Harriet

by Jilly Cooper

  Harriet found herself fighting back the tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, turning her head away. ‘I’m just not used to getting breaks. You can’t give me that much money.’

  ‘I want you to look after my children properly, not just moon around the house. Now, I don’t anticipate Mrs Bottomley will try and rape you, so I’ll see you again towards the end of February. You’ll probably find it easier to settle in without my poking my nose in all the time.’

  After she’d gone, still stammering her thanks, he sat down to work again. Then, a minute later, he got up and looked out of the window. Harriet was walking down the road. He watched her take the cheque out of her bag, examine it in amazement, hold it up to the light, then give a little skip of joy, so that she nearly cannoned into a passer-by.

  Before she rounded the corner, she turned round to look up at the window, and waved at him timidly. He waved back.

  I’m a bloody idiot, he told himself. I could have got any Nanny in London and I end up with a waif with a baby — which means four children to look after instead of two!

  He looked at the photograph of his wife and his face hardened. He poured himself another stiff whisky before settling down.

  Chapter Ten

  Once the euphoria of landing the job had worn off, Harriet grew more and more apprehensive. She had difficulty enough looking after one baby. What right had she to take on two children, who were probably spoilt and certainly disturbed?

  I won’t be able to cope, she kept telling herself as the train rattled through the Midlands the following Sunday. Each mile, too, was taking her further and further away from Simon, and the remote possibility that one day she might bump into him in London.

  As promised, a car met her at Leeds station and once they were on the road, William, who had yelled most of the journey, fell into a deep sleep, giving the exhausted Harriet a chance to look at the passing countryside. It did nothing to raise her flagging spirits.

  The black begrimed outskirts of Leeds soon gave way to fields and woodland then to wilder and bleaker country: khaki hillsides, stone walls, rusty bracken, with the moors stretching above, dark demon-haunted, Heathcliffe land. Harriet shivered and hugged William closer. No wonder Noel Balfour had run away from such savage desolation.

  They drove through a straggling village of little grey houses and then the road started climbing steeply upwards.

  ‘There’s Erskine’s place, up yonder ont’ hill,’ said the driver. ‘The Wilderness, they call it. Wouldn’t like to live there myself, but these stage folks have funny notions. I suppose you get used to anything if you have to.’

  The big grey house lay in a fold of the moors, about half a mile from a winding river. Surrounding it was a jungle of neglected garden. Pine trees rose like sentinels at the back.

  Harriet knocked nervously at the huge studded door, which was opened by a middle-aged woman with piled-up reddish hair and a disapproving dough-like face. She gave Harriet a hostile stare, but seemed far more interested in stopping a large tabby cat from escaping.

  ‘Ambrose! Come here, you devil!’ She just managed to catch the cat by the tail and pull him squawking into the house.

  ‘Miss Poole?’ she said icily, very much on her dignity. ‘I’m Mrs Bottomley.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Harriet, trying to shake hands and clutch William and the luggage at the same time.

  As she walked into the hall, two children rushed down the stairs, dragging a black labrador, and stopped dead in their tracks, gazing at her with dark, heavily lashed and not altogether friendly eyes.

  ‘Jonah and Charlotte,’ said Mrs Bottomley, ‘this is Miss Poole.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Harriet nervously. ‘This is William.’

  ‘Did you have a good journey?’ said the little girl in a formal voice. ‘We’re so recited to see you. Ambrose is on heat; that’s why he’s not allowed out. We thought he was a “he” when daddy bought him.’

  Mrs Bottomley picked up one of her suitcases.

  ‘I’ll show you to your room,’ she said coldly, starting up the stairs.

  ‘Watch the string,’ said Harriet in anguish, but it was too late. The string snapped and the contents of the suitcase — all the dirty laundry — her own and William’s that she hadn’t had time to wash before she left — cascaded onto the floor with a crash.

  The children shrieked with laughter. Chattie went into hysterics of excitement. Nothing could have broken the ice more completely as they rushed round putting things back.

  Mrs Bottomley, frostier than ever, led Harriet along a winding passage to her room. The house, in contrast to its grim exterior, was positively sybaritic inside. Whoever had chosen the moss-thick carpets, the watered silk wallpapers, the brilliantly clashing curtains, had had an inspired eye for colour, if no regard for expense.

  There were also looking glasses everywhere, in the hall, on the stairs and at the end of the landing. Harriet tried not to look at her worried, white-faced reflection.

  ‘What a lovely house, and how beautifully you keep it,’ she said, making a feeble attempt to remove the rigid expression of disapproval from Mrs Bottomley’s face. The housekeeper ignored her.

  ‘You’re in here,’ she said, showing Harriet into a little grey and white room with yellow curtains and yellow flowered four-poster bed. ‘The child can sleep next door,’ she added coldly. It was as though she couldn’t bear to acknowledge William’s existence.

  ‘Chattie and Jonah are at the far end of the passage, but there’s a device you switch on, so you can hear if they wake in the night. I’ll see them to bed tonight. Your supper will be ready in an hour.’

  All this time she had not looked Harriet in the face. Oh dear, sighed Harriet, she really does resent my coming here.

  Later, feeling more and more depressed, Harriet found a place laid for one in the huge green Victorian dining-room.

  She looked at Mrs Bottomley timidly:

  ‘Won’t you come and eat in here with me?’ she asked.

  ‘I have my meals in my own part of the house. I hope that will be all,’ said Mrs Bottomley.

  But as she stalked majestically towards the door, she heard a muffled sob and, looking round, she saw that Harriet’s face had disintegrated into a quivering chaos of misery, as she fished out her handkerchief.

  Mrs Bottomley’s heart melted. She padded across the room and put an arm round Harriet’s shoulders.

  ‘There, there, my lamb, don’t cry. You’ll get used to it all in no time. I know it seems an out-of-the-way place for a young girl, but the children have been so excited, especially with you bringing the baby, and you’ll be company for me. I get lonely of an evening.’

  Harriet wiped her eyes. ‘You don’t mind about William, and me not being married?’ she said.

  ‘Never gave it a thought,’ lied Mrs Bottomley, who had been boasting in the village that she’d soon put the hussy in her place.

  ‘You come and eat in the kitchen with me. You’ll feel better when you’ve got something inside you. We’ll have a drop of sherry to cheer ourselves up.’

  From then on Harriet and Mrs Bottomley were firm friends. The housekeeper bossed her, fussed over her, bullied her to eat, and gave her endless advice on how to look after the children.

  Chapter Eleven

  Even so Harriet often wondered afterwards how she survived those first few weeks looking after Cory Erskine’s children. The day seemed neverending, rising at six, feeding and bathing William, getting Chattie off to school, by which time William’s next feed would be due. Then there was endless washing and ironing, shopping, rooms to be tidied, meals to be cooked, beds to be made.

  Night after night, she cried herself to sleep out of sheer exhaustion, to be woken a couple of hours later by William howling because his teeth were hurting.

  Hard work alone she could have coped with. It was just the endless demands on her cheerfulness and good temper. Chattie, incapable of playing by herself, wanted constantly to be amused
or comforted. She adored the baby and was a perfect menace, feeding him indigestible foods which made him sick, going into his room and waking him just after he’d fallen asleep.

  Jonah, Harriet found even more of a problem than Chattie. He was obviously deeply unhappy and, when he came home at weekends, Harriet did her best to amuse him.

  In between bouts of moodiness, he was very good company, but Harriet could never tell what he was thinking behind the aloof Red Indian mask he had inherited from his father. Often he didn’t speak for hours and, although he never mentioned his mother, Harriet noticed that he always hung around when the post was due, and was hard put to conceal his disappointment when no letters arrived.

  Cory wrote to them regularly, long letters full of drawings and wild, unexpectedly zany humour. Noel Balfour patently didn’t believe in correspondence. Only one postcard arrived from her in five weeks, and that was postmarked Africa and addressed to Cory. On the front was a picture of a team of huge muscular Africans playing football. On the back she had written, ‘Had them all except the goalkeeper, darling.’

  Mrs Bottomley’s face shut like a steel trap when she saw the postcard, but Harriet, although dying to know more about Cory Erskine’s relationship with his wife, was sensible enough not to ask questions. She felt that Mrs Bottomley would tell her in her own good time. She was right.

  They were sitting before supper one evening towards the end of February in the small den off the dining room. Above the fire hung a huge, nude painting of Noel Balfour. She’s so beautiful, thought Harriet, I can’t imagine any man not wanting her.

  ‘Who did it?’ she asked.

  Mrs Bottomley puffed out her cheeks and went red in the face with disapproval, but the desire to gossip was too much for her.

  ‘Master Kit did, and he never should have done, neither.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Mr Cory’s younger brother.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Harriet. ‘That’s a bit close to home. It’s awfully good.’

  ‘So it should be,’ said Mrs Bottomley glaring at the lounging, opulent figure of Noel Balfour. ‘He took long enough over it. Mr Cory was abroad at the time, and Master Kit rolls up cool as a cucumber. “Ay’ve come to paint the magnificent scenery, Mrs B.” he says, but there was a wicked glint in his eyes. I knew he was up to no good.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ said Harriet. ‘Like Mr Erskine?’

  ‘Chalk and cheese,’ said Mrs Bottomley, helping herself to another glass of sherry. ‘He’s handsome is Master Kit. Tall and golden as one of them sunflowers, and enough charm to bring roses out of the ground in winter. But he always brings trouble. Drove his poor mother mad with worry. Magnificent scenery, indeed. He never moved out of Mrs Erskine’s bedroom, and she lying there totally nude, as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and the central heating turned up so high, you’d think it was a heatwave. And it wasn’t just painting they got up to, neither.’

  ‘Whatever did Mr Erskine say when he got home?’ said Harriet in awe. ‘He must have hit the roof.’

  ‘’E did,’ said Mrs Bottomley. ‘You should have heard them. Mr Cory, very controlled as always, but very sarcastic, and Mrs E. in hysterics. You could hear her shouting all over the house: “Well, at least I kept it in the family, this time”!’

  There was a pause before Mrs Bottomley said, in a confidential voice, ‘You see Harriet, Master Kit wasn’t the first by a long way. Ever since Master Jonah was born, it’s been one young gentleman after another.’

  ‘But why does Mr Erskine put up with it?’ said Harriet. ‘He doesn’t strike me as being the permissive type.’

  Mrs Bottomley shook her head.

  ‘He isn’t,’ she said glumly. ‘He’s tough in most ways, but where she’s concerned, he’s as weak as water. He loves her.’

  ‘But how’s he got the strength to divorce her now?’

  Mrs Bottomley shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Happen he won’t. She claims she wants to marry this Ronnie Acland, but I reckon Mr Cory will take her back in the end. She likes being married to him. It gives her respectability, and he makes a lot of money. She’s extravagant, you know, wants the best of everything — and she likes having power over him, knowing he’s still under her spell.’

  Harriet understood so well how Cory felt. Now that she no longer worried about being able to keep William or where the next penny was coming from, all her thoughts centred on Simon.

  Her longing for him grew no less with time. It hungered in her, night and day, engulfing her senses and her reason in an aching void. She tried to fill the void with hard work, to stupefy the ache by watching endless television, and reading long into the night, but her loneliness deepened round her as though she were alone in a huge cave.

  Later that evening, after Mrs Bottomley had gone up to bed, the telephone rang. Harriet answered it.

  ‘Mr Erskine calling from Dublin,’ said the operator. ‘Will you accept the call?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet, wondering what Cory was doing in Ireland.

  ‘Hullo, hullo, Cory. Can I speak to Cory, please?’ It was a man’s voice — slow, lazy, expensive, very attractive.

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Hell, I thought he’d be back,’ said the voice. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In Antibes still. Can I help?’

  ‘Not really, darling, unless you can lend me a couple of grand. I’ve found a horse Cory’s got to buy.’

  ‘Do you want to ring him?’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve got the number. Who is it?’

  The voice laughed. ‘Kit Erskine, registered black sheep. Hasn’t Botters been telling you horrible stories about me?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all.’ Even though he was miles away at the other end of a telephone, Harriet could feel herself blushing.

  ‘Of course she has. Don’t believe a word. It’s all true.’

  Harriet giggled.

  ‘And you must be Harriet?’ he went on. ‘The distressed gentlefuck.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Harriet furiously, immediately on the defensive. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Cory told me or, rather, he issued king-sized ultimatums that I was to keep my thieving hands to myself where you’re concerned. Is that your little baby making that horrible noise?’

  ‘His teeth are hurting,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Why doesn’t he go to the dentist? Any news of Noel?’

  Harriet, rather indiscreetly she felt afterwards, told him about the postcard of the African footballers.

  Kit laughed. ‘Funny how she likes to keep an eye on Cory, and on me, too, for that matter. In fact, she’s had her eye on so many men in her time, I’m surprised she hasn’t developed the most awful squint. Everyone’s laying bets whether Cory’ll divorce her or not.’

  ‘I think I’d better go and look after the baby,’ said Harriet, feeling suddenly that she shouldn’t be discussing her employer.

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Kit. ‘Are you as sexy as your voice is? What do you look like?’

  ‘Scrawny and sallow-skinned,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Just my type,’ said Kit. ‘I’ve a portrait to paint up North next month. I’ll come over and case the joint. Don’t go shacking up with any of the local gentry before I arrive.’

  Bitter, bitter, sweet, thought Harriet afterwards. Bitter because, in his gaiety, panache and directness of approach, he reminded her so much of Simon; sweet because, even over the telephone, it was nice to be chatted up once more.

  Later still that night, Ambrose the cat decided to have her kittens at the bottom of the huge four-poster quadruple bed in Cory and Noel’s bedroom. At six o’clock in the morning, having finally installed her, tired but contented, in clean straw in the kitchen with five kittens, Harriet finally fell into bed.

  It seemed only a few minutes later that she was woken up by Chattie’s voice telling her very smugly it was half past nine.

  ‘Oh, my god!’ said Harriet, leaping out of bed. ‘And it would be Mrs Bottoml
ey’s day off.’

  Frenziedly pulling on her clothes, not even bothering to wash, she rushed downstairs, fed Chattie and Jonah bread and marmalade, packed Jonah’s suitcase for the week, put William bawling and unfed into the car in his carry cot, and set off to drop the children at school.

  It had frozen the night before and the road was like a skating rink. Harriet tried hard to concentrate on driving, but was distracted by Jonah fiddling with the door handle. The next moment, his hand slipped and the door swung open, nearly taking him with it. Narrowly missing an oncoming car, Harriet pulled him back, locked the door and gave him a ringing slap on his bare leg.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ she shouted.

  Jonah said nothing, gazing in front of him, colour slowly draining out of his cheeks, as the red finger marks grew on his thigh.

  Chattie, of course, was delighted. ‘Naughty, naughty Jonah,’ she chanted.

  ‘Shut up, Chattie!’ snapped Harriet, turning the car into Jonah’s school gates.

  Jonah grabbed his small suitcase and jumped out of the car.

  ‘Goodbye, darling,’ said Harriet her anger evaporating. ‘Pick you up on Friday evening.’

  Jonah was white with rage.

  ‘Don’t call me darling!’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘I hate you! I hate you! I wish you’d never come. I’m going to tell my father to send you away.’

  On the verge of tears, Harriet dropped Chattie off at her school. William was bellowing his lungs out with hunger all the way home.

  ‘William! Please!’ she said, her voice rising in desperation. ‘It won’t be long.’

  While she was heating up milk for a bottle she very hurriedly washed some of William’s clothes and put them into the spin dryer.

  Suddenly the telephone rang. William redoubled his howls. At the same moment, the milk boiled over and as she rushed to retrieve it, she realized she’d forgotten to put a bucket underneath the spin dryer.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she screamed hysterically, as soapy water belched forth round her feet. ‘Oh, shut up! Shut up, William!’