The Haunting of Harriet (6 page)

Years ago this had been Harriet’s favourite place. Originally built by a wealthy Victorian industrialist, it had been lovingly rebuilt by Harriet’s father for his young bride, who had seldom set foot in the place, considering it too small to entertain in. “What on earth could one do in such a remote, dreary place?” she would ask without any understanding of the fact that some people sought solitude and took pleasure in their own company.

Harriet paused by the bridge and Liz paused with her. The danger signs were clear enough. In fact they screamed out, conspicuously written in lurid yellow and black; but they had nothing to do with Harriet’s reluctance to cross; she had her own private reasons for withdrawing. Liz, however, heeded the warnings and opted to walk around the lake to view the boathouse from a safe distance. She was beginning to feel inexplicably frustrated and twitchy. The temptation to investigate was overpowering. It could not be that dangerous or the agent would not have let her come here alone. The temporary obstacles put there to deter trespassers proved no match for her and she climbed past them with ease. Normally she was horribly righteous, always obeyed orders and never broke the law. This flirtation with risk was exhilarating and gave her a new-found confidence. Being a rebel was a novel experience and she loved the buzz.

Slowly, trying to appear gung-ho, she inched her way across until she stood on the walkway that surrounded three-quarters of the folly. The last few planks by the entrance were missing, leaving a gaping hole above the water. On closer inspection of the main shell, the signs of the fire that had consumed much of the vulnerable structure were more apparent. This was presumably why it had been left to rot. It explained the blackness of the wood. Even so, it was straight out of a spooky dream, standing desolate in its sorry state of disrepair. All the windows were obscured, covered with the thick twisted stems that had become a part of the old building as the plants claimed it for themselves. Her gentle attempt at parting them proved futile, so she braced herself and gave the main stem an almighty yank. The ivy gave way, taking the window frame with it. Falling backwards, Liz screamed as her left foot disappeared between the rotted struts. A searing pain shot up her leg, and for a moment she could not move. Once the shock had subsided she looked down at her leg. Blood was pouring out from a long gash and as she tried to extricate her foot from the jagged planks her shoe plopped into the water.

“Ouch!” The shock of her own voice took her by surprise. Someone was standing beside her and caught her before she pitched forward into the water. It was Sue.

“What’s wrong? Have you hurt yourself?”

“I’m fine. I just caught my heel” She looked down at her leg and gave it a brisk rub. Her stockings were intact, so was her skin. There was nothing to see now, only the memory of pain. She was cold and was back in the present. Screwing up her eyes tightly she returned to that October afternoon just over a year ago.

She recalled that weird sensation of being watched. The knowledge of someone looking at you, the feeling that makes you turn around had been there from the moment she entered the garden, an awareness that eyes were fixed on her. Was it her guilty conscience? She had been recklessly stupid. Thank goodness she had not brought the twins with her. They could have drowned. It did not bear thinking about. She opened her eyes and looked down to her right.

It was then that she saw it. Beneath the water a small dinghy lay on the bottom where the stream cut deep into the lake. It was a simple little rowing boat. The wooden hull was green with algae and fish swam around it obviously used to its presence. It was as if it had always been there; a small wreck with no history of service. As Liz stared down at her discovery she felt a strong desire to lie beside it, to drift for ever in a submerged half-world of oblivion.

Harriet threw her cloak around Liz and placed one of her large hands on the young woman’s shoulder. She looked straight into Liz’s eyes. “It’s always been there.” Her voice rang with authority as if giving an order, some sort of edict.
Do not ask questions. It is none of your business
was implicit in the single-repeated phrase: “It’s always been there.”

“So you keep saying. What’s always been where?” Mel asked the question for the umpteenth time. The question and the persistence of the questioner caught Liz off-guard. She felt stupid and confused. Where was she? What was she talking about? The coldness of the night air hit her and she realized exactly where she was. Had she missed a whole conversation? How embarrassing. She tried to remember what she had been thinking about. The boat, yes that was it! Surely they must have seen it too? Was she the only one who cared about it?

“That boat!” she said, pointing to the far side of the lake beside the boathouse. “It’s always been there. Well, for as long as I’ve known anyway.” She looked around at the puzzled expressions. This was not the Liz they knew.

“Well, I don’t see any boat. Can anyone see a boat? Do I sense a touch of Manderley?” Sue was using her English teacher’s voice, throwing a rhetorical question into the ether as she did with her students. Liz caught it. But her answer was not in the least convincing.

“Of course you can’t see it from here… You have to cross the bridge and walk to the other side.” The crassness of her remark made her squirm. “Sorry, I, um, I was miles away! You must think me crazy!” She emitted an atypical snort by way of a laugh, which took everyone including herself by surprise then, with a brisk shake of her head she tossed aside both the remark and a stray lock of blonde hair. Harriet sighed with relief. She did not like intruders.

“Don’t worry. One day I shall tell you,” she said.

Liz looked around at her guests, realizing she really did not know most of them at all. Which one had spoken to her? It was a woman’s voice, a pleasant comforting voice, musical and rich with a depth of tone, and rather posh. The neighbours would surely know some of the history of the house. All would be explained in the fullness of time. But the insistence of it gnawed away at her. Why had she made such a stupid remark? Of what possible significance could a rotten old dinghy be? Why should she care? It was absolutely nothing to do with her. For Heaven’s sake, she had only lived here a few months. The wretched wreck must have been there for donkey’s years. She told herself not to be so bloody silly. But she could not shift it from her mind.

Fireworks were still thundering overhead, only now they hurt her ears, confusing her thoughts, which were in the silent water below with the little boat. “Edward, that boat…”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake not now, Liz, you’re obsessed.” He withdrew his arm from his wife’s waist and gave David’s shoulder a manly squeeze. Then he threw his head back and bellowed: “Two thousand effing years!” He howled like a wolf at the moon.

It was getting cold. January was not the right time to be in a garden beside a lake at midnight. Taking Ed’s face in her hands she kissed him. The show had finished to a round of applause. Suddenly there was stillness, the bellicose symphony having fizzled out, leaving that nostalgic smell of potassium nitrate heavy in the air. The party had fallen silent, their eyes still turned skyward. All that could be heard was the slopping of the water against the little jetty that led from the ruins of the old boathouse. Once again Liz had the eerie feeling of being observed, but it was not unpleasant, more being watched over than spied on. It contained too much warmth to be in any way sinister. She felt protected.

O
ver the years Harriet had convinced herself that the life of a recluse was her choice. Now in two short months she began to think that Fate had chosen it in spite of her. Changes were occurring, not only to her surroundings but to her herself. What amazed this solitary, private woman was that she welcomed the change. The thought of a life she could share thrilled her. Beckmans had also registered these imminent changes without sounding an alarm. As usual, she took her signal from the house so she was content to go with the flow. She had been right. A few weeks before the millennium she had allowed the Jessops to move in and so far she had no regrets.

The arrival of such a vibrant young family proved far more of an upheaval than Harriet could ever have imagined. The house had burst into life catapulting Harriet into the twenty-first century. Mrs Jessop’s taste was immaculate; a mixture of traditional and modern. Boilers and bathrooms; kitchens and gadgets; paint, plaster, tiles and fabrics the like of which she had never seen, kept arriving. The house was lifted out of the past and plopped beautifully into the present. Old cloth-coated electrical wires were wrenched out and replaced, consumer boxes stood where fuse boxes had lived for years. Miles of new copper pipes were concealed beneath the flooring in place of the lead monstrosities that had previously taken the scenic route, meandering around the house, gurgling and spluttering as they spewed out their contents. Computers and televisions, videos and DVD players, game’s consoles and laptops were installed and consulted at every move. Cookers that told the time, sinks which gobbled up waste, machines to chop, shred, mix, heat, cool or freeze all became part of the exciting new world that was now Beckmans.

Harriet marvelled at these modern miracles. Had the world moved so far away from her? How long had she been living her isolated existence? This energetic young family exuded a vibrancy that energized her. The house was beginning to look stunning in its new clothes, and the layering of love that permeated the whole structure warmed Harriet’s heart. She felt safe and completely at home. Of course, she was now sharing it. To a great extent she was living her life through others. At first she had been content to act solely as advisor. Someone had to explain the complicated layout of the house, or the angle at which the sun entered each room at each season or various times of day. She needed to advise on suitable deployment for all the rooms, to explain how they had been previously used. Their potential for a modern twenty-first century family and the choice of decoration she left up to Liz. Once her task was complete she would adopt a lower profile, to avoid the unpleasant sensation of eavesdropping that she was already experiencing. This was a family starting out in life and they needed their own privacy and space. The house was bursting with activity. Visitors came and went in a constant flow, bringing gifts and flowers and a fellowship that Harriet loved to share but had no wish to abuse. She would keep herself to herself unless needed. Tonight was an exception.

Harriet had been content to take a back seat until now. She did not want to spoil the party. She was considerably older than the rest of the guests, almost from another world. She sidled up to her new friend and slipped an arm around her. She was smiling in the dark where no one could see her. She began to whisper in Liz’s ear, cupping a hand around her mouth as if telling a secret. But it was Liz who began to speak.

“I’ve always loved fireworks. Mind you, when I was a child we never had anything like this, just a few sparklers and bangers on bonfire night itself.
Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot.
We always had a huge fire. Tom said it got rid of all the rotten orchard stuff. It was quite dangerous, I suppose.” She let out a short uncharacteristic laugh, almost a snort. “Every year, without fail, a Catherine wheel, those wonderful whirling things, would spin into a wobble then go shooting off its nail at a tangent. We had to run for our lives, not knowing which way it would shoot next. Or a rocket would fall out of its bottle and Tom would kick it into action before it launched into space. No one got hurt; well, not badly, and of course it was only once a year. Sorry, did I just say that? Come to think of it, I only remember one year when we actually had fireworks. How strange! Mama didn’t approve of them. And I suppose one couldn’t get fireworks during the war.”