A= Character Building - Harriet

There hadn't been a single night when Harriet had not kissed the
photograph of Lucy before she turned off her bedside lamp. Her parents
didn't know it, but as soon as they had said goodnight she picked up
the small, square frame and rested her head on the pillow to look at
it, making herself comfortable enough to stare at it for quite some
time. The young pug's eyes glinted back at her from behind the glass as
Harriet tormented herself, desperately trying to imagine the feel of
her soft, grainy fur and comical folds of skin. Rosie would never take
her place, ever. Harriet loved Rosie, but she wasn't Lucy, she could
never be Lucy.


Placing the picture back on her bedside table Harriet turned
off the lamp. It was the school holidays and she was glad to be home,
sleeping in her own room with its smell of fresh linen and pot-pourri
and little roses on the walls with matching border. She reflected on
the best parts of the day; a leisurely breakfast with mummy and daddy,
filling up on her favourite croissant and marmalade. This had been
washed down with a large cup of filter coffee, containing as much sugar
as she could get away with without her mother flinching. Then had been
the clearing up of the breakfast things and tidying around the kitchen,
getting used, again, to where the crockery went. Her mother had given
her a brief tutorial on how to use the new dishwasher, a formidable
tool, with a wonderfully reflective interior. She loved new things, the
whooshing and whirring of the dishwasher had given her quite a thrill.
She and her mother had giggled together as they'd waited for it to
complete its task, anticipating the glossy interiors of the coffee
cups. Daddy, having taken the longest time over his breakfast, because
he also read a morning paper, had then gone to install himself in his
study overlooking the garden.


Daddy's study was her favourite room in the house. It had
bookshelves from floor to ceiling on two walls, with every conceivable
book about the financial world or economics, and some fun books too
that she occasionally dipped into, especially if they were glossy and
pictorial, though there was an even better collection of coffee-table
books in the sitting room. Best of all was his vast collection of
gadgets. He was a big collector of all sorts of things, but his
favourites were books, paintings and gadgets. The paintings were
stashed in the loft which had purpose-built storage for art work. At
the moment he was collecting the work of one particular artist who used
line and wash in incredible detail with added body colour. He would
exhibit his latest purchase on a brass easel in the sitting room until
he bought the next piece. The gadgets came from various trendy shops in
town, some quite exclusive, displaying their expensive wares under
glass. Apart from the latest computer technology, he had his own
shredder and mini-photocopier and his huge cherry-stained desk was
bordered with photographs in unusual modern frames. There were numerous
notepads, always with some quirky shape or design, and various pen
holders and desk games which depended on some law of physics to
maintain their mesmerising motion.


After carrying Daddy's second cup of coffee in after him she
had reluctantly left the room, first watching him tune in to the latest
financial statistics on the T.V. suspended on brackets above his desk,
using his remote control.


It was this desk-bound life that had made him so grossly
overweight; he couldn't resist a little nibble whilst working. Indeed
he looked somewhat like a Dickensian caricature by a combination of
both weight and natural features. He was quite a tall man but, in spite
of expensive tailoring, his legs looked short under the shadow of his
vast girth. He had glossy-brown girlish curls, though he never keep his
hair any longer than his collar, and visited the barber regularly. His
complexion was permanently pink and shiny with the exertion of carrying
his weight, and he wore little gold-rimmed spectacles that dwarfed his
eyes, drowning them further into the depths of his excessive facial
flesh. Biscuits, confectionary and cakes were his downfall. They
shopped every week at Marks and Spencer, the quality of their fresh
food being superior to any other similarly sized food outlet in the
vicinity. It did involve quite a journey from their rural village to
the nearest town, but his wife shared his love of motoring, especially
at this time of year when the trees were just budding and the grass was
becoming greener by the day. With Harriet being home for the Easter
break they had really gone overboard, filling up the fridge with all
the family favourites. Harriet had inherited his sweet tooth with a
vengeance, but by some genetic quirk she had not acquired his aptitude
for gaining weight.


Once the door was closed on Daddy he was not to be disturbed
until lunchtime. If he wanted a snack or drink before then, he would
come out and get it himself, only passing the time of day in the
slightest possible sense. It was left to Harriet and her mother to
amuse themselves. Today they had decided to take Rosie for a walk
around Rosemount Park. Their house stood just a few hundred yards away
from the end of an avenue which led to a substantial stately home,
still lived in by its owners, but open to the public during the summer
months. It was particularly noted for its gardens and the condition and
quality of the interiors. Though they had only lived in the house for a
year they had visited countless times, and now considered themselves
experts on its history and layout. Harriet was particularly proud of
the knowledge she had attained of the family and their ancestry. She
was especially interested in the exploits of aristocratic women in the
twentieth century. She loved a romantic intrigue or political
misdemeanour; but equally she loved the lavishness of the rich
interiors. They were the stuff of fantasy; yet she still allowed
herself to believe that one day she may brush with real wealth.



They wouldn't be entering the gates of the park for their
walk; rather they would take a steady pace through the arable farmland
of the surrounding area. The fields were awakening with the first deep
green shoots and the day was the most pleasant so far in the season.
Warmth could be felt in the sun's presence and her mother unbuttoned
her navy cardigan and loosened her silk scarf a little. They both wore
the customary green Wellingtons. It would have been better however, if
her mother had not struck up a conversation about
school.


'You seem to be having a good term darling; it seems to have
been a good thing that we decided you should move schools. Thank you
for all your letters; I do love to read them you know.'



'Oh, that's no problem, I love writing, you know that. It's
good to do as much writing as I can, Miss Dalton said
so.'


'Yes, you have improved a lot, but your handwriting does look
very spiky all of a sudden.'


'Well, I like it. Anyway, I'm not as slow as I used to be
when I write. I keep a diary at school as well, and I write down all
the news I've sent to people in letters, so that I don't forget where
I'm up to.'


'Gosh, that sounds very organised. I'm sure I couldn't be as
organised as you, that's super. And you're enjoying your English
Literature course aren't you; I saw you had a book of Coleridge's
poetry in your room.'


'Yes, we're studying "Christabel."'


'That's a pretty name isn't it, is that a
poem?'


'Yes, well sort of. It's very mysterious.'


'Mysterious, oh, I see. What else are you
studying?'


'We've got a whole list of other things to read, but for now
we're looking at Virginia Woolf's "To the Lighthouse" as well as
Coleridge.


'Now she was an odd ball wasn't she?'


'I find her very interesting.'


'Well I suppose she is interesting. Anyway, I do hope that
you carry on going from strength to strength with your English darling,
Daddy and I are so pleased to see you struggling less with your reading
and writing.'


Harriet couldn't have given a name to the feeling her mother
gave her when she spoke to her in this manner, but she felt that this
primary school kind of praising was not what she wanted at all. She
wanted to feel sophisticated; that her writing really communicated
something special. She got so much enjoyment from using long words and
descriptions, making her letters as lengthy as possible, just to show
that she could write a substantial amount confidently with few of her
customary errors. She had been receiving extra tuition in English and
her teacher had motivated her a great deal, instilling a confidence in
the potential of her abilities that she had never before dared to
believe. 'That's super,' was not an adequate measure of how she saw
herself at the moment. Indeed, the new school was igniting quite a
spirit in her.


They turned a bend in the path and started to enter the
woodland near where the grouse shooters often came. Harriet called to
Rosie and attached her to her leash, so that she didn't get into
trouble, sniffing out dead grouse. They heard shots reverberating in
the air, and Rosie looked up at them sheepishly, knowing she wouldn't
get what she wanted.


'Oh, goodness, I do hate that sound,' said her mother
re-fastening her scarf a little tighter and buttoning up her cardigan
in response to the cooler woodland shade. Harriet had never adjusted
her jacket; it had remained zipped right to the chin. She tended to
feel the cold. Another shot fired, and she had to yank Rosie's chain to
reprimand her for wanting to run off. She could see her mother flinch
at the sound, yet Harriet herself felt an uneasy pleasure at the
strange death knell.


'Shall we turn back now then?' She heard herself
say.


'Yes, I think so darling, lets.'


She let her mother walk a little ahead. She found herself
staring at her back. She suddenly felt a deep resentment for the woman
with her lumpen figure and unchallenging mid-length wavy brown hair.
She watched her striding on, her hands in her cardigan pockets, her
floral skirt brushing the top of her Wellington boots. She let Rosie
off her leash again and swung the chain round and round swishing the
air, catching the hawthorn branches, making their young leaves scatter
on the path. Unable to control her imaginings, Harriet was experiencing
a most intense desire to swing the heavy chain at her mother's head,
cracking her skull open, letting the blood spoil the recently shampooed
gloss of her curls. She could see herself standing over her body as it
lay face down on the earthy path, her skirt showing her petticoat and
perhaps a little of her fat legs. She pictured herself at the scene
screaming and screaming and screaming.


When they had got home they had slipped off their boots at
the door and carried them into the utility room sink to be scrubbed.
Harriet did the job herself while her mother got on with the lunch
preparations. She scrubbed furiously, getting every last speck even out
of the soles.


The afternoon had been passed in the sitting room with books
and music, and plans had been made as to how the rest of the holiday
was to be spent. Sally was coming to stay for a week-end, and this was
what Harriet looked forward to more than anything. She planned to read
out loud to her, as Sally had declared how much she liked the sound of
her trained voice. She would read her the best parts of Christabel and
see what she made of them. They would go together to Rosemount and
Harriet would tell her everything she knew and impress her with her
knowledge. It was going to be so much fun. She wasn't sure what her
parents might think of Sally though, she wasn't the sort of girl you
could easily slot into a category, and her mother so liked to know how
to relate to a person; especially when it came to their background.
Sally's background was not one that Harriet was used to, but this
exited her and they had such a good laugh together. They were a couple
of mavericks. Sally didn't mind the undignified behaviour she sometimes
liked to indulge in: uncontrolled laughter, iconoclasm, sheer
idiocy.


Harriet never found it easy to go to sleep, however crisp and
fresh her bed linen was, she would be restless. It would either be the
disconcerting shadow of the tree outside swaying on the bedroom wall,
or odd noises which made her heart start to race. She would think she
heard Rosie barking or her mother crying, though she knew this was all
irrational. She had been like this for as long as she could remember,
and didn't know the bliss of a swift succumbing to unconsciousness. She
never considered herself odd for her tossing and turning. Being an only
child meant no sibling comparisons were possible. At school she always
assumed people stayed awake as long as she did, but preferred to lie
quiet and still. She drew no comfort from the presence of others in her
bedroom at night, in fact, if anything, it made her yet more sleepless;
their calm, formless existence weighing heavy on her mind. She couldn't
stop being aware of them, couldn't detach herself for a moment from
their proximity to her.


She always tried to end her day with thoughts of happy times,
as her mother encouraged her to do, saying that this would aid pleasant
dreams and good rest; but she rarely achieved this. Instead she would
find herself clenching her fists tight and pressing her lips together
until they were bloodless. She would have to make a conscious effort to
open out her hands and rest her palms on the cool sheets. Tonight was
no exception. She lay listening to a light wind disturbing the new
leaves on the trees, all the pleasant memories of the day shifting into
the background of her mind. Gradually old ghosts took centre stage in
her thoughts, mingling with new disturbances in her consciousness; why
had she felt like being violent towards her mother today? Unaware,
though she was, of her deepest needs and desires, she felt like a
coiled spring of emotion, and an urge to clutch on to something,
anything, or anyone dominated her senses. Going to sleep was to lunge
out of control and she feared this more than anything.


More often than not she would finally give up the fight by
letting the words of a hymn reel through her mind. At her old school
her best friend had played the guitar and accompanied herself singing
hymns and spiritual songs, as she was devoted to her Christian faith.
The sound of her voice would often be the last thing to pass through
her mind, though this was also never free from the memory of events she
would rather forget.


Suddenly she sat bolt upright and reprimanded herself. She
had forgotten to do her rosary. Oh dear lord! She switched the lamp
back on and fumbled in the drawer of her bedside table, pulling out the
lovely string of blue silk beads that took the weight of the silver
crucifix. Unable to bear the light, she switched off the lamp and
recited in the dark the Hail Marys, tucking the duvet back under her
chin and working her fingers along the beads under the covers. When she
finally reached the final Amen, she hadn't the strength left to replace
the rosary in the drawer and she slept with it woven between her
fingers, finally comforted by the image of the virgin, clad in her blue
and white garments praying to God for His forgiveness of Harriet's
sins. As she drifted into sleep, however, the image of Coleridge's
mysterious Geraldine was as close to her heart as the Blessed Mary.