The Haunting of Harriet (37 page)

“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 woman 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.

“He’s not ill, is he?” Mel voiced their fears.

“Not exactly.” Brenda took a deep breath and announced: “He’s gay, or at least he thinks he’s gay.”

The silence was audible. “And…?” coaxed Mel.

“Isn’t that enough?” Brenda retorted, the tears welling up behind her glasses. Apart from Brenda’s sobs the group remained speechless. They looked at one another, their eyes imploring no one to giggle. Brenda was obviously hurting badly. It needed someone to state the obvious.

Liz took the plunge. “But you knew that. Surely you did? You did, didn’t you? We all did.”

Heads nodded in agreement.

“No. Actually I didn’t. I had no idea my only son was a homosexual; not a clue. Are you telling me
all
of you knew? Some friends you are. Not one of you told me.” Brenda stared at them, incredulous. “How long have you known?”

Liz slipped her arm around Brenda’s shoulder. “I think I’ve always known. Maybe when he was about five or six… oh, I don’t know. Does it matter?” Liz was trying to give assurance, yet as she spoke she could feel Brenda’s body stiffening.

“What Liz means,” Mel said, coming to the rescue, “is that Robert is Robert. He’s a great guy. Gay or straight, he’s the same gorgeous creature.”

“That’s right, Brenda, you saw him today out there with my kids. They adore him. How many other guys of his age would be so patient and brilliant with those feral animals?”

“You’re not concerned with him being around your children then?” The desperation in Brenda’s voice was pitiful.

Mel threw back her head and laughed. “He’s gay, not a bloody paedophile!”

“It’s easy for you, isn’t it.” This was not a question. Brenda’s voice betrayed a depth of fear that demanded recognition as to the seriousness of the situation. “He’s going to meet all sorts of prejudice and be exposed to awful risks, you know what I mean.” She paused, then continued: “Maybe I’m selfish but I always assumed I’d be a grandmother someday. Then there’s his choice of career, his vocation. It hardly seems suitable.” She chewed at her thumbnail. “And there’s Donald. I’m not saying he’s homophobic, but, well… He doesn’t know yet and I don’t know how to tell him. And then there is the church.” She felt on shaky ground, unsure how much sympathy to expect. “Robert won’t go to Mass. He says he hates the church. I can’t tell you the awful rows we’ve had. It’s not so easy when you have to live with it!” The tears were flowing freely now. Her eyes were red and swollen and her nose was congested. Liz produced a roll of kitchen paper and the heavy silence was punctuated by the sounds of sniffing and blowing of noses.

The women decided that talking to Donald would not help matters. Mel agreed to have a chat with Robert; he would talk freely to her, whereas his mother felt too close emotionally. It was left like that for the present.

Christmas proceeded as planned and was deemed a huge success. David and Edward slotted back into their friendship; all cutting remarks made in the past were forgotten. The recital was hilarious. Robert’s dress was received with loud applause; even his father thought his son surpassed himself. Try as they might, the women could not tell if the men had realized the truth about Robert’s sexuality. It would save an awful lot of hard work if they were as perceptive as their wives. Some rather politically incorrect remarks were bandied about during Cringe and Racket’s performance, to Liz’s and Mel’s horror, but the sensitivity of the situation forced them to leave well alone and take their partners to task later in the privacy of their own bedrooms.

Eventually the Circus left, amid the usual parade and kerfuffle of farewells and kisses. For Brenda it had been a Christmas to remember. As she started the car she glanced back at her son, who was smiling at her from the rear seat. She blew him a kiss, sighed and started the engine. With a quick glance at her husband, another in her mirror and an even quicker one to the Almighty she drove off.

When later that night Liz told Edward about Robert she was relieved to find he had no problems. Challenging him about his bantering with Bob she realized his idea of being PC was different from hers. Much of it was about a pathetic need to be accepted as “one of the lads”, but she was confident she could knock it out of him. It was James’s reaction that worried her. He said the right things but she could tell he felt somewhat threatened. Jenny laughed and told her brother to grow up, which, Liz had to concede, was probably the right approach. He was, after all, only just coming to terms with his own sexuality, and the adult world could seem a minefield to an adolescent. A relaxed, positive attitude from his sister was exactly what he needed.

On Boxing night Robert returned with a friend. Liz was delighted when they asked if they could stay a few days. She showed them to the blue room, which had a king-size bed and an en-suite.

The following morning the breakfast table was abuzz with witty and youthful chatter. No one stood on ceremony. The toaster popped at will. Cupboards were raided for jams whose sell-by dates had long gone. By noon they were still sitting at table and they might have melted into the next meal had Jenny not declared it was time to go. The dishes were done at record speed, then Jenny, Robert and Mark donned warm coats and scarves and set off down the garden.

With the big red book under her arm Jenny led the way until they entered the privacy of the boathouse. Her burden was growing heavier and heavier. It was almost time for Robert to pass judgment on her work and then, if he thought it propitious, to confront Harriet with the consequences. The three of them poured over the contents for what seemed an age. Mark had heard all about Jenny’s friendship with Harriet and studied the book with a genuine interest. He was reading history and had done a considerable amount of research of his own but this was something else. It had a personal quality to it. There was a warmth and concern for the people who appeared within its pages. These were not mere names to be examined then tossed aside. They leapt out from the pages, full of life, with clear personalities of their own, warts and all.

When he had finished reading he closed the book gently and stroked the red cloth binding.

“Do you know, Jenny, if someone had made this for me I’d be so flattered, to think anyone cared that much to go to all this bother. It’s beautiful. It’s not just a work of art; it’s a work of love. This Harriet woman must have been tickled pink.”

Harriet was, of course, hovering at the back of the boathouse. Being made to feel churlish did not sit easily on her shoulders. She was pink with shame. Had she really been so dismissive and unkind? What was she thinking even to suspect that Jenny had acted out of anything but the deepest respect and, dare she say it, love? Her embarrassment was acute. There was no way she could face Jenny without preparing herself. First she had to gather her wits about her and decide on the appropriate response. In the meantime she must let the child know that she understood and that there was nothing to forgive.

With a finger to her lips she approached Robert. This was a secret disclosure, one she did not want Jenny to know about. Slipping her arm through his she drew him apart from the other two and proceeded to whisper in his ear. He smiled in agreement and the two conspirators parted, but not before they had arranged another rendezvous.

When Robert addressed Jenny his voice was assertive and authoritative: “Right, young lady, this is too worthy a publication to put back on a shelf. I know if it had been made for me my first reaction would be one of shock. This friend of yours is a very proper lady, not used to casual kindnesses, and would probably have found it extremely difficult to accept something of this value without being forewarned. I propose that we hold a second presentation. What do you say to the Fourth Room at five-fifteen… better make that five-sixteen, this evening? OK?”

With that, he led Mark off for a tour of the garden.

A
t four that afternoon, Mel and Bob dropped in for tea, which posed a slight dilemma for the conspirators. Should they let Mel in on the presentation or keep it a private affair? Mark decided for them, suggesting that it was better to have several points of view represented, especially if the hidden agenda was to prove the “existence” of Harriet to any sceptics. Mel could be a vital witness. At five-sixteen precisely, the four of them trooped through the wide oak door, on the pretext of listening to some new CDs.

Harriet was sitting in her chair with Google on her lap. She acknowledged the group, giving an audible “humph” as she spotted Mel among them. It was clear to Mel that Robert and Jenny could both see Harriet as plainly as they saw each other. Mark was happy to accept her presence, but claimed no psychic abilities of his own. Mel saw a chair and a small dog stretching lazily, having just woken from sleep. Her integrity would not let her pretend to a gift she did not possess, but it rankled that Harriet was not visible to her. Her reputation was on the line.

As Jenny approached, Harriet rose to greet her. She kissed her on the cheek and inclined her head to the two boys. She merely glanced at Mel, who was trying to induce a state of trance so she could at least feel the presence in the room. Harriet knew exactly what Mel was doing and mischievously moved about the room, hoping to block any energy that poor Mel might tune into. Sensing a possible clash of wills Jenny stepped forward and thrust the book into Harriet’s hands. “Please don’t take offence. I did this because I love you and it seemed a good idea at the time. But I do understand if it startled you.”

Harriet placed the book on the table and gently passed her hand over the cover. The warmth that spilled out of it made the old woman smile. She closed her eyes. She had no need to scan the pages to know what they contained. Each photograph, every newspaper clipping, the certificates, the sketch of her sampler and the many and varied painstakingly hand-copied music manuscripts and poems Jenny had composed filled her inner eye. She studied the individual pages carefully. When, after an hour or so, she took her hand from the book, tears were flowing from her closed eyes. On opening them, it came as a surprise to find where she was. She had been on a long journey back through the life that was contained in such detail here beneath her hand.