The Haunting of Harriet (41 page)

The debate drew to a close and Bob got ready to count the final show of hands. Mel stood her ground but so did Bob, Donald, Brenda and Edward. Once again David’s hand went up. Only Liz had switched camps and come down on the side of rational thinking. Then just as the verdict was being announced Liz asked the question they had all been avoiding:

“What about the boat hook?”

There was a deathly hush. Their faces registered confusion. Doubt was the spectre at the feast but no one would acknowledge it. It fell to Edward to dismiss it.

“I’m not kidding, but seeing that boat hook made me go cold. As for those notches, it was spooky. Sorry, wrong choice of word! I’ve given it a lot of thought; it may well have been the fashion to carve initials on them back then, who knows? The
facts
are these. It could not have been the same boat hook that Jenny claims was used. Ask Bob. It was buried under years of mud and gunge. No way had it been used recently. It was rotting down there for decades. That hook wouldn’t support a minnow let alone a hefty lad like James!”

There was an irrefutable logic to what he said. The mood lightened, only to be brought down by Liz’s next question: “What about the little girl? She still haunts me. If I close my eyes I can see her as clearly as I did then. Who is she? What did she want?”

It was practical non-believing David who answered: “Did you actually see her? Or did you just think you saw her? Who else has seen her? Nobody. You said yourself that you had a strong feeling of
déjà vu
. I bet you saw a film that triggered it off and, bingo, your imagination did the rest.”

“Hear, hear!” exclaimed Edward. “You and Jenny are so alike. Nothing is simple. The obvious becomes a mystery and once you’ve got an idea you let your imagination run riot. All the business about that ridiculous card and the Fourth Room, look at it now. Is it haunted? Haunted my arse! No, Liz, sorry to disappoint you but I’m with David. You just got a bit obsessive.”

Far from being disappointed Liz felt a surge of relief. Her subconscious had concocted the whole thing. It was easier and more comfortable to believe Edward and David.

“You are absolutely right,” she declared. “It has been a weird and freaky set of happen-stances, coincidences,
déjà vu
and airy-fairy nonsense. Good. I’m glad that’s been sorted out. Do you know, I feel quite light-headed; it’s as if a great weight has been lifted off my poor brain, and I haven’t had a single drink!” Liz shook her head and a stray lock of fine blonde hair swung loose; twice she tried to secure it and failed. Then her comb snapped in two.

Mel was on her feet, glowering at Liz. “Well, you’ve changed your tune. I defy you to come back into that room with me and face that sad little girl, then tell me she’s a figment of your imagination. That poor little spirit came to us for help. Something’s trapped her on this plane and she’s asking for someone to guide her to the light. I’ve a good mind to go and release her now.”

Brenda was incensed. If anything supernatural was going on, they should seek professional help, before something irreversible happened. She said as much to Mel, who took pleasure in pointing out that she was a professional. The wine was doing its worst. Brenda, who would normally have been asleep by now, was keeping fuelled by passion. She lashed out.

“If someone is possessed they need a priest. Only a priest can conduct an exorcism and exorcism is the only way. You must not mess with the devil. And he comes in many disguises.”

She looked directly at Mel as she spoke and it was obvious what she was implying. Mel burst out laughing, her silver elfin head bobbing along with her earrings as she shook.

“If you think I’m the devil in-bloody-carnate then say so. But watch out. I might just cast the evil eye on you. Anyway, who’s talking about possession? Get your facts straight, Madame.”

“Mel, that’s enough!” said Bob. “You two have been friends for years; you can’t fall out over a bloody ghost that doesn’t even exist.”

“Isn’t it interesting that one can ‘know’ someone for years and years without really knowing them at all?” Mel retorted.

“The church is quite clear. It’s a sin to consort with spirits. I don’t approve of what you do and I never have. All that business with the Tarot; it’s the occult. It’s an abomination and so are the witches that practise it.” Brenda was leaning across the table, pointing her finger at Mel.

“Hello, hello, the Inquisition is alive and well. Maybe this time you’ll finally work out how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. I’m surprised those deluded old men had time for such conundrums what with all that burning and torturing of innocent victims. They should have asked me. I know the answer. Shall I tell you? None! And why, I hear you ask? Because the poor fucking angels are too busy clearing up the misery and pain caused by self-righteous prigs like you to find time to bloody dance anywhere. God save me from hypocrites.” With that, she turned her back to the table, lest she say something she might really regret.

“Listen to you. You’re both deluded idiots. Can’t you see this is it? When you die, you die. I hope to God there is no God and if I have to come back as a spirit, I’ll be a single malt whisky, thank you very much.” David poured himself another drink and raised his glass to Mel.

Liz listened horrified as the two women traded abuse. Now David was getting involved. She grabbed her glass and hurled it with all her might. It covered the length of the table, spraying everyone in its path with sparkling water, bouncing twice before landing, intact, but on its side, balancing and rocking on the table edge. “Stop it! I can’t take any more. This family has only just got itself together. I will not let such a stupid row tear it apart again.”

Meanwhile Brenda had been fumbling in her handbag for the car keys. She slammed the metal clasp shut with a loud snap and tried to stand. Meaning to steady herself against the table she mistakenly grabbed a handful of cloth. This last-ditch attempt to save herself sent both her glass and herself sprawling over the table, turning her face and the white cloth scarlet as she fell. Bob helped her to her feet, but without acknowledging him or his kindness she turned to her husband and said, “Are you ready, Donald? I’m sorry, Liz, but we’re leaving. Our church is very important to us and I will not stay to have it ridiculed.”

Donald remained firmly planted in his chair as he uttered his one word reply. “No.” He did not look at his wife; he merely placed his glass in front of Edward to be refilled.

“What do you mean, ‘No’?” Brenda glowered at her dissenting husband.

“What part of ‘No’ don’t you understand, woman? I’m going nowhere. Your precious church has caused enough rifts in our own family. I’ll not allow its medieval dogma to come between my friends and me. I’m with you, Liz.” He was dangling the car keys provocatively at his wife as he spoke. “If you go, you’re on your own.” Brenda ignored the keys and sat down heavily. The tightness with which she kept her lips closed spoke volumes.

Mel was slow-clapping in a wicked act of provocation. Appalled at his wife’s behaviour, Bob tugged at her sleeve to stop her, then watched in horror as his own glass tipped over.

“I am so sorry, Liz. Your poor table! What’s the betting this wouldn’t have happened if we’d been on white wine? Pass the fizzy water and some salt, it’ll stop it staining.” Liz was not looking at the cloth. All she saw were three cups lying down. Red liquid spilled from two and water had poured from the other. Beside them there stood two full cups, Edward’s and Donald’s. Behind them she could see the bridge that crossed the beck, on the far side of which stood a little house: the boathouse. What she did not see was Harriet, who had been standing silently at the end of the table. Her long black cloak fell closely around her tall figure. Her thick white hair shone in the setting sunlight and she was smiling. She had witnessed the entire proceedings.

H
arriet was smiling when, sometime later, Jenny met her for her lesson.

“We shan’t have a lesson today. We shall just sing.”

“You’re in a good mood. Smiling suits you.” Jenny kicked off her sandals and swung her legs over the edge of the walkway. Stretching her toes down, she could just reach the low summer water. She began to swing her long brown legs in a strict four/four tempo. Harriet picked up the rhythm and started singing.

“Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly.…” Her voice brimmed with emotion. It came from a very private place, deep within the old woman, and Jenny felt it would be rude to interrupt by joining in. When the song ended Jenny stopped her leggy metronome and watched Harriet climb down to perch beside her.

“Can I ask a favour of you, my dear?”

Jenny nodded.

“Could we go out in the
Olly Ro
? It’s so long since I rowed in the sunshine.”

For the next hour or so the two friends took turns to manoeuvre the little dinghy around the lake. They chatted and sang as they rowed and Harriet told Jenny of her plans for the future. The conversation over lunch had been a huge learning curve for Harriet, as she explained to Jenny; she had witnessed people at their best and at their worst. What amused her most was the fact that they were all saying the same thing. They just did not see it. They were coming from such different angles, that no matter how much they shifted their chairs around they could still only see their point of view. The actuality of what they were looking at was in fact one and the same thing. To some extent the whole thing could be dismissed as semantics, but choice of words was not all that separated them. Harriet realized that each one had a compass tuned to a very personal north. She reached the conclusion that although it might be possible to enable someone to see things from another perspective they can never lose their own bearings. It will always point them home in the end. That was what made life so wonderful, she thought.
How boring if we all sang the same tune. Singing from the same song-sheet still leaves room for a wealth of harmony. It’s when we each choose a different key that discord begins.

Jenny let Harriet ramble on. It was fascinating to hear this guardedly private person expound so freely her philosophy of life, but Jenny was more interested to find out the reason for this sudden openness. Harriet stopped speaking, looked at Jenny and laughed.

“You are quite right, as usual. I have had some major decisions to make lately and this mad rambling is my way of skirting the issue. All right young Jenny, let’s cut to the chase. I was feeling a little upset that some people do not believe I exist. It hurt. Now, I no longer care. We see what we choose to see. Often we can only see what others choose to show us. So I have come to the conclusion that I have been taking it all too seriously. I know I am here. You know I am here; who cares about the rest?

“Hear, hear.”

“I haven’t quite finished.” Harriet’s tone changed and her smile was replaced by a more serious, though still benevolent, expression. “I have been thinking of moving on; passing over; going to the other side; turning to the light. Pick a euphemism, it hardly matters which. But for years I have been kidding myself that I still have a purpose here, a conceited belief that Fate or Destiny has not yet done with me. I was wrong. I realize now that none of us knows our fate. Life isn’t that complicated. We are born, we live; we die. At least most of us do. What is so difficult? I have done what I wanted to do and I think maybe it is time I went.”

Jenny stopped rowing and let the boat drift. She did not speak although there was a great deal she wanted to say. She sniffed hard. Harriet offered her a neatly folded white handkerchief. Trying to sound light-hearted Jenny said, “You must be the only ghost that always has a clean hanky.” Then she made a desperate plea. “Don’t go, Harriet. You can’t leave. Who will teach me if you go? I don’t want you to die.”

“It’s a bit late for that, my dear. As for your singing, there’ll be teachers queuing up to train a voice like yours, people who know much more that I do. My methods are old-fashioned. I have always known I could only take you so far. Hopefully I have given you a glimpse into the wide spectrum of music and a lasting love of it. Keep that and I will have fulfilled my task.”

Jenny was alone in the boat. She called Harriet’s name but there was no reply. Slowly she rowed back to the jetty and moored the
Olly Ro
. She looked around the boathouse before dragging her feet back to the house. The Fourth Room was empty except for Google, who was stretching her long back on the armchair. She looked at her watch. It was five-fifteen.

She told her mother she had a headache and went to bed early. Clutching Harriet’s book she sobbed for several hours. From the lounge she could hear the sound of drunken laughter. The Circus was in full swing, having sorted their arguments by agreeing to differ. It would not be long before they were going hammer and tongs again; that was the fun of being a family. Their loud competing voices drifted up the stairs, increasing Jenny’s loneliness. This was how she had felt when The Pote had died; cold waves of horror stopped her heart each time she realized she would never see him again. She was mourning again, this time for her friend; and this time there would be no one to mourn with her. They could not grieve for someone they did not believe in. Her future spread in front of her like a desert, arid and barren. She fell into an exhausted and fretful sleep where she was alone, drowning in a sea of sand.