CHAPTER 57 #2
At that, Harriet smiled across at her sister.
Yes, she’d always been good at hiding. But no more.
There was no point in hiding anymore. Whatever jealousies there had been in the past between them, she could feel them slipping away.
The truth was that Joanna was her sister and she loved her – irritating habits and all.
They would be there for one another, because that’s what sisters did.
A trouble shared . . . ‘In the mulberry tree,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’ Then Joanna’s brow cleared. ‘Of course.’ She laughed. ‘I should have known.’
‘Men are never easy,’ their mother added somewhat randomly. ‘Your father . . .’ She let out an involuntary little gasp.
Goodness knows where it had come from. But Harriet froze, just as she had been about to stack the plates and take them back into the kitchen. She had heard that gasp so many times – in the dream.
She turned to look into her mother’s eyes. Her mother was scared. But why should she be scared? ‘The way you gasped just then,’ Harriet said. ‘I remember.’
And suddenly she did. She had seen her mother’s eyes widen in fear before and she had heard her gasp.
She had seen Father move towards her and she had heard her mother scream.
She had blocked it but she had seen it. Back then and again and again in her dream.
No. Because he wouldn’t, would he? Not Father.
‘What?’ Mother’s expression was steady now, but Harriet could hear the trepidation in her voice. ‘What do you remember, Harriet?’
‘His hands around your throat,’ Harriet whispered. How could you? How could you?
‘Harriet, no.’ Joanna spoke in a shocked, hushed tone. ‘You don’t—’
‘Nonsense.’ Their mother’s lips were a thin line of denial. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Harriet. Your father worshipped the ground I walked on. He adored me. He would never have lifted a finger—’
‘I saw it, Mother.’ Somehow, Harriet couldn’t stop now.
It was bunched up inside her and she needed to let it go.
She had to, otherwise she’d never be free.
But God knows what or who she would smash in the process.
‘I saw him. He was almost strangling you. If I hadn’t come down the stairs when I did, if I hadn’t heard you scream—’
‘My God, Harriet, that’s enough.’ Joanna’s face was white. ‘Stop it. Now.’
Mother was crying. Tears were trickling down the lines of laughter, of worry, of sadness and loss. So much in one life, Harriet thought.
Joanna leant forwards across the table and took their mother’s hands in hers. ‘Is it true, Mother?’ she whispered.
Harriet couldn’t move. She needed confirmation.
Of course, she hadn’t realised back then that her father could have actually killed her mother if she hadn’t come down the stairs at that exact moment.
Would he have? Surely not. But she had blocked it nevertheless.
Father had always been her hero; after death, even more so.
She had forgotten his flaws and built him up into something much more than he had ever been in reality.
‘Why did he do it, Mother?’ Harriet asked.
‘Why did he do it when he loved you so much?’ She could barely speak.
She felt as if her entire world was falling apart.
The man she had loved more than life itself.
The man she had looked up to, worshipped and adored.
Was it possible he could have done such a thing?
For a moment, their mother was quiet. Harriet wanted her heart to go out to her, but it stayed, trapped and chilly, inside. She simply didn’t know what to think anymore.
‘I wrote about it all,’ their mother whispered. ‘About the baby. About that time in my life.’
‘About Henry?’ Joanna glanced across at Harriet. She reached out a hand and Harriet clutched at it like a drowning man.
‘I wrote about it in my diary,’ their mother continued. ‘I wanted to tell it how it was. I didn’t want it to be hushed up by everyone forever. I wanted my baby to exist, you see.’
‘I see,’ said Joanna.
‘I needed to acknowledge him.’ Mother’s shoulders sagged. She looked so sad, so weary. It must have been hard work, Harriet thought, to keep pretending. ‘I know it was only a diary, but it helped, and I never imagined for a second that—’
‘Father would read it,’ Joanna said it for her.
Had he been a suspicious man? Harriet had never seen that side of him, but she could picture him now, finding Mother’s diary in a drawer, wondering what charming domestic trivialities his wife had been writing about, smiling fondly, opening up the journal . . .
‘I had to give my son away.’ Their mother was still justifying herself. ‘You don’t know, you can’t imagine what it was like then. I was only seventeen.’
‘Who was the father?’ Harriet saw Joanna shoot her a warning look but she was beyond caring. This was a time for truth. All of it.
‘A friend of my brother’s,’ Mother told them. ‘We’d all gone out for a bit of a lark one summer’s day. It was hot and sunny. We were by the lake. We got separated from the others. We went swimming. I’d always liked him. Things, well, things got out of control . . .’
‘Did he persuade you to give the baby away?’ Joanna sounded sympathetic. She always did. But strangely, Harriet no longer felt bitter about that. She and Joanna – they were different, that was all.
‘He never knew about the baby.’ Mother hung her head.
‘Hardly anyone knew. We were both so young, you see. I wasn’t allowed to tell a soul.
In those days you went away to visit an aunt before you began to show too much, the baby was taken away from you and then you came back and went on as before.
When I came back home, he was courting some other girl. ’ She sighed.
They were silent. Harriet digested the information, the fact that actually her mother hadn’t had a choice either; it had all been decided for her. And after that sort of an experience, how could you simply go on as before?
‘But I still don’t understand . . .’ Joanna spoke slowly. ‘If it all happened before you even met Father, then why was he so angry?’
But Harriet knew. Things were different then between men and women. Father had put his young, beautiful wife on a pedestal and she’d brought it toppling down. What had he said to her? You are the purest, most beautiful thing. Their mother had made him feel a fool.
‘Because I hadn’t told him,’ their mother admitted. ‘How could I? He thought I was pure, innocent, untouched.’
Harriet thought of her father’s pride, the pleasure he got from his possessions. But they had to belong to him alone. They had to be new and untouched. He might never have wanted their mother if he’d known.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Joanna said. ‘And completely archaic.’
Harriet had to stop herself from leaping to her father’s defence.
Old habits died hard. Yes, it was ridiculous and, yes, it was archaic.
But Mother should have told him before they were married.
She shouldn’t have pretended that she was pure and untouched and she certainly should have told him she’d had a child.
Even if it meant losing him, she should have told him the truth.
She must have been ashamed – perhaps other people had made her feel ashamed.
But by not telling him, Father must have felt betrayed on two counts.
One, she had lied to him by omission; two, she wasn’t what he had always believed her to be.
She had deceived him and he’d never forgive her for that.
Even so . . . She knew that was no excuse.
Harriet scrutinised her mother, an elderly woman now, half broken by her losses, by the punishments meted out for the consequences of actions taken so recklessly and carelessly, for that one moment of passion and spontaneity.
Nevertheless, Mother had depended on their father.
And when she lost him too . . . She had still craved the attention he’d bestowed on her.
Because once, she had been put on a pedestal and it had proven a very long distance to fall.
Had he ever forgiven her for what she had done?
Yes, he had done his duty as her husband, but had he still loved her, still turned to her?
Not really. He had – to all intents and purposes – turned to Harriet instead.
And perhaps that had been part of her mother’s punishment too.
‘Poor Mother.’ Joanna got to her feet and took their mother in her arms. ‘Having to pretend for all these years.’
And poor Father, Harriet thought. Losing his trust in the woman he loved. Nevertheless . . . how could she forgive him for doing such a thing?
‘Did he ever . . . ? Was it . . . ?’ Harriet couldn’t say the words.
‘It was only that one time.’ Her mother seemed to know what she was thinking.
‘And did you regret it?’ Harriet whispered. ‘Did you regret giving your baby away?’
Their mother lifted her head. ‘Every day of my life,’ she said. ‘I never thought he’d make contact with me like he has. I didn’t think I deserved it. He’s a gift.’
No wonder, Harriet thought. No wonder she can’t get enough of him now.
Harriet reached for her mother’s hand. No one deserved to be punished for the rest of their life for one mistake made when they were seventeen. ‘I’m so sorry, Mother,’ she said. And she was – for all of it.
‘Do you know how much I love you?’ Their mother smiled sadly. ‘Both of you?’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Joanna hugged her.
Harriet nodded.
‘And do you forgive me?’ she said. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Of course we do,’ said Joanna. She didn’t even have to think about it, Harriet knew. ‘But Father . . .’ She shuddered and Harriet could see how horrified she was at what Mother had told them.
‘Harriet?’
The shutters were open. The band was loosening. Harriet wondered if she’d ever have that dream again. There were other memories – happy memories. She might have to work at them but she’d get there in the end. ‘Nothing to forgive,’ she said. Mother was who she was. Father too.