The Haunting of Harriet

by Jennifer Button

  “OK, Mum, what do you want to talk about?” Impatience rang in Jenny’s every word.

  “Well, you never told me how your project went. You spent so much time on it. I’d love to see it. Is it finished?”

  “Yeah, it’s at school. Anything else?”

  “God, Jenny, you are so transparent. OK. Go on. You’ve obviously got better things to do in the garden.” Liz waved her daughter on and, as if to compound the hurt, Jenny headed for the Fourth Room. She had to find Harriet before it was too late.

  She was half-expecting Harriet to be waiting. Hopefully by now she would have got over whatever had upset her and would be taking a nap in her usual spot. Sadly the room was empty. The Pote entered, immediately turned tail and left, without so much as a second sniff, confirming her suspicions that there was no sign or sense of Harriet. Pulling on her boots, Jenny whistled to the dog and slouched off alone across the lawn. The Pote stared after her, refusing to follow. To Liz’s delight he came back in and lay at her feet. Someone appreciated her company. She picked the little dog up and he squealed with pain. She carried him into the sitting-room, leaving her guilt on the table with the dirty dishes, and settled down for an indulgent hour or two sprawled on the settee, lost to a soporific dose of afternoon TV, nursing the dog.

  It did not take long for the warmth of the fire and the inane programme content to send Liz to sleep. When she awoke, The Pote was still stretched out across her lap. As she picked him up to place him on the floor his agonized crying told her his back problem was serious.

  The yowls stopped Jenny in her tracks. As she burst in, Liz was on the telephone, her manner agitated. The dog lay immobile on the sofa and Liz signalled for Jenny not to touch him. As Jenny went to speak, her mother raised a hand in a gesture demanding quiet while she continued to speak into the phone. Jenny listened in horror. She sank to her knees and placed her head next to her dog. She was still there twenty minutes later when the doorbell rang.

  James opened the door to the vet and the nurse. He showed them into where the The Pote was lying on the armchair with Liz. After a thorough examination, during which the poor little creature merely growled gently without even baring his teeth at his arch enemy, the vet had to admit that the back was severely damaged. They took him to the surgery where he remained for a week to undergo the most horrific operation on his spine. During the whole horrid business he remained meekly reconciled, but when it was obvious he was never going to walk again, the family had some serious decisions to make. Being paralysed from mid-back to his tail meant not only loss of mobility but incontinence and total dependence on human assistance. It seemed unfair to expect this proud creature to survive in such ignominious, reduced circumstances. It was deemed only fitting that he should be at home in familiar surroundings when the vet performed his unpleasant task. So The Pote was brought back to Beckmans and carried into the Fourth Room. James ran upstairs so no one would see him crying, but Jenny determined to be with her dog to the bitter end. Liz nodded her approval and Jenny placed her best friend on Harriet’s chair, kneeling beside it to be as close as possible. She had prayed that Harriet would be there waiting, but the chair was empty as she laid him down. The Pote looked up at Jenny and licked her on the nose. She felt her heart would break, it hurt so much. This was real pain, her pain not his. Her dog was calmly accepting his death. As the first needle went in he went to sleep. One more shot and he was dead. Jenny looked at her watch. It was exactly five o’clock.

  They buried The Pote beneath the willow tree. The small congregation were in pieces. Harriet stood some distance off, unseen, holding him in her arms, remembering Tess who was buried in the exact same spot. The house was full of tears and emptiness for weeks after. The twins had not known life without The Potentate. This was their first taste of death. Jenny mourned the deepest as she was also mourning the loss of her friend. She had seen no sign of Harriet since the incident with the dreaded book. Jenny wished she had never written it, but for the life of her she could not see what Harriet found so offensive. It had, after all, been a gesture of love. There was no way of turning the clock back, but Jenny wished she could at least have a chance to explain her motives. The thought of never seeing The Pote again was hateful. To lose Harriet too was unbearable.

  It hurt Harriet to watch Jenny in such misery. She knew how each new death brought back the memory of all the others. She too was missing her friend. She missed their singing lessons and the indescribable joy she experienced watching such a great talent grow and develop. And Jenny had a great talent, of that Harriet had no doubts whatsoever. In time maybe she would be able to forgive and understand, or understand and then forgive. Either way she was not yet ready. She was still smarting. It is hard to explain how it feels to see a gravestone bearing your name, to read a copy of your own death certificate and hold the coroner’s report on your brother’s death in your hand. It had been a shock. But when Harriet had calmed down she had to admit, reluctantly, that it was the photograph of dear Mama looking so beautiful and charming that really got up her nose. This was the picture her mother had always presented to the world, none of her cruelty or selfishness showing on that near-perfect face. It was unkind to punish Jenny. After all, she was still a child. How was she to know about the “fucking bastards” of this world?

  CHAPTER 24

  The winter of 2010 was an odd mix of delight and sorrow. Much of the delight came from the arrival of a new puppy, another dachshund: Google. The family soon discovered that pedigree dogs have similar traits within their breed. Dachshunds love to be covered, they hate to get wet and they would sell their souls for food. However, this shared gene was the only thing The Pote and young Google had in common. For one thing, The Pote was very much a dog and Google was a bitch. Whether gender played any part in the second difference was debatable, but from day one the puppy displayed exemplary manners. She never snatched food or became aggressively possessive. Her toys, her bed, even precious bones were willingly shared. She never snapped at or bit anyone, not even Edward; in fact she flirted shamelessly with him. It was predictable that in time her speed would match that of her predecessor, but she showed none of his hooligan tendencies. She was in no way a replacement but she was a great addition.

  The children fell in love at first sniff and the feeling was mutual. They took Google to the willow where they introduced her to The Pote. She squatted by the small concrete headstone as James read in a pompous voice: “The Potentate April 1999 – November 2007. Beloved companion - Triumphant in death. R.I.P.” They had found this carved on a gravestone while researching the Marchant family and thought it the ultimate in Victorian pomposity. They insisted on using it despite their father’s disdain at its inappropriateness for a dog’s grave. But they argued that it befitted a comedian of The Pote’s standing to be given a suitably apt memorial. This was duly acknowledged and the stone was erected. Harriet watched the twins with their new puppy. Silently and unseen she observed them at play. They were just children. The same age her brother had been when…. Maybe it was time to step out of the shadows. Life is far too short to bear grudges, she thought. Tomorrow. I shall be ready to meet Jenny tomorrow. After all, I still have my destiny to fulfil.

  Christmas loomed large and the aged fairy was hoisted aloft once more, having had yet more Araldite applied to her aching wings. In more ways than one, this year’s festivities promised to be a trip down memory lane. David was returning from France on a much-belated visit, minus a bestseller as such, but with the first three chapters of his manuscript ready to take to an agent. Liz had succeeded in persuading Donald and Brenda to join them having warned Mel, under pain of alcohol deprivation, to behave. Young Robert was due home on a visit from Cambridge. Google was nearly house-trained and Edward had apparently recovered from his midlife crisis. Everything pointed to a splendid celebration. Liz shopped and cooked for England.

  The book sat on the shelf in Jenny’s bedroom. It remained unread, much to her disappointment. Wrapping her presen
ts brought it all flooding back. Never had she felt so uncomfortable. She had completely misread the situation and could not find anyone sympathetic enough to confide in. There was little chance of discovering why it had been so badly received if nobody would talk it through with her. Her family made it very clear that the subject of the “imaginary” Harriet was a closed book, like the one sitting on the shelf. That hollow thank-you speech of her mother’s had been exposed as just that, shortly after it was delivered, so eloquently after the post-mortem on the bridge. A dismissive, “Darling, don’t you think you’re a bit old for all this nonsense? Imaginary friends are babyish…” said it all. As soon as her mother uttered those uncharitable words, Jenny vowed never to mention Harriet in front of her again. Even Mel had betrayed her, reneging on all she purported to believe when presented with incontrovertible evidence.

  Pressing her nose into the puppy’s fur, Jenny poured out her angst and despair to her new confidante. Like her predecessor, Google listened attentively until her tiny brain was exhausted and she fell asleep, flat on her back, just like The Pote. Jenny kissed the soft pink belly and soaked up the milky, toasty smell of a young pup. The presents would not wrap themselves and at least they would provide a distraction from her morbid thoughts. The rustling of paper and ribbons and the novelty of sticky tape proved enough temptation to wake Google, and the two of them embarked on a splendid game of pass-the-parcel.

  Jenny’s salvation came in an unexpected form. Robert was in his third year at Cambridge, studying for a degree in medicine. Everyone agreed he would make the perfect doctor. He had decided to specialize in paediatrics and his comfortable manner with children made him ideally suited. Jenny and James had not seen him since he left for university, so this sophisticated, elegant young man was a complete surprise. Jenny had always loved being around Robert. He was sufficiently older to make him an adult in her eyes, yet young enough to operate on her level. Music was one of their shared passions and he came armed with a selection of old sheet-music he had found in a junk shop, which he presented to a very flattered Jenny.

  They spent Christmas Eve at the piano surrounded by yellowing manuscripts that offered a selection of treasures, many of which were completely new to Jenny: Old Music Hall ballades and Edwardian favourites, which Robert played with great dexterity as they sang in turn or as duets, acting out the melodrama when not convulsed in fits of raucous laughter. If they discovered a number that particularly suited them they rehearsed it a few times, fine-tuning their act, honing it for their repertoire, to perform it later to a select audience. “In a Monastery Garden” had them in hysterics. It was new to Jenny, but Robert had heard it before and remembered the whistled birdsong that accompanied it. This was immediately adopted as their signature tune and they dashed off to the dressing-up box in the attic to kit themselves out in suitable attire for the grand recital the next day. They gave themselves the title of Cringe and Racket, which was lost on Jenny, although Robert assured her the old folks would get the joke.

  These high jinks had not passed unnoticed by Harriet, who had been dying to join in. This was the music of her childhood. The covers of the sheet-music brought a lump to her throat. The illustrations and distinct style of printing belonged to the period between the great wars. Her father’s music cabinet had been crammed full of similar copies and her earliest memories were imprinted on the pages with the notes. Had Jenny been alone, Harriet would have simply joined in, blending her voice with Jenny’s. But this young man was a comparative stranger; one did not mix with young men without being formally introduced. He seemed very nice. His manners were immaculate, which was more than could be said for most of the youngsters who visited the house. She decided to remain in the shadows, to observe rather than participate. This was going to be a difficult Christmas.

  Christmas Eve was the worst time for Harriet. The anniversary of her brother’s death always hit her hard. Watching young Jenny with her new singing partner made her feel old and surprisingly resentful. Was this the beginning of yet another long stretch of loneliness? The prospect of living her life as an onlooker filled her with a cold ache. She began to wish she had gone with her brother when she had the chance. Would it be wrong to call him back from wherever he was and beg him to take her with him? Then there was the big question: where had he gone? Did she want to go to some unknown place? The after-life, passing over, beyond the grave, the other side, the spirit world, whatever one called it, did she really belong there? It sounded pretty grim when one could be among real people who were warm and solid. The thought of never holding Jenny’s hand again, of no longer securing Liz’s hair with the ivory comb was abhorrent to her. Somehow she had to conquer her fear and introduce herself to this young gentleman. Swallowing a certain amount of pride, Harriet stepped out of the shadows.

  Jenny stopped what she was doing and ran to greet her friend and mentor. She had been trying to fix a large black ostrich feather to a headdress comprising a twisted length of silk. Harriet took it from her and deftly twined it around Jenny’s head, creating a perfect turban.

  “How on earth did you do that?” Jenny had rushed to the mirror and was admiring her reflection. Harriet stood behind, smiling. All was well, as though there had never been any hint of a separation between them.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Robert was looking straight at Harriet and by the neat little bow he executed Jenny knew he could see her as plainly as she could.

  “Robert, this is my very dear friend and teacher, Miss Harriet Marchant. Harriet, this is Mr Robert Calder.”

  They shook hands and exchanged a few pleasantries then, the formalities behind them, they spent the next delicious hour dressing up.

  At five o’clock Harriet took her leave, but not before assuring Jenny that she too had been with The Pote when he died. In fact she went on to describe the funeral, to make sure Jenny believed her when she said she had never really gone away. Then she took herself off to the Fourth Room and her much deserved nap, while Jenny off-loaded the whole story and her grievances to a very willing listener.

  In the kitchen a different conversation had been taking place as the women busied themselves preparing supper. They swigged their champagne as they worked, laughing, talking and sharing as women do. Brenda’s unexpected question took them all by surprise.

  “Is Beckmans haunted?”

  Liz looked at Mel. What constituted a haunting? Spirits, ghosts or vibrations; what was the difference? Liz always said she did not believe in them, but lately her whole belief system had been called into doubt. She was damned if she knew what she believed.

  Mel’s usual self-deprecation eased the situation as she said, “Of course it’s haunted, but don’t worry, ghosts don’t drink much.” Mel continued to lead the general banter that followed. Ghostly sightings and spooky happenings were related during breathtaking moments of reflection, before the silence would shatter with loud guffaws and hysterical giggles. Liz was occupied with a single thought now. Was Beckmans haunted? The incident by the lake, the sad little girl, the atmosphere in the Fourth Room, were these caused by ghosts? She comforted herself in the knowledge that she had never felt afraid in the house. It had always felt like home, from the first moment she had entered it. Ghosts frighten people; that’s their job. No. Liz assured herself that there were no ghosts in Beckmans. Her parents would have explained the silly episode by the lake by recounting some long-forgotten incident from her childhood. How they would laugh. Any “ghosts” would soon be laid to rest. There was the Fourth Room, of course; and the boathouse; and the Tarot reading. But, déjà-vu and an old boat did not amount to spectral apparitions. Anyway the Fourth Room was beautiful now, her favourite room in the entire house.

  Liz gave that snort of a laugh that was a familiar mannerism, as she brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face and adjusted her comb to hold it. In a suitably theatrical voice she said, “Oh, so you’ve seen the headless man who crosses the hall on the stroke of midnight and the trembling w
oman in grey who creeps up and down the back stairs every third Wednesday when there is an R in the month!” They were all laughing now, relaxed and close. The group had weathered many storms over the years. No one could accuse them of being fair-weather friends. When crisis struck, they mucked in together, pooling resources; whether money or moral support was needed, they shared willingly. Their accumulated sympathy had evolved into empathy, even at times an uncanny telepathy. Liz would lay down her life for them, unless one of them was being extremely stubborn. Which could happen, they were, after all, women.

  Having raised a glass to good old Sue, they fell into the delicious indulgence of picking her to pieces. The conversation drifted to the subject of the men and they happily began to tear their beloved husbands to bits with the same tongue-in-cheek relish, but no malice.

  The exchange was in full swing when Brenda announced, in her hospital matron’s voice: “There is something I need to tell you.”

  “I knew it. Donald’s got a mistress.”…

  “You’ve taken a lover.”

  “Two lovers!”

  “You’re pregnant - good old Donald!”

  The quips came thick and fast. Brenda held up her hands to fend them off.

  “This is serious, please.” Her voice had a heavy tone that made the others pull themselves together. They sat around the table, all ears. Brenda looked at the eager trio. Embarrassed and nervous, unused to taking centre-stage she began:

  “It’s Robert.”

  Robert was her only son. A well-balanced and reliable twenty-year-old, he was the son every mother dreamed of. The women adored him.