The Haunting of Harriet

by Jennifer Button

  At four o’clock she awoke and walked back downstairs. She went to the Fourth Room. Opening the door she peered in and looked around. It was peaceful and dark: a junk room. Whatever had been present earlier was gone. Liz closed the door as carefully as if on a sleeping child and, despising herself as she did so, turned the key in the lock before replacing it on the secret ledge in the kitchen. As her fingers withdrew from the now familiar-shaped key she knew she could not contain it. She was too late; something significant had happened that night. She also knew The Five of Cups was an image that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  CHAPTER 7

  The incident with the Tarot was not revisited. Convincing herself that it was just superstitious nonsense, Liz told Mel in no uncertain terms that the whole thing was a load of crap. After an exhausting night of tossing and turning she had woken with a closed throat and swollen eyes. A stubborn virus that was doing the rounds put an abrupt end to the celebrations; the merry season had fizzled out. Liz’s continued poor health made the New Year a subdued affair and it was not until late spring that Liz felt her spirits lifting. She was still suffering nights of broken sleep and although she never said anything it was the face on that wretched card that she saw as she closed her eyes, and again when she woke. It was haunting her.

  But by summer Liz announced to Edward that she was out of the doldrums and raring to go. It was the night of the summer solstice and they had been enjoying a quiet dinner for two. Edward had braved Marks & Spencer’s and prepared a surprisingly professional meal. The sight of his slender wife steadily reducing to an anorexic waif had really scared him. Tonight she had eaten well and drunk a considerable amount of alcohol. So, when after dinner Liz suggested that they took their brandies down to the lake, he was confident that she was fully recovered.

  The silence of the water was hypnotic. When its surface was broken for a second by a lazy trout gulping a late-night snack, they both jumped. They raised their glasses to each other. The old boathouse was directly beneath the moon, the dovecote and tower silhouetted against it.

  “You’re right,” Edward said, “it is quite beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever really noticed it before. It’s very dramatic, isn’t it?”

  “It’s perfect!” Liz replied. They stood watching the shadows change as the clouds obscured the enormous moon, only to make it seem brighter than ever when it reappeared. This was the summer solstice, when at noon the sun reaches its highest point in the sky giving the longest day: a day when magical things can happen.

  “Darling,” Liz spoke softly, using the spell of the scene as a prop. As she only used the “D” word when she wanted something, Edward braced himself. “Do you remember what you said the first time you saw Beckmans?”

  “No, but I’m sure you are going to tell me.”

  “You hated it. You said it smelt of rot and was totally uninhabitable.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. You called it a money-pit and said the agent must have seen me coming.”

  “Really!”

  “Yes. Then you said there must be a good reason why it had been empty for thirty years and that you wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole.”

  “Did I?”

  “Then you said that if I really wanted it I could have it, and anyway there was nothing that throwing money at couldn’t solve.”

  “And I’ve been throwing money at it ever since!”

  “You don’t regret it though, do you, darling?”

  There it was again, the dreaded “D” word. “Not yet, but why do I think I might any minute now?”

  “Well, I just wanted to thank you for trusting me. I love this house and I love you and I know you’ll love the new boathouse too.”

  Edward swallowed hard. He had enjoyed teasing Liz. He liked hearing how selfless and generous he was. And he had to admit he had grown to love the old house nearly as much as Liz did. It suited them well. It was probably the perfect home for them and Liz had done a great job restoring it. But it had cost a lot of money and the money market was getting pretty tough with all the indicators pointing to a worse drop before they recovered. Now was not a good time to start spending vast sums of money rebuilding a useless folly. That itself would be folly. The school fees were the next major expense and would take a considerable outlay. No, he had to be firm.

  “Hang on – you just said it was perfect. Now you want to pull it down. Anyway, I like it just as it is, all Romantic and Gothic and in ruins.”

  “You did say we should do it up.”

  “I did not. When did I say that?”

  “Just now… It was your idea. Anyway, we have to do something, and soon, it’s an accident waiting to happen. I mean, just suppose, God forbid, that something happened to the twins…. I mean, it’s completely rotten. It could collapse at any moment. I dread to think what might happen if their little school friends come round and, well… Their parents could sue us for millions. Anyway, it’ll look fabulous. I can see it…” She was weaving her magic, casting her spells. He felt doomed. He knew he did not stand a chance. “Say something, darling.”

  “You’re obviously feeling much better.” This was not the reply she wanted. Edward looked at her standing there in the moonlight. She was quite lovely once she got the bit between her teeth. She was right, of course. The building in front of them was extremely dangerous. A rush of guilt shot through him. Something stronger than his conscience dared him to refuse her.

  “Listen, I’ll think about it. OK? No promises. And I never agreed to anything before; I simply said it was beautiful. It is beautiful. I like it just as it is.”

  Liz was disappointed but not defeated. She had thought the argument was won. Now she realized she had more work to do. The first thing was to lighten the tone. If they rowed about it the cause could be set back for months.

  “Of course it’s beautiful, it’s in the bloody dark! Even I look good in the dark!”

  “Ah, but only from the left. Your right side’s a bit dodgy and your bum looks… ouch!”

  Liz’s slap hit home, catching him sharply across his upper arm.

  He raised his hands to ward off any more blows. “Convince me, and I may… I said may just make some enquiries. But can we please go in now? It’s getting bloody cold and I feel a lengthy debate coming on. You are going to have to be pretty convincing, young lady. Of course, you could resort to other means of persuasion.”

  Grabbing his wife he drew her to him, kissing her passionately and fully on the lips. They still had the ability to excite each other and were it not for the small, aggressive dog pulling jealously at his left trouser leg he might well have taken Liz there and then. Leaving their glasses, they ran back to the house together, with the tenacious hound snapping at Edward’s heels. Taking the stairs two at a time he closed the door on the disgruntled animal, threw his wife on the bed and the subject of the boathouse was forgotten… for the moment.

  That night they both slept well, which came as a welcome change for Liz. Since her illness her nights had been filled with a succession of vivid dreams, some of which woke her and repeated with a disturbing regularity. Lately she was experiencing a bout of quite raunchy, erotic dreams. Often she would wake Edward by talking to him in her sleep. He never told her that she was “talking dirty”, for he knew she would be embarrassed. Liz was no prude but she was no wanton hussy either. Some of the things she said would have mortified her. She claimed not to remember what she had been dreaming about when she awoke sweating and breathless in the middle of the night. But their sex life was definitely benefiting from whatever her nocturnal exploits were so he decided to keep quiet and enjoy the ride. Liz genuinely could not recall the substance of these dreams, but there was a great deal of uninhibited sex involved.

  Then one morning after a night of particularly vivid and obviously illicit passion, Liz awoke obsessed with a strange compulsion. The boathouse had to be razed to the ground. There was no recognizable connection between this burning conviction and h
er illusive dream. She only knew that what remained of the boathouse must be destroyed before they could think about rebuilding it. Once she had acknowledged this, she felt a strange peace. She pulled on her jeans and the first sweater that came to hand, scooped up her bowl of cornflakes and set off to take a closer look at the doomed building.

  Seated on the bench under the willow, she gazed across the water at the derelict shell. There was something very sad about it, something that was intrinsically linked with the old submerged dinghy. An involuntary shudder took her by surprise and for a split second she felt decidedly cold. Liz tried not to think about the boat. Somehow it was forbidden territory; some sort of taboo hung over it. She never went to look at it but often at night it rose up to feature in her dreams and always associated with the black figure. Sometimes it stood in the boat, at others it merely watched as the dinghy sailed by. The most fearful dreams were when they stood side by side and watched as the boat capsized. Then Liz would wake with a feeling of utter powerlessness. Even now the merest thought of it brought her out in goose pimples. Something linked the sunken boat to the fire; that much she knew. And something linked it all to her, although she still knew precisely nothing. How had it sunk? Was anyone drowned? How had the boathouse caught fire? Was it deliberately set alight? She had quizzed the neighbours, but even the oldest inhabitants of the village had not been around long enough to know, though this did not stop them offering theories. The stories ranged from murder to witchcraft, but it was mostly spiced-up speculation. Liz was convinced that some personal tragedy had happened here and it could not have been that long ago. The archives at the local library and the church records were the logical places to start, but her confidence in her skills as a researcher was woefully lacking and as often as she resolved to make it her next major project she never quite got round to it.

  The ruined building was quite something. If only she could paint it as it was now: romantic, dilapidated, beautifully melancholic. It was a ridiculous idea, of course. How could anyone hope to capture the mystery of such a place? Liz had not painted since school, and then she had only shown mediocre talent. This was too ambitious for an amateur to attempt. Why not try? As the thought struck her it was accompanied by the weird sensation that she was not alone. She looked around. There was no one there, just the gentle sound of the water lapping against the bank. Something brushed her hand; when she looked down, The Pote was sitting by her side, looking up at her. She ruffled his ears and eased herself out of the chair, pausing long enough to take one last look at the boathouse before they wandered back to the house together.

  Turning the griffin key in its lock Liz entered what was still referred to as the Fourth Room. No longer an unwelcoming room, it had nevertheless remained in a sort of limbo for five years. Liz had never quite decided what to do with it, so it had become the place where all those potentially useful things not yet allocated a permanent home languished: old cricket pads and odd golf clubs; an unused sewing-machine; a dressmaker’s dummy whose proportions fitted no one and never had; piles of those awful plastic storage boxes that, once filled and shut, were never opened again. Rummaging in one of the children’s boxes, Liz dug out an old paint-box. The palette required only a quick spit and a rub with her finger to restore its true colours. The brush was well past its sell-by date, but with a little TLC it would do. Adding to this a sketchpad, a pencil and a jam-jar, she set off back across the lawn. Using the bench as a table she laid out her trappings, then with her sketchpad propped on her knees finally settled down to work.

  After an hour she had amassed a pile of litter, which lay scattered around her exactly where thrown down in disgust. On the brink of giving up, she made one last stab at it. Suddenly there it was. The boathouse was there on the page. Somehow she had drawn a pretty good likeness. Exchanging her pencil for a brush she sloshed it in the water and began to paint. At first everything came out too opaque. The transparency of the water and the magic of the light playing on its surface eluded her ability. How did painters like Turner capture such luminosity? Well, she conceded that involved sheer genius; but how did they keep the colours clean and clear?

  Frustrated at her own incompetence, she threw her hands up in despair. This sudden serendipitous movement knocked over the jam-jar. The water spilled out, slowly covering the paper and forming an annoying puddle. Still she carried on, painting wet on wet. She loved it. Losing all sense of time, she played with her new toys, no longer afraid of the results, simply enjoying the process. Her inhibitions had flown. She was free to experiment and have fun. She was still engrossed in her work when the twins burst into the garden, making it time to return to being a mother. But before packing her stuff away she could not resist taking a photo of the boathouse, to serve as a memory of a perfect afternoon. She emptied the jam-jar into the lake, disturbing a nearby trout that had been watching her progress. Apologizing to the basking fish, she returned to the house, grinning from ear to ear and feeling restored to health.

  Liz’s painting of the boathouse was hung in the hall at Beckmans. Framed and mounted, it did look extremely accomplished, not at all like a first effort; maybe not a work of genius but certainly that of a competent amateur. She had captured some of the ethereal quality of her subject: the way the light played through the broken timbers, sending shafts down into the dark reed-filled water. The process of painting had completely absorbed her. She had been suspended in time. Her hand moved unaided, mixing colours from unlikely combinations, finding greens and blues she never knew existed. There was sufficient detail to define, yet obscurity enough to allow for a romantic, almost spiritual vision of the beautiful old ruin. It was a remarkably good painting and, of course, Harriet had had a hand in it.

  Harriet was delighted at her pupil’s progress. As a young woman she herself had been well taught and now could pass on everything she knew. She had never before felt such a sense of pride. Her patience had been well rewarded. But she knew there was a price to pay. Liz’s painting reopened the question of the boathouse, sparking off some alarmingly heated discussions about the future of the folly. Its survival hung in the balance. Harriet wished the whole thing would go away but, try as she did, she failed to convince Liz it was a doomed project.

  Liz recognized she had a real battle on her hands to win Edward around. She attempted to explain to him how she felt about the old building, without sounding too dramatic. Edward had no wish to be enlightened to the more spiritual side of the argument. Frankly, he thought Liz was becoming obsessive. He guessed it was Mel’s psychic hand behind all this and was not too happy about that. All that ridiculous palaver at Christmas had played on Liz’s mind and definitely delayed her recovery from what should have been a simple virus.

  It was Bob who brought common sense to bear. His matter-of-fact approach could not be argued with. “Let’s face it mate, the place is a death trap. You have no choice but to pull it down. What you do after that is up to you two to sort out. If you want to rebuild it, I’m your man. I could do a modern state-of-the-art job, I can even build a replica of the Taj Mahal; but I warn you, Indian palaces don’t come cheap. No, as I see it, it’s very simple. Just ask yourself: do I want a peaceful life? Then, what sort of bonus am I going to get this year?”

  Edward’s bonus was of an obscenely generous nature. He had planned to take the family to Disney World but certain comments Jenny had dropped along the way made him realize he was not altogether in touch with the likes and dislikes of his children. He decided instead to offer them a carte blanche holiday cruise. Anywhere they liked as long as it did not include the Bombay slums, which seemed Jenny’s preference. She had abandoned all thoughts of becoming a vet and was now hell-bent on being the next Mother Teresa. Life was never simple with Jenny, who was an extremely determined young woman. James was the complete opposite. He knew exactly where he was going, but was always going to take the easy route. His father had been disappointed that he showed little interest or aptitude for sports, but it was some consolation that
his enthusiasm for maths and his facility with figures implied he would follow in his father’s footsteps. He was a great kid, which was the main thing. Everybody loved James.

  Bob’s entry into the discussion about the future of the boathouse was a clear indication to Liz that Edward had at last come round to her way of thinking; after a few minor discussions about the old versus the new they agreed that demolition work should begin that summer. Faced with a blank canvas, Liz began to get carried away. Greek temples, a ruined Gothic folly, even a Japanese pagoda flashed through her mind. Harriet was constantly on hand to keep this fertile young imagination in check. Eventually a decision was reached. It was to be rebuilt to look exactly as it must have done before the fire. Liz was ecstatic and Harriet was exhausted. She took herself off to what she still called the Tudor room to rest and recuperate.

  Exhaustion took Harriet to that pleasant state halfway between consciousness and sleep. In her mind she could see the old boathouse when she still thought it beautiful, before the fire. She could not remember when it had burnt down or if she had ever painted it before the fire ravaged it. It hardly seemed to matter now which came as a complete surprise to her.

  CHAPTER 8

  Harriet’s love of painting had taken a long and at times difficult route. Sometime after that fateful Christmas Eve on the lake Harriet had woken up to find she was in hospital. Once she was no longer confined to bed but still receiving a considerable amount of medication, always under the watchful eye of the terrifying ward sister, she was sent to a unit where she was given treatment that they called occupational therapy. She knew it as painting and when first presented with paints, paper and brushes she withdrew further into herself, stubbornly refusing to co-operate. Then one day, as if a switch had been thrown, she began to emerge. At first she produced violent explosions of black and red, the paint applied in vicious stabbing gestures, ripping the paper, which substituted for her flesh and exorcised her pain as though some macabre blood-letting ritual were taking place. A destructive rage ate away at her, breaking out in sudden uncontrollable bursts of violence that left her exhausted, crippled with remorse and shame. Gradually, over the months, she developed more control until she discovered she could command her moods as well as her paint. The work that poured from her was still, however, profoundly disturbed and belied the fact that she was still a young child. But her love of painting had begun and was never to leave her.