The Haunting of Harriet Read Free Page B

felt the old house coming back to life, responding to the vitality this young visitor had brought with her. Maybe she was the person who could unlock the past that had trapped her for so long; although in her heart Harriet did not believe there was a key to fit.
    Still chuckling, Liz climbed the last flight of stairs. “It’s quite safe. Trust me. Go on. This is the children’s room; I really want you to see it.” Shamed for pausing before gingerly testing the first step, Liz apologized. Such lack of trust was out of place. With renewed verve and scant regard for safety she bounded up the last ten stairs that led to the attic. Enormous, cavernous, a great cathedral of a room containing the huge beams that supported the house, it astounded her. It dwarfed her. Spurred on by an unseen energy, Liz ran into the centre. She spread her arms wide, threw her head back and began to spin like a top. With each rotation her laughing upturned face and long blonde hair caught the sunlight that shot through the missing peg tiles. Reliving her youth, Harriet spun with her, laughing heartily, until exhausted they collapsed to the floor, having retraced the steps of children long gone or yet to come. This haven echoed with the sound of youngsters playing and she wanted the Jessop twins to share it. The floor was hidden beneath a sea of nutshells, which scrunched and slipped beneath her feet. There were holes where squirrels, mice and rats had nested, and brown marks where rain and snow had got in. The Pote had found his Paradise. The enticing smells sent him into a frenzy of barking as he charged about intent on catching at least one of the squatters.
    Fortunately the house appeared to be as solid as a rock. The framework existed. The core, the heart was healthy. She could hear the sarcasm in Edward’s voice as he had muttered: “Nothing throwing money at it can’t solve.” Suddenly she no longer cared how much it was going to cost. She only knew she had to have it. Luckily most of her inheritance was untouched and Beckmans was the perfect project to spend it on. This house was a part of her, just as if she was heir to it. She belonged here. She resolved to restore Beckmans to its former glory and she laughed at the thought of her own impudence and indulgent extravagance. Harriet applauded her astuteness.

    “Aren’t you going to share the joke?” Edward slipped his arm around Liz’s waist.
    “Sorry, what was that?”
    “You were chuckling away at something.”
    “It’s because I’m so happy – and a bit giddy,” she said, throwing her head back to catch the latest rocket burst.
    “It’s from looking up so much. Great, isn’t it? Like being a kid again!”
    “Yes, isn’t it just!” Liz chuckled some more and returned to her nutshells.

    With amazement, she noticed it was already one o’clock and she had not touched the ground floor or the garden, with that intriguing boathouse. She counted six double bedrooms and plenty of space for shower-rooms and bathrooms. If they took it one project at a time it was quite feasible. She could talk to Bob about doing the building work. All they needed was a kitchen, a bathroom, a nursery and a bedroom for now. The rest they could do at their leisure. Her mind was frantically calculating how fast they would have to move to be in there ready to celebrate the millennium when something made her turn again to the east wing. At the end of the corridor was a second staircase, smaller, utilitarian, the servants’ stairs. Down and round she went, stepping carefully over the last tread. It was loose and needed fixing.
    The servants’ stairs brought her out in the business end of the house: sculleries, washrooms, bottle stores and cook-houses reeking of hams and coal, soap and ale, the memory of smells lingering in the fusty air. Liz moved from room to room, poking her fingers into the scars of vanished sinks, kitchen ranges, ovens and stoves wrenched from their homes; appliances that would