The Haunting of Harriet Page 20

  Mel chuckled, coughed to compose herself, then began her reading. The three cards facing her were the Page of Swords, the King of Pentacles and the Two of Pentacles. These three cards showed Liz’s immediate past and how she had dealt with it. Liz felt exposed. Was it possible she would learn something about herself that she would rather not know? Her doubts were plainly written on her face and Mel’s wry expression let her know she was aware of her friend’s anxiety. Without hesitating she jumped right in. She described a dark-haired man, a business man skilled in mathematics, a man willing to speculate in order to accumulate, powerful and in control. She never named him, but it was so obviously Edward. He felt pestered by someone demanding attention, vigilant and intrusive. His privacy was being invaded, he was spied on. But the spy was in danger of misjudging situations, blowing things out of proportion, with a dangerous tendency to create awkward situations by worrying at problems often more imaginary than real. Liz was being told to let go and look to the future. Mel was on a roll.

  “That all seems pretty clear to me. Take three more. Let’s see what the present holds.”

  Liz felt uncomfortable. So far the picture Mel was painting was quite accurate, though it certainly did not show her in a good light. She took three more cards, this time from the centre, laying them in a second line just below the others. The High Priestess sat between the Eight of Pentacles and the Wheel of Fortune. “This is now, and this,” Mel prodded the centre card with her shiny nail, “is you, my lady. It’s a great card. The priestess, signifying the wisdom of silence; she holds the secrets and mysteries of the future. On one side is luck, destiny, whatever you want to call it, and happiness. The wheel brings happiness. It’s yours to turn. It’s within your grasp, Liz. You were born lucky.” Mel nudged the picture on the Eight of Pentacles: an artisan chipping away with hammer and chisel. “This is you and your talent, your painting. Craftsmanship, commission; skill in craft and business… it’s there waiting for you to grab, kiddo!”

  Liz had forgotten her initial disappointment and was becoming quite impressed and excited. The second trio of cards were much more to her liking. Why had she been so against all this before? It was spot-on even, if she did not like to admit she had gone over the top about Edward’s dalliances. But it was good to know that luck was still with her.

  At Mel’s bidding she took three more, less concerned where they came from this time, the three nearest her. First was the Six of Swords, followed by the Page of Cups. As Liz paused, Mel smiled at her; then she took the final card and held it close without looking at it.

  “Are you ready to glimpse the future?”

  “Yes. Look, I’ve gone all goose-pimply. You can’t stop now. I’m hooked.”

  Liz turned the third card and both she and Harriet gasped. Liz began to wish she had not started all this, but Harriet wanted to see it through to the end. These were her cards. They were not Liz’s and she knew exactly what they meant.

  Harriet knew the boatman, the Six of Swords, she had met him before. But where was he taking his passengers as he skilfully steered his craft with his long wooden pole? He was the ferryman, Fate, and it was his task to take the living away. Harriet noticed the water surrounding the boat: smooth and safe on one side yet rough and dangerous on the other. The middle card, the Page of Cups was her brother, David. A fair young man, beautiful to look at, just as Harriet remembered him, with his cinnamon hair and his fine features. There was no mistaking it. She saw a gentle bright youth, scholarly and keen. In his right hand he held a golden cup, which contained a fish. A fish out of water, just like Davy, vulnerable and emotional, staring back at her as clearly as if it had been a photograph. The last card was Death.

  Harriet sat on the edge of her chair. Was this what she had been waiting for? During the reading she had warmed towards Mel. Could she really be a psychic? Could she contact David and give her the assurance that his soul was resting in peace? Harriet took a deep breath and challenged Mel to begin. The skeletal figure clad in black armour sat astride a white steed. He held a banner in his left hand, a black flag with a white rose on it, like the Tudor rose in the rose window outside. There were other figures, but Liz saw only the figure of Death staring straight at her with his eyeless, all-seeing sockets. It was chilling. There was a timeless quality to the image that made it all the more menacing. Harriet knew these cards were for her and had been expecting this one to be among them. Nevertheless Death always comes as a surprise.

  “It’s strange, but I don’t see these cards as the future. They are reaching back, way back. They point to another life, another death. It must be connected to you since you chose them. At times like this I really miss my hair.” Mel rubbed her hand over the fine silver stubble that was beginning to sprout from her head, enjoying the tickling sensation in her fingers while buying time to think. “This is all about him, this young man in the centre.” She prodded the Page of Cups as she spoke. “He is trying to give us a message. He is telling me to read the cards like a book. Well, what can I see? Two children in a boat, on a journey. The Page has a cup with a fish in it and Death is turning away from him. I don’t know what it all means or who the cards are for.” Mel stopped speaking and a thick silence gathered around them.

  But Liz did not need Mel to read the cards; they were speaking to her by themselves. She took over from Mel and began to tell the story so graphically displayed in front of her.

  They were telling her the secret of the boat. They showed her two children, also twins, but not her twins. This was long ago, in another life. There had been an argument, a fight which led to a tragic accident. One of them, a little boy had drowned. It had happened long ago, but it had never been resolved. There was still a lot of blame and guilt that had never been dealt with. The tragedy was continuing and it was linked to Beckmans. It was as though her finding this house was for this reason: to lay the ghosts of the past to rest. The secret that had haunted her since she first came to Beckmans was contained in these pictures.

  Harriet was frozen to her chair. Her heart was filled with the memory of her little brother. Every fibre of her body ached to reach out to him, to be with him again and hold him close. She had not held anyone in her arms since the day he died. Her presence was fading rapidly as her strength was leaving her. She could feel it floating out into the ether. Her body was shrinking and soon she would be gone. David was here; she could see him ahead of her, beckoning her, calling her to follow him. How could she refuse, having already failed him once? She watched as he began to float away. He was entering a swirling mist, and beyond the inky confusion shone a light of such intensity she was forced to shield her eyes. He was calling her name. He held out his hand for her to take. She saw her own arm outstretched and felt her hand burning as it drew nearer to his. It was time to surrender and go with him.

  “Don’t go!” The voice came loud and clear from the other side of the room.

  Shining out against the dark stood a figure in a long white gown, framed by a dazzling halo of light. Its hand outstretched, it too was reaching out to Harriet. The sensation of being held enveloped her, making her feel secure. Warmth gushed into her cold veins, restoring her strength and rekindling her staunch desire to live. The tunnel began to fade and she waved farewell to her brother, who smiled back with resignation and understanding. Then he turned and went.

  Mel and Liz nearly died of shock when the door shot open. Jenny was standing there in her nightdress. Light from the hall radiated around her, giving her the appearance of an angel.

  “What are you doing out of bed, sweetheart?” Liz wondered for a moment if Jenny was quite awake. Jenny was rubbing her eyes and yawning as she peered into the unlit room.

  “Someone called me.” She wandered across to Harriet and snuggled up on the old woman’s lap, their eyes saying all that needed to be said. Any lingering doubts Harriet might have had about staying behind vanished.

  Liz meant to suggest that Jenny went back to bed but instead found herself inviting her to
stay. She could not believe she had just asked her own child to take part in a séance. Mel seemed relaxed about it and Harriet was delighted. At last she would have a valid spokesperson, a kindred spirit. Jenny looked at the line of cards Liz had just read. Her forehead wrinkled as she narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. Then with total conviction she began.

  “These three cards cover the past, the present and the future, which, of course, are all the same anyway. The boy is youth. He is a messenger reminding us that we are all connected in life and beyond. He has filled his cup from the sea on which the boatman travels. The boatman is not only carrying his passengers through life, he ferries them from life to death, through rough water to smooth. His passengers don’t know he is there. We think we forge our own paths through life but we don’t really. And eventually we must face Death. But he is not frightening when you see him next to this young man. He is just telling us not to get too fond of material things. They don’t last. Life is too short to waste on things. He also says that as one life ends another begins. We should embrace change. Shall I cross the cards, Aunty Mel?”

  Mel nodded and explained to Liz that by laying one card across the others you confirmed or denied the rest. Jenny picked her card and laid it down. Harriet and Liz both shuddered, Liz because she saw again that tall, haunting figure in black and Harriet because she recognized herself. Liz could not move. She wanted to run from the room, to scream out, shout for help, but she was paralysed. Of all the cards she could have picked, Jenny had chosen the Five of Cups.

  As she laid the card down Jenny smiled at her mother. “I know you hate this card, because it frightens you, Mummy, but I really like it. It is quite special. It’s sometimes called the mourning card because it can mean loss. But it means lots more than that. Look, three of the cups are lying down. Two are spilling a red liquid on the ground, it might be wine or it might be blood. It could be both, a reference to Holy Communion. They could represent a sacrifice. The third one held water. Is it a libation to the gods or an accident? None of them are broken. Have they simply fallen over, or could they have been tipped over on purpose? They held the past, which is over and gone. The other two cups are still standing because they hold the future. They are still full. They represent hope and redemption. Look, there behind the figure, do you see a bridge leading to a house? There’s been a homecoming and there’ll be lots more. You know this card also depicts inheritance. Beckmans is a part of us now and we’ll always be part of its history. Isn’t that an incredible thought? It may be just a house and we must all move on at some point, but our souls will be linked for ever. Don’t you find that fantastic? That a house has a soul, I mean.”

  Liz stared open-mouthed at this amazing young person in front of her. Where had she been not to notice how grown up Jenny was? When and how had she developed all this wisdom and knowledge? Who had been teaching her such things? From the look of incredulity on Mel’s face she was not the culprit.

  “Well, I think that’s a pretty good confirmation. I appear to be redundant in this house. I may as well go to bed!” Mel gave Jenny a resounding kiss and stretched her back as she stood up. They had been bending over the cards for several long hours although the time had flown by. The fire was looking brighter than it had all evening and Liz placed the guard around it as she too stretched her limbs. Jenny scooped up the cards and replaced them in their box. There was nothing more to say. She blew a kiss to Harriet and the three of them left the room leaving the fourth on her own to enjoy the last embers of the fire. Out in the hall, Liz put her arms around Jenny and held her close. She had never felt closer. Both knew that this was the start of a fuller understanding between them. A bond had been created tonight tying them together for eternity.

  “However long that is,” mumbled Harriet, settling down for the night.

  CHAPTER 17

  It rained solidly for most of that summer. July had been a complete wash-out and August showed signs of being worse. It had rained all Saturday and now, Sunday, it was raining even harder. The beck rushed through the garden, taking with it any marginal plants that failed to cling to the rapidly eroding banks. The bergenias lay face-down in the black wet silt, as less robust plants floated away to join the torrent that was the River Medway. The little bridge disappeared beneath the flood and the Olly Ro strained at its moorings. The lake shivered and quaked, no longer sure of its boundaries. It spluttered and surged onto the banks, where it lay as thick, smelly mud. The ducks took to the leeward side of the willow for shelter and watched aghast as their island home drowned in the rising tide. Only the boathouse stood tall, its turret silhouetted against the blackened sky, wallowing in the Gothic weather.

  All weekend the twins had remained in the attic making a skull-and-crossbones flag for the Olly Ro and they were desperate to fly it aloft. Permission to set sail was flatly refused as the rain was bucketing down through the driving wind that lashed at the beck, whipping it into an unrecognizable maelstrom. Tempers were fraying. They were getting cabin fever. James was idly throwing a tennis ball at the wall; it thumped annoyingly at the sofa each time he failed to catch it. Jenny was curled up on this sofa, trying to listen to a new CD of a song Harriet wanted her to learn. These activities were hardly compatible and a skirmish was in the air. Liz brought their supper up on trays and told them to watch a film or at least do something together before they drove everyone mad with their bickering. She had installed a baby alarm in the loft when they were a lot younger and the habit of plugging it in had never left her. Back in the lounge she heard them stop arguing and settle on a film they both liked enough to watch together. James slotted it into the DVD player. It was Moby Dick.

  The twins became engrossed in pizzas and adventure on the high seas alongside Ishmael, tattooed natives, an obsessed peg-legged captain and the great white whale, while Edward and Liz, enjoying the peace and quiet, lit a fire. So much for summer! What light there was outside was fading fast. The long windows shook as the wind blew in from the lake. Liz drew the curtains and settled beside Edward, snuggling close as the strains of soft music floated over her.

  Suddenly she sat up. “Listen, Ed.”

  He turned the music down. “I can’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly: there’s no sound from the kids.” She crossed to the windows and drew back the drapes, cupping her hands against the glass to peer out into the dark. “Ed, did you leave the light on in the boathouse?”

  “Not guilty. Maybe the kids are down there.”

  Before he had finished speaking Liz was out of the door. She ran slithering and slipping across the sodden grass. She kicked off her shoes and sprinted over the lawn, swearing at the darkness that hindered her speed. The mud splattered and stuck to her stockinged feet and legs.

  “Hang on. You’ll need a torch!” Edward yelled after her. “Bloody kids. I bet they’re still upstairs in the warm.”

  But Liz did not hear him. She had seen the black rider, felt the hot rank breath from his stallion’s wide nostrils as the great head shook and snorted against the night storm. His armour was sounding a death rattle in her ears as that piercing gaze from eyeless sockets held her mesmerized. The black cloak turned and beckoned. The cards had tricked her.

  Upstairs the children had been slumped on cushions watching the movie. James was glued to the screen, but Jenny was bored. She pestered him relentlessly as only a sibling can. The remote control was her main weapon and having taken possession of it she proceeded to stop and start the disc at will. When finally the screen froze and adamantly refused to budge, tempers snapped. James jumped up with full force hit his sister around the head. They both froze. They had scrapped many times before. They had pulled faces at each other and name-calling was commonplace, especially in the attic, their adult-free zone. But violence, until this moment, was unknown. Jenny rubbed the side of her face. The blow had left a bright red blotch on her cheek. Refusing to cry, she shouted, “That bloody hurt!” and looked accusingly at her brother.

  “Don’t swear,
Jenny,” James taunted, using a particularly patronizing tone. “You deserved a good thump. You ruined my film. Just at the bit where…” He must have seen Moby Dick a hundred times. His well-thumbed copy of the book was dog-eared from page-turning.

  “Where they catch the stupid old whale!” she taunted back.

  “They don’t catch him, Stupido, that’s the point! He is Captain Ahab’s nemi… nema…”

  “Nemesis,” she said impatiently. “Now who’s stupido?” Jenny stood with hands on hips. Her jaw was set and her body language left no room for doubt. “You bloody hit me, Apeface!”

  That was it. Within seconds they became one rolling, kicking, shrieking mass, eventually dissolving into a hysterical ball of laughter. One of them wriggled free and cried, “Let’s go and catch a real whale!” It was James. Grabbing a handful of felt pens he set about tattooing himself. “I’m Queequeg; where can I get a harpoon? I need one to shoot that pesky whale.”

  While he hunted for a suitable weapon Jenny scrambled in his wake, busy with more pens, transforming him into a wild Polynesian whaler. Soon every inch of his face was covered with weird and wonderful symbols. In the general fracas no one had noticed that the baby alarm had been pulled from its socket.

  Within minutes James had engineered a functional weapon from a water cannon, adapted to fire a pen. It flew a meagre six inches on its maiden flight but after a minor adjustment or two the pen shot across the room with a terrifying force, embedding itself in a bean bag. Moby Dick’s days were numbered. Meanwhile Jenny was attempting to turn the table upside-down.

  “What are you doing?” asked James rather disparagingly.

  “This is the Pequod and I’m Captain Ahab. Hoist the flag and climb aboard, Queequeg.”