“Excuse me, Captain, but this is a crap boat. Why don’t we use the Olly Ro? She’s as fine a vessel as ever went a-whaling,”
The idea filled the room with the smell of adventure. James waved the harpoon above his head and marched towards the door, only to find Jenny barring the way. She stood holding on to the doorframe, her legs spread wide. “We can’t, James. Mummy would be furious.”
“Remove yourself, scurvy scum! You might be captain but you’re a lily-livered coward.”
Jenny hesitated. She knew exactly what she should do, but to tell tales seemed so awful. She could not stop him now, not on her own. Someone responsible had to go with him. Anyway they knew how to handle the boat, so what could possibly go wrong?
“OK, I’m in if we wear our life-jackets.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He was already busy far out at sea, battling the storms and tempests as they searched for the great white whale. As they crept down the backstairs James muttered to himself,
“I’ve seen that film a hundred times and I’ve never seen anyone in a stupid yellow jacket!”
They jumped down, missing the last creaky step, and crept on through the kitchen and breakfast-room on tiptoe. They could hear the CD playing on the other side of the tall lounge doors. By the back door James grabbed a broomstick, to which he tied the flag.
“We’re whalers, not bloody pirates!” snapped Jenny. Then as her brother’s face crumpled she added: “I suppose it’s better than nothing. Bring it along and don’t cry, your tattoos will run.”
They carried their waterproofs and Wellingtons to the jetty before donning them, for fear of alerting their parents, so by the time they reached the water they were already soaked to the skin. Jenny climbed into hers and watched as rain dripped off the end of her brother’s nose. She knew this was all wrong. Twice she thought she heard her mother call to them to come back, but she ignored it and when James exclaimed, “Isn’t this the best night ever?” she had to agree. He was shouting, but his voice became a tiny whisper, made even smaller by the howls of the wind.
The night was wild. The wind blew from the East, cold and cruel. Their oilskins flapped, refusing to be buttoned until they hunched their backs against the gale. Sou’westers had to be strapped on; even then the wind lifted them from beneath their broad brims and tugged at the chin straps. James pulled the craft alongside and held her fast for his captain to board. It took all his strength and, for a moment, he thought of calling an end to the adventure. But it was too late. He could not be made to look cowardly in front of a girl. Ahab climbed in behind him and took the oars. Queequeg stood in the centre of the Pequod holding the broomstick as his mast. The pirate flag clung on with grim determination as the gale, equally resolute, tried to steal it. His legs worked hard to maintain his balance as the boat lurched and rolled in the swell. At last he was forced to sit and hold fast to the gunwale, annoyed at himself for giving in.
Ahab pulled on the oars, being the strongest rower, and with skill and determination the dingy was manoeuvred away from the jetty and deftly turned, heading straight out to “sea”. Another quarter-turn and the Pequod headed into the wind, set fair to pursue her quarry. The rain stung the two small faces. Even when they turned away it continued to lash them raw. The storm was relentless. It was time to abandon the game. Jenny tried to point the vessel homeward, but it refused to obey. Her arms were tired and she could not turn it. The boat was no longer under her control. As the horror of the situation dawned, Queequeg stood up in the bow, defying the elements and oblivious to the danger. He clung to the broomstick mast and pointed into the wind. “There she blows!” he yelled. His voice was lost in the wind that buffeted and battered them.
Without warning, he let go of the mast and aimed his harpoon at his prey. He fired. The missile shot forward just as a mighty crash of thunder filled the crew’s ears and drowned out his cry. Seconds later jagged bolts of lightning lit the screen. Queequeg had gone.
The blackness stretched out and down, above and below, surrounding and consuming everything in a conspiracy between the night and the water. Jenny could see nothing but black.
“Oh, God. Oh, Christ, where are you? I can’t see you?” Jenny was peering over the side, willing the dark waters to part and let her see her brother. What moon there was remained obscured by storm cloud. The lightning struck once more then it, too, put out the lights on the lake. Jenny was tearing at her boots and coat. “James? Hold on, James!” No reply. The blood drained to her feet, turning them to lead. Her head was light and empty. In her stomach a heavy mass was heaving ready to be spewed out into the blackness. She continued tugging until she was finally free of her boots, all the while yelling: “I’m coming James. I’m coming!”
Then she too had gone over the side into the pitch-black liquid. It was colder than death. She thought nothing could be colder than her own blood when she realized James had gone. Rising to the surface, she gulped in air, choking and spluttering on the mud and water she had swallowed. What should she do? There was no one to ask, no time to think. Then from the far side of the boathouse someone was calling her name.
“Jenny, can you hear me?” It was Harriet. In her hand she held a long wooden boat hook, which she aimed towards Jenny. “Grab the pole. I can see him. He’s caught in the reeds on this side. I’ll guide the pole to him. Swim down holding the pole and put the hook through his coat. Can you do that, Jenny?” Her calm voice steadied Jenny’s erratic heartbeat.
Jenny took a long, deep breath. Feeling her way down the length of the pole she did as her friend said. Down she went into the inky blackness. She reached the end of the pole and felt the slimy water and reeds swirling silently around her. As she frantically searched for James, the only sound was her heart banging against her ribs. The air in her lungs was used up; she was desperate to breathe. She willed herself to stay below where the waters were horribly quiet and her brother was drowning. At last she felt his hair, his strong dark hair. Her lungs were bursting and her ears hurt with the pressure of the water and the blood pumping through her body.
He was held fast in the tangle of weeds. Her fingers felt down to where his coat was and grabbed at it. Thrusting the metal hook in through his collar and back out through the hem, she secured his body to the pole. Then, turning her own body around, she grabbed at her brother, wrapping her legs around him. If she did not save him she was prepared to drown with him. Her legs gripped tightly, so cold that she could hardly feel them. Her head was bursting and her lungs were empty, almost useless. Head-first she dragged herself up the boat hook, hand-over-hand climbing a wooden rope. Her fingers were numbed by the cold and she had no sensation in her legs. Was James still attached? She dared not let go of the pole to check. In a final burst of determination she pulled hard on her life line. Her fingers were slipping but the notches on the end of the shaft gave her purchase.
Harriet felt the tug and heaved at the pole until she could see Jenny. Leaning flat on the decking she reached into the lake and grabbed at the child’s sodden sweater, hoisting the girl onto the walkway. Then she stood tall and called on all her strength to pull the pole out of the water. Jenny was gasping, her lungs burned and her head was pounding. She watched as Harriet tried to lift James. He was in the water face-down and too heavy for Harriet to pull ashore. The Olly Ro had been swept back towards the jetty and lay tossing freely between her brother and safety. By the meagre light from the boathouse Jenny could see him bobbing on the surface on the far side of the boat. She filled her painful lungs and dived in again, down under the boat, feeling her way beneath the keel until she burst through the surface to gulp in the cold night air. Cupping his chin in her hand she swam with his head held above the waves until they reached the bank. Jenny pushed him onto the grass, where he lay motionless in the dark. He was alive, but only just.
As she breathed, hot needles stabbed her chest, causing her body to shudder and heave. She was sure she was dying. It was all right to be dying. To lie down here beside her twin and l
et go would be almost a pleasure. The thread between life and death was very fine.
“Jenny.” The deep voice was commanding. Harriet stood beside her. She knew the thread was fine, but she also knew it to be strong.
“Come on, my dear. You know what to do.” The assertive tone prompted the girl into action. She positioned James flat on his back, tilted his head and opened his mouth, clearing it with her numb fingers. She listened to his chest. There was no sound. She took a deep breath as though about to sing, held his nose and pushed her own agonized breath into his lifeless body. The pain did not matter now. She would happily continue to breathe for him for ever if it meant he could live. Then he coughed loudly, spewing out a mixture of mud, bile and water. Jenny turned him on his side and lay down beside him, holding him while rocking him to and fro. The will to live had returned and she was daring him not to give up.
From the bridge, Liz could make out shadowy forms by the boathouse. A knife cut through her as she saw her two children and from her throat she let loose a howl that reached the gates of Heaven and the doors of Hell: a prayer and a curse that only a mother’s agony could produce. As she reached them, she sank to her knees and Jenny finally let go and passed out.
CHAPTER 18
By the time the ambulance arrived, Edward had got his family back to the house. Liz sat by the Aga, silently rocking James, both of them wrapped in the duvet that Edward had thrown around them. James was like a statue, his eyes fixed and unblinking. Apart from an involuntary shudder occasionally racking his being, he was motionless and mute. His father kept one arm tightly around his wife and son while the other held the limp unconscious body of his daughter. All four of them huddled together by the stove as the steamy air filled the room with an unnatural silence. Edward was listening hard to this silence until he realized it was being broken by a voice. It was his voice. For the first time in his life he was praying.
That night was the longest Edward had ever experienced. Liz had been unnaturally quiet throughout the whole wretched business. She stared into space without speaking or crying. If she moved she was like a zombie, existing somewhere between life and death, like her children. At one o’clock Edward called Bob. The strain of facing all this alone was too much. He needed his friend and his friend’s forgiveness. Real fear raced through his veins and he felt lost without Liz’s cool strength beside him. The doctors said it was shock. He knew it was, but it still frightened him. He was afraid she would blame him for everything: for buying the boat, for letting the children out alone, even for the storm. Was this his punishment for infidelity? How would he live with the guilt if the children died? If he could not forgive himself, how could he expect his wife to forgive him? He wanted his family back. He wanted to turn back the clock and be washed of his sins. “The sins of the father…” - is this what it meant?
Mel and Bob arrived in time to hear the doctor pronounce that both James and Jenny would live. Jenny had regained consciousness, but needed to be assessed to see that no permanent damage had been done to her lungs, which were described as remarkable for a child of ten. With complete rest and warmth a full recovery was likely. They needed to keep her in to run a few tests, then if all was well she could come home. James was more complicated. He had been unconscious for a long time and had ingested large quantities of muddy water. X-rays showed no obvious signs of permanent damage, but once again, only time would tell. He was no longer critical, but not out of danger. He had been lucky to have someone who knew first-aid on hand. The doctor said that had he not been resuscitated so quickly he might have died or suffered brain damage. The young woman doctor looked at Edward:
“Was that down to you or your wife, Mr Jessop? Or could it have been Jenny? She did mention a lady. She said it was this woman who saved their lives. It might have been a dream. Trauma does strange things to the mind. Anyway, well done whoever it was.”
Edward looked at his wife. What did she know about first-aid? And Jenny was a child. As for a mystery woman, that was plain silly. As the doctor said, it was probably just a dream.
“You can see them if you want. We’ve put them next to each other. Remember they’ve had a nasty shock, so tread carefully.”
“Would you mind if I come too?” asked Mel.
“You must be the mysterious lady. She’s been asking for you. She says you saved them.”
Mel shrugged and gave a quizzical look before following the doctor, who turned and added: “By the way, don’t be alarmed by James’s colour. It had us worried at first. Then we realized it was paint, felt-tip pens actually, all over his upper body and his face; quite amazing. Anyway, don’t worry if you spot a tinge of green around the gills. It will wear off.” She smiled as she led the way to the children’s ward.
Edward returned home alone and spent what was left of the night with just The Pote for company. It was the first time he had been alone at Beckmans and he found himself pacing the house, the dog trailing him. There was no way he could sleep. His conscience was stabbing at him as he relived his indiscretions over and over again. This was his punishment for taking his charmed life for granted. How could he have been so bloody stupid? If anything happened to the twins he would never be able to look Liz in the face again. How could he live with himself? When he collected his family the next day he was a very contrite man. He had vowed to every deity he could conceive of that if his family was spared he would change. No more liaisons, no more absentee fatherhood, no more reticence about Liz’s plans for their home. It was their life and he wanted nothing more than to be in the thick of it, taking an active part. By the time they were safely inside Beckmans he had talked himself into sainthood.
It was weird. Nobody mentioned the accident. The children were tucked up in bed, having been told they should rest for at least forty-eight hours. Liz faffed about, making hot drinks and food that no one wanted and no one ate. James slept and chatted alternately, unimpressed when his father promised to teach him the art of the definitive googly. Jenny just lay there. She did not cry or smile, she did not speak. She did not even sleep. She stared straight ahead, registering no emotion at all. She had not said one word since regaining consciousness. It was as if she were somewhere else where nobody could see or reach her. She behaved as if she had stepped onto a different level, slipped into a parallel world. The doctors said there was nothing physically wrong with her, it was just delayed shock. But it was painfully obvious that something was very wrong indeed. Jenny was withdrawn. Her normal effervescence and exuberance had gone.
They tried to restore life at Beckmans to normal but Jenny’s behaviour made it impossible. Her altered state cast a shadow over the house and its occupants. She grew noticeably thinner and paler and her face exuded a haunted look. She declined to eat and shunned company. Instead she would take herself off, only to be found, hours later, sitting alone, silently rocking to and fro. One Sunday morning Liz discovered to her alarm that Jenny had locked herself in the Fourth Room. Liz begged her to come out, but no amount of pleading could persuade her to unlock the door or simply let them know that she was all right. Edward and James tempted her with treats, goaded her with threats. Neither tactic worked. Jenny did not answer or open the door. Nothing anyone said could penetrate the barrier Jenny had built around herself. In desperation Liz phoned Mel.
Alone in her sanctuary, Jenny sat curled in the small armchair by the inglenook. Her jaw was set; her eyes had dark circles beneath them. They remained fixed on the child’s sampler that hung on the bird-shaped hook. Her arms wrapped around her knees, hugging them as she swayed rhythmically back and forth. She hummed to herself, rocking in time to the music in her head. In her mind’s eye she was the girl in the photograph. Perched high on her father’s strong shoulders nothing could touch her. Up above the rainbow she flew with the bluebirds. This was the time she had chosen. This was her time and no clocks or calendars could alter that.
“I know this sounds fatuous, but have you simply asked her for her version of what happened, for a blow
-by-blow account of the accident?” Mel suggested. “Because, like it or not, that’s what is at the root of all this. OK, it was a stupid bloody accident that could have turned into a tragedy, and thank God it didn’t. But all we know to date is what James told us and that isn’t much. Jenny probably, almost certainly, saved his life. But there must be more to it. Maybe they had a fight and Jenny blames herself. Guilt is a powerful emotion. Those useless doctors, why haven’t they tried to get to the bottom of this? You’d think they’d have offered her some counselling or something. We need to hold an inquest. One way or another we will get to the truth. Well, are you coming with me or do I have to do this on my own?” Mel was on a mission.
Not waiting for an answer, she approached the door to the Fourth Room, brushing past Liz, who sat slumped in the chair by the hall table. Why had all this happened? How could life suddenly turn so upside-down? Nothing made sense. Liz rose, arranged her cardigan fastidiously on the back of the chair and followed Mel into the Fourth Room.
Her daughter’s behaviour put the fear of God in Liz. This was more than shock. Being made to feel so powerless, so useless, was hateful. She was a mother and yet she was redundant; the rejection was more than she could bear. She was willing to take the blame for everything that had happened and to accept the consequences if she thought it would help. But how could she begin to make amends when she had no idea what she had done wrong? She should not have listened to Edward. They never should have bought that blasted boat. And she of all people should have made sure her children were safe, whether or not they were at home. It was her fault. If Jenny pointed the finger at her, it would be justly deserved. That was her worst fear; that Jenny would judge her culpable. She would never be able to shoulder the guilt. To lose Jenny’s love would kill her. Her heart was racing erratically yet outwardly she appeared calm and in control as she approached the door: a swan gliding towards the rapids.
The Haunting of Harriet Page 21
