The Haunting of Harriet Page 24

  CHAPTER 22

  Only Jenny and Harriet had ventured near the lake or the boathouse since the accident and the Olly Ro still drifted free of tethered ropes or moorings. Three months had passed and the storm would have been long forgotten had it not been for the near-drowning of the twins. All the murkiness had gone, leaving the lake and stream clear and innocent. A few ducks had returned to the safety of their island, dismayed to find their house in ruins. The water level remained abnormally high for weeks and when it finally subsided, the silt left behind on the bridge and the decking bore testament to the heights it had reached. Debris littered the far bank and there was a large muddy slick on the near side. Today the boathouse stood out against the sunshine, a couple of loose tiles being the only sign of any storm. There was an eerie stillness in the air, which mirrored the atmosphere of the little party gathered on the walkway beyond the bridge. The Pote remained in the house. Since all the drama he had taken himself off to the security of the armchair in the small sitting-room, seizing the opportunity whenever he found the door open.

  “How do you guys want me to do this?” Jenny had assembled her mother and father, and James down by the boathouse. It was one week before Liz’s exhibition and she was alarmed to be retracing a nightmare that, she felt, was best forgotten. The children had been reluctant to talk about it when it had seemed the obvious thing to do. Now the drama had died down, surely it was wise to leave it there, buried in the mud, where that wretched boat belonged too. No, Liz was convinced they should all look forward, face the engine, as her father used to say. Actually she was terrified of what might be dragged up. Inquests were morbid affairs best avoided. However, she could not ignore Jenny’s request. Maybe there were issues her daughter needed to face and although Jenny had made a remarkable recovery, she had never talked about her experience, which was odd. It also left the nagging fear that the trauma could emerge as an emotional crisis at a later point in time. Better to deal with it now, once and for all. So Liz gathered with the others to listen to Jenny’s story. A part of her was curious to know exactly what had happened on that awful night, nevertheless it was with some trepidation that she listened as Jenny began. Liz watched her daughter stand up tall and take a deep breath to compose herself. She felt amazingly proud of her children, especially Jenny. Her strength was phenomenal. Her voice was deep and there was an air of confidence about her that had only become apparent since the trauma of the accident had lifted. She described the night in graphic detail with no hint of fear or doubt. The squabbles in the attic were not touched on, nor James’s refusal to wear his life-jacket. She concentrated on the accident itself, which she relayed with an eerie detachment and faultless accuracy. She described how she had wanted to turn back and how it was only at that point that she realized she had lost control of the boat. She told how one minute James was standing in the bow and the next he was gone. As she spoke, the full horror of the night was relayed, clearly and without emotion, almost as though she was watching a film.

  Her family listened, amazed at the fluency with which she recalled the events of that dreadful night. Her rescue attempts, her fight for air, her lungs bursting and burning as the last atom of oxygen expired; the darkness and the freezing water; the agony of thinking her brother was lost. This was not the relaying of a child’s experience. This was a studied heartfelt account by an eyewitness of maturity and understanding, which belied Jenny’s ten short years of life. When she had finished she turned to the boathouse and a glimmer of a smile flickered across her pale drawn face.

  “How did you get James out, Jenny?” her father asked gently, probing not challenging.

  “She pulled him out.” The sudden use of the third person was baffling. Liz and Edward began to feel uncomfortable, listening to this vulnerable child speaking with such detached control. It was as though by distancing herself from the whole ghastly business she could release her memory without reliving the pain.

  Liz wanted to call a halt to the proceedings when Edward posed another question. “I don’t understand, darling. If you and James were in the water, how did you, or ‘she’, pull him out?”

  Jenny paused, thinking hard. She closed her eyes to remember in more detail. This time she spoke with considerable emotion. Again she told of the cold, the blackness of the water recounting flashbacks that brought her near to drowning. The searing pain in her lungs and ears the voice calling to her from where they stood now. It all flooded out. Harriet, the boat hook… she freed herself of every detail. When she had finished she was drained. Her hair stuck to her head, wet with perspiration, and her young body shook with spasms, causing her to gasp for breath. Red-hot tears streamed from her eyes and she clung to the rail as she sobbed. Her parents sat transfixed. Liz’s thoughts were racing. Why is Jenny talking as if all this happened to someone else? Has she concocted this bizarre rescue story to ease her feelings of guilt? Survivors can feel very guilty. Why didn’t we do this with the help of professionals? What if Jenny has a relapse? And what is this nonsense about a boat hook? What boat hook? Why on earth did we drag all this up again?

  Suddenly Liz was back standing on the bank beneath the willow. The weeping child was there too, only now she was taller and wore a long black cloak. The two were becoming fused in her mind. Were they one and the same? Was one her daughter and the other herself? The long, black shadow was casting its misery over everything. It had to be stopped before it was too late. Again she felt the emptiness, the total absence of love that she felt the day they raised the first horrid boat. Were there two boats or just one? To her they had merged until they were one and the same. She could no longer separate the past from the present. What was it Jenny said about the cards, something about time being all the same? Was this what Jenny felt now? It did not need a mother’s instinct to know her daughter was in pain. This brave girl was being left to face these horrors alone, feeling abandoned by the one person who should be there whatever. A real mother gave her children the strength and comfort they needed, unconditionally and unbidden. How could she refuse to believe in Jenny’s friend, this Harriet woman? She was obviously very real to her daughter? All this raced through Liz’s brain at the speed of a dream. She scooped Jenny into her arms, hugging her until they lay in a heap not knowing whether they were crying or laughing.

  Meanwhile, James ever the pragmatist had wriggled free from his father’s vice-like grip and stood before his sister. He had adopted her stance: fists planted firmly on his waist and his powerful legs planted squarely, and for once there was no mistaking that they were twins.

  “So? Who pulled me out?”

  That was too much for Jenny. “How many times do I have to tell you? It was Harriet. She handed me the boat hook. I felt the funny marks on the end where Tom carved their initials. They were what helped me grip it. She pulled us both out: me first, then you. She told me how to give you the kiss of life. She made me keep going when I wanted to give up and die. She saved your life and she’s my friend. Look, over there; the tall lady in the long cloak. She has thick white hair and wears it with a comb like Mummy’s. She’s my singing teacher. She paints like Mummy, in fact she teaches her. Look, she’s standing over there. For Heaven’s sake, there’s only us and her!”

  Jenny was pointing to the corner of the boathouse. She looked imploringly at her mother for help. While Jenny was talking, Harriet had been standing close by, encouraging and prompting her prodigy. Liz was torn. She had always tried to be totally open and honest with her children. Should she lie now to support Jenny? To claim she could see someone who was not there seemed hypocritical, but here was her daughter desperate for her to corroborate her story.

  The girl threw a desperate glance to Harriet and said, “I’m so sorry. They can’t or won’t see you.” She looked at her family in bewilderment and not without accusation.

  With the bluntness of the young, James said, “There’s nobody there, Stupido.”

  In all honesty Liz could not see any woman, let alone an imposing white
-haired one, yet the words of gratitude that tumbled out of her were addressed convincingly to the empty spot by the boathouse, surprising herself as much as the others:

  “I don’t know who you are, but from the bottom of my heart I thank you. Because of you my children are safe. You’ve given them back to me and I shall never forget that. If I can repay you in any way I will.” Then she too blew a kiss into the ether. Had she spoken in solidarity with her daughter, or was it a subconscious desire to believe? It hardly seemed to matter, nor did she feel a complete idiot for doing it.

  A falling leaf brushed her hair and she raised her hand to catch it. It felt as light as a kiss.

  CHAPTER 23

  Liz’s Private View was a resounding success. She sold three and took five commissions. One of the buyers was a dealer from London, a friend of Mel’s, and the other two were neighbours; but even so it augured well. The cards had been right. Her career was taking off. The whole family was swept up with the euphoria of the occasion. The gallery was delighted and agreed to hold another show in a year’s time which meant Liz would be kept occupied increasing her portfolio. When Edward voiced his doubts as to the viability of the project he was quickly shouted down. The idea had never been to make money, which as he justly pointed out was lucky, because actually they hadn’t. More champagne was passed around and eventually even he had to concede it was a successful night. Her paintings hung for three weeks and although no more sold there was always a chance of more commissions.

  The accident was done and dusted, as far as everyone was concerned; everyone but Jenny. For her, there were still issues to be resolved. Her mother’s address to Harriet had helped her contain her anger, but it was not yet a closed book. Then there was the other book and the small matter of the presentation. Harriet was completely in the dark as to Jenny’s secret sleuthing. She was unaware of all the time and effort that had gone into researching her life, her family and her death. All the gathered information had been assembled and compiled into a large red book on which were embossed in large gold letters the words: “This Is Your Life, Harriet Marchant: 1931-1971.” Jenny did not feel guilty about having commissioned this (at some considerable expense) from her mother’s frame-maker without telling anyone or offering to pay for it herself; it seemed fair recompense for being doubted. She was still smarting from the fact that no one believed her. Worse, no one believed in Harriet. As for Harriet, she found it amusing to be considered an imaginary friend and dismissed it without a second thought. To Jenny it was an insult. Harriet resolved to think up a scheme that would exonerate Jenny, as an act of solidarity and to prove once and for all that she was very much alive. But that might take time.

  Their lesson ended as usual with the two of them singing together. As often happened, Jenny would come with a request but this time she did not know the name of the piece or even the composer. As she began to hum it, Harriet took up the melody and performed it with such emotion that Jenny knew she must learn it too. Harriet was more than willing, for it was one of her all-time favourites. Originally a French peasant song, it had a pure, untainted quality that perfectly suited Jenny’s voice. It was one of Canteloube’s “Songs of the Auvergne” and although she was not yet aware of it, this would become Jenny’s signature piece.

  Exhilarated by the discovery of such a musical gem, Jenny deemed the time right to present her friend with the book. She had left it in the boathouse, wrapped in gift paper with a card that had a picture of a boat on it, in which she expressed her heartfelt thanks for a valued friendship. As Harriet opened it Jenny could hardly contain herself.

  Harriet read the card and smiled. It was so long since she had received a gift, she had forgotten the thrill of tearing at ribbons and paper to get to the treasure inside. Her eyes read the inscription and she visibly stiffened. Her back upright and proud, she exuded a terrifying power. Her white head lifted to an even higher plane as she breathed in and turned to the opening page.

  Jenny began to doubt the wisdom of her project. Harriet was a very private person and here before her was her life laid out for all to see. Jenny swallowed hard. The first page showed a photograph of Harriet’s mother before her marriage, when she was still Alice Weatherby; a beautiful young woman in her debutante dress of white satin, a corsage of orchids on her pale, slim shoulder. Her long, silky hair was swept up into a simple chignon and held a discreet diamond tiara that shone beneath the studio lights. She had clearly been a real head-turner and Jenny was thrilled to have found this photo, albeit black and white, in an edition of The Queen, published in 1928. Harriet snorted loudly; not the reaction Jenny had hoped for. The page was turned roughly and the reader found herself staring at her parents on their wedding day. She began to flick through the book with an almost frenzied attack, pausing haphazardly to give an aggressive grunt. Then her eyes rested on a recent photo of the four local headstones, one of which bore her name and the dates of her birth and supposed death. It was too much for her. The book was hurled to the floor and Harriet’s eyes met Jenny’s. The disdain that shot from them terrified the child. Jenny bent to retrieve the book and straighten the pages, buying time for her confused brain. When she finally dared look up, there was no sign of Harriet.

  Liz heard her daughter’s song wafting across the lake towards the house. The clarity of Jenny’s young voice rang in her ears and Liz put down what she was doing and went to the door. For some reason the tone switched dramatically, turning a sweet melodious tune into an angry bellow. This was matched by feet that kicked viciously at the unfortunate leaves in her path, sending them hurtling into the air, while an expression of hurt indignation burned on her face. At the back door Jenny kicked off her Wellingtons and vainly attempted to remove her woollen socks. One stayed gripping her ankle, having twisted to face the wrong way, while the other drooped off her foot, growing longer with each tug as though belonging to a far larger foot than hers. Swearing and cursing at the recalcitrant pair she noticed The Pote lying in a pile of leaves, his dark eyes full of sympathy and compassion. He too looked as though his heart was breaking. Jenny ran over to him, the stupid socks tripping her and gaining weight as they sponged up moisture from the grass. She slid to a kneeling position in front of her dog, buried her face in his warm coat and sobbed.

  Liz stood in the doorway. She debated whether to interfere or leave them alone for a moment. Jenny was at an age when her hormones were raging and mood swings were common. When she was like this it was wise to leave her alone until she came round, which was usually pretty quickly. She was not by nature a moody child and Liz wondered if it was the song that had brought on the tears. The music had reminded her of something distant, a long-lost memory. But that did not account for the tantrum; Jenny was very angry about something. Liz’s thoughts were interrupted by a squeal of pain. Jenny had tried to lift The Pote and he had snapped at her, drawing blood. Jenny pulled away, more alarmed than scared. The Pote bit Edward at regular intervals, but never Jenny. Liz ran towards them and seeing the look of despair in the dog’s eyes she realized he was ill. She carried him to his basket and Jenny covered him with his duvet. He licked her on the nose as if to say “sorry” and she tucked him in.

  “What’s wrong with The Pote?” Jenny asked as Liz stuck a plaster on her wound.

  “He’s in pain, that’s why he bit you.”

  “I don’t care about that. I just want to know what’s wrong with him.”

  “I don’t know, darling, he might have strained his back. He was chasing squirrels earlier and he does go a bit crazy. He’s no spring chicken, although he tends to forget that. Let’s leave him to rest for a while. He’ll be as right as rain in a minute, you’ll see. I’ll call the vet if he doesn’t perk up soon.” Liz called James and served lunch. A familiar bark of greeting followed by a duvet with a wagging tail moved across the room to welcome James.

  “It’s amazing what the promise of food can do! James, get those muddy boots off now!”

  Jenny ate her pasta with a disinterest t
hat was not normal for her, then pushing her chair back from the table she made for the door. James had already bolted back to the shed to continue with his experiments.

  “Hang on a mo,” said Liz. “That was pretty amazing singing just now. When did you learn that song? Tell me what it is and I’ll get a DVD. Would you like that?”

  “Great, yeah, whatever, can I go now?” Jenny was itching to get back to the garden.

  “I know I’ve heard it somewhere before. What is it?”

  “Pastourelle. Bye, Mum.”

  “Who’s it by?” Jenny was halfway out of the door as Liz caught her by the arm. “Hang on a minute. I hardly ever get to see you; you’re either at school, messing about with the computer or you’re mooching alone down by the lake. We used to be so close. What’s up? Talk to me.”