The Haunting of Harriet Page 8

  Sue, Mel and Brenda scuttled to and fro, ushered by Liz. They emerged from the steamy kitchen laden with an apparently endless stream of dishes. Crispy buttery parsnips, roasted potatoes, sprouts with lardons and chestnuts, red cabbage gleaming with butter and smelling of spice, along with gravies, sauces, sausages and bacon rolls, all the paraphernalia of a traditional English Christmas blow-out were paraded for the feast. This was a time for excess and Liz was in her element: entertaining. The house had proved to be everything she had wanted and then some. It suited her. It suited them all. They belonged here, safely wrapped in that warm embrace that had first greeted her all those years ago, and what better time than Christmas to share it?

  The Jessop twins, Jenny and James, were now mischievous eight-year-olds who knew exactly what Christmas was about. They leant across the table, egged on by the older and wiser Robert and Emily, pulling more and more crackers, squealing with delight at the rubbishy treasures that spilled out after each bang. The men opened bottles, oblivious to the mountain of litter the children were creating. They were being boys again, resplendent in the stupid, ill-fitting paper hats the children foisted on them, laughing at appalling jokes, while consuming rather than tasting the various wines.

  Harriet watched from a distance. She was thinking of her father, before he was confined to the Tudor room, seated in his dinner suit at the end of the long polished table, with her mother, exquisitely dressed, so far away at the other. She and her brother sat somewhere in between. Mama considered crackers to be vulgar and untidy, an attitude that cast a formal, stiff shadow over the whole festival. An ostentatious wreath hung on the front door, lying to the world that this was a house of festive cheer. Then there was the tree, which had given up its life to stand all alone in the cold hall for a few miserable days. Harriet remembered crying one year when, shortly after Boxing Day, Tom dragged it off to the bonfire to be burned before its needles could drop and cause unnecessary mess. Christmas was a time of painful memories and increased loneliness, so for most of her life she had chosen to ignore it, overshadowed as it had become with ghosts and demons. Anyway, that was all so long ago. It no longer mattered. Christmas was indeed a festive season now; she did not want old memories spoiling things.

  So much had changed. For one thing, no one smoked anymore. Everyone smoked then, that wonderful aroma of exotic tobaccos filling the air, while adding a degree of decadence and devil-may-care nonchalance to the atmosphere. The elegance of long cigarette holders and the sight of gentlemen leaning over to light their ladies’ Russian or Turkish cigarettes had all gone. Time had relaxed everything. No one followed the rituals. Manners were ignored to the point of non-existence and children mixed with the adults displaying a natural ease and assurance that amused and delighted Harriet. The women lingered at the dining-table long after the meal was over and the gentlemen left them to attend to their own chairs without so much as rising from theirs. Harriet wished she was beginning her own life as a young adult in this emancipated, free age, with fewer rules and the company of such bright young people as these surrounding her now.

  The women carted the dishes, now stacked and empty, back into the kitchen, laughing and joking about their lazy men. Harriet noticed that it was still the women, working together, making light of their work. Some things never change. But stacking, that was another thing. Her mother never let the servants stack dishes. Nor would she ever actually touch one herself. How she would have disapproved. But tonight the clearing-up provided a source of fun for the four friends as they bustled about, filling dishwashers, sorting glassware and yelling at Brenda to get out of the way. In time, the exhausted twins were settled upstairs and the teenagers, Emily and Robert sloped off to listen to their new CDs, allowing the Circus to settle around the fire that crackled in the great marble fireplace in the lounge. Candles shone from every surface and eventually the women joined their men. Everyone was merry with the atmosphere and the wine.

  Mel took out her Tarot pack. Donald groaned and Brenda sniffed her disapproval, David and Edward feigned indifference, but Bob smiled. He knew it was pointless to try to stop his wife. Liz and Sue were with Mel, eagerly clearing a space on the floor for her to spread the deck. The air was heavy with expectancy. Even those who did not share Mel’s beliefs were gripped by a certain thrill of anticipation, that possible glimpse into the future. Deftly she shuffled her well-worn cards, her dark eyes shining with mischief as they glanced in turn at each of the friends. Suddenly, as if she had been told where to go, the cards were handed to Liz, who cut the pack before handing them back. Overcome by an inexplicable sense of foreboding Harriet removed herself to the back of the room.

  Mel’s thick hair mimicked the flames as it caught their light with each movement of her head. She spread the cards face-down in a horseshoe. This was her preferred method of giving a reading. If all went well she would be given a clear insight into the past and the present, making any predictions about the future far more plausible and acceptable to whosoever the reading was for. Slowly and deliberately her black-painted fingernails rapped on the first card. This was her trade and she was good at it. There was more than a touch of the showman about Mel, which was what kept her in popular demand as a psychic.

  Mel tapped on the card at the apex of the horseshoe, the one furthest from her. Her long, dramatic nail hesitated before moving on to rest on the card nearest to her. This she turned slowly to reveal the picture of a tall woman seated on a throne: a queen with blonde hair piled beneath a crown and holding a sword. Mel stroked the card, then flipped the next one. This contained the image of a dark-haired king. He too was seated on an elaborate throne but in his hands held a simple staff. The two figures sat passively facing each other. Mel mused, “This is the Queen of Swords – it is you, blonde, strong-minded. This card is strength. Swords are air signs. This,” her finger pushed at the second card, “is fire. The King of Wands; he has strength too, energy: businesslike, dependable. Edward. You’re facing each other, communicating. Or it could mean conflict; air and fire, interesting. Now let’s see.” She smiled at Liz, another mischievous little grin as she turned the next card. Mel was enjoying herself.

  The next card showed the picture of a large man standing in a small boat. He held a long pole in his hands with which he steered the little craft.

  “This is the boatman. The Six of Swords,” said Mel. “Remember, swords are strength. Look, there are two smaller figures in the boat. He is steering them and see, the water this side is smooth, but on the other side it’s rough.”

  “But what does it mean?” Liz was getting impatient and Mel reprimanded her.

  “All in good time; you mustn’t hurry the cards.” She tut-tutted to herself as her fingers drummed on the upturned face of the fourth card.

  Mel spent her life reading the Tarot. To her the cards were simply a tool; a thing to be respected, but used. To Liz they were beginning to represent a window into a whole new world; a world of the unknown, the mystical world of spirits. Or they could be rubbish. This fourth card looked to Liz like two figures quarrelling but Mel had seen far more. She announced:

  “Cups are emotions. This is a very emotionally charged card. The Six of Cups is a family card. Bringing together or moving apart; it means either a separation or a connection.”

  “Who are the two figures?”

  “Children, probably yours; but look, there’s a third one, much smaller, in the background. Let’s see if we can find out who they are. Are you okay with this?” Mel looked at Liz, her smile asking for permission to continue.

  “Yes. This is fascinating. What’s next?”

  The Knight of Pentacles followed: a dark youth on a black-spirited steed, bright, alert, ready for action. Mel described him as a young man going places. His horse was raring to go, the reins held firmly in the young man’s grip. He held a pentacle, the sign of money. He was riding towards wealth and achievement. Liz thought of James. This was so like him, self-assured and positive about his life. How could Mel
see so much in a simple picture? Liz was hooked.

  The next card sent Liz into a fit of the giggles. It was Jenny, there was no mistaking her. The Page of Swords looked more like a girl than a boy, a Joan of Arc figure standing on sturdy legs, holding a heavy sword above her head. “Swords are for mind and thought,” Mel said and described this as a younger version of the first card; strong-minded, a free spirit, a sign of the air. Primed and ready for action, this was a brave figure at the beginning of a remarkable life. Nothing would deter her but she was not too proud to serve. Yes, this was Jenny all right, lion-hearted and valiant, always steadfast and firm on her strong long legs as she took her familiar resolute stance. Was she destined for great things? Liz was excited. Here before her was her family, her life and it looked wonderful.

  The next cards brought change, challenges, suspicion and betrayal. Liz began to feel uneasy. Mel was telling her she held the sword, the strength was in her hands, but what did that mean? Her mother always told her to be strong when something awful was about to happen. Was she going to split up with Edward? Was this a warning? Was her luck running out? Was her life about to take a turn for the worse? Mel sensed that Liz was getting edgy. She needed to lighten the mood. Harriet too was unhappy at the way Mel was interpreting the cards. She crept closer with each revelation, bridling at each fresh pronouncement. Now the stupid woman was telling Liz she had inherited her mother’s voice. She’d be telling her to take up singing next!

  “No, no, no, that’s all wrong. The gift has skipped a generation.” Harriet was trying to be discreet as she whispered in Mel’s ear. Mel rubbed her ear; it was burning hot. As she moved away from the fire she tossed her head and her hair fell across Harriet’s face. Harriet and Liz snorted in unison, that short, sharp dismissive laugh they now both affected.

  “Jenny’s the only one in the family who can sing. I’m tone deaf.”

  Harriet sighed with relief. Liz was laughing again and at last someone was on the right wave-length. She drew closer to Mel and hissed, “You see, at least someone is listening. Liz has a voice like a fog-horn. But she can paint a bit and I’m going to teach her to be really good.”

  Mel rubbed her ear again. “Well, I can’t change what the cards tell me. We can’t always choose what we want in life. This is telling me you need to stand on your own two feet. You are not using your talent. Don’t be afraid to follow your star, and I’m convinced it involves singing.”

  Harriet pressed her mouth right up against Mel’s ear, so close she could have bitten the long crystal pendant that dangled from it. This time she shouted her message loud and clear.

  “Yes, that’s Jenny. Liz is going to PAINT! Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

  Exasperation got the better of Harriet. Resorting to a less orthodox method of communication, she pushed Mel so hard that she pitched forward, hands splaying out on the carpet in a vain effort to save herself. The entire pack of cards shot up in the air, landing in a confused heap beneath an equally confused Mel. When she righted herself it was obvious that the reading was ruined. Mel rubbed her back. “I’m getting too old for this scrabbling about on the floor. Oh, well; not to worry. We can start again if you like. There must be a reason for this. Everything has a reason.” She rubbed at her sore back. It felt as if she had been kicked by a mule.

  The mood was broken and the group decided to call it a day; all but Liz, who sat rigidly holding onto the only card to have survived the tumble. People were chatting about the cards and the evening, but all these words meant nothing to Liz. She saw only a tall figure dressed in a long black cloak, standing beside a stretch of water. On the ground were five cups. Two stood upright but the nearest three were spilled over at the foot of the tall figure. It was the last card Mel had turned over and something had compelled her to stretch out and save it. The colour drained from her already-pale face and her voice shook with emotion as she demanded: “What does this card mean? No, don’t tell me. Oh, my God! Someone’s going to die. It’s the death card, isn’t it?”

  The group froze. They were staring at Liz. She had flipped, turning from the cool, calm creature who was always in control to a demented fury scrabbling about on the floor, scraping up the fallen cards as though her life depended on it. Having gathered them she hurled them across the room, letting out a loud scream as she did so: “Stupid bloody things!” She was shouting and literally spitting as she spoke. She paused to wipe the spittle from her chin then continued in a quieter but still ferocious mumble, “How the hell can bits of card tell anything about anything? It’s a load of rubbish. They’re probably made in bloody China or somewhere, factories of them, churned out by the thousands by poor bloody peasants paid in peanuts. And we’re meant to believe they can tell the future. Crap!” She sat back on her heels and took a large swig of wine. “Crap!” she repeated loudly and with conviction.

  “Feel better now?” Mel was calmly collecting her precious cards. She put all but one back in their box and placed the box in her bag. “There,” she said, “they’ve gone. And for your information the Five of Cups is not a death card. It’s the mourning card, an emotional card, a card for reflection, a card that demands time be granted to adjust to whatever changes are to take place. The whole sequence of cards was good. They were exciting, promising fresh challenges; a clearing out of the redundant past to make way for the new….”

  Liz cut her off. “How can you believe in such…?” she searched for the right word.

  “Crap?” Mel offered. “Listen, if it is only crap, then why get so aerated? Yes, you’re right the cards are just that – cards, bits of paper, so relax. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  Liz crawled on all-fours until she was beside Mel. She knew she had been out of order. Mel was a respected psychic and a close friend; it was unkind and unfair to insult her in such a cruel way. She attempted an apology: “I didn’t mean to undermine your work, Mel. I know you believe in what you do. I’ve no right to put it down….”

  Mel jumped in before Liz could finish: “You can’t undermine what I do. I know what I know, so say what you like it won’t affect that. No, Liz, what you won’t do is accept what’s staring you in your beautiful, blinkered face. It was all there in the cards but you couldn’t take it. Great when they’re telling you what you want to hear. But woe betide anyone who dares to rock your boat. You, Liz Jessop, you have the power. The sword is in your hand. OK, there are a few challenges ahead of you and some may not be that pleasant. Goodness, your life has been pretty plain sailing up to now. None of us gets off Scot-free in this life. Just don’t let any traumas that are coming wreck what you’ve built with Edward. You can crumble and give in to what you saw in those crappy bits of card or you can use your bloody sword to protect your kids and your home. I’m telling you, it’s in your hands. Your fate is yours to mould. The Tarot can only show you the likely outcome. It’s up to you whether you choose to continue on the same path. Pick a path, any path, have an affair, shoot someone, jump off a cliff; it’s your choice. Life isn’t wonderfully easy. Nothing is written, only the possibilities. The rest is a blank page. I suggest you grow up, Liz. Take responsibility for your own action – or inaction. I’m going to bed.”

  The others, whether for reasons of diplomacy or out of sheer embarrassment, had quietly taken themselves off, leaving Liz all alone, stunned and hurt. Her future lay scattered around her like so many pieces of paper. Maybe Mel had got it wrong. All that rubbish about singing was way off. Anyway, how dare Mel talk to her like that? What did she know about her life and her frustrations? What could betrayal mean other than Edward proving to be unfaithful? There was no way he would be so cruel. Anyway they were very happy. There was no need for him to look at another woman. They were the ideal team. He liked the fact that she needed him, leant on him. It flattered his manhood. He was after all an old-fashioned man who liked to be the breadwinner. Maybe she did rely on him a bit too much, but why not? Suddenly the cold realization of a truth she had never before been brave enoug
h to face dawned on her. She was nothing on her own. But her future was in her hands. She could control it. She resolved to face her fears and wield her sword. She wrote an apology to Mel and thanked her for being a friend. On her way up she slipped the note under Mel and Bob’s door and took herself off to bed.

  She did not sleep. That last card was always staring at her; she could not shake it from her mind. Was the figure in the foreground male or female? What on earth could it mean? Was someone going to die; Edward, the children or possibly even herself? Mel had said no. Well, she could hardly have said: yes, death is staring you in the face. Tough, just get on with it. Liz closed her eyes so tightly that they hurt but the image on the card remained burned into her brain. A tall figure dressed in a long black cloak, that was all she had seen, but its presence was around her. This long dark spectre was vivid in her mind’s eye but try as she would she could not see its face. Mentally she turned the card over again and again, trying to see it afresh. Slowly the figure turned its back on her. Her body shuddered. She was so cold. She was drifting in a fragment of a boat. The children came and went until they were rowed out to sea by a faceless boatman. She was left on the shore, her cloak offering no warmth from the cold mist rising from the sea. On the far bank stood a tall figure, silently calling to her from the jetty by the old boathouse. Edward grunted as she pulled the duvet from him and wrapped it closely around her thin nightdress.