CHAPTER 6
Harriet
Dorset
Harriet had got home earlier this afternoon to find her mother and Joanna sitting on the sofa surrounded by the paraphernalia of hers and Joanna’s schooldays, chatting away like old chums and laughing with hilarity.
‘Harriet!’ Joanna leapt up. ‘Let me make some tea. Did you have a nice time?’
Nice time? Harriet didn’t want to be ungrateful.
But what did her sister imagine she’d been doing exactly?
In point of fact, it was all very well to have a few hours of freedom, but when it was unplanned and you found you had nothing specific to do with it (whilst lots of chores remained un-done at home) then free time wasn’t quite as wonderful as it might be in theory.
Harriet had, in fact, looked around Bridport, treated herself to a coffee in Bucky Doo Square, decided to skip lunch due to lack of funds, driven down to Burton Bradstock to look at the sea and then come home again.
Scintillating stuff, she thought now. But that was hardly her sister’s fault.
‘I saw the plums in the kitchen,’ she remarked, rather than answering Joanna’s question.
Did Joanna really imagine that one morning of looking after Mother could make up for all the months, all the years .
. . ? Harriet took a deep breath and steadied herself.
Of course she didn’t. Harriet was being unfair and she knew it.
‘We picked them earlier.’ Joanna looked doubtful now. ‘Shouldn’t we have?’
Harriet relented. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll make some jam.’
‘Now?’ Joanna blinked at her. ‘We thought you might want to come and look at these—’
‘Later,’ said Harriet. There was too much to do, and besides . . .
Jam-making always made her feel more in control. Within thirty minutes, she had supper on the go and then she took a deep breath and started on the jam.
Harriet stirred the fragrant mixture. The truth was, reminiscing with her sister and her mother was not such a good idea. It was likely to be both dangerous and emotional, neither of which she could cope with at this moment in time.
Three sharp taps on the back door made her jump – and drop the wooden spoon into the preserving pan.
‘Anyone at home?’ Without waiting to be asked, their neighbour, Owen Matthews, stomped in through the porch.
Harriet retrieved the spoon. Why couldn’t people let her get on? And she had to get her nerves under control. She had to get everything under control, otherwise . . .
‘Come in,’ she said. A little clipped perhaps and unnecessary since Owen was already in, already pulling off his muddy boots, which he left by the door, great clodhoppers.
‘Afternoon, Harriet.’ Owen was a well-built man still, at forty-five or thereabouts, but rounded in the shoulders as if life had dealt him a hefty blow.
And it had. He had always made a good living from his farm down the lane.
But his wife had left him years ago and according to Mother the Oracle, Owen had never recovered from the loss.
However, today he was – by his standards – dressed up, apart from the muddy boots, in clean, dark blue jeans and a thick navy zipped jacket. Harriet’s eyes narrowed. Hoping for a chat with Joanna, no doubt.
‘What can I do for you, Owen?’ Harriet stirred the plums a touch more vigorously.
They would, she acknowledged, have found it hard to manage without Owen.
When Harriet had been looking for a way of making more money, he had helped her do up the sty.
Now, he provided them with the weaners at three to four weeks of age and helped her take the pigs to market after they had been fattened up.
And he was always available to mend a fuse or put up a shelf if Harriet couldn’t manage it – though since they’d lost Father, she had taught herself to be as independent as she could.
He’d bought a lot of their land when they’d needed urgent repairs to the house – the far two fields to deal with the woodworm and some re-slating on Big Barn and the nearer small one to get the new wood-burning stove.
Father had left some money, but not enough and it hadn’t lasted long.
Perhaps that was why Harriet had mixed feelings about Owen. She didn’t want to resent him, but she couldn’t help herself.
The plums had simmered for long enough. Harriet turned them up to boil, still stirring. Jam needed one hundred per cent attention. She appreciated everything that Owen did for them, but now wasn’t a good time.
‘Have I come at a bad time?’ He began to pace the room. He always seemed too big for any room he was in. He belonged outdoors, she supposed.
‘No, no.’ Harriet wiped her hands on her apron.
It was an old wrap-around pinny of her mother’s, stained with plums and torn at the shoulder, but this was Owen, so it hardly mattered.
‘But I haven’t got any more eggs till tomorrow.
’ She shoved her hair out of her eyes with the back of her free hand.
She must wash it tonight. Mustn’t let herself go.
Although sometimes that was exactly what she wanted to do.
She thought of the way Joanna had stroked her hair last night.
Harriet had always found it hard to accept a compliment.
And why Joanna, who had so much, should be envious of her, she had no idea.
More to the point, nobody touched her hair.
They hadn’t since Father, who used to stroke her head before kissing her goodnight, lightly on the temple.
She sniffed, thought of that recurring dream that sometimes haunted her waking hours too.
Another dangerous and emotional pathway that needed to be avoided at all costs.
Joanna seemed to live in another world. Shepherds’ huts? Where had that idea sprung from? The thought of doing more housekeeping, not to mention having to be polite to guests whom she neither knew nor particularly liked, filled Harriet with dread.
Even so, she had lingered outside Hair Magic in Bridport this morning. Fingered the pig money in her pocket. Thought about chestnut highlights.
‘I didn’t come for eggs.’
‘Oh?’ She sensed Owen behind her, looking over her shoulder into the vat of jam. ‘Then, why . . . ?’ She swung round to face him, still half focused on the plums. Joanna – of course, Joanna.
‘You seem a bit tense, Harriet,’ Owen observed. ‘I only came by to say hello.’
‘To me?’ Harriet kept half an eye on the jam, half an eye on Owen.
‘To all of you, yes.’ He glanced around. Disappointed not to find Joanna here, no doubt.
The steam from the jam was hot on her skin. Harriet drew back.
Owen sniffed appreciatively. ‘That smells good, Harriet,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
‘Thanks. I’ll save you a jar.’ Harriet carefully scraped off the frothy scum as it rose to the surface of the preserving pan.
The village shop would take most of the jam, but she’d keep some in store for the café next summer.
The liquid was boiling rapidly now; she had to keep stirring to stop the bottom of the pan from burning.
This was hot stuff. She thought of the email she wrote last night and suppressed a giggle.
What would Mother say if she knew? And Owen? And Joanna?
‘Is there anything I can do for you while I’m here?’ he asked. ‘I noticed a bit of your fencing was down.’
The navy jacket needed darning at the elbows, Harriet noted out of the corner of her eye.
She supposed she should offer to mend that for him.
She should do something to reciprocate. And although he looked quite smart at the outset, he had brought, she realised, a faint smell of manure into the kitchen that was at odds with the pleasing tartness of her plum jam.
‘I can manage, thanks,’ she said before she could stop herself. Fool. Why couldn’t she just be nice? He’d probably been up since dawn milking and what have you. Surely the least she could do . . . ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Now you’re talking.’ He rubbed his hands together and sat down at the oak table, pitted and pockmarked and as old as the cottage itself probably.
The kitchen had always been the hub of things when Mother had presided over it, the table the centrefold.
Mother had kneaded dough on it, Harriet and Joanna had done their homework on it, Father had even dried out the onions on it.
It was stained with ink, oil and red mulberry juice, it was battered by Mother’s meat pulveriser and scarred by kitchen knives. But it remained as solid as ever.
‘But you’ll have to make it.’ She nodded towards the preserving pan where the jam was really steaming now. ‘I’ve got my hands full, as you can see.’
‘Right you are.’ Owen immediately jumped up to fill the kettle and Harriet took the saucer from the freezer, spooned on some jam and peered closely.
Come on, come on. The blob of jam went a bit crinkly and she gave it a poke with the spoon.
It seemed about right. She glanced across at the work surface.
Indulged in a brief fantasy about a contemporary granite counter not mended with brown tape, an in-your-dreams dishwasher that produced warm, dry and shiny plates, ready to stack away in some soft-close, high-rise cupboard.
And a woman – a girl – who’d once had the time and the inclination to curl up with a book on the wooden bench under the mulberry tree, listening to the wind in the leaves. Hmph.
She refocused on the jam. Sterilised jam jars, transparent covers, waxed circles, rubber bands, self-adhesive labels . . . God, but jam-making was a kerfuffle. Nevertheless . . . She wiped her hands on the pinny. She did like it.
Behind her, Owen bustled around making the tea: warming the pot, assembling the cups, even pouring milk into the little blue jug.
It was quite comforting, she thought, working together with someone.
She and Mother had never had that, not really.
Once Father died, Mother had begun to wilt. And that was only the start.
OK. The fifteen minutes’ rapid boil time was up. First things first. Plum jam. And tea.
She put on her oven gloves and lifted the preserving pan by its handles. It weighed a ton, but she could never get on with ladles and funnels. She steadied herself and began to pour jam into the first sterilised jar.
‘Owen, how lovely . . .’ – Mother stood in the doorway dressed in a sky-blue, pleated floral number, holding out her hand in that way she had, for it to be clasped and kissed; clearly, she had finished reminiscing with Joanna – ‘to see a man about the house.’
Harriet rolled her eyes.
‘Hello, Audrey.’ Owen grinned and obligingly took her hand.
He was a nice man. Harriet rested the pan on the stove for a moment, wiped her brow.
Which was probably why his wife had treated him so badly, come to think about it.
She got a firm hold of the preserving pan and continued to pour into the warmed and sterilised jars.
Five, six, seven, eight; she was really getting into her stride.
Plus, the pan was getting lighter, of course.
She set to, popping the wax circles onto the top of each jar of jam.
Fixing the transparent polythene tops with a rubber band, writing and labelling.
Twenty-five jars. Not bad for a couple of hours’ work.
She scraped the sides of the preserving pan with her wooden spoon, squirted washing-up liquid, eased the sticky pan into the well of the sink and turned on the hot tap. Once it set, jam could be a bugger.
Harriet had been fully preoccupied with her task, but now, snatches of the conversation between Owen and her mother wafted over to her.
‘You’re always welcome . . .’ (Mother).
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’ (Owen).
‘Joanna would adore seeing you . . .’ (Mother).
‘Never too much trouble to cook for one more . . .’ (Mother again).
Harriet stopped scouring. Her mother had just invited Owen to supper, she realised.
Tonight. What was she trying to do? Send Harriet to an early grave?
That would make two nights running that Harriet had been forced to improvise.
She paused for breath. On the counter the neat rows of plum jam smiled at her.
Ah, well. Chicken chasseur it was then. With not much chicken and a lot of chasseur (whatever that might be).
She pulled off her pinny. Owen and Mother were still chatting away, and so she slipped outside, taking deep breaths of the earthy autumnal air.
The sun was setting – a deep rich red – beyond the hills and casting an amber light over the fields and the sea.
There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t unpleasant; it was fresh and invigorating after the heavy sweetness of the jammy kitchen.
She rounded the kitchen garden. Joanna was sitting under the mulberry tree reading.
She looked so absorbed and Harriet allowed herself a brief moment of fond affection before she backtracked.
She didn’t want to get into another conversation about what she should do to her hair, or – heaven forbid – shepherds’ huts, let alone what might have happened between her sister and her husband to make Joanna run back home.
Supper was in the oven. She’d sneak upstairs, she decided, while the coast was clear.
And she would do it, she would finally do it.
She would take the plunge. Joanna wasn’t the only one who could have a life. Just watch me, she thought.