CHAPTER 29
Harriet
Dorset
The dream crept up on Harriet unawares. One moment she was sleeping peacefully, then . . . as always, the voices came.
You should have told me.
You deceived me.
It was such a long time ago.
A gasp. A low-pitched wail.
‘Daddy!’
Harriet sat bolt upright, shaking, sweating. What did it mean?
Slowly, she came round, reached for the water by her bedside. Would she ever find out? Did she even want to?
*
Her father’s death had hit Harriet hard; like her mother, she had not been the same since.
In the early days and weeks, the grief was overwhelming – he seemed to be there still, watching everything she did.
As time went by, this grief settled into a small and hollow part of her.
It wasn’t always there. Occasionally, she would turn the corner of the lane, humming, expecting to see his blue tractor in a distant field.
She would listen for his shout to a man he was working with; for the splash of water into the washbasin that signalled he was in from the fields; for the clatter of his boots in the farmyard.
She could tell the time of day from the noises he had made, his presence in the cottage had been so strong.
She’d get distracted by one of the hens, the way the sunlight caught her feathers and turned them into gold, or by a particularly red and juicy apple, or a line in a book she was reading under the mulberry tree.
She’d smile. And then she’d remember. Father had died from a sudden heart attack and nothing would ever be the same again.
*
‘Have you got anything planned for today, Mother?’ Harriet asked at breakfast. She hadn’t been quite herself since they’d had that heart-to-heart with Joanna. There hadn’t been any more tradesman incidents, but Harriet didn’t like this pale, shadowy version of her mother; it worried her.
‘I might collect some more apples from the orchard,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps make a pie?’
Harriet raised her eyebrows. ‘Great.’ There were plenty of late-fruiters which seemed to keep Mother occupied for hours.
As for Harriet . . . She opened the fat envelope that had arrived this morning.
It contained the next batch of typing with a note of thanks for the last lot, emailed off to her new employer yesterday.
It looked as if, after her morning chores were done, she’d be typing.
Mother was still wandering around the orchard when Harriet took the manuscript upstairs and waggled her fingers into typing mode.
She had no idea what this stuff was all about, so that made it tricky – the pages were littered with scientific formulae and itsy-bitsy diagrams. She squinted.
But she’d improvised for the last lot and he seemed happy enough, so this time she’d do the same.
She glanced out of the study window. As was so often the case in October, the fields and the Down were vibrant green and swollen with the rain they’d had in the last few days. Her finger paused on the shift key.
Joanna was still in Lisbon and by the time she came back, October would have slipped by.
Before they knew it, it would be Christmas.
Harriet’s typing grew faster as she got into her rhythm – at least Someone Somewhere had been good practice for this, and earning decent money was her priority right now.
Harriet’s typing might even enable her to buy some Christmas presents .
. . Joanna would be here at home presumably, and they’d invite Owen over – they always did.
She frowned at the notes. Her scientist employer had put an asterisk but she couldn’t find the corresponding one.
What a mess . . . He must be an eccentric, to say the least; after all, most people (even those of her mother’s generation) had mastered sufficient technology to manage a computer these days.
Not Mother, though; she could barely work the remote control of the television, bless her.
What would Harriet buy her family for Christmas?
she wondered. A new nightie for Mother perhaps (something glamorous that would cheer her up), maybe gloves for Owen and a scarf for Joanna?
Jolyon was more problematic since their relationship remained uncategorised, and might not even exist by then.
A vintage Bonanza calendar? What would he buy her?
A box set of Hank Williams CDs? A Missy camisole? A Wagon Wheel?
She flicked through the thick sheaf of A4.
Some of the pages were crumpled, creased and even stained with what looked like coffee in places.
But she wouldn’t complain. She’d always been able to decipher her father’s handwriting, which had been almost as bad as this; it was a challenge.
Harriet looked up at the screen. She’d already done two pages, although she missed her old typewriter – it wasn’t quite the same without that satisfying dring as the carriage sprang back for a new line.
Never mind, she was now, officially, a working woman.
She clicked on the spell and grammar check, for a bit of variety really.
She worked on for over an hour, stopping only to answer the phone to the organic veg shop and check on her mother – who was now peeling apples in the kitchen.
They had lunch – home-made parsnip soup – and Harriet watched her mother as she ate, silently, staring into space.
It was as if she had lost something. Not Father, because she’d lost him years ago, but something else, something inside her perhaps.
‘Maybe we could let her have one a month,’ Joanna had suggested the night before she went to Lisbon, after Mother had gone to bed, as if they were talking about Walnut Whips rather than painters and decorators and the like. ‘Just to provide a quote – you don’t have to actually have anything done.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Harriet had said. ‘We mustn’t encourage her. She’s got to snap out of it.’ But would she? It was beginning to look increasingly unlikely.
‘Perhaps we should get the doctor out to look at her then,’ Joanna had suggested.
Harriet shook her head. ‘I don’t think doctors count,’ she said. ‘It’s more manual workers, isn’t it?’
Joanna had snorted with laughter and then stifled it immediately. ‘I meant, to take a look at her . . . problem.’
Oh. ‘And how would you describe her . . . problem exactly?’
‘Sorry, Het.’ Joanna had sighed, linked arms with her just like they’d done when they were girls. ‘I’m as worried about her as you are. But if she’s suffering from depression or anxiety . . .’
‘Maybe.’ And Harriet had squeezed her hand. She understood. Neither of them knew what to do for the best – because neither of them knew what was wrong.
*
After lunch, Mother went for a nap and Harriet nipped outside to check on her winter vegetables.
The air was cold, but the sun had inched through the clouds and the sky was clearing, leaving the pale yellow afternoon light that she loved.
Harriet looked up and over towards the sea.
She thought she saw something – a piece of glass maybe?
– glinting from behind the fence up on Warren Down.
Someone’s glasses perhaps? She shielded her eyes and looked up the hill towards the footpath that started back at Warren Cove and ended up at the Beacon.
It was a popular round trip – in all seasons.
But she couldn’t see anyone. If someone was there, they were hidden from view by a bush or a tree. On purpose? she wondered. Surely not.
Harriet removed some of the old plant debris. She’d do some more mulching tomorrow – she’d prepared a good mulch from the fallen leaves of the mulberry and other fruit trees in the orchard and this helped to prevent frost damage. Frost damage she couldn’t afford.
There it was again. Harriet straightened and peered up towards the path once more. Something was up there. Or someone. And they definitely didn’t want to be seen. She felt a twinge of unease.
As she left the kitchen garden by the low gate and went into the farmyard, it hit her.
Glinting glass. Could someone be up there with a pair of binoculars?
That wasn’t unheard of – they got a lot of birdwatchers and nature lovers around here – but recent experience had made Harriet more suspicious than usual.
She walked, with what she hoped was a jaunty and carefree air, across the cobbles of the farmyard. Then, as she passed the corner of Big Barn, she ducked behind the wall. We’ll soon see, she thought grimly.
She edged her way round the back of Big Barn, keeping low, staying out of sight, and skirted the farmyard until she reached the old cow shed. From the other side of the shed she watched. And waited. She just had that feeling – something wasn’t right.
A minute later, she saw a movement on the Down, where the glinting had come from. Someone stood up. Even from this distance it was a familiar figure. She narrowed her eyes. It was him – the prowler – spying on them from a distance now, the coward.
He was walking in the opposite direction to the cottage, away from her.
What should she do? Harriet was rooted to the spot.
On the one hand, she wanted to race up the hill after him, confront him, find out once and for all what he was after.
He might insist that he was just a twitcher.
But she’d bet anything that his binoculars had been trained on Mulberry Farm Cottage.
He had been watching her, she knew it. Spying.
And if he was capable of spying, what else might he be capable of? She shivered.
On the other hand, as Joanna kept telling her, confrontation could be dangerous.
Supposing he was armed? He might have a knife tucked into his belt, or anything.
Supposing – despite appearances – he was strong enough to restrain her?
No one else was around. He could probably strangle her with his bare hands.
On the other hand . . . Hang on a minute, Harriet thought, how many hands did she have?
How could she let him get away? Again? Because she’d been right all along, her prowler hadn’t gone anywhere.
And she couldn’t live like this – never knowing when he was going to turn up or what he was going to do.
So far, he’d just been looking, but what if he was trying to establish their routine, planning something more sinister?
And besides, Harriet valued her privacy.
No one had the right to spy on them. She wouldn’t have it.
She moved. She jumped over the stile and legged it up the Down, which wasn’t easy in wellington boots that were stiff with dried mud. Pretty soon she was out of breath, panting, her legs practically buckling under her. But she was gaining on him. And he hadn’t seen her – yet.
He turned around. Yes, it was definitely him. And yes, there were the binoculars swinging from his neck, though she couldn’t see a dagger.
He stared at Harriet in total disbelief – and who could blame him?
– as she stumbled up the path in her ancient blue dungarees and muddy green wellies, her hair no doubt frizzing wildly around her face, missing her footing on the ruts and burrows.
Her chest and lungs were aching with the effort.
My God. What if she had a heart attack? He wouldn’t even need the dagger then.
He ran.
‘Come back!’ she yelled into the wind. But she had such little breath and voice left by this point that the words seemed to dissolve in the air. ‘Wait!’ She stopped running – she had to. ‘I want to talk to you.’ she croaked. ‘Come back this minute!’
They had been in this situation before. And once again, it was as if he was frightened of her – which remained very confusing. He accelerated. He was fresh. She had no chance.
All the fight went out of Harriet. All the energy. She bent double and concentrated on breathing. She sank onto the grass and beat the ground with her fists. Bugger it. Her prowler had escaped again.