“Mel, that’s enough!” said Bob. “You two have been friends for years; you can’t fall out over a bloody ghost that doesn’t even exist.”
“Isn’t it interesting that one can ‘know’ someone for years and years without really knowing them at all?” Mel retorted.
“The church is quite clear. It’s a sin to consort with spirits. I don’t approve of what you do and I never have. All that business with the Tarot; it’s the occult. It’s an abomination and so are the witches that practise it.” Brenda was leaning across the table, pointing her finger at Mel.
“Hello, hello, the Inquisition is alive and well. Maybe this time you’ll finally work out how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. I’m surprised those deluded old men had time for such conundrums what with all that burning and torturing of innocent victims. They should have asked me. I know the answer. Shall I tell you? None! And why, I hear you ask? Because the poor fucking angels are too busy clearing up the misery and pain caused by self-righteous prigs like you to find time to bloody dance anywhere. God save me from hypocrites.” With that, she turned her back to the table, lest she say something she might really regret.
“Listen to you. You’re both deluded idiots. Can’t you see this is it? When you die, you die. I hope to God there is no God and if I have to come back as a spirit, I’ll be a single malt whisky, thank you very much.” David poured himself another drink and raised his glass to Mel.
Liz listened horrified as the two women traded abuse. Now David was getting involved. She grabbed her glass and hurled it with all her might. It covered the length of the table, spraying everyone in its path with sparkling water, bouncing twice before landing, intact, but on its side, balancing and rocking on the table edge. “Stop it! I can’t take any more. This family has only just got itself together. I will not let such a stupid row tear it apart again.”
Meanwhile Brenda had been fumbling in her handbag for the car keys. She slammed the metal clasp shut with a loud snap and tried to stand. Meaning to steady herself against the table she mistakenly grabbed a handful of cloth. This last-ditch attempt to save herself sent both her glass and herself sprawling over the table, turning her face and the white cloth scarlet as she fell. Bob helped her to her feet, but without acknowledging him or his kindness she turned to her husband and said, “Are you ready, Donald? I’m sorry, Liz, but we’re leaving. Our church is very important to us and I will not stay to have it ridiculed.”
Donald remained firmly planted in his chair as he uttered his one word reply. “No.” He did not look at his wife; he merely placed his glass in front of Edward to be refilled.
“What do you mean, ‘No’?” Brenda glowered at her dissenting husband.
“What part of ‘No’ don’t you understand, woman? I’m going nowhere. Your precious church has caused enough rifts in our own family. I’ll not allow its medieval dogma to come between my friends and me. I’m with you, Liz.” He was dangling the car keys provocatively at his wife as he spoke. “If you go, you’re on your own.” Brenda ignored the keys and sat down heavily. The tightness with which she kept her lips closed spoke volumes.
Mel was slow-clapping in a wicked act of provocation. Appalled at his wife’s behaviour, Bob tugged at her sleeve to stop her, then watched in horror as his own glass tipped over.
“I am so sorry, Liz. Your poor table! What’s the betting this wouldn’t have happened if we’d been on white wine? Pass the fizzy water and some salt, it’ll stop it staining.” Liz was not looking at the cloth. All she saw were three cups lying down. Red liquid spilled from two and water had poured from the other. Beside them there stood two full cups, Edward’s and Donald’s. Behind them she could see the bridge that crossed the beck, on the far side of which stood a little house: the boathouse. What she did not see was Harriet, who had been standing silently at the end of the table. Her long black cloak fell closely around her tall figure. Her thick white hair shone in the setting sunlight and she was smiling. She had witnessed the entire proceedings.
CHAPTER 28
Harriet was smiling when, sometime later, Jenny met her for her lesson.
“We shan’t have a lesson today. We shall just sing.”
“You’re in a good mood. Smiling suits you.” Jenny kicked off her sandals and swung her legs over the edge of the walkway. Stretching her toes down, she could just reach the low summer water. She began to swing her long brown legs in a strict four/four tempo. Harriet picked up the rhythm and started singing.
“Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly.…” Her voice brimmed with emotion. It came from a very private place, deep within the old woman, and Jenny felt it would be rude to interrupt by joining in. When the song ended Jenny stopped her leggy metronome and watched Harriet climb down to perch beside her.
“Can I ask a favour of you, my dear?”
Jenny nodded.
“Could we go out in the Olly Ro? It’s so long since I rowed in the sunshine.”
For the next hour or so the two friends took turns to manoeuvre the little dinghy around the lake. They chatted and sang as they rowed and Harriet told Jenny of her plans for the future. The conversation over lunch had been a huge learning curve for Harriet, as she explained to Jenny; she had witnessed people at their best and at their worst. What amused her most was the fact that they were all saying the same thing. They just did not see it. They were coming from such different angles, that no matter how much they shifted their chairs around they could still only see their point of view. The actuality of what they were looking at was in fact one and the same thing. To some extent the whole thing could be dismissed as semantics, but choice of words was not all that separated them. Harriet realized that each one had a compass tuned to a very personal north. She reached the conclusion that although it might be possible to enable someone to see things from another perspective they can never lose their own bearings. It will always point them home in the end. That was what made life so wonderful, she thought. How boring if we all sang the same tune. Singing from the same song-sheet still leaves room for a wealth of harmony. It’s when we each choose a different key that discord begins.
Jenny let Harriet ramble on. It was fascinating to hear this guardedly private person expound so freely her philosophy of life, but Jenny was more interested to find out the reason for this sudden openness. Harriet stopped speaking, looked at Jenny and laughed.
“You are quite right, as usual. I have had some major decisions to make lately and this mad rambling is my way of skirting the issue. All right young Jenny, let’s cut to the chase. I was feeling a little upset that some people do not believe I exist. It hurt. Now, I no longer care. We see what we choose to see. Often we can only see what others choose to show us. So I have come to the conclusion that I have been taking it all too seriously. I know I am here. You know I am here; who cares about the rest?
“Hear, hear.”
“I haven’t quite finished.” Harriet’s tone changed and her smile was replaced by a more serious, though still benevolent, expression. “I have been thinking of moving on; passing over; going to the other side; turning to the light. Pick a euphemism, it hardly matters which. But for years I have been kidding myself that I still have a purpose here, a conceited belief that Fate or Destiny has not yet done with me. I was wrong. I realize now that none of us knows our fate. Life isn’t that complicated. We are born, we live; we die. At least most of us do. What is so difficult? I have done what I wanted to do and I think maybe it is time I went.”
Jenny stopped rowing and let the boat drift. She did not speak although there was a great deal she wanted to say. She sniffed hard. Harriet offered her a neatly folded white handkerchief. Trying to sound light-hearted Jenny said, “You must be the only ghost that always has a clean hanky.” Then she made a desperate plea. “Don’t go, Harriet. You can’t leave. Who will teach me if you go? I don’t want you to die.”
“It’s a bit late for that, my dear. As for your singing, there’ll be teachers queuing up to trai
n a voice like yours, people who know much more that I do. My methods are old-fashioned. I have always known I could only take you so far. Hopefully I have given you a glimpse into the wide spectrum of music and a lasting love of it. Keep that and I will have fulfilled my task.”
Jenny was alone in the boat. She called Harriet’s name but there was no reply. Slowly she rowed back to the jetty and moored the Olly Ro. She looked around the boathouse before dragging her feet back to the house. The Fourth Room was empty except for Google, who was stretching her long back on the armchair. She looked at her watch. It was five-fifteen.
She told her mother she had a headache and went to bed early. Clutching Harriet’s book she sobbed for several hours. From the lounge she could hear the sound of drunken laughter. The Circus was in full swing, having sorted their arguments by agreeing to differ. It would not be long before they were going hammer and tongs again; that was the fun of being a family. Their loud competing voices drifted up the stairs, increasing Jenny’s loneliness. This was how she had felt when The Pote had died; cold waves of horror stopped her heart each time she realized she would never see him again. She was mourning again, this time for her friend; and this time there would be no one to mourn with her. They could not grieve for someone they did not believe in. Her future spread in front of her like a desert, arid and barren. She fell into an exhausted and fretful sleep where she was alone, drowning in a sea of sand.
The next morning she appeared at the breakfast-room door dressed from head to foot in black. She refused to eat and drank only water. Liz thought she appeared taller than usual, or was that because she held herself very upright and moved more sedately than usual? Her mother watched as Jenny put her water glass in the sink and turned to take her leave. One side of her short brown hair was held back with a small comb, which Liz recognized as one of hers. She said nothing but her hand went up to her own hair and she realized that since yesterday her stray lock had stayed off her face unaided. Her ivory comb was still in pieces, waiting for Edward to glue it together for her. The whole scene would have been comical if the dark circles around Jenny’s eyes did not tell a sad story. No amount of imploring would get Jenny to break her silence. Dramatically she threw her mother’s black serape around her shoulders and swept out into the garden, pausing to take a walking-stick from the rack as she passed.
When she reached the bridge she stopped in her tracks. Harriet was waiting for her, emitting loud snorts of laughter.
“What do you think you look like?”
“I thought you had gone.”
“Well, I did think about it but then I thought better of it. Where was I going to go? I don’t know what it’s like over there. It could be awful. I couldn’t stand it if they only sang sacred music. I’d miss a bit of Cole Porter now and then. And I have no guarantee that my family will be there. Anyway, this is my family now. And Beckmans is my home. I love it here. Why should I leave? I think I’ll hang around a bit longer, if that’s all right with you.”
“Good. Let’s start with the Canteloube, it still needs a lot of work.”
Harriet grinned. Jenny was learning more from her than how to sing.
“I would never leave without saying goodbye, Jenny. You should have known that.” Her smile was returned and the lesson began. “Right, the Pastorelle. You’re not standing straight, and will you remove that ridiculous get-up. You look like an eccentric old tramp.”
Jenny shed her black clothes and returned to her usual bouncy self. The improved posture stayed and her manner became more refined. Liz approved. Life was good. Her family were safe and together, all her chicks in the nest, as her mother would have said. She felt more at one with herself than ever before. She was her own woman. The baby was due soon and she already knew it and loved it. This child would be her mirror as James was her joy and Jenny her pride. Jenny’s chosen path was destined to carry her away for long periods at a time and her talent held Liz in awe. She would always regret that she could not believe in Jenny’s friend, for this hovered between them as a ghostly, contentious issue. But she could not pretend; she still needed irrefutable proof. They would have to learn to live with it. There would never be an unbridgeable distance between them but Jenny’s fame would keep them apart. She would have to share her with the world. She would do this willingly, but part of her already felt a loss. James would marry and she would become the second woman in his life. He would give her grandchildren and would always be her son, but she had to learn to step back.
This next child would be like her. She too would be a homemaker and would become a friend. She would have the relationship with her that she had been denied with her own mother. This would be the daughter she would watch walk down the aisle and whose children would spend every holiday at Beckmans. This little girl would fill her old age with the noise of young people. It was definitely a girl. The doctors had got it wrong, of that she had no doubt. She had already chosen a name, Persephone. It came to her out of the blue and when she looked it up it seemed perfect. It epitomized the late, fruitful summer. This baby would be a child of wisdom and judgement. A beautiful little girl, how lucky was that?
Today she intended to paint. The children were out, there was no noise, Google was at her feet and Edward had gone out with David. Today would be a time of peace and quiet. She waddled down the garden to her favourite spot, beneath the willow looking out across the water to the boathouse. Spreading the heavy paper on her board she secured it with masking tape and opened her paint-box. She dipped her jam-jar into the bubbling water of the beck and held it up to the light. It too was full of life. Feeling the baby kick she placed her hand on her belly. It was stretching and curling, exerting its wish to get on with the business of living. The fears of the lake, the dread of the twins taking to the water again, had completely gone. The accident was a memory Liz had learned to live with, locked inside her head. There were no nagging questions, no unsolved riddles haunting her thoughts. Today she marched to her own drumbeat, and woe-betide anyone who could not keep pace with her feet.
As she began to cover the paper she remembered her very first painting. Laughingly she recalled the scruffy old brush she had used and the children’s limited palette. She remembered having been quite pleased with it, a long time ago. In comparison to her work now it must have been a pretty rudimentary effort. As usual when painting she lost all concept of time. Before she knew it her painting was finished. She screwed up her eyes to examine it. It was good. She could use it in her next exhibition, unless she kept it for herself. It might be interesting to hang it side by side with her first attempt. Tipping the content of her jam-jar into the stream, she waddled back to the house with Google leading the way.
There it hung in the stairwell, rather pretentiously mounted on moss-green card and set in a golden frame. She must have passed it hundreds of times but never actually saw it any more. She scrutinized it now. It was not bad for a first attempt. The misty edges created a feeling of transience; she liked that. Yes, she had caught some of the ethereal quality of the old ruin. It was hard to remember what it had been like. The new boathouse blended in so well it seemed it had always been there. Then she remembered; of course, she had taken a photograph of it.
She set off to find her box of old photos. It would be there somewhere among all her painting snaps, the one capturing that very instant when she first discovered the joy of painting. Her fingers rummaged through the prints, and suddenly there it was. The old boathouse; it was far more beautiful than she remembered. Her painting in no way did it justice. In the photograph it was taller, more imposing and, she hated to admit, not nearly as twee as she had made it. There were shadows and nebulous depths she had not managed to hint at, let alone capture. Around the dilapidated walkway hovered the contours of evocative shapes suggesting mystery and danger. Where were these in her painting? They were far removed from the fairytale image she had painted. Her eyes fixed on one such shape. Indeterminate and blurred, it resembled the form of a woman. In the dresser
drawer she found the magnifying-glass and with uncontrollably shaking hands held it to the print to examine it more closely. Obscure, but definitely a woman: a woman carrying a walking-stick, a white-haired woman in a long dark cloak.
Her heart pounding and leaping erratically, she examined each photo in turn. The cobnut tree; the willow; the north side of the porch; the southern wall with the wisteria; on each print, in the background, there she stood. She was not lurking. On the contrary, she held herself erect and proud, a commanding figure wrapped in a dark cloak, a woman with attitude. She was not skulking in the shadows, she was watching, aware of all that was around her.
Liz left the photos where they lay and ran out into the garden. She was holding her belly. The baby was kicking, urging her on to the shed where Bob and Edward had placed the old boat hook. The rusty hook was already snapped off, but taking the band that had secured it in her left hand she pulled at the shaft. With one effortless tug the band came free.
There under the metal, trapped between the pole and the head, was a tiny strip of yellow. Carrying the remnant as if it were a sacred relic, she returned to the house. Hanging on two hooks behind the door were the twins’ yellow oilskins. She spread James’s coat on the table, scattering the photos to the floor. Examining it, she found what she was looking for: a small tear where a hook had pierced it. A tiny fragment was missing. Liz laid the remnant on the tear. It was a perfect fit.
EPILOGUE
I t is the task of the many to enable the few to achieve their potential and allow them to shine, if only for the benefit of a good story. But who decides which of us is the angel and which the mere mortal? Are angels and saints chosen by divine destiny or are they created by chance? Surely all lives are of equal value. We are all woven into the book of life whether we choose it or not. If there is a great author in the sky there may well be a blueprint for life. If not and we get scrawled into place by a mere doodler, or a random ink blot, does it really matter? All we petty creatures can do is live out our span to the best of our ability and within the remit of our own conscience. To question it is as futile as pondering how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Who cares? Only angels and saints hold the answers, and they will not tell us, not because they are too busy dancing but because they know we probably won’t be listening. And so it will be for the rest of eternity. However long that is.
The Haunting of Harriet Page 29