The Haunting of Harriet Page 6
By the time the Marchant twins were eight, Harriet towered over Davy. Never destined to be a diminutive stunner like her mother, she dwarfed the pair of them and her Mama was often heard referring to her as a freak. She grew faster than Tom the gardener’s runner beans and was as thin as one of the bamboo poles that supported them although she could eat the entire pantry at one sitting. She moved with an ungainly, lolloping gait, as if her brain was too far from her feet for any message to get through. And she knew only two speeds: flat-out or stop. Her thoughts travelled even faster than her feet, so when she spoke her words tumbled out in such rapid succession that the sense of them was lost in the delivery.
The child had a mind of her own, as did her hair. From day one it was thick and coarse, unlike her mother’s silken, Titian tresses. The red mass that was Harriet’s crowning shame grew in unruly chunks that did not so much frame her face as imprison it, sticking out in different directions, depending on their mood. Attempts to tame it by cutting a fringe failed: the horrid stuff refused to lie flat, preferring to protrude at a right-angle, giving the appearance of a shelf, which took several hair slides and grips to hold back. The only way to control this mane was to plait it while it was still wet, which worked well enough until Harriet, who loathed ribbons or dresses or anything feminine, would wrench it free, letting it bounce back with a vengeance and explode into wild corkscrews resembling a barley-sugar twist.
Whereas most redheads have pale, transparent skin, Harriet’s radiated health. The sun only had to look at her to turn her natural olive tone an even bronze glow, which continued to darken to the colour of a conker. Her eyes were her truly redeeming feature. They were pure amber, translucent honey weapons that she deployed with total ignorance as to their potency. Unlike her mother’s, they were filled with kindness and mischief. Tough, independent and fiercely loyal as she was, her brother adored her and willingly accepted her as his leader. She was wilful, with a stubbornness that matched her mother’s. Alice, to her horror, had given birth to an out-and-out tomboy. The two had not yet reached a point of conflict but the meagre foundations that lay beneath them were shaky.
Young Harriet’s most extraordinary attribute was her voice. She could hold a tune and deliver a song with a mellow full-throated quality that seemed to come from deep in her stomach. Strong and mature, it had a richness of tone not usually associated with one so young. Her father’s failing eyesight was compensated by the sound of this voice. She would sit on his lap on his old wicker chair by the boathouse, lost in their own secret world: two songbirds warbling for the sheer joy it. And Harriet could whistle as well as any man; much of the day was spent with her hands thrust deep into her pockets, whistling or humming to herself, as she strode about, her brother in her wake, running full pelt to keep up.
George was invalided out of service with early retirement in January 1939. His accidental collision with the seven-twenty, all those years ago, had not only fractured his skull, impairing his eyesight, but he had evidently also suffered severe damage to his cranial and optic nerve. An epileptic fit while at work had cost him his job, the use of his right eye and a second opportunity to serve King and country in the war that he had known for some time was inevitable. He arrived back in Kent broken and depressed. Life without his work to go to was a strange, alien thing, an increasingly difficult journey leading nowhere. Tom encouraged him to help in the garden but his fits came more and more frequently, which made working outside dangerous and difficult. Lack of employment left him with an inclination to do nothing in which he began to indulge. His depressions deepened. He would sink into pits of self-loathing and despair that terrified Alice, who had little empathy with her husband’s affliction and saw him as a liability.
His “little nightingale” was his salvation. Her patience was infinite, her devotion total. They would start each day walking together around the garden, her right hand gripped tightly in his left, his black cane in service in the other. With his stick he would point to items at random - a bud, a leaf, an insect - and Harriet would run to them, kneeling to examine them more closely; then placing them in her canvas bag she would run back to the comfort of that large hand while chattering non-stop about the latest amazing treasure, which they would examine later under a magnifying glass. The bond being cemented daily between father and child was to be for the child a powerful force in a strange, lonely life.
So far Harriet’s life had been fine. She had a few troubles but adopted the philosophy that there was no point worrying about something if you could not do anything about it. Her relationship with her mother fell into this category. Although Alice was an abysmal parent, Harriet taught herself to accept her or ignore her. Her love for her brother came naturally and was mutually rewarding. Her love for her father was absolute. Watching him slip away cut her to the quick. His dependence on her, however, turned her into a fiercely independent creature, old for her age and proud of her role as a carer. She had been born stubborn and now she was growing up, her individualism was surfacing with a vengeance. So when her father suffered his first stroke Harriet was ready to become his “nightingale” in more ways than one. Given the choice, she would have been constantly at his side, nursing him in her own earnest way.
George’s concentration diminished daily. But Harriet never moaned. When she was not wiping the stream of dribble from the corner of his lop-sided mouth or packing his pipe and puffing on it to get it started before handing it over for him to take a few feeble sucks, she was content simply to sit and sing to him, knowing that the days when he could walk with her or carry her aloft on his shoulders were over. She had to accept that their precious days together were numbered. When his face contorted with pain or he became insensible to her presence, she wondered where he went but she never gave up on him. Sitting in silence was hard for Harriet and she tried to read quietly beside him. She even attempted sewing and produced a pathetic sampler that he hung beside his chair in the Tudor room. There was little she could do other than love him. For the child, that was enough but for the man it caused a deep ache, a yearning to gather her into his arms and fly away with her beyond all the pain and cruelty this world afforded. There were times when Harriet’s presence served as a hideous reminder of his inadequacy as a father. His depression crippled him. He would be lost without her and afraid of leaving her. Locked inside his unresponsive frame was a loving father desperate to escape by any means. The telepathy between them was so strong that the child began to sense the pain her presence caused him. Reluctantly she limited the time she spent with him to such times when she could see it was helping him. The prison that trapped him became a two-way barrier blocking her on the outside, unable to reach through to him while he could find no release from the pain.
Alice remained oblivious to all this. She was starring in a drama of her own. She had discovered the joy of sex with almost anyone but George. The war delighted her. London became even more enticing with its constantly changing supply of handsome uniformed officers to admire her. The blacked-out streets, the knowledge that at any moment it could all end, that any kiss could be the last, was irresistible. War had brought an excitement, an added frisson of danger that fed her addiction and exaggerated the glitz behind the dark exteriors of the nightclubs she frequented. She was hooked on being “naughty” and this war was the perfect excuse to indulge her bad behaviour. A car would call each night and whisk her away to her secret life.
Harriet took to hiding on the corner of the landing, out of her mother’s view, watching for her to make her appearance. She was still a very beautiful woman and to see her in all her glory was like being at the cinema. Her long evening gown, a fox fur draped over wide, padded shoulders, sleek, cinnamon hair caught up in combs and braids and those long red talons flashing as she placed a black Sobranie in its holder. The click of the small silver lighter before its bright orange flame leapt up to meet it, catching the watcher in the spell that was Alice. Seeing those wonderful sculpted lips purse as they sucked hard and long
; the practised tilt of the head before the thin coil was released from a perfect oval to begin its long journey around the elegant head, lingering for a moment before continuing on up to the top of the staircase, growing weaker as it climbed higher and higher. It was straight out of the movies. At the bottom of the stairs the cigarette was stubbed out. Long gloves were pulled on and with a final pout of reflective approval she was gone. As the front door closed Harriet would sneak into the temple, stand before her mother’s altar and mimic the sensuous action she had witnessed so many times. First she ran her tongue along her teeth to remove any trace of red then a quick flick at each corner of her mouth with the fourth finger of each hand to ensure a perfect finish. Next, ignoring her well chewed rather grubby nails, she would balance her pencil between her first and second fingers and adopting an affected pose would blow a kiss at her reflection, before sweeping onto the landing and beginning her descent to the ring of rapturous applause from her “audience”.
Not that Harriet had ever seen a film. Her mother considered all picture palaces dirty flea-ridden places that decent people did not frequent. But as Harriet only ever viewed her mother from this unnatural distance she may as well have been made of celluloid. She observed her without the warmth of physical contact. She just watched, the image of her mother’s ritual etching itself into her memory. The brushing of the hair, the drenching of the spray from the fascinating array of bottles displayed on the dressing-table would stay with Harriet for the rest of her life, enabling her to recall the smell of her mother. Simply by closing her eyes, she could conjure up the exact sensation of silk or fur against her skin. Nobody ever saw her creep into her mother’s room and pull cinnamon threads from that ivory brush to hold against and compare with her own. Jabbing at her freckles with a loaded powder puff she watched them vanish beneath a thick layer of fine white dust. This caress by proxy was the closest she got to actually touching her mother. She never felt the warmth of her mother’s skin. She judged by appearance. In winter it was as cold and forbidding as alabaster and in the summer that pale golden sheen was far too exquisite to be touched, defiled by dirty fingermarks.
Harriet dreamed of being beautiful. She too wanted to be sculpted out of polished marble. Her mother was precious, valuable; a rare object to be worshipped from afar or at least at arm’s length. She was like the Chinese vase on the hall table, beautiful, expensive but breakable. Where this creature disappeared to each night or at what time she staggered back was never questioned. George must have known about his wife’s escapades but her nocturnal shenanigans were of little interest to him. It suited both parties admirably for him to turn a blind eye. For her part, Harriet needed the love of her father. At night in her dreams he was strong again, kissing her goodnight and stroking her tangle of hair as if it were spun from the purest of silk. He would lift her onto his shoulders, calling her his “little nightingale” while laughing at her funny face as she twisted round to meet his eyes. As long as he was there she was content to live this strange half-life with him. The thought of life without her father was unbearable. Without her brother it would be hell.
CHAPTER 4
That summer of 1940 was heaven, a glorious season of continuous sunshine. War was raging over Europe but in this tiny pocket of Kent life was blissful. The twins watched the planes with old Tom, who would abandon his digging to wave at the tiny Spitfires and the great Lancasters that flew past on missions, having taken off from the nearby airfield at West Malling. Tom said they were “off to bomb the bloody Hun” and taught them to count them out then count them back again, saying a quiet prayer for any brave pilot who failed to return. The Hun was far away; an unknown monster in a funny-shaped helmet. To the children, war was an exciting but distant adventure. To Mrs P, the stalwart rotund housekeeper, it was a great excuse to deny any request they made with the stock answer, “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” To their poor father it was an added burden of shame, sending him deeper into his miserable shell.
Old Tom was too old to be called up but suffered none of his employer’s guilt. He had done his bit in the last war. Once was enough. He never wanted to go through “that lot” again. He had tried rather half-heartedly to enlist for this second lot but age was against him. He was turned down. To avoid feeling useless he dug for England. He grew it and his wife, the indomitable Mrs P pickled, preserved, potted or embalmed it. They would certainly not starve while she was in charge. Beckmans became a production line with chickens pecking round the orchard and ducks inhabiting the small island in the centre of the lake. No one minded or noticed if the Pritchard’s meagre income was supplemented with the occasional clutch of eggs or a freshly plucked chicken.
Old Tom could never deny the children anything, especially his time, and they loved him for it. His resourcefulness knew no bounds but he excelled himself when he came home with a dilapidated old dinghy. He presented it to the ecstatic children, who with his help, made her sea-worthy in no time. They christened her the Jolly Roger and she was launched at precisely midday with a shot from David’s toy cannon and a bottle of ginger beer smashed across her bow. Tom had also acquired a boat hook, long and wooden with a large brass hook on the end. Best of all was the fact that he had taken the time to carve their initials into the end of the long shaft, which made it theirs alone. It was the best present the twins had ever had. From the moment she was launched the boat became the centre of their lives. Harriet did most of the rowing, being the stronger, but David’s keen eyes made him a great navigator. He could spot a shark or an enemy vessel long before anyone else. By the end of summer their father was confined to a wheelchair but on a good day Tom would wheel him down the garden to watch the buccaneers in action. No pleasure registered on his distorted face yet his daughter knew that he was smiling inside.
Mama had taken to lying in her solitary bed, seldom rising before two in the afternoon, when she would waft downstairs clad in her silk kimono and clouds of perfume and smoke. Gliding into the drawing-room, she would pour herself a drink, then stand at the long French windows gazing out across the lawn, her black cigarette firmly planted in its holder, smoke billowing from her red lips. She had a perfect view of the lake from this vantage point. She must have seen the little boat and its crew merrily cavorting around the island but she never mentioned it. She appeared disinterested in anything to do with her family or the house. She had become disconnected, a celluloid shadow without weight or form.
Harriet practised the art of self-sufficiency to a degree that was unnatural for someone of her age. Brother and sister had learned to lean on each other in times of crisis, although David did most of the leaning. Having no other friends, they spent a great deal of time together. The dinghy rendered them inseparable, made them a team: a crew. Messing about in the boat was their passion. When Mama threw one of her increasingly frequent tantrums they would grab a chunk of bread, some fruit and a bottle of water and take to the high seas. That whole summer the sun shone down on them and the skull and crossbones fluttered rebelliously above the Jolly Roger.
On the odd occasion when they were deemed too noisy they were banished to the loft. Their mother thought this an effective way to make them repent. The loft space at Beckmans ran the entire length of the house and this had been their territory long before they conquered the lake. This vast empty room was almost as magical as the water. It was their private universe. Ritual demanded that they stand stock-still in the centre until at an agreed signal the spinning would start. Throwing their heads back, their arms held straight out to each side, they become human planets, whirling dervishes, rotating and spinning, slowly at first then gathering momentum with each twist. All this was accompanied by a low moan, which like a dynamo increased at each turn, building up in a deafening crescendo that emptied their lungs and turned them the colour of Mrs P’s boiled beetroot. The sky winked at them through the missing peg tiles until, giddy and exhausted, they fell to the floor in a disorientated heap, laughing and gasping, waiting for their heads to
catch up with their bodies. They were invincible, whether in their planetarium or on the high seas. They were the two musketeers and Harriet vowed to keep it that way for ever…however long that was.
Two days after the twins’ tenth birthday David was sent away to school. No warning was given, no time for goodbyes. A trunk was packed, a car arrived and David was gone. Harriet rowed herself to the middle of the lake and howled like a dog. The house was full of emptiness. Father’s nurse was bathing him, which meant no one was to disturb them. Mama had gone out and Harriet found herself alone. She did not dislike her own company but this was different. For the first time she felt lonely. Returning to the house she climbed up the main stairs. She examined the first floor, room by room, finding them boring and unused; even the bathroom echoed with nothingness. She slammed each door behind her, hoping to find some comfort in the angry noise. The attic too was empty. There were no moons or stars, just a large hollow room smelling of damp. Returning down the back stairs she inspected the sculleries and kitchen. Nothing bubbled on the stoves and the wet garments on the clothes-horse draped there abandoned. She too had been hung out to dry. The world was stuffed full of nothing. What was she going to do without her brother? London was being bombed every night and the fear that his life was endangered clung to her like a cobweb. She dragged her heavy feet back across the hall, the rubber soles of her sandals leaving long scuff marks on the polished wood.