The Haunting of Harriet Read online

  During her entire stay in the hospital she received no visitors and although she wrote to her brother every day without fail, no post came back. Her memory of that day aboard the Jolly Roger had been almost wiped from her fragile mind, leaving her with scant knowledge of what had happened. Wild speculation and hideous imaginings crowded in on her until eventually she created a safe world of her own making where she could take control, secure in the knowledge that all would be restored to normal as soon as she got home to her father and brother.

  After a long difficult six months she was deemed well enough to be discharged. The same large car that had taken David away came to collect her and it was only as it pulled out through the gateway that she knew exactly where she had been living. The words written above the gates read, “St Luke’s Asylum for the Insane and the Incurable”. Her eyes fixed on the huge metal letters until long after they had disappeared from sight. That heavy iron arch was to hang over her for much of her life, reminding her that she would never be whole or normal again. The car was expensive and black and smelt of leather. The driver did not speak to her, not even when she asked where they were going, so she kept quiet during the journey. After about an hour they drove in through another pair of similarly ominous iron gates. But above these were the wonderful words: “Bletchley Academy for Girls”. She was going to school.

  The next day she received her first and only visitor: dear Mama. It was the last time that mother and daughter were to meet. She recalled how all eyes had been drawn toward this tiny but elegant figure in a close-fitting black costume, a small black, feathered hat perched on that cinnamon coiffure, and a dead fox draped across her wide, padded shoulders. The grotesque sight of that dead creature, its tortured eyes looking straight at her, made Harriet retch. It hung there pleading with her to stop its cruel humiliation, its tail held cynically in its own mouth as its empty legs dangled and swayed in time with her mother’s elegant gestures. She did not remember anything her mother said to her, so fixated was she with the dead animal, nor did she utter a single word in reply. She did remember watching her mother leave, the sound of her high suede heels clacking against the stone floor, and the image of her mother’s skirt pulled up, caught in those ridiculous black French knickers, revealing her stocking-tops and her shame. As a snort of derision left Harriet’s lips her mother turned on her and challenged those moist amber eyes for the last time. Only this time the hatred was returned with equal venom.

  She had begun to paint as therapy at St Luke’s, but here at school she learned the joy of painting for itself, taught by an enthusiastic young woman called Miss Wright, whose energetic approach encouraged Harriet to enjoy herself, while working hard at an often frustrating but always absorbing process. The acquisition of new skills was a joy for the child, whose life until now had not had too many things to feel happy about. It was this knowledge and love of art that she had been given by Miss Wright that she wanted to pass on to Liz. Harriet recalled her first completed picture and the satisfaction it had given her when her teacher had praised it. Now Liz too was experiencing the thrill that came with doing something new, achieving something one did not know was within one’s reach. To teach and encourage Liz might not be Harriet’s true destiny, but in the meantime it was a mutually rewarding way to while away the hours.

  Revisiting the past was not something Harriet often chose to do. Life here with the Jessops suited her well, but lately connections were emerging. She could see a pattern, pieces of a jigsaw that began to fit together, leading her to understand who she was and where she was going. Was she ready to examine parts of her past that she had intentionally kept buried? Things that she had not thought about for many years began to surface. They had played a significant part in moulding her character and now at last she recognized that she was strong enough to face them.

  The months she had spent in hospital were still painful to recall and having already given them a cursory glance, it seemed unnecessary to explore them in depth. Her time at school, however, was different. She was amazed that she could recall it with something akin to affection. During these years she had learned not only how to paint and enjoy the process of painting, but how glorious it was to sing. It was here that she discovered that she had been given a rare voice. The Academy had a large music department and the head of music, a rather strict woman, took this awkward young prodigy under her large wing. Harriet learnt how to develop her voice, to respect it and use it correctly. She learned how to stand, how to breathe and how to control this amazing talent. She was forever grateful to the stern, overlarge lady, Miss Bunting, for having faith in her and pushing her to the limit of her ability. It was years since she had thought of her two mentors, but their names came back to her in a flash. They were etched in her memory, with love, in the case of Miss Wright, but with respect and gratitude for Miss Bunting. Recollection of her formidable authority was enough to make Harriet leap to attention in anticipation of an hour’s hard work, receiving little in the way of praise other than a brief nod of the head, which was satisfaction enough.

  For five years Harriet lived at Bletchley without ever seeing her father, brother or mother. Peace broke out, but it made little difference to Harriet. Other girls’ fathers returned from the Front, to ecstatic reunions, while some tear-stained girls were given black armbands and sent home on unofficial leave. Harriet had become immune to the emotions of other people and no one insisted that she get involved. The school protected its girls, and its detached method of caring suited her. It became her home, a place where she was safe.

  Her unruly hair was cut into a neat bob so, for the first time in her life, she could forget about it. Her height had levelled out, so that although still tall, she was no longer head and shoulders above the other girls. Uniformly dressed, she was the same as everyone else so she no longer stood out in the crowd. She kept herself to herself, forging no friendships but making no enemies. The other girls speculated as to why she received no visitors and stayed at school alone during the many, often long, holidays. Rumours abounded that she was the love child of an aristocrat, or that her father was a spy. None of this worried her. She loved to learn and at last her voracious appetite was being satisfied. She had brought her own enclosed world with her, a place to live where she felt safe, untouched by the outside and the unknown. Bletchley had wrapped a second layer around her; deepening her cocoon. She had, of course, become totally institutionalized, but she would happily have remained at Bletchley for the rest of her life.

  Her determination to know why David had not come to see her and to find out how her poor father was had always remained uppermost in her mind, although it sat awkwardly juxtaposed with an overpowering conviction that she was alone in the world. So when, one day in the winter of 1947, she was ushered into the headmistress’s study and a callow young man who introduced himself as Mr Ernest Kepple informed her that, regretfully, all her family were dead she was stunned but not altogether surprised. She remembered this awkward young man. He wore a black jacket and pinstriped trousers and had a stutter not unlike her brother’s. Throughout the interview his bony hand fidgeted with a bowler hat that looked far too large for his pointed head, which was far too bald for a man of his age. He was from the firm of Kepple, Kepple & Cross, family solicitors. He spoke slowly, not unsympathetically, but in staccato and never relaying the exact circumstances of the deaths of Harriet’s relatives. His formal manner did not solicit questions. So when she was told that her brother had been killed that awful night in 1942 and her father had died of a stroke shortly afterwards she merely accepted it as fact. Her mother had apparently withheld this information from her daughter to save her any distress. But then just two days ago the widow and grieving mother, having survived this devastating compound tragedy was to fall victim to a tragic accident of her own, when the car she was travelling in slid on black ice at the top of Wrotham Hill killing its two occupants outright. How cruel of Fate. Her father and her brother were dead and her dear mother had avoided any
revenge that Harriet might have hoped to visit her with.

  To Harriet it was obvious. Her brother had taken his own life. The fact that she had not been there to stop him was a burden of guilt that Harriet was prepared to carry for the rest of her life. The bullies had won. She had no memory after hitting her head. He must have thought he had killed her. His gentle nature would never have let him forgive himself. He was not strong and without her could not have gone through with their plan. Faced with such a dreadful future, disappearing into the cold water must have seemed the only solution. There was no doubt that all the blame belonged at her mother’s door, but it had been her responsibility to protect her brother. Nothing could ease her own crippling sense of guilt.

  How convenient her mother’s death had been. Where was that natural justice the philosophers talked about? A quick, clean car crash was too small a price to pay for all the misery that wretched woman had heaped on them. The circumstance of her father’s death was different. In many ways it could be seen as a blessing. His health was never going to improve, rendering his life progressively meaningless. At least the end had come while he was still in his beloved Beckmans. She hoped it had been swift and painless and that he was now over the rainbow with the bluebirds, waiting for her to join him. But, and it was a very big but, she should have been with him. He must have called out for her just as she had called to him over the years.

  In the few days before her homecoming Harriet wrapped herself in a further layer of cynicism and bitterness, which cast her as a lonely spinster, not yet eighteen years of age. She had been away five years. All she had ever owned was a school uniform, three pairs of knickers, three vests and a small black-and-white photograph. Now Beckmans was hers. She was going home.

  Slowly, as she approached the front door, she looked up at the twin pillars standing either side of her. They were not as high as she remembered, but there they stood, proud sentinels, and she thanked them for being so solid and dependable. This was her real home. It would make her welcome, she knew that. Her fingers closed around the bunch of keys forming a fist, which she lifted to her lips and kissed before knocking gently on the glass. “Open it, Miss Marchant. There is no need to knock. Beckmans belongs to you now.” Mr Kepple had driven her back to Watermere and followed her into the house, unnecessarily but courteously carrying her small half-empty case for her. He was wondering what this tall, rather odd young woman was going to do with such a large forbidding property. He did not feel the house embracing her. He could not see the tears of joy she cried from behind her unblinking amber eyes as they acknowledged the welcome. He could not know that Beckmans belonged to itself. None of this registered on Harriet’s face so that when he turned to leave he felt guilty and ashamed to be abandoning such a young girl. But, as Harriet turned the key in the lock behind him, she smiled. She was home. No one could tell her how to live her life, not now and not ever. She was mistress of her own destiny.

  The first thing she did was to strip out her mother’s belongings, which she parcelled up and sent to the vicarage. The funeral was arranged for the day after she arrived home. The kind man in the pinstriped trousers attended and so did the sexton and the vicar. That was all. The small coffin containing her mother’s body was lowered into the family grave and Harriet placed a posy of snowdrops, a bag of bull’s eyes and a model spitfire alongside it. These were for her father and her brother. Then she turned her back on her dead Mama and returned home.

  Mr Kepple, accompanied Harriet back to Beckmans for the reading of the will. It turned out that Miss Harriet Marchant was now a wealthy young woman. Her independence was assured and she intended to keep it that way. He agreed that the firm of Kepple, Kepple & Cross would continue to handle all her affairs. At her request, post was to be sent to their premises in London and dealt with by them. She did not wish to be bothered by any of life’s minutiae and once she had written a cheque for a considerable amount of money to be sent to Tom and Ada Pritchard, she held out her hand to shake that of Mr Kepple and seal the transaction.

  That was the last time Harriet touched another human being. Her groceries were delivered weekly and left in a box on the front doorstep. Her laundry was collected and returned by a delivery service. Apart from a telephone that stood unused on the hall table she closed off contact with the outside world. As the door shut behind Mr Kepple, a sense of relief flooded over her. At last, she could be herself. There was no one to answer to, no one to peer into her soul and see her shortcomings. She took the large iron key-ring that came with the house and examined each key in turn. As a child she had coveted this amazing collection, watching and listening as it swung suspended by a chain from the belt of the skinny, uptight housekeeper, whose hand constantly dropped to silence the jingly bunch with a firm reprimand. Later they were imprisoned in Mrs P.’s voluminous apron pocket where they tore at the starched cotton in an attempt to escape the heat of her round, sweaty body. Now they were hers. First, she removed the front door key and placed it in the keyhole inside the hallway. Then she removed the smaller back door key and repeated the procedure. She no longer needed the rest of them, except for one.

  Removing the large iron key with the griffin’s head, she entered her father’s room and positioned the key in the lock behind her. Turning it with both hands she felt its powerful resistance before it gave way, releasing the heavy tumbler, which clunked as it fell into place. Leaving the key in the door she crossed the room to her father’s small desk. She laid the rest of the keys in the drawer beside his watch and his pipe. She stepped over to the fireplace, where her sampler still hung on the hook her father had hammered into the solid Tudor oak. The letters of the alphabet, both upper- and lower-case, some birds, recognizable as bluebirds by their colour, a rainbow with a few too many colours and in the wrong order and the words “Happy little bluebirds” had been lovingly embroidered on a bluish-grey background. The whole was worked in a wobbly version of cross-stitch and had taken her months of sweat and tears. She had signed it “H.M. 1939” and thought she would burst with pride when her father insisted it be framed, and hung it in his room on a pretty little hook in the shape of a bluebird. Her fingers reached out to touch it briefly before she sank back in the leather armchair and wept.

  The next morning she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders more for comfort than warmth. She knew what she must do if she was to live here with any semblance of peace. Her long legs propelled her swiftly across the lawn to the beck, where she stopped beside the little bridge that led to the boathouse. The Jolly Roger lay at its berth beside the jetty, its mooring ropes worn but still clinging tightly to its secret. She stared at it, willing it to tell her the truth. It refused to divulge any of the mystery. Any facts that might help her piece together the last moments of David’s life remained an enigma. Suddenly what she had to do was so blindingly apparent she almost laughed with relief. Taking a deep breath, she marched over the bridge. Steeling herself to visit it again, she marched straight into the boathouse and grabbed the boat hook. As she lifted it a shudder went through her and she knew that it too was withholding evidence from her. Outside again, she breathed in the fresh air. So far, so good! Motivated by an overwhelming sense of purpose she untied the little boat and pulled it round to the far side of the building before striking at it with the unwieldy hook. It took several strikes, using all her strength, to penetrate the hull, but eventually she saw the water begin to seep in and spread. She had pierced its heart. Their beautiful boat was sinking. The ties that held them were severed. They shared no history. The boat was no longer connected to her. It was just an old wreck that had always been there and she would tell anyone who asked that: “It has always been there.”

  Next she cast the boat hook into the lake along with the submerging dinghy, but not before she let her fingers touch the lovingly carved initials H and D. She said a silent prayer for old Tom as she watched the murky water close over her past. Then, throwing her cloak around her in preparation for her grand finale, she strode bac
k into the boathouse. Inside it was dark and cold. The smell of damp was everywhere, but she could also smell the stench of sex. Even when she closed her eyes she could see her mother writhing on the floor with that horrible stranger. Selecting some kindling wood and paper from the log box by the grate, she proceeded to set them in a small pyramid right in the centre of the floor. It was the exact spot where she had seen them perform. She struck the match and stood back to watch the flames greedily consume the paper. They weakened as they attacked the kindling, crackling as they bit into the dried wood. Then as they gathered strength the fascination of the fire took hold of her. Nothing could stop it now. She was a natural arsonist. The fire took on a life of its own, way beyond her control. The force of the blaze both horrified and thrilled her. She backed out of the boathouse and turned her back on the inferno. Its hold on her was loosening as the hungry flames licked at her, washing her clean.

  She awoke to find herself in a new millennium, sitting alone in the Tudor room, her memories still burning in her mind’s eye. Forcing the past to retreat, she wrapped her faithful cloak about her once more, crossed the hall and marched through the breakfast-room into the garden. Liz was standing on the near bank. It was dusk and the silhouette of the boathouse stood out against the darkening sky. She pinched her arm to remind herself that this was the twenty-first century and she was here with her friend. Memories still crowded in on her. She had opened the floodgates and nothing would hold them back now. Thoughts and images she had suppressed for a lifetime were flying free. Well, let them do their worst. They no longer filled her with hatred nor had the power to destroy her. She let loose an alarmingly loud, defiant laugh that dared her furies to show their ugly faces one last time. All the dark trappings of her early life melted. Life was about to begin again, charged by the energy usually reserved for the young. The future held no fears; in fact, she welcomed it.