The Haunting of Harriet Read Free Page A

to the moment when she had first seen that window.

    She was bathed in that light. Looking up she saw it. Large and round, it dominated the hall, even though partially boarded up for reasons of security or safety. She knew instinctively how it must once have looked. There was no need for Harriet’s description, Liz’s imagination filled in the gaps. It depicted a Tudor rose. Intricate black lead lines held the petals of glass, which deepened from blush-pink to rose-madder as they neared the heart of the flower. Liz took hold of the curved banister beside the staircase and a thick covering of dust parted as she ran her hand along the Georgian mahogany. Removing her glove, she let her bare skin touch the wood and slide sensuously along the curve of the rail. The wood was smooth-polished by years of hands doing exactly what she was doing now. Led on by Harriet, she climbed the first flight of stairs that swept up through the heart of the house before dividing on either side of a wide landing, which was dominated by the great window.
    The landing was about the size of their present bedroom and from here the hall looked even more enormous. Liz counted seven doors. Where did they all lead? There was so much to explore, too much. She resolved to make a quick tour today to get the feel of the place; if it was what she wanted she could come back and peruse it at leisure. If? There was no “if”. She knew she would return. There was no doubt she was meant to live in this house.
    The ceiling showed some signs of damp. She remembered watching Mel’s husband Bob tap walls with his knuckles when he was assessing a job, so she did the same; as nothing appeared to fall or crumble she deemed the property pretty sound. Already seductive colour charts were appearing before her eyes, tempting her with their subtle shades. Her feet imagined the luxurious pile of antique carpets as they carried her along the bare boards westward to a large Tudor room. The room was full of beams: oaken, straight, curved, thick and thin, all steeped in a shared history, part of the original house. Large beams forming a cross divided the high ceiling into four. Though deprived for the moment of its grand full-tester bed with acanthus carved pillars and goose-feather pillows, this was a masterful bedroom fit for a husband and wife: perfect for Edward and Liz.
    Harriet smiled. This woman needed no guide. She was at one with the house. The old woman knew their destinies were inextricably linked. At last here was someone she could trust.
    Together they explored the whole of the first floor, one discovering each new room, the other releasing memories that had remained buried for too long. In the smaller eastern wing Liz discovered a vast joke of a bathroom. A Heath Robinson geyser and the remains of three cast-iron baths of different sizes stood marooned in the centre, conjuring the image of children at bath-time, the splashes and giggles so vivid the soap almost stung her eyes. Harriet had memories exactly like that from so long ago. She laughed at Liz, who had clambered into the largest of the bath tubs. The three baths shared nine legs between them, which was not quite enough as Goldilocks was to discover when the daddy bath collapsed under her weight, evicting an army of spiders that scurried for cover. Horrified by the scuff mark left by her boot, Liz looked around for a cloth to remove it. Then, realizing that the meagre amount of remaining enamel would scarcely coat a bedpan, she laughed at her over-developed sense of domesticity. The baths were rusted through beyond repair and to Liz’s delight a small mouse had nested in the down pipe of the baby one. So much for the plumbing!
    Harriet was enjoying the company. It had been so long since she had found anything to laugh at. Life had become a tedious round of monotonous tasks; were it not for the knowledge that she had not fulfilled her purpose, her destined task, she would have packed it all in long ago. She