Free The Haunting of Harriet by Jennifer Button Page B

again, kissing her goodnight and stroking her tangle of hair as if it were spun from the purest of silk. He would lift her onto his shoulders, calling her his “little nightingale” while laughing at her funny face as she twisted round to meet his eyes. As long as he was there she was content to live this strange half-life with him. The thought of life without her father was unbearable. Without her brother it would be hell.

C HAPTER 4
    T hat summer of 1940 was heaven, a glorious season of continuous sunshine. War was raging over Europe but in this tiny pocket of Kent life was blissful. The twins watched the planes with old Tom, who would abandon his digging to wave at the tiny Spitfires and the great Lancasters that flew past on missions, having taken off from the nearby airfield at West Malling. Tom said they were “off to bomb the bloody Hun” and taught them to count them out then count them back again, saying a quiet prayer for any brave pilot who failed to return. The Hun was far away; an unknown monster in a funny-shaped helmet. To the children, war was an exciting but distant adventure. To Mrs P, the stalwart rotund housekeeper, it was a great excuse to deny any request they made with the stock answer, “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” To their poor father it was an added burden of shame, sending him deeper into his miserable shell.
    Old Tom was too old to be called up but suffered none of his employer’s guilt. He had done his bit in the last war. Once was enough. He never wanted to go through “that lot” again. He had tried rather half-heartedly to enlist for this second lot but age was against him. He was turned down. To avoid feeling useless he dug for England. He grew it and his wife, the indomitable Mrs P pickled, preserved, potted or embalmed it. They would certainly not starve while she was in charge. Beckmans became a production line with chickens pecking round the orchard and ducks inhabiting the small island in the centre of the lake. No one minded or noticed if the Pritchard’s meagre income was supplemented with the occasional clutch of eggs or a freshly plucked chicken.
    Old Tom could never deny the children anything, especially his time, and they loved him for it. His resourcefulness knew no bounds but he excelled himself when he came home with a dilapidated old dinghy. He presented it to the ecstatic children, who with his help, made her sea-worthy in no time. They christened her the Jolly Roger and she was launched at precisely midday with a shot from David’s toy cannon and a bottle of ginger beer smashed across her bow. Tom had also acquired a boat hook, long and wooden with a large brass hook on the end. Best of all was the fact that he had taken the time to carve their initials into the end of the long shaft, which made it theirs alone. It was the best present the twins had ever had. From the moment she was launched the boat became the centre of their lives. Harriet did most of the rowing, being the stronger, but David’s keen eyes made him a great navigator. He could spot a shark or an enemy vessel long before anyone else. By the end of summer their father was confined to a wheelchair but on a good day Tom would wheel him down the garden to watch the buccaneers in action. No pleasure registered on his distorted face yet his daughter knew that he was smiling inside.
    Mama had taken to lying in her solitary bed, seldom rising before two in the afternoon, when she would waft downstairs clad in her silk kimono and clouds of perfume and smoke. Gliding into the drawing-room, she would pour herself a drink, then stand at the long French windows gazing out across the lawn, her black cigarette firmly planted in its holder, smoke billowing from her red lips. She had a perfect view of the lake from this vantage point. She must have seen the little boat and its crew merrily cavorting around the island but she never mentioned it. She appeared disinterested in anything to do with her family