The Haunting of Harriet (42 page)

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.

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.

All rights reserved

Copyright © Jennifer Button, 2011

Jennifer Button is hereby identified as author of this

work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs

and Patents Act 1988

ISBN : 978-1-908596-32-1 in epub format

The book cover picture is copyright to Jennifer Button

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