CHAPTER 22
Harriet
Dorset
Later that afternoon, Harriet went out to the kitchen garden to vent some of her frustration on the weeds.
Terry’s Tarmac indeed. Thanks to Joanna, it had cost no more than the price of a few slices of cake, some tea and a further dent to Harriet’s pride.
Even so, she would talk to Mother – later, she decided, when she wasn’t feeling quite so angry.
After a while, Joanna appeared in the garden, snug inside a thick grey fleece. Her expression suggested that she knew exactly how Harriet was feeling.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have excluded her,’ Joanna said. ‘After all, it’s not as if she can’t think for herself, is it? She’s not a child.’
‘No, she’s not.’ Which made it even harder. It was all very well for Joanna. Harriet dug into the soil of the herb bed with her trowel. Her sister had no idea. She hadn’t seen the half of it yet. She still didn’t know how demanding Mother could be.
The metal blade sliced easily through the earth, and Harriet knew instinctively how deep she had to go to get it out.
Dandelion. The tip of the white root. What Joanna said made sense – sort of.
‘But what else do you suggest we do?’ she demanded.
They had to stop her somehow, before she bankrupted the place.
Joanna shrugged. ‘Talk to her?’
‘And you think I haven’t?’
‘I know you have.’ Joanna bent towards her.
Harriet could smell her sister’s perfume. She always smelt nice. Probably because she didn’t get involved in the messy part of the farm . . .
‘But maybe we can talk to her in a different way: as a reasonable and intelligent human being, as a valued part of the family – our family, Het.’
Harriet blinked at her. Didn’t she do that? What was Joanna suggesting? She focused on the soil of the kitchen garden once more, waggled the trowel further into the moist earth. ‘If you think you can do any better,’ she muttered. But inside she was thinking, didn’t she do that?
‘No, I don’t think I can do any better.’ Joanna rested a hand lightly on Harriet’s shoulder. Harriet pretended she couldn’t feel it. ‘But if we did it together . . .’
Together . . . To her surprise, she felt a tear in the corner of her eye and she blinked it back. It must be the wind – it had picked up during the afternoon.
‘I’m only saying . . .’ Joanna’s voice softened. ‘Perhaps we didn’t make the right decision about the call barring. You know, as far as Mother’s concerned, where there’s a will, there’s a way.’
She had been kind enough not to mention that the call barring had been wholly Harriet’s idea. ‘Or perhaps she’s getting worse,’ Harriet said.
They looked at each other.
‘D’you think so?’ Joanna frowned. ‘I was thinking that maybe there was an improvement. That she seemed more with it, somehow.’
‘Hmm.’ Harriet didn’t know what to think.
There was only one dandelion left. Harriet pushed in the fork but the root broke near the tip. Damn. She exhaled. She could dig the rest of it out but it wasn’t the same. It was so much more satisfying when you got the whole thing intact.
*
Despite this conversation with Joanna, Harriet brought the subject up with her mother the very next morning at breakfast.
‘Tell me honestly, Mother,’ she said, ‘did you get in touch with those men?’
‘What men?’
‘The tarmac men.’ Harriet took deep breaths as she got the bowls and plates out of the kitchen cupboard. Perhaps she should take up yoga? If only she could find the time . . .
‘Harriet.’ Her mother assumed a majestic expression. ‘I don’t understand why you always blame me. For every smallest thing . . .’
Smallest thing indeed. Supposing Harriet hadn’t come out of Little Barn when she did? Supposing the tarmac had been laid and they’d had to find the money for it? You couldn’t exactly return tarmac to the shop.
She sawed through the granary bread with ferocity, thought back again to her conversation with her sister the day before.
Joanna had a point; Harriet had to admit that the call barring might have come over as a bit .
. . controlling. Even so, she was determined to find out how Mother had contacted them.
That way, she might be able to prevent her from doing it again – whether she and Joanna talked to her or not.
Joanna came into the kitchen. ‘Morning,’ she said breezily. She took a bowl and tipped in some muesli.
‘Morning, darling,’ their mother replied.
Harriet grunted. ‘Someone must have called them out,’ she muttered darkly.
‘I’m not even allowed to use my own telephone during the day.’ Delicately, their mother spooned the last segment of grapefruit into her mouth and dabbed her lips with a tissue. ‘So, I really can’t imagine why you’re accusing me.’
Harriet clicked her tongue. She lifted the toast from the toaster and piled it onto a plate.
Joanna pulled a face at her and helped herself to the first slice. ‘Are you going into Bridport this morning, Het?’ She was good at changing the subject, but Harriet was determined not to let it drop.
Don’t call me Het. She nodded. ‘Straight after breakfast.’ She had some early leeks and parsnips to deliver to Bloomers; she’d dug them up yesterday afternoon when she’d finished with the weeds. And that wasn’t all she had to do in Bridport. Yesterday evening, Harriet had been busy online.
‘Can you give me a lift?’ Joanna loaded on the butter.
‘I suppose so, yes.’ Her sister never seemed to put on weight; never got a pimple or greasy skin.
‘I need to do some research.’
Oh, research, research. Why did she always have to sound so important?
Harriet scraped the butter onto her own toast and was equally frugal with the marmalade.
She had no idea why – she didn’t suffer from pimples or greasy skin either and she wasn’t especially overweight; it was more a case of being lumpy in all the wrong places. ‘Fine,’ she snapped.
‘Thanks.’ Joanna looked as if she was about to say more, but changed her mind.
So what if Harriet was in a bad mood? Wouldn’t anyone be? And could Joanna really blame her for treating Mother like a child when she behaved like one? She took a swig of tea and reached for the telephone directory. No one wanted to tell her, so she would have to find out.
She flipped through the Yellow Pages, looking for Terry’s Tarmac. Picked up the phone and punched in the number.
‘Yes,’ she said, when an efficient-sounding woman answered. ‘This is Mulberry Farm Cottage here. Harriet Shepherd speaking.’ It was always best to sound brusque and unfriendly, she had found – people wanted to appease you that way.
‘Mrs Shepherd? Oh, yes.’
‘Ms.’
‘Ms Shepherd, sorry. We had you booked in for yesterday.’
Was she imagining the faint note of reproof in the woman’s voice? ‘Yes, apparently so.’ Harriet sighed. ‘But I didn’t ask you to come in the first place.’ She finished her tea and rolled her eyes at Joanna. ‘And I have no idea who did.’ Like heck.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ Harriet tried to remain calm.
But there was always so much to think of, so much to do.
Who could be calm? ‘And what I should like to know is, who did contact you?’ Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her mother fidgeting.
Well, let her fidget, she was not going to wriggle her way out of this one.
‘It says Shepherd on here.’ The woman’s voice became more clipped and Harriet could hear the shuffling of paperwork. ‘And I think we have a letter . . .’
‘A letter?’ Harriet gave her mother a sharp look. Now they were getting somewhere. ‘I see.’
‘And then we would phone to make an appointment for Terry to come out and see you, and—’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much. But no. Thank you.’ Harriet put down the phone.
It was pointless to interrogate Mother any further.
She would only deny it, and then Harriet would get frustrated and say something she didn’t mean.
Or say something she did mean but shouldn’t say.
She got up and grabbed her coat from the hook by the door. She had to get out of here.
‘Are you leaving now?’ Joanna crammed half a slice of toast into her mouth. ‘Is it OK for us both to be out at . . .’ She glanced an apology at their mother. ‘I mean, what time should we be home for Mother?’
‘I’ll be back by eleven thirty at the latest.’ And Joanna was right.
When had they started talking about Mother as if she wasn’t there?
‘It’s up to you. Come back with me or find your own way later.
The bus only leaves every two hours these days and it will still only bring you as far as the main road.
’ She was already halfway out of the door.
She knew she sounded bad-tempered and resentful, but she simply couldn’t help it.
These days it seemed to be her default setting.
And right now it was a question of fight or flight.
‘But—’ their mother began.
‘Bye, Mother,’ Harriet yelled. ‘Leave the breakfast things. I’ll clear up later.
’ She simply couldn’t stay here a moment longer listening to her mother denying all knowledge and Joanna appeasing her.
Three hours wasn’t long to get into Bridport, do the chores, meet Jolyon for coffee and get back home again, but it would have to do.
Besides, it was quite likely that she and Jolyon would hate each other on sight.
Or she’d blow it like she had with Hector, by being far too honest.
She crossed the yard and unlocked the pick-up.
It wasn’t ideal for them both to be out all morning, but hopefully it was safe enough after yesterday’s fiasco.
And she did understand that Joanna had to work – just as she did.
Her sister was scurrying across the yard, still shoving her laptop into an already bulging shoulder bag.
‘What’s the big hurry?’ she was grumbling.
Harriet ignored the question. ‘Have you posted any letters for Mother?’ she asked instead.
‘No.’ Joanna gave her that don’t be too hard on her look again but she ignored that too.
Who else could have done it? Harriet climbed into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. In the distance she could see a familiar red tractor trundling across the far field. ‘Owen.’ She slapped the palm of her hand hard on the steering wheel.
‘Owen?’
‘Yes.’ Harriet put the pick-up into reverse. Honestly, Joanna was so dreamy these days, always a million miles away. Had she always been like that, even as a child? Was that why her sister had always been protected, as if she were living in some bubble-world of her own?
‘What about Owen?’
‘Owen must have posted the letter to Terry’s Tarmac. For Mother.’ She spoke slowly and clearly so that even Joanna would understand.
‘Oh, I see. Well, in that case, we’ll have to talk to him too. Tell him to—’
‘Exactly.’ Harriet steered the pick-up down the stony, bumpy, un-tarmacked drive. As she turned into the lane a little bit too fast, she almost ran down a cyclist. ‘Hellfire!’ she shouted.
‘Harriet!’ Joanna grabbed hold of the dashboard.
For a second, the cyclist seemed to twist towards her, his bike veering from right to left, the expression on his face confused and even a bit scared. Scared? That couldn’t be right.
‘It’s him!’ she muttered.
‘Him?’
‘Yes . . .’ As Harriet continued to stare at him, unable for a moment to do anything else, the cyclist almost went down into the ditch, wobbled precariously then righted himself and set off down the lane at a furious pace.
‘Who is it, Het?’ Joanna was peering down the lane.
‘It’s the man.’ Harriet should go after him. She should drive on, force him to a halt and confront him. Demand to know why he’d been prowling around in the farmyard. But she couldn’t move. Her palms were stuck to the steering wheel, her eyes fixed straight in front of her.
‘What man?’
‘The man who’s been hanging around.’ Harriet took a deep breath and managed to put the pick-up into gear.
So, as she’d thought, he hadn’t gone away.
Slowly, she accelerated and drove down the lane, in the opposite direction to the one taken by the cyclist. She didn’t want to confront him – not now.
She had far too much to do this morning and anyway, he’d already disappeared around the corner and out of sight.
‘You mean the man who’s been stalking you?’
‘Well . . .’ Joanna did tend to be a bit melodramatic at times.
‘Stop the car!’ Joanna shouted.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Harriet carried on driving. ‘And it’s a pick-up truck.’
‘But, Harriet . . .’
‘What?’ Why had he looked so scared?
‘Don’t you think we should call the police?’
‘Not really.’ Seeing him had only confirmed what Harriet already knew – that he was still around and still watching her.
She would have to do something about it, she was aware of that, but not now.
An uncertain October sun was inching through the clouds and she had errands to run and a new contender for her affections to meet.
Joanna seemed to give up. She sat back in her seat and muttered something that sounded like, ‘Well, it’s your funeral.’
Harriet glanced at her watch. Bugger the prowler. He could wait. Bugger the problems that would still be waiting for her when she returned home. Bugger the fact that she was so broke she had become a secretary. There was the distant hope of romance on the horizon. Harriet put her foot down.