CHAPTER 15
Harriet
Dorset
Harriet was chopping wood, but already the axe seemed heavy and the handle slippery in her palms. Owen had sold them a load of logs, at an extremely good price, which he’d already sawn into round sections, and she had accepted the kindness with good grace because, after all, they were in no position to argue.
The cheeses and quarter cheeses were ready for chopping, and she couldn’t keep putting it off.
They wouldn’t be able to use the wood till next year, but it still needed to be cut and stacked in the woodpile before winter so it had a chance to season.
She sighed and put down the axe. But before she could do that, she had to make some space by taking some of the older seasoned wood inside to the porch.
She began stacking these logs in the barrow, neatly, no gaps, ensuring the bulk of the weight was over the wheel. This was a good job to do when you were anxious or angry, she decided – it was therapeutic. And Harriet needed therapy because she was angry. And anxious.
She hadn’t seen the prowler for a couple of days but the shadow of him still seemed to lurk in the farmyard.
Harriet didn’t agree with Joanna that she should phone the police – she couldn’t face the thought of being interviewed, dealing with Mother as she was being interviewed or of having people wandering around the place.
And she always felt guilty when police were around, regardless of whether she’d done anything or not.
Besides, what would they find? What could they possibly do?
You couldn’t arrest shadows. Whoever he was, he had long gone.
The first load was done. Harriet took a deep breath, steadied herself, and lifted the handles, trundling the barrow over the cobbles of the farmyard.
Gradually, she picked up speed until the wheel was really rattling.
‘One wheel on my wagon,’ she sang to cheer herself up.
Hopefully, she’d scared him when she chased him away and presumably the shadow would dematerialise in time.
Phew. She broke off for a moment and stretched.
The muscles in her back twinged in complaint and then relaxed.
Last night, she’d had the dream again. It began as always with a vague sense of sleep becoming elusive, a tossing and turning, a darkness dimming something Harriet believed in.
Harriet was a young girl, seven or eight years old.
There were voices, but there was something wrong with the voices.
There was something jarring, harsh and chilled.
As always, Harriet was aware of her own footsteps on the stairs. ‘Daddy? Daddy?’ Her own hand opening the door.
There was a gasp. A scream. A low groan.
And then she woke up, as she always did – as if her mind would let her go no further.
She didn’t know if it was a real memory, a fantasy, an anxiety or what.
It was impossible to differentiate between memory and imagination, between dream and reality.
She woke – as she always woke – cold, sweaty and shivering, her pillow damp, tears on her face. Not knowing.
In the morning, she’d been dismayed to find water gushing out of their overflow pipe.
‘We’ll have to phone a plumber, Harriet,’ Mother had declared, eyes gleaming.
‘Not yet. Let me think.’ Harriet had put a hand to her head.
‘I’ll take a look at the tank in the attic.
’ A new one would probably cost at least five hundred pounds.
Hopefully it was just a faulty ballcock or something.
There was no doubt about it – the place was falling to bits, and she wasn’t far behind.
‘You don’t know anything about water tanks, Harriet,’ her mother pointed out, quite reasonably. ‘We’ll have to get a plumber in. I insist.’
‘OK, OK.’ Harriet didn’t have the strength to argue – it was only seven o’clock in the morning.
Even so, where was she going to find the money?
A bank loan? She’d be lucky. She supposed Joanna might be able to help out, but it probably still wouldn’t be enough.
In the meantime: ‘Buckets,’ she said. ‘We need buckets.’
In the porch now, she stood next to the barrow and began to unload the split logs.
Bending, lifting, stacking; it became a rhythm that was monotonous but soothing.
So, of course she was cross . . . She was cross with Joanna for being in Venice, for not being here – just as she was cross with her when she was.
She was cross with the prowler for making her anxious, she was cross with Hector for turning out to be a dead loss.
She was cross with her mother for no longer being the capable mother of her childhood.
And . . . though this was harder for her to admit, she was cross with her father for dying. That was about it.
At least the water tank had been fixed without bankrupting them this morning, but the plumber had warned her the repair wouldn’t last forever and Harriet was always waiting for the next thing to fall apart; it was just a question of time.
Hector had finally sent her a short and brisk email, saying how pleasant it had been to meet her.
Pleasant . . . She lifted the empty barrow and wheeled it back along the cobbles.
This time the wheel really bounced. She shoved the barrow back into position and began on the new cheeses.
The crosser the better, when you were chopping wood.
But, Hector had continued, after giving it some thought, he didn’t think they were a match made in heaven. Harriet picked up the axe. She couldn’t agree more. Thwack . . .
Harriet had become practised at reading the wood.
The knots could be hard as steel and often needed some serious work with the splitter, so she went first of all for the easier knot-free stuff.
She soon got into a rhythm with the axe.
Down went the blade into the wood. She loved the crack and the creak as the wood continued to tear apart of its own volition; it was such a satisfying sound.
She breathed in, out, steady . . . Once again, she swept the axe down.
The truth was that she didn’t mind about Hector, she hadn’t been too impressed with him either.
It was what he’d said: I think I’m falling in love with you .
. . For one precious moment, Harriet had forgotten about her problems. She had thought, had hoped .
. . But it was utter rubbish. And Harriet was old enough to know better.
Of course, she had put him off with her talk of lack of funds and caring for Mother. And good riddance.
Once more, she stretched her back for a moment, rubbing the muscles where the dull ache was beginning to throb.
In front of her in the distance beyond the springy green Down, the V of the sea was a dark and glimmering blue-grey.
There was a thick pink autumn light on the hills and on the cluster of buildings in the distance that made up the town of Bridport.
The afternoon sun was slanting onto the Gothic church on the hill, reflecting from one arched window like rosy quartz torchlight.
Mother was still sulking about only being allowed to use the phone when Harriet was around to monitor the calls.
But what did she expect? Joanna had said she shouldn’t treat their mother like a child – which was easy for her to say, when she wasn’t here looking after Mother full time.
Harriet had to find some way of keeping control.
Would Joanna go back to Martin? Had she even left him?
And more to the point, for how long did she intend to stick around?
Harriet wasn’t sure how she felt about her sister being here – her emotions were mixed.
The scent of the amber pine resin collecting at the joints and faults in the wood was sweet and heady.
Harriet bent and picked up the split log; it was smooth and damp from sap and in a moment of tenderness, she rubbed it against her cheek, drank in the fragrance.
It was so uncomplicated in comparison. She loved wood.
Loved the smell of it, the feel of it, the warmth of it.
The rumble of Owen’s tractor in the lane sounded closer than usual.
Next thing, the machine trundled into the farmyard, scattering bits of straw in its wake.
Harriet laid down the axe and put a hand to her brow.
Goodness, she was sweating. But it was still warm for late September and this was hot work.
There were two warms to be got out of wood, it was said – the chopping and then the burning.
She glanced at the piece of wood still in her hand.
It wasn’t damp just from the sap – she’d even sweated onto that.
Heavens. It came to something when you were reduced to mingling bodily fluids with a lump of wood.
‘Afternoon, Harriet.’ Owen sounded cheerful, as usual. He was wearing his trademark boots and green boiler suit with the sleeves rolled up, displaying forearms that were big, brown and muscled.
‘Afternoon, Owen.’ She lifted the axe once more. ‘What can I do for you?’ Had he somehow heard about the prowler? She hoped Joanna hadn’t contacted him, but she wouldn’t put it past her. Joanna spent years pretending problems at the cottage didn’t exist, then she swept in and tried to take over.
Swiftly and smoothly, she split the next log.
Owen took a step back. Very wise. ‘Nice action you’ve got there, Harriet.’ He smiled approvingly.
‘Thanks.’ She hoped he wasn’t expecting her to stop what she was doing and offer him a cup of tea.
‘But, Harriet, I’ve told you before . . .’
It was a conspiracy. She looked around for the wood she’d just split into two – one piece was there, the other had disappeared. Why did that keep happening?
‘I’d do that chopping for you, you know.’ For once his soft, slow, Dorset burr didn’t grate on Harriet’s nerves. ‘I did say.’
‘No need.’ It was becoming difficult to breathe. Harriet stopped for a moment and wiped her brow once more with the back of her arm. She didn’t want to look as though she was trying too hard. ‘I can do it perfectly well myself.’
It was hard sometimes, she couldn’t deny it.
But she liked to be self-sufficient. She preferred not to depend on anyone else for anything.
Look what had happened to Mother. She was lost without Father and she’d be even more lost if anything happened to Harriet.
It was all very well for Joanna to say she’d look after her and see to the farm, but her sister simply had no idea.
Mother would have to go into a nursing home.
It would finish her. Harriet couldn’t bear that.
She looked down. The missing piece of wood was on the ground right there in front of her; she was going wood-crazy. She needed more room. She began to stack the logs onto the woodpile – plenty of gaps this time to allow the air to circulate and speed up the drying process. Even wood had to breathe.
‘It wouldn’t be a bother,’ Owen said. ‘I’d be happy to help out.’
When she didn’t reply, he moved back towards the tractor. ‘With anything. Anytime.’
Bless him. Harriet paused. He meant well. He was a kind man. She shouldn’t be so ungrateful. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll remember.’ She considered. ‘I just wanted to ask you . . .’
‘Yes?’ He waited.
‘If you’d seen anyone hanging around here lately? A man? A stranger?’
Owen frowned. ‘Can’t say that I have.’ He gave Harriet a long look. ‘Why? Has someone been bothering you?’
‘Oh, no, no.’ Harriet didn’t want any more fuss. If Joanna had her way, she’d be installing Owen in Big Barn as some sort of security guard. ‘You don’t have anyone staying with you then?’ she asked. ‘A friend? A relative? A man?’
He shook his head. ‘But like I said, Harriet, if you or your mother, or Joanna, ever need—’
Oh, Joanna . . . ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know. Thank you.’
He nodded. Looked out towards the fields as if they could tell him something he needed to know. He seemed to be listening too, but Harriet had no idea to what. All she could hear were the hens and the pigs, the breeze in the trees and a bird chirruping away. ‘Well then,’ he said.
Harriet smiled. Well then.
Owen swung open the door of the tractor. He looked back at Harriet.
She waited.
‘I was wondering . . .’ His face reddened. He was so awkward.
‘Yes?’ She smiled again – encouragingly this time.
‘If I could call round this evening?’
‘This evening?’ Harriet had things to do.
She wanted to get back online and get her new contenders into some sort of order.
But Mother would certainly be glad to see him and it would take her mind off the call barring and the plumber.
Would the chilli stretch to three? Another tin of tomatoes would do it, she decided.
‘Yes, of course. Come to supper,’ she said.
His face lit up. ‘That’d be lovely.’
Heavens, he must lead a boring life. ‘It’s only chilli con carne,’ she said. ‘Nothing fancy.’
‘Right you are.’ He beamed.
‘And Joanna’s not back yet. From Venice.’ In case he hadn’t realised. Though she would be back tomorrow. Harriet turned her attention back to the woodpile. The first stack was growing. She was getting there.
‘Just the three of us then?’ he said. Was there a note of disappointment in his voice? She couldn’t really tell.
‘Just the three of us.’
‘Okey dokey. I’ll be on my way then.’ He climbed back into the cab and started the engine.
In a sudden spurt of energy, Harriet went into whirling dervish mode – high-speed repeated splitting, not pausing between axe strokes, wood flying everywhere. Lovely.
After a few minutes, she stopped. She was utterly drained.
Her back was complaining and what she really needed was a hot bath.
But she felt good. Better. And that was enough for today.
She stuck the axe into one of the remaining cheeses and loaded the rest of the logs onto the woodpile.
As for tonight . . . That was something to look forward to – Mother occupied with Owen, giving Harriet a long evening with Someone Somewhere.
Bugger Hector. Bugger the prowler. Bugger everything that needed fixing in Mulberry Farm Cottage.
There were other things in life. Like the anticipation of what might turn out to be a successful first date.
A date that could lead towards a different future. Who knew?