The Haunting of Harriet Read online

  In memory of Peter

  Prologue

  Only angels and saints have the ability to view life from a wider perspective than us. Their elevated position allows them to peer around corners unimpeded by the obstacles that obscure our selfish, limited vision. They predict which paths we will take; while we simply blunder on, blindly relying on the odd signpost or an occasional flash of instinct. As mere mortals the scene from our own little window on the world is restricted to a personal, petty frame of reference. Still we plod along, placing one foot ahead of the other, and nod to those we encounter along the way, forgetting that their lives are what they are focused on. They are at the centre of their own unique universe and to them we are the outsider.

  So, fixed on our own journey, we live out our short span between life and death using only the cards we have been dealt. On occasion we recognize a rare quality in a fellow traveller; one who appears to be holding all the aces; and we call them “special”. Whether we believe in Destiny, Divine Decree or the luck of the cards is of little account. All we can do is play the game, even if this means our sole purpose on earth is to serve as catalysts and enablers for those “special” people who are destined to achieve great things.

  At least that is what some say……

  CHAPTER 1

  Harriet felt old and she hated it. Fate had played cruel tricks on her and left her wanting, without love and alone. Now, although still tall and upright, she used her father’s cane from necessity rather than style. The silver handle matched her silver hair; that mass of tangled ginger frizz at last drained of pigment and free will. At times she wondered why she clung with such tenacity to this empty life. Was it her stubborn nature or the burning conviction that she had not yet fulfilled her destiny? Fate would have to get a move on. She could not have much longer. Besides she was tired. She longed to lie down and slip away unnoticed and un-mourned. But not yet – not today. She must wait just a bit longer, after all waiting wasn’t hard and she had plenty of practice.

  Liz believed in luck, especially good luck and why shouldn’t she with life spread out before her like a smorgasbord of tasty morsels, hers for the picking? The millennium evening belonged to her as she stood surrounded by the people she loved most in the world. She just knew something momentous was about to happen. She was on the brink of a new adventure. It was exhilarating and a bit scary but the night air was crisp and vital. Breathing it in, she filled her lungs and offered herself to the future. She had never before felt so alive, so receptive; every cell, every fibre of her body tingled. Edward let go of her hand and smiled at her, before disappearing into the night, laughing and chatting in his easy-going way.

  She had met Edward on a blind date, an evening planned by her old school friend, Carol. It was supposed to be a foursome but Carol failed to turn up, having gone off with Liz’s prospective date. So the two rejects, dumped, feeling unwanted and rather stupid, decided to make the best of it and go it alone. By the end of the evening they were in love. Whether this was the hand of fate or a stroke of luck is debatable. Either way, just one week later Edward and Liz moved in together and were married the following month. The Jessops, as they were now known, bought a modest flat on the sort of South London estate that was aimed at first-time buyers, and began to build their nest. They both earned good money and Liz’s inheritance from the sale of her parents’ house enabled them to move quickly up the ladder to a smart three-bedroomed house suitable to accommodate a family. Edward’s determination to succeed was literally paying dividends and propelled him into the high-earning echelons of the money market. Now, several lucrative years on, another substantial move up the property ladder was on the cards.

  They had been on the lookout for the ideal house, but so far nothing matching their requirements had turned up. Liz wanted to replicate the home she had been raised in: a solid Edwardian house filled with solid old-fashioned furniture and extolling solid old-fashioned values. Edward dreamed of a modern architect-designed showpiece in which to parade the outward signs of his success. Confident that the perfect property was out there somewhere Liz was content to wait for luck to play its part; but when a nasty bout of food poisoning turned out to be a well advanced pregnancy she panicked.

  At first, the idea of a baby put the fear of God in her. But once her natural confidence took hold she began to look forward to motherhood. This confidence ended abruptly when it was announced that she was carrying twins. One baby was manageable but two together! She knew she would fail; the babies would die and Edward would hate her forever. Convinced that she was woefully inadequate to cope she began to sink into a state of anxiety-led depression. House-hunting was put on the back burner until more pressing issues were resolved.

  It was then that she hit on her brilliant plan. She bought a puppy. To her hormone-crazed brain it made perfect sense: try everything out on the dog first. If it survived then it would probably be safe for the babies. Of course, if the pup died she would have to rethink her strategy. Luckily, the acquisition of a puppy proved a stroke of genius. It was another case of love at first sight. The tiny creature thrived. Her experiment worked. From day one the guinea pig ruled the house with a paw of iron, earning him the title of The Potentate; Supreme Ruler: The Pote for short.

  Caring for the puppy came so naturally to Liz that she convinced herself once again that motherhood would be a doddle. By the time the twins arrived she was ready for anything life could throw at her. Her career was shelved and she became a full-time housewife and mother, which to everyone’s amazement suited her really well. Edward relaxed, content that his wife was happy. Secretly he was delighted to have his woman where she belonged; not exactly barefoot and pregnant but at home, a fixed nucleus at the centre of their lives. Suddenly the only problem in their otherwise ideal lives was the house. It shrank overnight. They had to move on up the ladder and soon.

  It was over breakfast one Sunday that Edward spotted the advert in the paper. He thought it sounded nice, Liz thought it sounded perfect. According to the ad, the house boasted a mature garden with a lake, a boathouse and a beck, whatever that was and “a wealth of original features”. It sounded intriguing: “Beckmans. A grade two listed building. Originally a timber framed Tudor house dating from 1540; the main part of the existing house being late Georgian. The house boasts a wealth of original features. Situated on the side of the Kentish Weald; sheltered to the north by woodland and facing south to the river Medway this is an outstanding property. Having been unoccupied for some time it is in need of some repair.”

  The idea of living in a really old house had not occurred to either of them. However, Liz’s curiosity was more than aroused and being a creature of impulse she had to investigate further. This is the way luck works, she thought. You have to recognize an opportunity, then grasp it. So she did just that. Now, three months one week and two days later, she was living in her perfect house, about to embark on a whole new adventure. How lucky was that?

  The evening of the millennium brought with it a new beginning in a new home. They were all standing on the bank of the little lake that dominated the lower part of the gardens at Beckmans. In front of them was what remained of a small wooden bridge that would once have offered passage across the water to the old boathouse, whose shadowy ruin loomed to their left. Behind them at some distance stood the rear of the house itself, the light from the French windows flooding out across the lawn. Upstairs the twins and Robert, Brenda’s and Donald’s son were (hopefully) sleeping, with The Pote babysitting in tandem with Sue’s daughter Emily. Their closest friends, Mel, Bob, David and Sue, were staying for a few days and Liz had invited some of their neighbours to join the celebrations and watch the firework display. Edward had thought this an
odd mix but it had worked well. The discovery of new friendships and the solidifying of old ones added to the air of expectancy that buzzed and fizzed around them like the champagne they guzzled down. They could feel it. It was as potent as the sound of laughter.

  From somewhere beyond her safe warm cocoon it began to call her. An uneasy feeling wrapped around her; someone was watching her, watching her and willing her not to ask questions, to let the past rest. She had seen it lying on the bottom of the stream on the first day she had explored the garden and she could feel it now although she could not see it from where she was standing. It was there, though, just beneath the water, as it had been then. “It’s always been there.” The words tumbled out of Liz’s mouth by themselves. They made no sense; and why she had said them was a complete mystery. She knew she was referring to the old boat but why should the pathetic image of a sunken rowing boat haunt her? Why did she feel such a connection to it? It was puzzling. Someone was questioning her. What was she talking about?

  “The boathouse…no one knows when it was built. It seems it has always been there!”

  The lie hung heavily on her lips and she washed it down with a gulp of champagne. Her mind flashed back over the events of the last few months. Everything had happened so quickly. She smiled as she remembered it all. The very next day after reading the ad Edward had to go to the city as usual so she had dumped the twins with her best friend Mel and set off with The Pote on her intrepid journey south, to darkest Kent.

  It was one of those bright October mornings when the sky is clear blue and the trees are just beginning to turn. On leaving the motorway Liz followed the directions in the agent’s letter. She recalled how happy and carefree she had been, actually enjoying driving for a change. After her parents were killed in a stupid accident Liz had become a bit of a car phobic. But that was long ago; it was time to put it behind her. This was her chance to prove to Edward she could do things on her own; and she was finding asserting her independence pleasurable.

  The estate agents had written apologizing for not having anyone free to show her around the property; however, the keys were held at Watermere Post Office and she was welcome to view it on her own. They explained that although the house itself was safe the boathouse was unsound and advised that for reasons of health and safety it be viewed from a sensible distance. They took care to stress that they would accept no responsibility for any accidents should this warning go unheeded. The keys were to be returned to the postmistress by six pm. They had included a map to help her locate the property.

  Delighted to have the chance to nose around at leisure, Liz decided to make a day of it and brought a packed lunch with her. The village of Watermere was compact and practical rather than picturesque, and the post office was just where it should be, on the main street by the traffic lights. The postmistress gave her the third degree and told her with smug pleasure that she was one of a long list of potential buyers who had never returned. “Funny old place, I shall be interested to hear what you think of it.” She handed Liz an enormous bunch of keys and smiled knowingly. Liz smiled politely and left, her sense of wellbeing somewhat deflated. But when she turned her car into the drive at Beckmans any feelings of impending disappointment vanished, to be replaced by hundreds of butterflies flying around in her tummy, churning out an excited anticipation she had not felt since she was a child.

  The chattering of her friends brought her back to the party, back to the garden beside the lake overlooking the boathouse; her boathouse. Here she was, living the dream. Those magical keys were in her keeping, unlocking the home she had always dreamed of. Hidden by the darkness Liz smiled to herself, remembering that first time she had held the jangling bunch in her hands; the sheer weight of them had taken her by surprise. Just touching them had linked her to an intriguing history; connecting her to generations of past guardians who had amassed them over the years. History was literally in her grasp. Until that moment her whole world had been secured with one ordinary Yale handed to her on the day she moved in with Edward. By adding a secure modern mortice to the motley bunch she proudly joined the long unseen line of custodians. Held together by a strong iron ring, the keys belonged to the house and the house belonged to itself, not to anybody, living or dead. How exciting was that!

  “Come on, you lot, fill up. It’s almost time.” Liz smiled at her husband, watching him weave among their guests, playfully chiding as he filled their glasses. “Is everyone loaded? It’s the witching hour any second now.” He raised his glass to the group, who lifted theirs, eyeing one another with anticipation. Monitoring his watch he began: “Ten, nine, eight…” She could hear his childish excitement as his voice got louder with each second until:

  “One!” He kissed her, then stepped back, startled by an explosion of sound and light.

  He heard Liz whisper “Did the earth move for you?”

  He shouted back: “It knocked me off my fucking feet!”

  Liz took a sip of her champagne and closed her eyes to recapture the delight she had felt that moment when she first saw Beckmans. It had knocked her off her feet too.

  Watermere was friendly, a sensible village, a good place to raise a family, and she was pleased that the house, which sat on the outskirts, was still within the community. As she stepped out of the car her feeling of euphoria dipped. Her heart sank. In front of the house was a nasty modern wall, totally out of keeping with the property. It stated the boundary but detracted from the allure that should surround a property of such stature. Builders’ rubble littered the entire forecourt, making the journey from car to front door a hazardous task that had to be undertaken with one’s eyes fixed on the ground. Looking up once she reached the steps, she saw the porch towering before her. It was quite splendid, Georgian, wide and welcoming. Its large Doric pillars were imposing even now, bereft of the original door that once stood between them. A tacky modern monstrosity stood there offering nothing but a sad apology. It looked incongruous and embarrassed and Liz felt sorry for it. There was no bell or knocker, just the ruined mechanism of a pulley hanging from the wall, long deprived of its pull-bar and bell. As Liz tapped on the ugly board her leather-gloved knuckles barely made a sound. She knew the house was empty but it seemed discourteous to enter without permission. Examining the weighty bunch she selected a shiny, but uninspiring modern Yale. With one half-turn the door swung open and she stepped over the threshold followed by The Pote, who was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by a tall, elderly woman. It was Harriet.

  Harriet believed in Fate, so it came as both a surprise and a disappointment that in her long, at times overlong life, her own destiny had not yet revealed itself. She had been waiting for today. It was an auspicious day. At last something was about to happen. Life had been depressingly tedious with only memories as companions. Many of these unwanted memories had, for reasons of sanity, to be kept locked away. On long, cold nights she would release them in the vain hope that familiarity would grant her immunity from them. But they only brought distress and guilt and it alarmed her that the passing years were taking their toll on her own strength. Meanwhile her furies got even stronger, making it harder to contain and control them. These were her very own ghosts who crowded into the walls of the old house along with all the others that had left their vibrations behind when they went wherever it is ghosts go. Harriet’s spectres were always too eager to emerge and crowd her space and it was only a profound sense of loneliness that drove her to release them in the first place.

  On this October day she was experiencing something rare, a feeling she had not had for many years. It was hope. The sound of a leathered glove rapping on the door startled Harriet into spilling her morning tea. As she rose from the table she was filled with an excited and pleasant expectancy. Her slippers made no sound as she crossed the tiled floor before placing her ear close to the door to listen, snorting in disgust at the smell of the ugly cheap pine that had replaced mahogany and stained glass. Harriet pressed her ear to the offensive wood but she hear
d no voices; nothing that filled her with alarm. Surprised by the ease with which they moved, she slipped the bolts free and stepped back into the shadows, while outside a key turned slowly in the lock. A young, slim woman crossed the threshold followed by what at first she thought was a rat. The rat sniffed at her and she recognized it as one of those funny German sausage dogs. She patted it on the head and listened to her house. It approved of these visitors and so did she. She opened her arms and the young woman accepted the embrace with a natural familiarity and courtesy of manner that both house and mistress found endearing.

  “Welcome to Beckmans,” Harriet said.

  “Thank you.” The reply came with mirrored courtesy and warmth. The young woman spoke softly with a pleasant, cultured accent. Harriet studied her at some length, liked what she saw and so together they set off, the one to guide and the other to explore yet both with a mutual feeling of belonging. Harriet felt no intrusion had taken place. She welcomed this person into her house and took delight in showing her around. Together they covered every inch of the house, with Harriet chatting away as she used to when she was a child, perfectly relaxed and happy to be sharing her love of Beckmans with another after all these years.

  She had lost count of how many “viewers” there had been over the years. Not one of them had proved worthy of admittance, let alone a welcome. They had all been sent packing in no uncertain terms. Many years of practice at making people feel uneasy had paid off; she was an expert at it now and considered it a rather amusing pastime. This young lady was different. She fitted the bill nicely. There was a familiarity and a similarity that pleased them both. Harriet was delighted to show Liz her house. But she would show it through her own bright amber eyes, and only the parts that were filled with light, laughter and music. Not the other; not yet. Beckmans deserved nothing less than to be displayed in all its glory.