The Haunting of Harriet Page 7

  Selecting a favourite book, she mooched off down to the boathouse, forcing the most mournful tune she could think of through her pursed lips in a thin wailing whistle. She had so much time, too much time; time to kill, time to be killed. Boring winter days stretched out before her. She had been given a prison sentence to be spent in solitary confinement. She had to learn to be alone. She must teach herself to be self-sufficient. The boathouse was cold and the September sun was too low to reach its windows. Spiders were spinning, ready to take over for the winter. She did not want to stay here. Harriet took off her shorts and shirt, kicking off her shoes at the same time, and stood there in her navy knickers, back straight and chest flat, her book clutched in her hand. Stepping out into the sunshine she climbed down into the Jolly Roger. With one oar she pushed the boat free of the jetty; securing the oar, she lay flat and gave herself up to the gentle movement of the drifting dinghy with the warmth of the sun on her skin.

  She must have dozed off and she woke up with goose bumps. The sun was setting behind her as she took up the oars and rowed back to the jetty. Her fingers were cold as she tied the little boat to its post. Someone stepped over her grave and she shuddered, but not in an uncomfortable way. She wondered how it would feel to have someone actually walk over you when you were dead. How would you know when you were dead? She had just stepped into the boathouse when she heard a voice talking loudly and excitedly, the words slurred, the way her father had sounded after his stroke. But this was her mother’s voice; had she been struck too?

  Harriet grabbed her clothes as the door opened and a stranger entered. He was not as tall as her father and considerably younger. His hair was slicked back with grease, suiting his cocky attitude. A smell of whisky combined with the sickly stale smell of tobacco came in with him. She watched a curl of yellow smoke leave his nostrils and weave itself into his hair. His mouth was smiling but not the sort of smile that encouraged you to join in. The cigarette dangling from his lips dropped its heavy ash on the boathouse floor and he spoke from between half-closed teeth. Harriet dived under the window seat, still clutching her bundle of clothes.

  From her hiding place she could see her mother and the strange man clearly. They stood very close, kissing. He had his arms about her waist and was pulling at her skirt, easing it up over her hips, revealing her stocking-tops and suspenders. Harriet could see those fascinating black French knickers she had tried on so often when her mother had been out. Now this man was touching them, tearing at them, at the same time as slobbering over her mother’s face and neck. The sound of saliva as he covered her face with his open mouth made Harriet want to vomit. The ivory statue was transforming into a vulgar woman tugging at the man’s belt buckle. She was undoing his trousers. Harriet recoiled as she watched the frantic woman sink to her knees and kiss him, down there. She pressed her hand tightly over her mouth and hid her face in her clothes. A burning acrid liquid filled her mouth and she swallowed hard before looking out again.

  They were on the floor. The man was on top, forcing the woman’s legs apart with his body. Her thighs spread wide, she gripped her legs around his bare buttocks as he pushed against her with strong thrusts. The woman made strange, pathetic moaning noises and scratched at his back with long crimson nails. She pulled him over so that she was astride him, riding him obscenely and hungrily, like an animal, her head tossing back and forth with each grotesque rise and fall. Harriet buried her face and ears in her clothes as the noises reached a crescendo. Then suddenly it was over and with a loud ugly shudder the man rolled off the woman.

  When Harriet looked again they were lying quietly side by side. The man was lighting two cigarettes. Harriet inched back further into the shadows, frightened of being seen in the light of the flame. Her mother was staring up at the ceiling dragging hard and noisily on her cigarette, the tip surged brightly as the oxygen coursed through the tobacco. The man got up, his cigarette dangling from his lips. “You are amazing. You look like some sacred goddess but you fuck like a damned whore.” He adjusted his pants before he sleeked back his short greasy hair with his fingers, then tucked his shirt back into his trousers. He stood awkwardly leaning to one side as his did up the buttons of his flies. Her mother was pouting into her mirror reapplying her mask.

  “And you, my darling, are a fucking bastard.” Her fingers wiped the scarlet grease from the corners of her beautiful mouth then she too adjusted her clothes. She smoothed her hair and patted it fondly. The marble statue was restored.

  That night Harriet dreamed she was at sea and her tiny boat was pitching and tossing on mountainous waves. A dense mist rose from the surface, making it impossible to navigate. Icebergs the size of cathedrals loomed, towering over her craft, threatening to sink her and drown her crew. Her father was standing unaided in the bow; his strong arm pointed out to sea but she could not see what he was looking at. She strained to hear him but his voice was drowned out by the wind and the roar of waves. As she steered a path between the icebergs, she watched them melt and reshape into ice carvings of mythical proportions: goddesses who ruled the frozen wastes with a terrifying all-powerful authority. Clouds of frozen vapour poured from their blue-painted mouths as they threw back their expressionless heads and laughed.

  When Harriet awoke she was soaked in sweat and was shivering. Her bedclothes lay in a heap on the floor and she felt as if she had been fighting for her life against armies of giants. Wrapping her eiderdown tightly around her she stole down the back stairs, taking care to avoid the bottom one, which creaked. The house was silent as she crept into her father’s room and lay beside him. Her mind was filled with images of Mama and that awful man. She did not understand what she had witnessed but knew it was wrong and dirty. She had no natural love for her mother but the awe in which she had held her had until now been an adequate substitute. No longer. Softly crying while rocking herself for comfort, she willed herself into a shallow, dreamless sleep, having vowed never to set foot in the boathouse again, as long as she lived. As for telling anyone what she had seen…. No. The fall of the sacred statue was her secret.

  She stuffed it away in the back of her mind as if it were a conker stowed in the pocket of her knickers. Instinct told her that she now had the edge on her mother. She possessed the means to destroy her should she want to. This knowledge; this power made the whole hideous experience tolerable. In one single treacherous act the roles had been reversed. The statue had fallen and no one could put it back on its pedestal.

  CHAPTER 5

  Young David came home each Christmas and for the summer holidays. These days were the highlights of Harriet’s life. During the months apart long scrawling letters kept them in touch but Harriet read with increasing horror just how miserable her brother was in this overtly masculine environment. He was bullied constantly, not only by the other pupils, but it seemed the staff had an aversion to a boy who avoided cricket or rugby and hid his considerable academic abilities in a cloak of shyness and natural modesty. His letters revealed a sad, damaged child not so much a fish out of water as a bird caged underwater. Harriet had no one to appeal to on his behalf. A series of rapid severe strokes had rendered their father senseless; a creature trapped in a body that no longer functioned. He never left the Tudor room, where he lived a bed-bound existence with a washstand, a commode and a full-time nurse. His daughter spent as much time as possible with him, singing or reading him items from the newspaper, hoping that by some miracle he would respond. In the main it was a thankless task and at times she began to doubt that he knew she was there. The dream of her going to school remained just that, and she gave up even thinking about it. Anyway, by now it was much too late. She consoled herself with the knowledge that she was needed here with her father. Who else would show him he was loved and wanted? Certainly not Mama! No, any thoughts of a proper education had to be abandoned but she resented never having been offered the opportunity.

  She longed to learn the things her brother talked about and she pounced on the books he brought
home in the holidays. They were different from anything she could get in the library and she devoured them with her voracious appetite for knowledge. She read copiously and taught herself the humanities and sciences up to a point. She loved to fill her scrapbooks and play the piano and of course she had her singing. She never met children of her own age, or indeed of any age, which left her without many social skills. Those she had were at times precocious and often eccentric but, as she never ventured into society, this was not a severe disadvantage. Her ability to keep herself occupied was a credit to her resourcefulness and determination of will but it was nevertheless the foundation course for a reclusive adulthood.

  Beneath the surface the tension between mother and daughter was building to a dangerous level. Harriet had little respect for her “dear Mama” and after witnessing the incident in the boathouse what little there was had turned to contempt. When she unwittingly overheard a phone-call obviously not meant for her ears, her disdain switched to loathing. It was apparent from the obsequious tone her mother adopted that she was talking to someone in authority, but not someone she held in high regard. She was playing the distraught wife, and she was a good actress. Her poor, dear husband was in desperate need of full-time care and the only solution was to find a suitable nursing home that could lavish the same level of attention on him that he received at home. Harriet listened in silence as the melodrama unfolded: the loving wife exhausted by years of selfless devotion. The reluctant decision that they must live apart after many blissful years together was very convincingly expressed.

  Harriet ran outside to the lavatory and was sick.

  On 19th December 1942 David came home for Christmas. The two siblings were thrilled at the prospect of a whole month together. Mama said hello, patted him on the head and went out. Harriet was itching to discuss her father’s future with her brother. She had to find a way of telling him just what sort of mother they had, but she could not share any graphic details for she had made a vow of silence. Harriet never reneged on a promise. Anyway, telling her brother the whole truth would be cruel, and would inflict pain far outweighing any relief the unburdening might bring. It was obvious that David still loved their mother. When the time was right she would know. For now she could wait. They deserved to enjoy some free time together. To “lark about”, as Mrs P called it. Once free of his horrid uniform the two of them set off clad in thick Fair-Isle sweaters, duffel coats and Wellington boots. They cast off from the little jetty and set out “to sea”. Beckmans had not heard the laughter of children for so long.

  David had hardly grown since they had last met but he was glowing with pride as he took the oars and rowed his sister around the lake and back again, without having to stop for breath. Harriet sat in the stern dangling her hand in the water. It was freezing cold but she was so happy she did not care. David rested the oars and let the boat drift. Above them the winter sky was blue and the birds drifted overhead as aimlessly as the boat. There was no distance between them. It was as if they had been together all year. It was David that finally broke the silence.

  “I’m not going back to school, Harry. I’ve run away. I can’t take it anymore. Now I’m in the senior school it’s getting worse, not better. I can’t face it. I’m scared. God, I’d rather die than go back. Do you think I’m a coward? You do, don’t you?”

  “No, of course I don’t. Have you told anyone else – about running away, I mean?”

  “Good God, no! Only you…. Will you tell Mama for me? She’ll listen to you.”

  Harriet released a short contemptuous snort. “She never listens to anyone – least of all me. I don’t think she knows I exist. We’ll have to think of something else. Don’t worry and don’t cry. I promise we’ll think of something. We’ve got a whole month; that’s an eternity.”

  David picked up the oars and rowed them around the lake once more. By the time they moored at the jetty he wore a thin smile, offering it to Harriet as they climbed ashore.

  “You’re the best sister a chap could have. Let’s go in the boathouse and light a fire, like old times.”

  “I’m never going in that place again, and don’t ever ask me why.” Then, trying to appear as if it did not matter if he knew or not, Harriet asked: “David, what does ‘hoar’ mean?”

  “Noun or adjective? If you’re spelling it H-O-A-R, it’s a type of frost. I think it means white. Then of course there’s the noun W-H-O-R-E. But you obviously don’t mean that.”

  “I think, actually, I do.”

  “Crumbs! Well, a whore is a woman of the night, a prostitute. A bad sort, who sells herself for money. Why on earth do you want to know that?”

  “Just curious… oh, and I don’t suppose you know what ‘fuck’ means, do you?”

  David’s pale face turned ashen. “Good God, Harry, where in blazes did you hear that? It’s a dreadful word: taboo and all that. One of the prefects was expelled for saying that last Michaelmas and he must have been at least eighteen.”

  “Expelled… crumbs,” was all Harriet said.

  The next morning David was woken by the heavy thump of Harriet crash-landing on his bed.

  “For God’s sake, Harry, get off, you great lump. I can’t breathe.”

  “Listen, my sweet little brother, I have a simply brilliant plan….”

  The plan was so simple that it was indeed brilliant. David would return to school, swear at one of the masters and get himself thrown out. Having been dismissed in shameful disgrace he would be sent to another school where his exploits would give him huge kudos with the other lads. Anyway, if the horrific stories of bullying were only half true, nowhere could be worse than the present school he was in. Besides, he was stronger now and they had a whole month to toughen him up some more. He had to agree, the plan was brilliant. Christmas and the New Year stretched out ahead of them like a never-ending adventure. If they spent a little time now, planning it in detail, they could enjoy the rest of the holiday at leisure. Harriet said nothing about their mother’s scheming. Once their plan was foolproof there would be plenty of time for that.

  After a few tortuous hours of trying to get David to swear convincingly, the plan to get him expelled was complete. It was Christmas Eve, the staff had gone to church, Mother was out and Father was already settled for the night in his room. Harriet had confided in David that she had something of enormous importance and the utmost secrecy to discuss. David told her that for reasons of security, meetings concerning great affairs of state often took place at sea. Where better to convene their conference than aboard the Jolly Roger? They would not be overheard or interrupted and there was nothing to distract them.

  Armed with torches, hot-water bottles, paper, pencils, some mince pies and a flask of hot lemon squash, they donned their woollen scarves, gloves and duffel coats and set off across the garden. It had been snowing and Harriet prayed that the lake was not frozen. The water was still flowing freely as she rowed the boat to the centre of the lake and pulled the heavy oars on board. Removing her woolly mitten she rummaged in her pocket and produced an official-looking manila envelope; all the while she was re-enacting what she had overheard on the telephone. Telling him to hold out his hand and open his mouth, she thrust the envelope into David’s gloved hand and a mince pie into his mouth. They drifted and bobbed as he read and re-read the letter. Harriet had spent days lying in wait for the postman and her vigilance had paid off when she managed to intercept the tell-tale missive before her mother could get her manicured hands on it.

  “What it means, if you cut out the gibberish, is that she’s going to put Father in a home.”

  “Maybe that would be for the best.” As soon as he had said it he knew it was a mistake.

  Harriet exploded: “Best, my foot! Best for who?”

  “Whom… best for whom.”

  “For her! That lazy, selfish cow, our beloved Mama! You do realize what they’ll do, don’t you? They’ll stick him in a corner and forget about him.” Harriet was seething. “I hate her. I hate h
er! And that’s not all. You know what she’ll do next? She’ll split us up, put us into separate homes or farm us out to horrid, boring old families so we’ll never see each other again.” She was shaking, spilling hot tears of fear and anger from a heart that ached with dread for the future.

  “They can’t split us up. Not if we don’t want it. Can they? I couldn’t bear life without you.” The awful reality of the situation was dawning on him. “We could run away together.”

  “Mother’s the one who should go. They should put her in the nuthouse with all the other whores. She’s a fucking whore!”

  “Stop it, stop it…. Don’t say that…. I won’t let you.” David’s brain was spinning. His loyalties were divided and he hit out at the thing nearest to him. The sickening thud as her head hit the deck was the last thing she remembered for a very long time.

  CHAPTER 6

  “What is the point of having a large house if you don’t intend to fill it?” This had been Liz’s philosophy since they had moved in to Beckmans. Time had flown by and this was their fifth Christmas. The house buzzed with the noise of friends at one with their own company and surroundings. The tree groaned beneath its weight of tinsel, baubles and fairy lights; enough, according to Edward, to confound the National Grid. Lights flickered and danced among the myriad new and familiar decorations below the ancient Christmas fairy, who balanced precariously on top, just as she had when Liz was a child. She was much too old to be performing such death-defying feats but Liz was too sentimental to think of ever replacing her.

  Harriet brushed her fingers along the prickly pine, releasing a pungent scent that took her back to her childhood. She smiled as she wondered what Mama would think of her now. As children they had been forbidden to touch the tree in case they damaged it. The tree would appear in the hall on Christmas Eve morning, tall and proud and dressed, so for many years she had assumed it came fully decorated. This family let the twins choose each bauble and hang it exactly where they wanted, creating a spontaneous display that made up for any loss of designer elegance with originality and enthusiasm; so different from the totem pole Harriet remembered.