CHAPTER 57
Harriet
Dorset
‘We’re having supper alone tonight,’ Harriet announced to Joanna a week later.
‘Just the three of us. All right?’ She’d had enough of paintings and secrets and newly discovered half-brothers.
It was about time they heard the full story.
And she was going to extract it from Mother if it was the last thing she did.
‘OK.’
Ever since she’d come back from London, Joanna had either had her head stuck in some book or other, or she’d been locked online.
Harriet had to admit that the story of their great-grandfather and this female watercolourist was intriguing – especially Owen’s theory that Mulberry Farm Cottage had been named by William Rufus in memory of Emily Selleck.
But on a more personal level, Joanna probably hadn’t even noticed that Henry had been here for lunch and supper every day, that he’d been taking Mother out for walks, sitting closeted with her for hours.
So . . . ‘It’s the first opportunity we’ve had to quiz Mother,’ Harriet said now. ‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’
‘When?’
It was as if Joanna was in another world. ‘When Mother gave her baby away. When she got pregnant in the first place. Don’t you want to know who Henry’s father is?’
*
Harriet had made coq au vin; not with one of theirs but with an organic, run-around one from the supermarket.
‘Henry would have enjoyed this,’ their mother said wistfully.
Harriet raised her eyes heavenwards. Henry this, Henry that. Straight in, she decided. ‘So, when are you going to tell us, Mother?’ she demanded.
Mother finished her mouthful and dabbed her lips with her napkin. ‘Tell you what, Harriet?’
‘About how Henry came into the world.’
Mother shook her head. ‘There’s not much to tell,’ she said. ‘It was a long time before I met your father. And now, it’s enough that he’s here with us again. That’s all I care about.’
Harriet couldn’t believe it. She forked up some mashed potato and chicken.
How could their mother be so selfish? Couldn’t she see that there were others involved?
Didn’t she think she owed them an explanation?
And what about Father – had he known about any of this?
‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t bother to tell us anything then. ’
‘Harriet . . .’ Joanna was trying to shut her up, but Harriet was in full flow. She couldn’t stop now.
She put down her fork. ‘I could have left home. I could have gone to university. I could have gone anywhere. But what did I do?’ Harriet blinked and was amazed to see a tear fall into the chicken stew.
What was the matter with her? ‘I stayed here with you. Because you couldn’t be left, you couldn’t bear to be on your own.
’ She picked up her fork again and glared at her mother.
‘And I’ve stayed ever since. More fool me. ’
‘Het . . .’ Joanna reached out across the table to put her hand on Harriet’s arm, but Harriet didn’t want her sympathy and she didn’t want to be restrained. She didn’t know what she wanted really. All she knew was that she had to let this out.
Their mother, however, was saying nothing. She had stopped eating, though, and her milky blue eyes were glazed. She looked as though she’d slipped back in time.
Harriet felt herself getting second wind. ‘And then some bloke turns up out of the blue and he’s your son and therefore our half-brother, and we’re all supposed to say how wonderful, how amazing, how marvellous for you. When really—’
‘No one asked you to stay here with me, Harriet,’ their mother said. She put her knife and fork neatly together on the plate and held her head high. Her voice was clear and confident. ‘It was your choice.’
She’s an old lady, Harriet thought. Her skin might be wrinkled, but she still had the cheekbones. Breeding – she hadn’t lost it. And besides, someone had asked Harriet. Her father had asked her and Harriet had always done what he wanted her to do.
The anger inside her deflated as quickly as it had risen. ‘I had to stay,’ she said quietly. ‘Father died.’ And they all knew what had happened then. Mother had gone to pieces. She was no longer the capable woman she had once been. She couldn’t have coped alone.
‘But you’ve always been entitled to your own life, Het,’ Joanna said. ‘Able to make your own choices.’ She sounded shocked. As if she’d never realised that Harriet had minded, that Harriet had never actually made a choice. ‘And Father only died seven years ago. What about before that?’
Harriet wanted to laugh. But she was afraid that if she did, it would sound high and hysterical, out of control.
And that she wouldn’t be able to stop. ‘I promised him. I made a promise to Father.’ She remembered the day.
The sun was high and filtering through the leaves of the mulberry tree, dappling the water of the pond with light and shade.
Promise me you’ll look after your mother, Harriet, he had said. When I’m gone.
Joanna too had stopped eating. She put her fork on the plate and pushed it away.
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean for you not to have your own life,’ she said again.
But she sounded more uncertain now and Harriet could tell she was thinking about it, that she was only just beginning to understand.
Still, Joanna was right. It had been Harriet’s fault, in a way.
There was no point blaming anyone else. And there had been all those years before Father died – years when she had stayed because she wanted to help him on the farm, years when she had prided herself on being his natural successor.
‘Of course he didn’t.’ Mother sounded sad. ‘He didn’t intend to imprison you in a place you didn’t want to be.’
‘I know.’ Harriet also knew that her mother had loved him – she always had.
And Father had loved her too. But Mother had never been his intellectual equal, he had always made that plain to Harriet, during those long evenings when they’d talked about books and history, philosophy and farming.
It had made Harriet feel special – but now she wondered for the first time, had Father been right to do this?
Wouldn’t it have made her mother feel so terribly excluded?
‘He thought you loved Mulberry Farm Cottage, Harriet.’ Her mother’s voice was both sad and confused.
‘I did.’ She sighed. ‘I do.’
‘He saw you as following in his footsteps.’ Their mother’s eyes again grew misty with remembering. ‘There you were, always chasing him around the farm like a puppy . . .’
‘Thanks very much, Mother,’ Harriet snapped.
Like a puppy indeed. Her mother had no idea.
Harriet and her father had spent a lot of time together, yes, but he’d wanted it that way.
He’d always appreciated her company, he had got something from his daughter that he could never get from Mother – and her mother probably knew this too.
Mother had been a beautiful woman and they’d no doubt shared some sort of grand passion back in the day, but she’d never been the sort of woman you could talk to about anything serious or deep.
Harriet had provided the intelligent companionship her father craved. Hadn’t she?
Some of the happiest moments of Harriet’s life had been spent in her father’s study.
She leant back in her chair. Even now, she could close her eyes and smell again the musty old papers and books, the wooden furniture, the sweet heady scent of the tobacco he smoked in his pipe.
She could feel the roughness of his tweed jacket with leather buttons beneath her fingertips; feel the smooth wooden floorboards under her bare feet as she padded across from the desk to the bookshelf to lift off some great gold-leafed encyclopaedia for him to consult, his nicotine-stained fingertip moving slowly down the page . . . Harriet sniffed.
‘You two were always very close.’ Joanna was giving her a funny look. Her elbows were on the table and she was cradling her face in her hands. ‘I was so jealous.’
Harriet stared at her. ‘You were jealous of me?’
‘Of course.’ Joanna smiled. ‘Aren’t sisters always a bit jealous no matter how much they love one another?’
‘I suppose.’ Harriet felt the shutters over her eyes lifting, the tension around her forehead loosening. It was so simple. That was it. Sisters were always a bit jealous. They could still love one other.
‘You did everything with him around the farm,’ Joanna said.
But Joanna had always been so charming and well loved.
Their mother adored her. Joanna wrote articles that people wanted to read.
She went to university and made lots of friends, she got married, lived in London, got paid for travelling all round the world.
Men fell in love with her. Harriet thought of Owen.
They always had. ‘But you’ve always had a fantastic life,’ Harriet said.
She stared in front of her, at the half-eaten plates of food on the table.
It seemed that they had all lost their appetites.
Joanna raised an eyebrow. ‘Being married to Martin wasn’t easy,’ she said. ‘And journalism is hard work and not very lucrative.’ She sighed. ‘I wanted a baby, but it never seemed the right time. To be honest, Martin wasn’t keen. I kept putting it off. And now . . .’
Harriet was struggling to take this in. She hadn’t thought. Well, maybe that was her trouble – she never did.
‘It’s not too late, darling,’ their mother put in. ‘Trust me. It isn’t too late for either of you.’
Harriet was dumbfounded. She had always wanted her sister’s life. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Her sister . . .
‘When I was younger, I was always trying to live up to you, Harriet.’ Joanna was still talking. ‘I wanted Father to notice me for once. And I longed to get close to you, my special big sister.’
Harriet remained speechless – she had never known. Never known about any of this.
‘And I could never even find you.’ Joanna let out a sigh. ‘You were so good at hiding.’