book was hurled to the floor and Harriet’s eyes met Jenny’s. The disdain that shot from them terrified the child. Jenny bent to retrieve the book and straighten the pages, buying time for her confused brain. When she finally dared look up, there was no sign of Harriet.

Liz heard her daughter’s song wafting across the lake towards the house. The clarity of Jenny’s young voice rang in her ears and Liz put down what she was doing and went to the door. For some reason the tone switched dramatically, turning a sweet melodious tune into an angry bellow. This was matched by feet that kicked viciously at the unfortunate leaves in her path, sending them hurtling into the air, while an expression of hurt indignation burned on her face. At the back door Jenny kicked off her Wellingtons and vainly attempted to remove her woollen socks. One stayed gripping her ankle, having twisted to face the wrong way, while the other drooped off her foot, growing longer with each tug as though belonging to a far larger foot than hers. Swearing and cursing at the recalcitrant pair she noticed The Pote lying in a pile of leaves, his dark eyes full of sympathy and compassion. He too looked as though his heart was breaking. Jenny ran over to him, the stupid socks tripping her and gaining weight as they sponged up moisture from the grass. She slid to a kneeling position in front of her dog, buried her face in his warm coat and sobbed.

Liz stood in the doorway. She debated whether to interfere or leave them alone for a moment. Jenny was at an age when her hormones were raging and mood swings were common. When she was like this it was wise to leave her alone until she came round, which was usually pretty quickly. She was not by nature a moody child and Liz wondered if it was the song that had brought on the tears. The music had reminded her of something distant, a long-lost memory. But that did not account for the tantrum; Jenny was very angry about something. Liz’s thoughts were interrupted by a squeal of pain. Jenny had tried to lift The Pote and he had snapped at her, drawing blood. Jenny pulled away, more alarmed than scared. The Pote bit Edward at regular intervals, but never Jenny. Liz ran towards them and seeing the look of despair in the dog’s eyes she realized he was ill. She carried him to his basket and Jenny covered him with his duvet. He licked her on the nose as if to say “sorry” and she tucked him in.

“What’s wrong with The Pote?” Jenny asked as Liz stuck a plaster on her wound.

“He’s in pain, that’s why he bit you.”

“I don’t care about that. I just want to know what’s wrong with him.”

“I don’t know, darling, he might have strained his back. He was chasing squirrels earlier and he does go a bit crazy. He’s no spring chicken, although he tends to forget that. Let’s leave him to rest for a while. He’ll be as right as rain in a minute, you’ll see. I’ll call the vet if he doesn’t perk up soon.” Liz called James and served lunch. A familiar bark of greeting followed by a duvet with a wagging tail moved across the room to welcome James.

“It’s amazing what the promise of food can do! James, get those muddy boots off now!”

Jenny ate her pasta with a disinterest that was not normal for her, then pushing her chair back from the table she made for the door. James had already bolted back to the shed to continue with his experiments.

“Hang on a mo,” said Liz. “That was pretty amazing singing just now. When did you learn that song? Tell me what it is and I’ll get a DVD. Would you like that?”

“Great, yeah, whatever, can I go now?” Jenny was itching to get back to the garden.

“I know I’ve heard it somewhere before. What is it?”

“Pastourelle. Bye, Mum.”

“Who’s it by?” Jenny was halfway out of the door as Liz caught her by the arm. “Hang on a minute. I hardly ever get to see you; you’re either at school, messing about with the computer or you’re mooching alone down by the lake. We used to be so close. What’s up? Talk to me.”

“OK, Mum, what do you want to talk about?” Impatience rang in Jenny’s every word.

“Well, you never told me how your project went. You spent so much time on it. I’d love to see it. Is it finished?”

“Yeah, it’s at school. Anything else?”

“God, Jenny, you are so transparent. OK. Go on. You’ve obviously got better things to do in the garden.” Liz waved her daughter on and, as if to compound the hurt, Jenny headed for the Fourth Room. She had to find Harriet before it was too late.

She was half-expecting Harriet to be waiting. Hopefully by now she would have got over whatever had upset her and would be taking a nap in her usual spot. Sadly the room was empty. The Pote entered, immediately turned tail and left, without so much as a second sniff, confirming her suspicions that there was no sign or sense of Harriet. Pulling on her boots, Jenny whistled to the dog and slouched off alone across the lawn. The Pote stared after her, refusing to follow. To Liz’s delight he came back in and lay at her feet. Someone appreciated her company. She picked the little dog up and he squealed with pain. She carried him into the sitting-room, leaving her guilt on the table with the dirty dishes, and settled down for an indulgent hour or two sprawled on the settee, lost to a soporific dose of afternoon TV, nursing the dog.

It did not take long for the warmth of the fire and the inane programme content to send Liz to sleep. When she awoke, The Pote was still stretched out across her lap. As she picked him up to place him on the floor his agonized crying told her his back problem was serious.

The yowls stopped Jenny in her tracks. As she burst in, Liz was on the telephone, her manner agitated. The dog lay immobile on the sofa and Liz signalled for Jenny not to touch him. As Jenny went to speak, her mother raised a hand in a gesture demanding quiet while she continued to speak into the phone. Jenny listened in horror. She sank to her knees and placed her head next to her dog. She was still there twenty minutes later when the doorbell rang.

James opened the door to the vet and the nurse. He showed them into where the The Pote was lying on the armchair with Liz. After a thorough examination, during which the poor little creature merely growled gently without even baring his teeth at his arch enemy, the vet had to admit that the back was severely damaged. They took him to the surgery where he remained for a week to undergo the most horrific operation on his spine. During the whole horrid business he remained meekly reconciled, but when it was obvious he was never going to walk again, the family had some serious decisions to make. Being paralysed from mid-back to his tail meant not only loss of mobility but incontinence and total dependence on human assistance. It seemed unfair to expect this proud creature to survive in such ignominious, reduced circumstances. It was deemed only fitting that he should be at home in familiar surroundings when the vet performed his unpleasant task. So The Pote was brought back to Beckmans and carried into the Fourth Room. James ran upstairs so no one would see him crying, but Jenny determined to be with her dog to the bitter end. Liz nodded her approval and Jenny placed her best friend on Harriet’s chair, kneeling beside it to be as close as possible. She had prayed that Harriet would be there waiting, but the chair was empty as she laid him down. The Pote looked up at Jenny and licked her on the nose. She felt her heart would break, it hurt so much. This was real pain, her pain not his. Her dog was calmly accepting his death. As the first needle went in he went to sleep. One more shot and he was dead. Jenny looked at her watch. It was exactly five o’clock.