CHAPTER 60 #2
‘Tired?’ Harriet could see it through his eyes. It was tired, she could accept that. Geraniums in Owen’s terracotta pots would help, but what they really needed was—
‘I wanted to help out a bit financially,’ he admitted. ‘Without you realising.’
‘I see.’ Owen kept telling her she was too proud to accept help. You’re not Superwoman, he’d told her. Little did he know.
‘And your typing was great,’ Henry said, beaming at her. ‘Really great.’
‘Thanks.’ Harriet didn’t need to hear any more. She hadn’t even got that job by virtue of her typing skills or interview technique. She’d simply been her mother’s daughter. ‘I’ll make us some tea,’ she said.
‘Lovely.’ He smiled. ‘But before you do . . .’
What now? The moving-in speech? Already? Harriet eyed him warily.
‘Audrey – our mother . . .’ He blinked.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, she’s been telling me that things haven’t been too easy here.’ He put his hands together to form a pyramid, as though this was a problem that could be solved using the correct mathematical equation.
Harriet tried not to feel resentful. He was family now. ‘You could say that,’ she hedged.
He gazed at her intently. ‘I’d like to help if I can,’ he said.
‘Really?’ It would take a lot more than moving a trestle table to do that.
He nodded. ‘You see, I’ve got a fair bit of cash I don’t know what to do with,’ he said.
Harriet blinked. She wasn’t sure she had ever heard anyone say anything like that before.
‘I’d love to, er, invest in Mulberry Farm Cottage.’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘Bring it a bit more up to date. Make things more comfortable.’
‘Would you?’ Immediately, Harriet was suspicious. What was his game? Was this how he was planning to inveigle his way in? ‘And why would you want to do that?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose I’d like our mother to have a good standard of living,’ he said. ‘Not that I’m suggesting there’s anything wrong—’
‘I know.’ Now wasn’t the time for pride. Owen was right.
‘I wouldn’t expect anything in return,’ he assured her. ‘I don’t need anything. The cottage would remain yours, naturally.’
Harriet wasn’t sure what to say to that.
‘And you,’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘I’d like to do something to help you.’
Harriet glared at him. Did she look as though she needed his help? ‘Why?’ she snapped.
‘Because you’re my sister.’
Yet again, Harriet felt her eyes fill. Angrily, she turned away. All this emotion – she wasn’t used to it, and she didn’t seem able to deal with it somehow.
*
Joanna was in the kitchen. The sharp scent of tomatoes, mixed with sweet basil and oregano, filled the air.
Harriet stared at her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Making spaghetti Bolognese. For supper.’
‘You’re making supper?’ Harriet looked around the kitchen. She was ready to complain about the amount of washing-up that needed to be done but Joanna appeared to have only used one pan. What was wrong with everyone today? Why were they all being so helpful?
‘Anyone would think I can’t cook,’ Joanna grumbled. ‘Or that I don’t help out around here.’
Hmm. Well, she had been a touch distracted lately. Harriet checked the living room to ensure that Mother was out of earshot. All clear.
‘Henry wants to invest in the cottage,’ she told Joanna.
‘How much?’ Her sister continued stirring the sizzling contents of the pan.
‘He didn’t say,’ Harriet admitted. Though it was bound to be a decent amount. She filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘Tea?’
‘Hmm. Mother reckons he’s loaded,’ Joanna went on. She slurped a bit of Bolognese sauce from the wooden spoon. ‘Ouch.’ Fanned her mouth with her hand. ‘He’s had all sorts of stuff published; he’s quite famous in the academic world.’
‘Really?’ Harriet looked out of the window to where Henry was still struggling with the trestle table.
‘And apparently he’s had money left to him too. Quite a bit. So he retired early.’
‘Hmm.’ Lucky old Henry. ‘He’ll want to move in,’ she said gloomily.
‘Mother wants him to.’
Harriet spun round to face her. ‘What? You mean you’ve discussed it?’ Without her?
Joanna waved the wooden spoon at her. ‘And you know what that means, Het?’
‘No more privacy?’ She splashed in some water to warm the teapot. Took cups and saucers from the ancient dresser and put them on a tray. ‘A stranger in our midst? A male stranger to boot?’
Joanna clicked her tongue – a very irritating habit. ‘It means, sweet sister of mine, that you’re free.’
‘Free?’ Had she lost her marbles?
Joanna dropped the wooden spoon. Harriet watched, mesmerised, as it sank slowly into the Bolognese sauce like the Titanic.
‘No more slaving over a hot stove for the café . . .’ She turned and grasped Harriet’s hands in hers.
‘No more growing veg as if your life depended on it. No more having to stay at home to look after Mother.’
‘But . . .’
‘No more fattening up the pigs for Owen, collecting the eggs from the henhouse, picking the plums from the orchard.’
‘But . . .’ She’d never seen Joanna so cheerful. At least, not for a long time.
‘No pickling and bottling.’ Her sister was laughing now, half dancing round the kitchen, dragging Harriet with her. Clearly, she’d gone completely bonkers. ‘No more making jam,’ she sang. ‘No more produce to take to market. No more blackberry picking. You’re free!’
‘But . . .’ It was too much to take in. Didn’t Harriet like to do all those things? Wasn’t that her life? Still, she laughed. She couldn’t help it. Joanna was making her feel like a child again.
‘You could go anywhere.’ Joanna stopped dancing. She squeezed Harriet’s hands more tightly. Her dark eyes were gleaming.
‘So . . .’
‘So, you could move out of here. You could do some travelling. Or some studying maybe. You could do anything. Anything you wanted.’
Anything she wanted? In a daze, she watched Joanna turn her attention back to the spag Bol. In a daze she made the tea, set two cups aside for Joanna and Mother, poured the milk into a jug and took the tray out to Big Barn.
Anything she wanted? She was thirty-nine years old. She had lived here all her life. What on earth would she do?