The Haunting of Harriet (18 page)

It was Liz who suddenly broke the spell by leaping into action.

“That was incredible, Mel. What you said made such sense. It explains so much. What does it feel like to be taken over like that? Doesn’t it drain you? You must be knackered.”

Mel stared at Liz, whose face was radiant: her eyes shone with such clarity and brilliance it was hard to believe she had been talking for nearly four hours. Liz was fresh as a daisy.

“Sorry. Would you rather have a cup of tea? It appears to be morning. God, it’s simply ages since we sat up all night like this. You must be shattered with all that talking. Was that your guide talking through you? I felt as though I could reach out and touch them it was so vivid.”

Mel got up and took the bottle from Liz, pouring a generous refill for herself. “I wasn’t talking. You were. It was you. How much do you remember, Liz?”

“Don’t be silly. I was listening to you. Anyway all this will have to wait. I’m shattered. I think I’ll grab a few hours’ shut-eye before the hooligans descend.” Halfway through the door she stopped and added mid-yawn, “By the way, your idea for the Fourth Room…. it’s brilliant. I can’t wait to get started. Try and get forty winks. Sleep well.”

“Liz?”

“Yes, Mel?”

“Happy birthday!”

Alone, Mel poured another drink. The events of that night were a complete puzzle. It had been Liz, not her, who had done all the talking, with her tales of marble statues, rainbows and knickers. She was shocked to hear how cruel Liz’s mother had been; she remembered her as a pleasant gentlewoman who would not say boo to a goose. As for the harrowing story of the child that might have drowned, who could that have been? Liz was obviously picking up vibrations from this poor little soul. But there was so much confusion. Was this all muddled information about someone else? Had they or had she inadvertently let in some malign mischief-making force? How much would Liz remember of the evening? How much should she tell her?

While Mel was debating these various possibilities Harriet, refreshed from her nap, had come back to see what was going on in the breakfast-room. The buzz connected to this evening’s strange events was exhilarating. She stood in the corner by the dresser, smiling to herself as she caught the end of Mel’s lament. Should she be mean and spin Mel a tale or two? She was toying with dropping hints about a bearded man on the landing or a ravished parlour maid in the pantry when she was brought up short. Suddenly the tables were turned as Mel addressed her directly.

“I don’t know who you are, but I know you are there.”

Harriet looked about. There was no one else. This crazy woman obviously meant her.

“I can help you if you’ll let me.” Mel could feel a strong presence in the room. All her training, and a little of her prejudice, led her to conclude it was a disturbed spirit, trapped between the physical and the spiritual world. If she could just contact it she knew she could guide it to the light and let it rest in peace.

Harriet could not make up her mind. Should she put Mel out of her misery and explain the precise nature of the situation to her or let her carry on with her “exorcism” and have some fun while teaching her a lesson? But before she had decided, something Mel was saying caught her attention. Mel was describing feelings of loneliness and isolation, a life of strict routine and self-imposed privation. Then out of the blue came a pronouncement that brought Harriet to her knees: Mel was describing a fall, her fall. Now how on earth did she know about that?

M
el’s words resonated deep within Harriet. All those years ago, all that empty wasted time another life ago. She was stunned. She had just been informed that she had died on 1st August 1971. She had fallen down two stupid steps and died. She gave one of her loudest “humphs” and sat down beside Mel with a resounding thump. Being told that you were dead was not something that happened every day. It came as a huge shock. It had never occurred to her that she was anything other than a normal living being. She certainly did not feel dead. Why was she even listening to that ridiculous charlatan? That deluded woman had got it wrong. It would not be the first time. Harriet felt her hackles rise, recalling the fiasco with those stupid cards. Reluctantly she admitted Mel was right in mentioning a fall. She had taken a tumble, but it was an insignificant slip, not a life-ending drama. She composed her thoughts before willing herself back to 1971, when she had lived here all alone, to see for herself what had happened.

Life was one long routine to be endured with superstitious regularity. Every day, without fail, she completed the tour-of-duty that took her around the kitchen garden and the orchards, past the hives, through the little wall by Tom’s shed and past the greenhouse full of tomatoes, before returning to the house via the front door. A tall upright figure dressed in a long black cloak and clutching a silver-handled cane. Each time she crossed the threshold, the old house put out its arms to welcome her; each time she thanked it for providing her with a sanctuary and a home while wondering:
Is it today?

A few hours spent painting or day-dreaming followed, then a cup of cocoa and an early night. Harriet lived the life of a hermit. The postman never called. Any letters - legal, business or pesky circulars - were redirected by the post office to Mr Kepple’s London office. Each week the village shop delivered a box of groceries and each week took away the empty. It was always the same order; it never varied and was never missed. A half-pound of Cheddar cheese, a large bloomer, half a pound of butter, a tin of condensed milk, a small jar of honey, two tins of sardines, a tin of corned beef, a packet of cocoa and one of tea. A cheque was left out with the box. No doctor was summoned, no vicar called. There were no friends to visit. Any childhood ideas of friendship had long been abandoned, recognized as deceptive falsehoods from the unreliable world of fiction. People played no part in her life. Relationships always ended in pain. She wanted no more separations. She was fine with being alone. The past was the past; gone. As for tomorrow, tomorrow was another world. It had nothing to do with Harriet Marchant.

And for many years tomorrow never did come. Each today became a replica of the day before. Her life was punctuated only by the changing seasons and the weekly grocery delivery. For the next twenty-four years Harriet lived this life. It never occurred to her to question whether she was enjoying it; she just got on with it. On occasions she would question the very purpose of life itself but in truth she had long been of the opinion that fate had passed her by.

On 1st August 1971 she woke with a profound sense that fate had remembered her. Something portentous was about to happen. Having completed her ritual tour she stood in the porch and pulled off her outdoor shoes. She heard the latest in a long succession of delivery boys tinkle on his bicycle bell as he pulled up to the front door, and a similar signal as he peddled off, closing the iron gates behind him. Why should she have butterflies in her stomach, that strange mixture of pleasure and fear?

She had run out of bread and was hungry for her breakfast. Her slippers were still in the Tudor room and she ran across the hall in stockinged feet. She was chuckling to herself as she heard Mrs P.’s voice from the past warning her to “Slow down, My Lady, before you go arse-over-tip!” The next thing she remembered was her heart in her mouth as her foot slid from beneath her on the slippery wooden step. Headlong she pitched, reaching out in the hope of steadying herself. There was nothing to grab hold of. No one heard her cry out or the loud thud as the full force of her body hit the floor.

The next thing she could remember was sitting at the kitchen table eating toast and drinking tea. She felt a bit shaken, but she appeared unharmed. She remembered voices. Was that possible? Had she seen people in the hall? It was a miracle she had not been hurt. It occurred to her that if she had died she would have lain there for weeks until her body was found. Would it have mattered? Who would miss a lonely, middle-aged spinster? She was nothing in the overall scheme of things; nothing special in the grand plan. This sparing of her life was hardly proof that she had a mission to complete – a role in life specific to her. It was simply a fluke. Yet her sense of fate was back. Something had changed. Something of significance had taken place. Life would be different from now.

For years Harriet had rattled around Beckmans like a forgotten pea in a discarded pod. Now she was filled with renewed energy. Her life had purpose; all that pain and disappointment had been leading to this moment. Her belief in fate was restored with a conviction that was hardly the mind-set of a dead woman. Her sights were firmly set on the completion of some as yet undisclosed task and she vowed to fulfil it, however hard it proved. She recalled the inspirational force, the lightning bolt that had surged through her body; one thing she knew for sure was that in order to meet her future destiny, she needed life.

So, there was no way that Mel was going to convince Harriet she was dead. She had never felt so alive. She shrugged off Mel’s preposterous claims. She could remember each day of life after the fall with startling clarity. Admittedly she had forgotten the temporary disappointment when things did not change immediately. In fact for some time life had continued to be as boring as always, far too boring to be a new beginning in a new dimension. Life after Death must surely offer more than the predictable continuation of the humdrum.

What made her cling to her lonely existence with such stubborn tenacity? She no longer took life for granted. Every day threw another question at her. Where did her irrational sense of destiny originate? Did everyone have their own personal reason for living or was it just a chosen few? If so, why her, a reclusive old spinster with nothing to show for her life so far? Harriet battled with these questions. Why her? What was it she still had to do? Who could explain it to her and grant her the peace to let her life reach its natural conclusion, whatever that was? There had been no “natural conclusion” for her brother or father. Why should her life be different? She always came back to the same unanswered question. Why in God’s name was she still here?

What Harriet did not know was that one week after her fall the delivery boy discovered her box of groceries untouched on the door step. Harriet saw only the shadows of the police man and the agitated boy as they broke down the door to gain access to the house. She did not hear the commotion caused by the ambulance and police car when they arrived with their sirens blaring. Unbeknown to her, they took her body to the local morgue. Poor Mr Kepple tried hard to locate any living relatives but at last he gave up and signed the forms granting permission for Harriet May Marchant’s body to be released for burial. She was laid alongside her father, mother and brother in the family grave in Watermere churchyard. Harriet had not visited this place since the day she had buried her mother, so she never saw her own name carved beside the others already listed on the headstones. She did not see Mr Kepple and the vicar standing alone under a large black umbrella, silently paying their respects as the rain fell. As far as she was concerned she was at home eating toast and sipping tea.

Disappointingly for Harriet, things carried on as normal. In spite of her inspirational certainty that fate had at last summoned her, the boring aspects of her life continued unaltered. Until one drab drizzly day, a day that started like any other, something unpredictable happened and things would never be the same again. She had returned from her tour-of-duty to discover two cars in the driveway. They did not resemble her mother’s Bentley or Tom’s old Riley, nor even the little Austin with which Matron terrorized the poor people who lived near Bletchley Academy. These were vehicles from outer space, reminiscent of pictures in David’s comic-strip books. The iron gates had been thrown wide and the front door was open to the elements. But what terrified Harriet was the sound of voices coming from the hall. Lifting her walking-stick above her head like a weapon, she took a deep breath and stepped resolutely into the unknown. Two men, one in a dark suit, the other taller and younger, wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket, stood at the bottom of the stairs. Deep in conversation, they did not see Harriet enter. One held a metal measure in his hand; the other, the suited one, held a large blueprint, which he stabbed at with a gold pen, impatiently emphasizing his point. Harriet watched in utter disbelief as the young man took a stump of white chalk from his pocket and proceeded to draw a cross on the hall panelling. His fingers, already coated with chalkdust, gained another layer as he turned the stump over and over, fidgeting with it between thumb and forefinger.

The presence of men unnerved Harriet; the fact that they were strangers made their presence even more alarming. However, that she was by now a woman of a certain age afforded her some protection. Chivalry could not be that dead. As her fear began to subside, so righteous anger rose to take its place. This violation of her private space, her sanctuary, was unforgivable. Raising herself to her full height, and still holding her father’s cane aloft, she marched over to the intruders and challenged the older man to explain himself.