CHAPTER 17
Harriet
Dorset
Joanna was back in Dorset and things had reverted to what was, Harriet supposed, the new normal.
Joanna was writing and wafting around the place like a lost spirit and Harriet was doing all the chores while she tried to work out where the next pound was coming from.
She was still busy online with Someone Somewhere but she’d given up on Charles and Malcolm and was spending all her energy on a new contender named Jolyon.
They hadn’t yet met up, but Harriet was resolved not to leave it too long this time. Faint heart never won man.
Over lunch, Joanna informed them that she wasn’t going back to Martin – which was hardly a surprise. Harriet couldn’t help feeling sorry for her sister, though; it must be hard.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, darling.’ Mother’s voice filled with tears. Though goodness knows why; Martin had never had much time for her.
‘What did he do?’ Harriet buttered another crumpet. She supposed she should watch her weight – given that she was putting herself out there, as it were – but these crumpets were far too good to waste.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Harriet raised her eyebrows. She couldn’t blame Joanna for not wanting to tell them. It was her business, after all. But perhaps Joanna’s life wasn’t quite as wonderful as she’d assumed? She reached out her hand and awkwardly patted her sister’s hand.
Their mother, though, got to her feet and wrapped Joanna in her arms, rocking her as if she were a baby. ‘Poor darling,’ she crooned.
After a few moments, Joanna disentangled herself and gave a little shrug. ‘Thanks, Mother. But it’s for the best.’
Harriet could tell her sister was trying to put on a brave face. There were a few tell-tale signs. For example, she was sure Joanna had been crying again.
‘But forgiveness’ – their mother gave a knowing look – ‘is always important in a marriage, you know.’
Harriet was no expert, but she wasn’t so sure. And how would Mother know? What could Father have ever done that would require forgiveness? He’d always adored her.
‘It’s not about forgiveness,’ Joanna said. And Harriet definitely saw her sister blink back a tear.
She decided to be practical. ‘So, what will you do?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ Her sister looked lost and Harriet regretted the question immediately.
‘It will all work out in the end, you know.’ Their mother patted Joanna’s hand. A simple gesture, but Harriet could see it made things a little better.
*
Sometimes, thought Harriet later as she went out to the kitchen garden to dig up some potatoes, Mother really seemed almost her old self. Had Harriet made a mistake, what with the call barring and everything? But then . . .
She stopped in her tracks. ‘Mother?’
What was she doing, standing there by the mulberry tree? Her mother cut a forlorn figure – her sky-blue dress flaring in the breeze, a lilac cardigan draped over her thin shoulders; she was hardly dressed for a bright but chilly October day.
‘Mother?’ She moved closer, skirting the pond. Her mother was clutching on to something, holding it close to her breast.
Slowly, she turned around. ‘Oh, Harriet. It’s you.’
Harriet caught her breath. Her mother was crying; her lined cheeks were wet, her eyes red.
What on earth had brought this on? Surely not the news of Joanna and Martin’s marriage break-up?
‘What is it?’ She softened her voice. ‘What’s wrong?
’ She took hold of her mother’s limp white hand.
She could see now that it was a framed photograph Mother was holding.
It was the past then, the past that she was mourning.
Her mother sniffed, groped for a tissue in her dress pocket and blew her nose loudly. ‘I was thinking back to when . . .’ Her voice trailed. ‘It was what Joanna said. I was remembering.’ She held it out for Harriet to see.
Harriet recognised the framed photograph immediately. It usually sat on the mantelpiece in the living room. ‘You and Father,’ she said gently. It was a picture of her parents standing in front of the mulberry tree. ‘Just look at you both. What a handsome couple.’
Together they examined the photo, almost as if they’d never seen it before.
When something was always there in your life, you often stopped looking at it properly, Harriet thought.
Her parents did look handsome, but also so young, so innocent.
Father’s arm was slung over her mother’s shoulders, careless, in a way he’d rarely done in real, unphotographed life, so far as Harriet could recall.
It was casual, but possessive. He was looking down at his beautiful young wife tenderly. And she was gazing back up at him.
‘Was it taken before I was born?’ Though Harriet knew the answer to this before she even asked the question.
The two of them looked entirely unshackled.
She felt a twinge of something that could have been resentment.
She had always known he loved her mother, and of course she would never be jealous of that love they shared.
But . . . she had never before realised quite how single-minded that love had been.
It was embedded in this photo, though – in the way she was looking up at him, in his expression, in the fierceness of his eyes.
Her mother nodded. She reached out to touch the pitted trunk of the mulberry tree.
The breeze murmured through the serrated leaves as if the tree might be trying to tell them something.
Harriet wouldn’t be surprised. The tree seemed so wise.
And it had been part of the past, forever watching.
There were no longer any children playing amongst its tangled branches, but the mulberry was still here, still serene, still protecting and sheltering them all.
‘Your father proposed to me here,’ her mother whispered. Her eyes were faraway. ‘He said that I was the purest and most beautiful thing that he’d ever seen.’
Harriet felt a lump in her throat. That was just so lovely. ‘He worshipped you,’ she said.
Her mother’s expression changed so abruptly that Harriet was shocked. ‘Well, now.’ Once again, she seemed to transform back into the mother of Harriet’s young years. Capable. Secure. ‘You should never put people on a pedestal, Harriet,’ she said.
But why not? Harriet stared at her. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be cosseted and adored?
Her mother only smiled and patted her arm. ‘Further to fall, my darling,’ she said. ‘Further to fall.’
What did she mean?
They went back inside – Harriet didn’t want her to get cold – and Mother replaced the photograph on the mantelpiece with only the faintest of sighs.
Harriet thought about it again, later, as she glanced at the local paper while she was having her afternoon tea.
Should she tell Joanna? Best not, she decided, it would only give her something else to fuss about.
And having read the phone bill that had just arrived, Harriet decided to keep the call barring in place for now too.
They needed to find some money from somewhere . . .
Her attention was caught by an advert in the ‘Situations Vacant’ column.
Typist required for work at home, it read.
Harriet was pretty sure she’d seen something similar recently on a leaflet put through the door.
She didn’t want to be a typist – obviously.
But with all these bills coming in, winter fast approaching and only Mother’s pension and the money she made from produce to live on, things were getting desperate.
All the emails she’d been writing lately had made her quite fast on the keyboard and . . .
She rubbed her back, which had not yet fully recovered from all that wood-chopping.
It would be refreshingly different from working on the farm, making jam and delivering the veg, not to mention looking after Mother, of course.
Joanna had made a contribution, which had eased the financial strain a little, but she was another mouth to feed and besides, Joanna wouldn’t be here forever.
Another job, a typist’s job, might help earn the extra cash they needed to keep afloat.
Joanna came in by the back door and glanced over Harriet’s shoulder. ‘But you don’t have time to do anyone’s typing, do you, Het?’ she asked mildly.
‘I could make time.’
Joanna sat down opposite her. ‘Have you seen him again?’ she asked.
Harriet frowned. ‘Seen who again?’
‘You know.’ Joanna looked around the room to make sure Mother wasn’t within earshot presumably. ‘That prowler who was hanging around.’
Ah. ‘Not really.’ Harriet sipped her tea. ‘There’s some in the pot,’ she told her sister.
‘Not really? How can you not really see someone?’ Although even as Joanna was saying this, she wore an expression that told Harriet she knew exactly how it could be done.
‘I thought I saw him in the village.’ Harriet was convinced he was still around – she could sense it.
Only yesterday, in the post office, she’d felt a scrutiny on the back of her neck as she was queuing for stamps, whipped round and seen someone disappearing past the open doorway. She was almost sure it was him.
Joanna’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t think he lives here?’
‘Well . . .’ She’d also seen a man on a bike in the distance a couple of days ago who could have been him. ‘He might do.’
‘That’s it.’ Joanna got to her feet. ‘I’m going out right now to buy a security light. And I’m going to have a word with Owen. If you see that man around here again, you tell me straightaway, OK, Harriet?’
‘OK.’ Harriet reached for the phone to ring the number in the ad. ‘But there’s no need to see Owen – I’ve already told him.’
Did Joanna look disappointed? Could it be that she reciprocated their neighbour’s feelings?
Harriet hadn’t seen him since he’d come round for that chilli the other night, but he’d certainly asked a lot of questions about how long Joanna might be staying in the area.
Harriet supposed he was impressed by the fact that Joanna was a writer – and a travel writer to boot.
Not that Harriet cared a fig. She was more than happy to slope off upstairs, leaving Mother and Owen to their chat and their whisky.
Harriet had something much better than that. She had Someone Somewhere . . .