The Haunting of Harriet

by Jennifer Button

  The first move was to coax Jenny out of the Fourth Room. Visions of that sad, little girl by the lake would not leave Mel’s mind. Was that whole incident by the stream a premonition? Had the Tarot predicted the accident? She too was feeling guilty. She had not been honest enough in her reading of the cards. In her mind she tried to recall them, to see them differently. Even if she interpreted them as a prediction, the tragedy had been averted, so why the Five of Cups? Two cups standing and three lying down; three lives at risk, whose was the third? Was it her own? Was her cancer going to win after all? Or was the card telling her of a past tragedy? The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became they had been foretelling the future. They had been showing her this accident. She had not read them accurately enough. One thing she did know. Jenny was instrumental in determining the final outcome. Jenny held the key.

  Mel knocked on the oak door. There was no answer, so she tried the handle. The door was locked. When she called Jenny’s name there was no reply. Mel concentrated her inner mind, letting her breath come in steady and controlled measure. Then she put her lips close to the door and whispered. “Is Jenny’s friend there? Please could you open the door for Jenny?”

  Harriet was leaning heavily against the banisters. Since the accident she had been feeling weak. Her head was still throbbing, accompanied by a persistent droning in her ears. The family’s flight to the hospital had alarmed her. She had been left alone, not knowing what had happened to her precious children. She did not know if they were dead or alive. The past, the present and the future crowded in on her mind until she could no longer distinguish one from the other. Lightning flashes and startling explosions came at her from all directions, leaving her nauseous and giddy. This was how her father had described his fits to her. First he described rapidly flickering shadows of awareness, then an impenetrable dark into which blinding darts of light hit his eyes like rockets piercing his brain. They lit up scenes of terrifying visions, but never stayed long enough for him to define or describe them. This was what she too had seen: glimpses of reality swamped by obscurity before she could grasp them; and all this accompanied by stabbing pain and despair. Now she was being asked to face it yet again. How many times had she tried to fathom the mystery of her brother’s death? Why should this time be any different?

  But it was different. This time it was Jenny who was hurting. The pain had been transferred. Harriet had no choice. Stepping into the Fourth Room, stepping into Jenny, she took the griffin key in both hands and turned it.

  The door opened. Jenny’s sunken eyes peered out at Mel from the gloom. The room was dark; the child had drawn the curtains, blocking out natural light. She was not crying, but Mel could feel the weight of tears all around her. The room was crying and the pain of such distress invaded Mel’s psychic self, causing her to tremble with received emotion. Jenny had returned to her chair. She did not speak or move; she simply stared at Mel with no flicker of recognition.

  “Hello.”

  The child continued to stare.

  “May I sit down?” Mel took the silence as tacit approval. “I’m a friend of Jenny’s too. She’s asked me to help you.”

  The child got up and moved to the window, deliberating on what to do. After some time she spoke. It was Jenny’s voice and Jenny’s eyes that pleaded with Mel for absolution.

  “I have done something dreadful.”

  Mel smiled and waited. It was not the response the child had expected. There was no anger or accusation, just silence.

  “I’m a murderer. They’re going to hang me. I’ve killed my brother.”

  “Did you mean to?” Mel spoke quite normally and rationally.

  “Oh, no,” came the instant and definite answer.

  “Then I don’t think you’re so evil. Who told you that you should hang?”

  “Mama. She says I’m a murderer and the police will take me to prison and hang me. I have to wait here for them to come.”

  “I promise nobody is going to hang you. Will you let me help you?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Maybe not, but Jenny could. You trust Jenny, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” The eyes that searched Mel’s were no longer Jenny’s. Physically they were those familiar green lasers that had twinkled at her for the past ten years. Today they burned with an amber fire, flamed by a torment that grabbed Mel’s heart.

  “Will she help me?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  That was all she had to say for the child to run into her arms. Was it the lost child or Jenny she hugged so tightly? It was Jenny who Liz saw leaving the room with Mel, an hour or so later, and that was all that mattered.

  Mel never told Liz what had transpired between the two (or was it three?) of them. Jenny made a remarkable recovery and seemed to have little memory of the whole business. Liz was relieved to have her daughter back again. The jigsaw was still incomplete but every fresh episode allowed another tiny piece of the picture to emerge.

  CHAPTER 19

  Harriet and Jenny met a week later. Harriet was leaning on the hand rail of the walkway around the boathouse as Jenny approached. They had not arranged to meet but their unfailing telepathy drew them together. For a while they stood in silence, the older woman resting her elbows against the rail while the other held it tightly and swung on it with her feet planted firmly on the decking. The Olly Ro was still floating free, unaware of the trauma surrounding her.

  “Don’t do that. It makes me feel giddy.”

  Jenny stood up and pulled her jeans up, yanking her T-shirt down at the same time.

  “I can’t sing yet. My lungs still hurt.”

  “I know. It goes in time.”

  “How long did it affect your voice?”

  “You know what happened to my brother, don’t you?”

  Jenny had forgotten Harriet never answered a question directly. “I do. I’ll tell you if you feel you are ready.”

  “I think – no, I know I am.”

  Hand-in-hand the two of them walked slowly across the bridge and round to the other side of the lake until they reached the willow. There they sat on the bench and Jenny began to tell the story that Harriet had been afraid to face for sixty-five years. She told it as though reading from a book and the old woman sat riveted, not passing any comment until Jenny reached the end.

  It was Christmas Eve and everyone had gone to church except for Harriet and David. They had decided to hold a conference to try and find a solution to the horrible problems they were facing. They climbed aboard the Jolly Roger and Harriet rowed to the centre of the lake so that no one could overhear them. She pulled the heavy oars on board. They drifted and bobbed as David read and re-read the letters Harriet had brought with her.

  “I think what it means when you cut out all the gibberish, is that Father is to go into a nursing home. Maybe that would be good for him?” David screwed up his eyes as he spoke and his pale face scrutinized the wind-tanned one opposite him.

  “Good for him, my foot. They’ll just stick him in a corner and forget about him.” Harriet was angry. This was all her disgusting mother’s fault. “I hate them. I hate the fucking bastards. How dare they interfere? We’d be fine if only they’d leave us alone. You know what they’ll do next, don’t you? They’ll split us up; put us in separate homes or farm us out to horrid, boring old families so we’d never see each other again.” Hot tears of fear and anger poured.

  “They can’t split us up and send us away, can they? Not if we refuse. Can they?” David’s voice revealed his sudden realization of the awful reality they faced. “What about Mummy?”

  “Mother will be taken to the nut house where all the drunks go.” Harriet spoke the words angrily and without thinking of the consequences.

  David jumped up, screaming now: “No! No! Don’t let them, Harriet. Stop them! Please. Please stop them!” He was throwing himself around in a blind fit of panic, causing the Jolly Roger to lurch and roll, taking in water as she did.

  “
Sit down, Davy.” Harriet grabbed the oars to try to steady the craft, but her brother’s fear was fast becoming hysteria and he could not hear her. “Watch it, you’ll have us over.”

  David was thrashing about in the bow. He climbed over to the seat and lunged at his sister. For a split second Harriet let go of the oars and watched as they slid into the water. She grabbed and missed. “Now what am I supposed to do? This was a stupid bloody idea of yours!” David lost his temper and pushed hard at Harriet, forcing her to fall backwards into the bow. Her legs shot up and her head hit the deck. When she came to, she turned to face the bow. It was empty. Her brother was not there. She clambered to the front and peered over the side. The winter sun was setting and bounced off the water’s surface, leaving it dark and impenetrable. She called out, knowing it would prove futile. Then, she jumped over the side, upended and dived like a duck. It was frighteningly dark and silent and cold, so very cold. Fronds of weeds waved as she thrashed about searching for David. Strong fingers tore at her, wrapping themselves in fiendish knots around her limbs. Then in a thick clump of blackness she caught a glimpse of blue and yellow. It was his Fair Isle pullover. Instinctively her hand reached out to him, but her lungs needed air. She forced her body upwards until her head broke the surface. She kept her eyes closed against the light as she gulped air into her body, then turning a somersault she kicked her sandalled feet high in the air and plunged in again, fixing her eyes to where David lay trapped.

  Her determined arms could not free him from the persistent reeds. With each attempt the vicious plants closed in behind her like bars on a slippery, living cage, as determined as she was to hold on to their victim. She needed a pole, something to act as a lever. She looked for the oars but could see nothing except the upright supports of the boathouse. She swam to them and pulled her body heavy with waterlogged clothes onto the walkway. As she ran she wrenched off her sandals, her skirt and sweater, her coat was already lost in the water. An image of her mother and the bastard flashed across her brain. Swearing loudly she dismissed them and entered the boathouse. It was leaning against the wall, the boat hook that Tom had made for them. She grabbed it in both hands. Seeing with relief that the boat had drifted towards her she leapt on board. Using the pole, she manoeuvred the boat to where she had last seen David. She shivered with cold as she braced herself to jump in once more. It was pitch-black now as she pushed the hook under and dived in. She could see nothing. The mud was churning up and the water turning to thick sludge. Her ears were bursting and her lungs ached to be filled; their emptiness pressed at her until she could think of nothing but her pain. The water was rank and fetid. If she swallowed or breathed it in she could stay down here with her brother; the fearful future would be over before it had a chance to hurt them. She saw David’s quizzical expression. The distorted screwed-up face he unwittingly adopted when thinking hard was pleading with her. She knew what she had to do. She thrust the boat hook down and swam down, following its lead. David was facing her, his eyes staring, glassy and expressionless, challenging her; his familiar face a strange ghastly white, asking why? His arms which he had wrapped around his body were bound firmly in place by the reeds. Only his hair moved as it followed the motion of the undercurrent pursuing some macabre dance. Skilfully she guided the hook into the folds of David’s duffel coat. Then she pulled it with all the strength she could muster.

  She was much too close. It was impossible to get any leverage. Hating to leave him, she rose to the surface again. She hauled herself into the boat, filling her tired lungs with the freezing air. Standing tall with the boat hook firmly in both hands she heaved at it with all her might. Nothing happened. She tried twisting the pole, fighting the weight of it, turning it desperately to wrench the boy free of the weed. Then, swirling up through the thick brown water it came, a thin mist of dark rust, reddening as it spread, and billowed until the surface of the water was crimson with blood, her brothers’ blood.

  The smell of death permeated the dankness of the night. Harriet sat back in the boat. She had killed her brother. She had meant to save him but she had killed him. A sharp pain rose up from somewhere deep inside her and it carried her soul with it as it emanated from her body, taking the form of a long thin howl. The agonized sound filled the garden, encircling the lake and floating across the lawns, entering the house until it reached her father’s room, piercing his wretched body with its unnatural pitch. His daughter was calling him. He had to reach her if it was the last thing he did. Using his wasted arms, the weight of his sparse body working against him, he inched his wheelchair through the door and into the hall. At the kitchen doorstep the chair pitched forward, hurling the invalid onto the terrace, his body spread-eagled on the flagstones. Crawling forward, he pulled himself upright holding on to the balustrade until he stood for the first time in months. Then walking, crawling, he dragged his useless limbs over the grass towards the cry.

  From nowhere a policeman was running across the lawn, his whistle cutting the silence in regular high ear-splitting blasts. He hit the water in a running dive from the jetty and climbed aboard the little boat where the girl was still leaning over the bow, her arms stretched beneath the water towards her brother. Manoeuvring the boat to the jetty he handed the child to her father and dived in to where she was still pointing. Harriet sat with her father’s arms around her, reddened eyes never leaving the exact spot where David was. The young policeman dived in again, rising through the surface like a seal to shake his head and gulp in a deep breath. Down and down the policeman went until he emerged at last with his quarry. Harriet’s wide amber eyes were glazed and fixed, staring in disbelief as the limp little body was placed on the jetty. Her tears poured out, cold, silent tears filled with horror and shame, and the guilt hit her throat like a tidal wave attempting to drown her too.

  David looked as if he was asleep; his white skin shone with the translucent quality of an angel. The large purple wound in his chest did not seem to bother him. His face was peaceful and he smiled quietly as if his final question had been answered satisfactorily. People appeared from nowhere. Old Tom had called the police and they had sent for the ambulance. Bells were ringing, whistles were blowing and men were running, carrying stretchers and blankets, shouting orders to one another. Suddenly Harriet was sitting in the kitchen with her father, holding mugs of hot, sweet tea in their hands and cold, bitter tears in their hearts. From somewhere in the garden came the long, low howling of a dog.

  When Jenny had finished, she slid closer to Harriet and put her arms round her. Harriet was crying the bitter, salty tears of childhood.

  “You didn’t kill him. He was already dead. You did everything you could to save him and he knows that. I was lucky, my brother lived. Yours died. But you didn’t kill him. I know how awful it must be for you. When I thought James was dead I wanted to die with him. I would willingly have died for him. David wanted you to live, to live for him. Now he wants you to be together again. He loves you.”

  Harriet stood up and patted her hair down where the wind had lifted it. Then she took out a large white handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. Straightening her cloak she turned, her face radiant and smiling as she looked at Jenny. The telling of the story, the truth about the accident had not brought it back to her; it had instead taken it away from her. It had erased the guilt. Every day, for each one of those painful years, she had lived with the belief that she killed her brother. She was sure she had speared him with the boat hook, and had remained unpunished for her crime. She had lived in fear of the retribution of the law, that one day they would come for her and she would be hanged as a murderer. Worse, she had lived with the retribution of the Furies. Now, thanks to this child’s love, she could face her past and accept it. She knew her brother had forgiven her and was at peace. Now she needed to forgive herself. Hope and redemption, wasn’t that what Jenny said were in the last two cups?

  Jenny expected to feel tired after such a taxing ordeal. Instead she was revitalized and full of energy.
“Let’s go for a walk and you can tell me what Beckmans was like when you were my age. I want to see it through your eyes, Harriet. I want to hear about your father and your brother, your time in hospital…. And that dog we heard, what was its name? “

  Harriet held up her hand. “Whoa. Steady on. I’m not as young as you, my little one. I need to rest now. It must be five o’clock. Time for my nap! The barking dog was Tess, old Tom’s Labrador. She was black as the ace of spades, a shiny rascal. We thought Tom used spit and polish on her because she gleamed like his Sunday shoes. Speaking of which, where’s that errant hound of yours? He keeps me company while I snooze.”

  The Pote appeared as if by magic and the two of them took themselves off to the Fourth Room for forty winks, leaving Jenny alone by the willow.

  CHAPTER 20

  Harriet woke up at five-fifteen, refreshed and eager to start. The Pote stretched his long body and nimbly leapt to the floor, stretched again and bounced out to the hall. She had dreamt of her father: how he had been before he became so ill, before he was an invalid. In her dream he was singing to her and even now his voice was clear and strong in her memory. There on the wall beside her hung her pathetic attempt at embroidery. She smiled and rubbed her fingers, which tingled as they recalled the pinpricks they had been subjected to in its making. Taking it from the bird-shaped hook she examined it more closely. There just below the small “w” of the alphabet was a faint blood stain. How she had rubbed at it to try and remove it. The horror as she had watched the deep-red blood seep over her masterpiece came instantly back. This was the same blood that had run through David’s veins, but it was not her shedding of it that had killed him.

  Lifting the sampler to her lips she kissed it. Even through the glass she could smell the past. That pungent tobacco smell that hovered around her father, the sweet smoke filling the air, it was still here. The past never leaves us it simply merges into the present and becomes the future, before drifting back into the past again. Like that tiny stain it will never fade. Something will always remain, a vibration resonating for as long as we choose to listen. Thoughts filled her mind as her fingers were removing the sampler from its frame. Behind it lay the small black-and-white photograph, her past captured in a frozen second, released into the present with one swift glance.