Page 19 of Summer on the French Riviera
‘Why didn’t he go with you?’
‘Because he didn’t know.’
‘About the fact you were going to the registrar – or didn’t know about me at all?’ Elodie said, turning in front of Harriet and stopping to face her.
‘Both.’ Harriet sidestepped Elodie and carried on walking. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have right now and certainly not in public.
‘Gabby told me once you went off the rails when granddad Eric died. Are you ashamed to name my father because of that? Was he a part of it all?’ Elodie’s voice was getting louder and Harriet registered the anger as she caught up with her mother. ‘It’s not as if I want to meet him if that’s what you are worried about. I don’t. I just want to know his name, how you met, how you felt about him. And I don’t understand why you won’t tell me about him. I do have the right to know about my father, surely?’ Elodie stepped in front of Harriet again, this time blocking the way and forcing her to stop. ‘Or is it a big secret because you simply don’t know who my father is?’
‘Stop shouting at me. I refuse to have this conversation with you in the street,’ Harriet said. ‘We’ll have this discussion another time – when you can keep calm and behave like a grown-up. Here you take Lulu,’ and she thrust the lead into Elodie’s hand. ‘I need to be alone for a bit.’
Elodie cursed under her breath, staring after Harriet as she turned and stormed away. It was her own fault. She’d been an idiot to start asking questions without warning, and Harriet was right. She had acted like a child. Wrong time, wrong place. But Harriet needn’t think she was going to stop asking questions. Because what was the point of living ‘en famille’ if she didn’t know the truth of her own personal family history?
* * *
Harriet took several deep breaths as she marched away from Elodie. She was furious with herself for letting Elodie’s questions get to her. Questions that she knew wouldn’t go away. Questions she knew she had to answer if the two of them were to build a meaningful relationship. But the ferocity in Elodie’s voice as she’d suggested that she couldn’t tell her about her father because she didn’t know who it was had shocked her. Because the truth was, she had gone through an out-of-control period of drinking too much, smoking and, yes, having several casual relationships, until the day Lizzie had taken her to task over her behaviour.
She and Lizzie had been in Lizzie’s bedroom getting ready for a Saturday night out in Torquay with friends when Lizzie had turned to her.
‘Hattie, promise me tonight you’ll behave? No drinking too much, no going outside with anybody and—’
Harriet had given her usual brittle laugh. ‘No point in going clubbing then is there? We’re going to have fun, fun, fun tonight.’
Lizzie had sighed. ‘Hattie, people are talking about you. Calling you names. You’ve got yourself quite a reputation in the last few months for being easy, being a tart. I hate being the one to tell you this, but your drinking and your behaviour are out of control.’ She’d paused. ‘You’ve changed from being the friend I know to being a stranger, who, quite honestly, I’m beginning to think I don’t want as a friend, or even to be associated with these days. This is the last Saturday night I’ll go out with you if you don’t behave this evening.’
Harriet had wanted to shrug her remarks away, instead she’d collapsed in a heap on the bed unable to stop the tears. But Lizzie’s words got through and forced her to take a long hard look at herself. Was that how people really thought of her? Her mum would be horrified and upset if she heard what people were saying. Her dad too, would have hated her living such a life and being talked about so crudely.
Harriet had choked back a sob. Deep down, she hated the person she’d turned into, but the spiral of grief over her dad had sucked her down so quickly she’d barely noticed what was happening to her. Lizzie’s words, the contempt in her voice, shook her. From that evening, all she wanted was to be the girl she used to be, the one who’d had self-respect, the one who wanted to make her father proud and her mother happy.
It was hard, so hard, but with Lizzie’s help, she gradually managed to change things. She gave up smoking, stopped drinking so much, didn’t go out on dates, let alone sleep with anyone, and slowly she got her life back on track.
It was several months after the fateful evening when Lizzie had forced her to face the truth about her behaviour that she’d met Jack Ellicott.
Dartington Hall, the beautiful Grade 1 medieval building outside of Totnes, now a renowned cultural centre set in acres of beautiful landscaped gardens and grounds, had been holding a retrospective exhibition of the artist and book illustrator E. H. Shepard. Harriet had been standing in the Gallery there, drinking in the details of his sketches forThe Wind in the Willows, before moving on to look at the original Winnie the Pooh drawings, when she had heard an American voice behind her.
‘Gee, I loved those books when I was a kid.’
‘Me too, but he did so much more. Look at these sketches he did in WW1,’ Harriet had said, moving to her left. ‘He was so talented. Paintings, cartoons, book illustrations, he did it all. He was a real trailblazer in the middle of the twentieth century. I wish I had half his talent.’ She’d turned to see who had spoken and found herself standing next to a tall man about the same age as herself with a disarming smile.
‘Hi, I’m Jack.’
Harriet had swallowed and nodded. ‘Hi.’
Jack had given her a quizzical look. ’And you are?’
‘Me? Oh, I’m Harriet, friends usually call me Hattie.’
‘Are you an artist, Hattie? You dress like you are.’ Jack had flashed her another disarming smile. ‘Very colourful.’
Harriet had glanced down at her tiered dress and her favourite embroidered brocade coat she was wearing over the top of it, before returning his smile. ‘I’ll take that as the compliment I’m sure you meant it to be. Yes, I am an artist – an amateur one at the moment, but hoping to become a professional. You?’
Jack had shaken his head. ‘Nope, couldn’t paint a picture to save my life, but I do admire people who can. Tell me more about Mr Shepard here.’
‘Well, these days people remember him for “Winnie” and the “Willows” illustrations, but he did so much more. Look at this ink sketch “Scenes of battle and bustle”. He did that one when he was nine. Nine.’ Harriet had shaken her head. ‘He might have been born in the Victorian age, but he led the way for the modern artist.’
For the next ten minutes, Jack had followed her around the exhibition as she gave him a quick rundown on the life of Mr Shepard, as Jack had called him.
As they had arrived back at the entrance, Harriet had looked up at him. ‘Sorry, if I’ve been wittering on.’
