The Haunting of Harriet

by Jennifer Button

  Although the entrance hall was shabby and smelt of decay, Liz felt warm arms envelope her. A comfortable feeling of coming home embraced her as she took her first tentative steps onto barely recognizable black-and-white marble floor tiles. Beckmans was making her welcome, which deserved a polite acknowledgement. Saying a courteous “Thank you” she opened the inner door, stopped in her tracks and let her mouth fall open. She was standing on years of dust and debris but beneath this demeaning layer of grime she could determine solid parquet flooring, herring-boned blocks of beech covering a magnificent circular hall that could swallow the entire first floor of their present house. The outside of the house belied these internal dimensions. The sense of space the architect had created was phenomenal. It was like entering the Tardis. Liz stood rooted to the spot but the house was drawing her in, oblivious to its present dilapidated state.

  “Come in,” a voice said. “See Beckmans in all its glory.”

  An explosion of lights shocked the millennium sky. For a split second Liz was lost, suspended between the past and the present. Her fingers stroked the rough wooden rail that ran the length of the little bridge, while her mind adjusted to the time change. A breeze moved her hair and she saw her own face gazing back at her beside the ruins of the old boathouse, both mirrored in the night-dark water. The second volley dashed her thoughts as the reflected fireworks sent illuminated litter scattering over the unbroken surface. In that moment Liz saw the faces of her friends next to her own, childlike, smiling out from the water. She looked up and caught their true faces pointing upwards as they waited in anticipation for the next burst, eclipsing the stars with their brilliance before they too burnt out and faded to a familiar rosy glow. The air was full of the acrid smell of saltpetre, and the rosy pink took her back to that unforgettable day when she first fell under Beckmans’ spell. It was the same colour as the morning light that flooded through the rose window. She easily willed herself back to the moment when she had first seen that window.

  She was bathed in that light. Looking up she saw it. Large and round, it dominated the hall, even though partially boarded up for reasons of security or safety. She knew instinctively how it must once have looked. There was no need for Harriet’s description, Liz’s imagination filled in the gaps. It depicted a Tudor rose. Intricate black lead lines held the petals of glass, which deepened from blush-pink to rose-madder as they neared the heart of the flower. Liz took hold of the curved banister beside the staircase and a thick covering of dust parted as she ran her hand along the Georgian mahogany. Removing her glove, she let her bare skin touch the wood and slide sensuously along the curve of the rail. The wood was smooth-polished by years of hands doing exactly what she was doing now. Led on by Harriet, she climbed the first flight of stairs that swept up through the heart of the house before dividing on either side of a wide landing, which was dominated by the great window.

  The landing was about the size of their present bedroom and from here the hall looked even more enormous. Liz counted seven doors. Where did they all lead? There was so much to explore, too much. She resolved to make a quick tour today to get the feel of the place; if it was what she wanted she could come back and peruse it at leisure. If? There was no “if”. She knew she would return. There was no doubt she was meant to live in this house.

  The ceiling showed some signs of damp. She remembered watching Mel’s husband Bob tap walls with his knuckles when he was assessing a job, so she did the same; as nothing appeared to fall or crumble she deemed the property pretty sound. Already seductive colour charts were appearing before her eyes, tempting her with their subtle shades. Her feet imagined the luxurious pile of antique carpets as they carried her along the bare boards westward to a large Tudor room. The room was full of beams: oaken, straight, curved, thick and thin, all steeped in a shared history, part of the original house. Large beams forming a cross divided the high ceiling into four. Though deprived for the moment of its grand full-tester bed with acanthus carved pillars and goose-feather pillows, this was a masterful bedroom fit for a husband and wife: perfect for Edward and Liz.

  Harriet smiled. This woman needed no guide. She was at one with the house. The old woman knew their destinies were inextricably linked. At last here was someone she could trust.

  Together they explored the whole of the first floor, one discovering each new room, the other releasing memories that had remained buried for too long. In the smaller eastern wing Liz discovered a vast joke of a bathroom. A Heath Robinson geyser and the remains of three cast-iron baths of different sizes stood marooned in the centre, conjuring the image of children at bath-time, the splashes and giggles so vivid the soap almost stung her eyes. Harriet had memories exactly like that from so long ago. She laughed at Liz, who had clambered into the largest of the bath tubs. The three baths shared nine legs between them, which was not quite enough as Goldilocks was to discover when the daddy bath collapsed under her weight, evicting an army of spiders that scurried for cover. Horrified by the scuff mark left by her boot, Liz looked around for a cloth to remove it. Then, realizing that the meagre amount of remaining enamel would scarcely coat a bedpan, she laughed at her over-developed sense of domesticity. The baths were rusted through beyond repair and to Liz’s delight a small mouse had nested in the down pipe of the baby one. So much for the plumbing!

  Harriet was enjoying the company. It had been so long since she had found anything to laugh at. Life had become a tedious round of monotonous tasks; were it not for the knowledge that she had not fulfilled her purpose, her destined task, she would have packed it all in long ago. She felt the old house coming back to life, responding to the vitality this young visitor had brought with her. Maybe she was the person who could unlock the past that had trapped her for so long; although in her heart Harriet did not believe there was a key to fit.

  Still chuckling, Liz climbed the last flight of stairs. “It’s quite safe. Trust me. Go on. This is the children’s room; I really want you to see it.” Shamed for pausing before gingerly testing the first step, Liz apologized. Such lack of trust was out of place. With renewed verve and scant regard for safety she bounded up the last ten stairs that led to the attic. Enormous, cavernous, a great cathedral of a room containing the huge beams that supported the house, it astounded her. It dwarfed her. Spurred on by an unseen energy, Liz ran into the centre. She spread her arms wide, threw her head back and began to spin like a top. With each rotation her laughing upturned face and long blonde hair caught the sunlight that shot through the missing peg tiles. Reliving her youth, Harriet spun with her, laughing heartily, until exhausted they collapsed to the floor, having retraced the steps of children long gone or yet to come. This haven echoed with the sound of youngsters playing and she wanted the Jessop twins to share it. The floor was hidden beneath a sea of nutshells, which scrunched and slipped beneath her feet. There were holes where squirrels, mice and rats had nested, and brown marks where rain and snow had got in. The Pote had found his Paradise. The enticing smells sent him into a frenzy of barking as he charged about intent on catching at least one of the squatters.

  Fortunately the house appeared to be as solid as a rock. The framework existed. The core, the heart was healthy. She could hear the sarcasm in Edward’s voice as he had muttered: “Nothing throwing money at it can’t solve.” Suddenly she no longer cared how much it was going to cost. She only knew she had to have it. Luckily most of her inheritance was untouched and Beckmans was the perfect project to spend it on. This house was a part of her, just as if she was heir to it. She belonged here. She resolved to restore Beckmans to its former glory and she laughed at the thought of her own impudence and indulgent extravagance. Harriet applauded her astuteness.

  “Aren’t you going to share the joke?” Edward slipped his arm around Liz’s waist.

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “You were chuckling away at something.”

  “It’s because I’m so happy – and a bit giddy,” she said, throwing her head back to catc
h the latest rocket burst.

  “It’s from looking up so much. Great, isn’t it? Like being a kid again!”

  “Yes, isn’t it just!” Liz chuckled some more and returned to her nutshells.

  With amazement, she noticed it was already one o’clock and she had not touched the ground floor or the garden, with that intriguing boathouse. She counted six double bedrooms and plenty of space for shower-rooms and bathrooms. If they took it one project at a time it was quite feasible. She could talk to Bob about doing the building work. All they needed was a kitchen, a bathroom, a nursery and a bedroom for now. The rest they could do at their leisure. Her mind was frantically calculating how fast they would have to move to be in there ready to celebrate the millennium when something made her turn again to the east wing. At the end of the corridor was a second staircase, smaller, utilitarian, the servants’ stairs. Down and round she went, stepping carefully over the last tread. It was loose and needed fixing.

  The servants’ stairs brought her out in the business end of the house: sculleries, washrooms, bottle stores and cook-houses reeking of hams and coal, soap and ale, the memory of smells lingering in the fusty air. Liz moved from room to room, poking her fingers into the scars of vanished sinks, kitchen ranges, ovens and stoves wrenched from their homes; appliances that would have been state-of-the-art to past generations. A history lesson in domestic life stretched before her. Combining the space would make ample room for a dream kitchen, a utility room and, most importantly, a family room, a breakfast-room like the one from her childhood: a comfortable, informal, welcoming heart to the house. Harriet was exhausted but content. Liz was ecstatic. She had come home.

  Crashing back to reality, her conscience hit her. Home! Beckmans was her home now, occupied by her children and her dog, poor Pote! How could she have been so thoughtless? She had visions of him cringing beneath the table or shivering dejectedly in a corner. Or, far more likely, reverting to his full title of The Potentate: he who must be obeyed, terrorizing the children, furious at having been forgotten. She hoisted her dress, ready to dash to his rescue, when a pair of firm hands caught her by the shoulders.

  “They’re fine. The babies are safe as houses, so is that wretched hound. Sue just peeped in to check. So relax and enjoy the show.” Edward’s reassurance was convincing enough to let Liz slip back into her reverie with a clear conscience.

  The door ahead brought her back into the hall. She remembered the echo of her leather shoes on the wooden floor as she walked across, like the sound of hands clapping: the house applauding. It welcomed newness as much as it revered the past. That was how it had survived for so long, through armadas, wars, plagues and revolution. It had endured everything time threw at it: storm, flood, fire and tempest; it had witnessed births, deaths, adultery and passion, heartbreak, joy, love and hate. It would surely cope with two babies and a dachshund.

  Liz remembered sitting on the wide curve of the bottom stair, oblivious to the dirt and grime surrounding her. She was hungry and took out her sandwiches. Her teeth sank into the soft bread and she realized she knew this house. She had been here before. Somewhere in her subconscious she was familiar with every nook and cranny. This awareness was comforting and not in the least alarming. A pigeon flapped above her head, startling her for a moment, but when she got up to guide it out it knew its way. It too was familiar with this remarkable old house. As she chewed, she caught the whisper of a perfume. A scent her mother had worn? What was it called, something to do with Paris? She recalled dark blue glass, a silver Cinderella’s slipper, an Eiffel Tower. “Evening in Paris”; she smiled at the memory. It had been all the rage then. Now it would be considered naff. Poor Mummy, she’d have thought this place far too big and dilapidated. Would she approve of her money being used to do it up? The sum total of her parents’ lives used up to supply a kitchen and a couple of bathrooms seemed obscene when put like that. Why was everything so temporary? Beckmans must have born witness to countless fashions. How it must cringe at each fresh fad inflicted on it. Guiltily she retrieved her sandwich wrapper from the floor and pocketed it. This house had been neglected for too long. It needed TLC, not litter. She felt an approving acknowledgement; as if her mother was watching. But it was Harriet.

  Lunch over, she resumed her tour. There were five more doors. Methodically, she took them clockwise. The first opened onto a perfect study for Edward. She closed her eyes and breathed the sweetness of pipe tobacco. As a rule she hated smoking in any form but this smelled delicious. Asking herself why, Liz realized that she was speaking aloud. Was she talking to herself or the house? Harriet listened, bemused, as Liz chided herself for her stupidity and moved on to the next room. It was Tudor; grand and oak. It would easily accommodate a table to seat twenty. She saw candles gutter, wax drip, garden flowers grace the centre. She heard the chatter of friends as they sat talking into the small hours putting the world to rights. Liz had found her dining-room.

  All that was missing was a lounge large enough to be called a drawing-room, somewhere to entertain. There were two doors left. The fourth was considerably lower than all the others but wider and made of a heavy oak, carved in scrolled panels that had over the years darkened to a dense black. The fifth was an impressive pair of doors, at least ten feet tall, leading to the main reception room. Longing to find her lounge but sticking to her clockwise routine, Liz returned to the fourth door. Harriet retreated to the shadows, her face showing displeasure and her body trembling with emotion. As Liz turned the large iron ring of the handle she experienced a distinct feeling that she was in the wrong place. The catch did not respond to her first attempt or her second. The door remained firmly closed. She moved on to the large double doors, which towered above her.

  Harriet pushed them gently and the great doors swung wide. Liz had hardly touched them. “Wow!” The exclamation escaped through a wide O of a mouth that remained open long after the sound had faded. Harriet stepped aside for Liz to enter.

  “This was Mama’s drawing-room. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? She loved this room because it complemented her so well. She was a very beautiful woman.” For a brief moment Harriet was a child again, sitting behind the banisters with her brother watching as the guests arrived. The miscellaneous perfumes and the sound of servants bearing trays of tinkling glasses, musicians tuning up, the jazz and the colours all brought back a longing for a childhood that never really happened. As a child she assumed a mother’s duty was to look beautiful and throw parties. That was all, and as such her Mama was brilliant. Her mother’s lust for life was prodigious and her propensity for entertaining boundless. She was always giving parties, always extravagant affairs, to the delight of her guests. At these events Harriet’s mother, Alice, would circulate, ensuring she took centre-stage. Meanwhile her father, George, having mingled enough for politeness’ sake, would retire to his study, leaving Alice’s vivacity to carry her from guest to guest: a bewitching butterfly, leaving a trail of smiling, happily flattered people in her wake. There was always a young man to hand should her cigarette need lighting. Another was ready to serve when a cushion needed to be placed in the small of her back as she arranged herself on the chaise longue, while engaging yet some other young man in conversation. With some of them she would touch hands briefly as they happened to pass, and sly smiles would be exchanged discreetly, indicating the sharing of a delicious secret.

  The parties became famous. Beckmans was “the place” to meet people and to be seen doing so. Music always featured, a small jazz band by the boathouse, a dance combo on the terrace or the piano playing in the drawing-room with Alice singing Cole Porter or Noel Coward. Harriet would peek through the French windows to watch her lovely Mama, her left arm resting on the Spanish shawl that protected the rosewood piano, her emerald ring glistening on her long, slim finger, as she sang and flirted shamelessly with all the men. The couple’s popularity grew, not merely because of their splendid hospitality, but because they were “good sorts”. Throughout those carefree days befo
re the war they, or rather she, entertained, lavishly and generously. She loved company and loved being admired, as did the house.

  Liz remembered the agent’s leaflet had boasted a grand drawing-room measuring thirty-four feet square and had mentioned elegance and grandeur in the blurb but it had failed to convey the perfection of this room. It was Georgian architecture at its most graceful. Ignoring the four sorry lightbulbs dangling from the ceiling, Liz saw opulent crystal chandeliers scattering the flames of a hundred candles. The plaster roses and cornicing were missing but they could be replaced. As Liz gazed up, her feet instinctively took her across the room to the heavy shutters covering the tall windows. She pulled them back and the western sun streamed in. It fell in shafts that sent the resident dust dancing and whirling in suspension. Freeing the shutters on the south-facing windows allowed their light to flood in and puddle on the bare floorboards. Liz’s feet performed a crazy quickstep to an unheard band. Harriet closed her eyes as she guided her partner and together they joined the past. With each turn and twist the two dancers saw the white-veined marble of the handsome fireplace, flames dancing around the orchard logs. Harriet saw them both reflected in the large mirror that hung above the mantle. Liz saw only a darkened patch where a mirror had once hung. The shadow of a grand piano stood in the centre of the sprung floor, its melody spinning in the air along with the dust. Angostura and gin perfumed the atmosphere and the brush of silk chiffon touched her skin as she danced.

  Liz danced back to the French windows, where Harriet was now standing, and pressed her face against the cold glass. The lake shimmered in the distance and the soft outline of a building caught her breath. A gothic apparition standing at the water‘s edge; the boathouse was waiting. As she watched, the light began to change until all that remained was a silhouette against the early setting sun. Checking her watch she gasped; it had already gone four o’clock. How long had she been standing there? She still had another room to see and had not even touched the gardens, with the lake and that tantalizing folly. She had entered a forgotten world. She spun around for the last time and gently drew the doors behind her. Again there was the faintest hint of a forgotten perfume, the aroma of cocktail cigarettes; the smoke from their scented tobacco curling up to the high ceiling as it spiralled and reeled with her senses, and cobwebs brushed her cheek with the delicacy of a feather boa. Reluctant to lose her dream, she rested her back against the towering doors. Her senses had never felt so alive and there was still the Fourth Room left to explore.