CHAPTER TWO HARRIET STRATTON

CHAPTER TWO

H ARRIET S TRATTON

J ULY 2002

Harriet Stratton sat in the soft, low leather chair that had been in her family forever. The cottage might have been new to her, the surroundings strange, but to sit in the familiar confines of the chair made her feel a little more at home. With her long legs curled beneath her, the green cloth notebook rested on her knees as she tapped her favourite ink pen on her teeth – a terrible habit that she knew would cause minute fissures, dents and damage to the enamel, almost imperceptible and yet enough to lead to nothing good in old age. Not that she was remotely fussed about aesthetics or even function as she carried on tapping, quite liking the distracting rhythm in her head. She didn't care about much right now. It was more a case of trying to stay upright and she had few reserves for anything else. She needed all her energy to try to figure out how to go forward, how to reclaim all that was once hers.

Opening the stiff front cover, she stared at the blank page and felt ridiculously self-conscious. It wasn't the kind of thing she did, keep a diary. It felt indulgent, vain, silly even. I mean, who had time to write a diary? If she wasn't travelling to and from work, she was whipping up supper for the kids, washing their clothes, tidying the house, chasing the hamster around the bathroom floor, constantly dashing to collect a prescription, a package, dry cleaning, groceries, a child from a friend's house or an after-school event, and when the sun came out she mowed grass and did her best to keep the weeds at bay in the flower beds, wishing she had more time to tend to the garden she loved. Always something to do ...

Her conversation with her sister Ellis came to mind.

‘It's good for your soul, cathartic! Write it all down! Get it out! And do let me know that you're doing it; at least then I'll be able to look beyond that sanguine smile and know that there is rage being expelled on to the page! I'll sleep better.'

‘Oh, well, if it'll make you sleep better ...' she'd laughed, wondering if there was any truth in it. Could capturing her thoughts and secrets in a journal be of benefit? And for whom? Herself? What a preposterous idea. She was a scientist, not a writer. Happier with data sets, chemicals, droppers, test tubes, and a question to be answered. She preferred to have a Petri dish in her hand rather than a pen. It had always been the clear demarcation between her and her sister. Harriet was bookish, bespectacled and busy, while Ellis was creative, careless and calm. Their mother used to say that if she had had one child with all their attributes they would surely be the most rounded human being on the planet. Instead she'd given birth to two halves of the apple.

She felt the inevitable squeeze to her heart at the thought of her late mother.

‘Right,' she spoke aloud, as she removed the pen's cap and placed the long nib on the paper, ‘here goes nothing.'

July 2nd 2002

A diarist!

Who even am I?

I jest but there's truth in it. I hardly recognise the person sitting here in this pretty sitting room. The French doors are thrown open and sunlight streaks the honey-coloured dusty wooden floor. Another job to add to the list! The hallways are still cluttered with boxes. In my distracted state, I neglected to label them properly, despite Hugo handing me a clutch of fat black markers for just that purpose. So rather than put obvious notes like DINING ROOM, ATTIC or CHARITY – I have instead created merry mayhem. I'm staring at a box through the open door right now, one of several stacked against the wall, and it says quite simply WOOL. For goodness' sake, Harriet! Does that mean jerseys for the closet? Socks for a drawer? Blankets for the ends of beds? You can see my quandary. So with no one to blame but myself, each box requires opening and sorting through before the contents can be allocated a final home. Hence the clutter, confusion and the need to navigate the obstacle course every time we leave or enter the house. I think the kids would love it, having to boulder their way into the sitting room or kitchen.

And trust me, clutter and confusion are two bedfellows I can't wait to kick out. Which is, in part, the reason we have moved here, away from Berkshire, away from our home in Ledwick Green. It's the prettiest village with all the usual attributes: a little school with flint walls and a matching church. A pub, post office and shop. An Easter egg hunt, Christmas carol service, summer fete. And enough well-off busybodies to ensure each event runs like clockwork and with lashings of cake.

It was a decision made in haste. When the shouting had almost stopped, the tears slowed, and my body lost some of its tremble, we made the decision to rent the place out one night before bedtime, on the landing as we passed each other in our pyjamas.

‘Should we go? Get away? Start over?' I think it was him who said it and I nodded. It seemed obvious.

‘Yes.'

That really was the extent of our exchange, as if he'd asked if I fancied porridge for breakfast or had I finished in the bathroom. It set a course for us for which I was thankful, am thankful, as it means I don't have to think. I have, for the last eight weeks, let the current of events carry me along: tending to the children, packing boxes, cleaning corners, folding clothes and bedding, and soaking in the tub at the end of every day wondering when the world might stop spinning.

We put the word out, abandoned half our furniture, and here we are in a new county, in a new house, hoping the incoming tenants of Ledwick Green – a family returning to the UK – treat our furniture kindly. They don't arrive for a month or so. We met them briefly, the Latteridges. They're a fashion-conscious, neat couple who are renting it for a year; a couple who seemed far too pleased with themselves to be my cup of tea. The kind my mother would horrendously describe as nouveau riche. Her snobbery was legendary and so overt it was quite humorous. I'm certain she over-egged it just for us.

‘Oh, please, Harriet, packet bacon? Did I not raise a daughter who understands the value of befriending and supporting a local butcher? What next, paper napkins? Those ghastly gluey blobs that sit in one's loo? Over-tipping staff? It's enough to make your poor mother shudder!'

I wonder what she'd make of all this. It's not like she didn't have practice dealing with disaster after disaster. I refer, of course, to my darling little sister Ellis and the lost dog, the flooded basement, the drunken New Year's Eve, the arrival of Maisie ...

Poor Mum. I can picture her now, rolling up her sleeves, jutting her chin and saying, ‘Right ...' before launching into a detailed strategy of how things were going to get resolved. Not sure even she could resolve this knotty mess. But I know she'd have given it a good try. How I miss her. Selfishly, I think what I miss most is the safety net she provided when things went belly up. Knowing I could always call on her for any emergency, big or small, it made me feel ... safe. Now I'm a little adrift. Thank God for Ellis, and Maisie too, who might have her head in the clouds like her Mumma but is a beautiful soul. She wrote to me. I hid the letter from Hugo – he has always adored her and let's just say her commentary on her uncle was not that favourable.

Don't think he has ever been called a bloody idiot – and yet these were her words of choice. Can't decide if she's being disrespectful or heroic. One thing's for sure, she's made her allegiance clear and I take comfort from that. Not that we are or will ever be at that ‘pick a side' stage. Of course not. But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that to know this is how our niece feels is nice for me.

I can hear Hugo in the kitchen. He's clattering around, making an unholy racket. I expect he's filling cupboards, putting the kids' nursery handprints up on the fridge door, unwrapping crockery, placing utensils into the earthenware pots in which they live and pressing buttons on the cooker to try and set the time.

And he's singing.

Singing.

And why not, I suppose? It's not something that's possible for me right now, not yet. I have a small pebble of hurt that sits at the base of my throat and try as I might, I can't shift it. Talking and swallowing are tricky enough, let alone belting out a melody as Hugo is right now ... I think it's Toto's ‘Africa'. Yes, yes it is. He's just got to the chorus.

To think only three months ago I would have jumped up, run to him, grabbed a spoon, and made it a duet. He always brought out my sillier side. I guess he gave me the confidence to be silly. He gave me confidence full stop.

But now? I'm cloaked in self-consciousness. My confidence is water thin and my heart ... my heart is in tatters. But I'm determined. There are even moments of optimism. Glimpses of the before life – small things like the mindless retelling of something seen, a book recommendation, a fact heard on the radio, a chat about supper – and when they occur, we cling to them, elevate them, and over-celebrate; so much so that it only serves to highlight that for the rest of the time we are pretending.

Yet still I cling to those moments. Like now, as I sit here, a little broken, listening as he sings ...

‘There you are!' Hugo walked into the sitting room and as unhurriedly as she could manage, Harriet closed the diary.

‘Here I am.'

He walked straight to the French doors, standing in the dying light as if disinterested in her scribbling – or unnoticing. Either way she felt a flush of relief. Her writing was not something she intended to share.

Ever.

‘It's a beautiful evening, the sky is on fire.'

‘Do you think we'll ever get sick of it, take the view for granted?' She stood, placed the book on the lamp table and came to rest behind him, standing so close she could smell the end-of-day sweat mixed with his cologne. He reached back and pulled her arm over his shoulder, kissing her fingers and holding her hand inside his, knitted over his heart as they stared at the sunset.

‘How could we ever take it for granted? It's beautiful and different every time. What could possibly spoil such a majestic moment?'

‘Mmm.'

She made the noise, not wanting to risk talking or giving free rein to the tears that threatened. How could he possibly know that in that second, as she stared at the pale stripe of his cotton shirt and wondered if this was one he'd worn when he was with her – the woman who had taken a scythe to all Harriet had thought was secure – the moment was entirely spoiled for her?

Her thoughts returned as they often did to that sunny May evening as blossom lay on the ground.

‘Are you ...' She had swallowed, feeling ridiculously awkward, foolish even in having to ask. ‘Are you having an affair?'

His reply had been instant, insistent, strong in the denial. ‘What a bloody ridiculous thing to say to me! No!'

‘I need to know who you were on the phone to.' Her voice quieter this time, not so confident in the face of his absolute denial.

‘I ...' His lips had turned bloodless and nerves instantly made his face shiny.

Her thoughts returned to this point often, that moment when her marriage, her life, had begun to unravel.