The Harriet Bean 3-Book Omnibus Read online

  “What was worse, though, was that we could not afford to buy the shop after all. Your grandfather was now desperate. I saw him sitting in his chair near the kitchen stove, his head in his hands, thinking about the sad fate that had befallen us. I longed to be able to help my parents, but what could I do? I couldn’t get a job—I was too young for that—and nobody seemed willing to take on the girls.

  “At last, when the day came to leave the farm, your grandfather broke more bad news to us.

  “ ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘We are all going to have to split up. I just can’t afford to keep the family together anymore.’

  “It was a terrible, terrible blow, and I was so shocked by it that I almost did not hear what he then had to say. It seemed he had arranged for us to go and stay with various people all over the country. Some of the girls were to go to cousins; others were to go to live in a children’s home in a city a long way off.

  As the youngest, I was given the best choice. I was to live with my grandparents. Even this was a terrible fate. I did not want to leave Majolica, Veronica, and Harmonica, not to mention Thessalonika and Japonica. But I really had no choice, and that day I said good-bye to my sisters, fearing that I would never see them again. And I never have.”

  It seemed to me to be one of the saddest stories I had ever heard. As my father spoke, I could picture the day when they all left the farm. I had no idea what it was to have a brother or a sister—I had none—but I imagined that a brother or a sister must be the very best of friends, and to see all your brothers and sisters going off to a new home must be like losing all your best friends at once.

  My father ate the last crumb of his scone and sighed. I thought that he had come to the end of his story, but he suddenly looked up and went on.

  “There’s something else I should tell you,” he said. “When they realized that the family would have to split up, your grandparents decided that they would have a portrait of all the children painted. They got in touch with a painter who lived nearby and asked him whether he would do it. The painter was a rather temperamental man, and nobody could ever tell when he was likely to be difficult, but he agreed, and we had the first sitting.

  “We dressed in our best clothes—which were all a bit threadbare, I’m afraid to say—and then we all stood in two rows, with Majolica in the middle. The painter, who was an enormous man with a handlebar mustache, fussed and fiddled with his canvas and seemed to take an awfully long time to do anything. It was difficult for us—we had to try to keep a straight face and not to move, while all the time we could hardly keep our eyes off his mustache, which went up and down whenever he moved.

  “Your grandparents had hoped that the painting would be finished within three or four days, but unfortunately the painter took much longer than that. At the end of a week, as the painter was packing up and cleaning his brushes after the day’s work, your grandfather explained to him that he could no longer afford to pay him.

  “ ‘It’s taken so long,’ he said apologetically. ‘And as we have to pay you at the end of each day, I’m afraid we will have to stop today.’

  “The painter was very upset and threw his arms up and down in the air to emphasize his displeasure. But there was no alternative. He was not prepared to work without payment, and we didn’t have the money to pay him any more. So he left us with an unfinished painting. All the bodies were painted, up to the shoulders. But he hadn’t gotten around to even starting the heads.”

  I said nothing. I was trying to imagine what the painting must have been like. It must have looked very peculiar, with the six figures standing there, all with no heads.

  “Would you like to see it?” my father asked.

  “See what?”

  “Why, the painting,” he said. “I have it upstairs, you see. It’s in the attic. It’ll be dusty after all these years, but it’s there all right.”

  The Search Begins

  Now this was exciting news indeed! Together with my father I made my way up into the attic, a dark and dusty place full of all sorts of bits and pieces that had been stored away over the years. In spite of the confusion, though, my father seemed to know exactly where to look. Muttering to himself, he gave a tug at a large square object and there, covered, as he had warned, with a thick layer of dust, was the painting.

  We took it downstairs and rubbed it down with a cloth. Clouds of dust flew up and slowly the picture on the canvas began to show itself. I peered at it as the figures emerged. Yes! There they were, in two rows, surrounding the youthful figure of my father, my aunts! (Or, rather, parts of my aunts—up as far as their necks.)

  I polished away at the painting until it was as clean as I could get it.

  “Yes,” said my father. “There we are. And that’s one of the barns in the background. That’s me with the torn trousers. And that’s Veronica—can you see the strong arms? And that’s Thessalonika. She always wore that pink dress on Sundays although it had become very tattered.”

  It made me sad to look at the picture. If only there had been enough money to pay the painter to finish it, then there would at least have been a good record of the family. There were the photographs, of course, but you can’t really put photographs on your wall, and when they’re tucked away in an album they’re rather out of mind.

  “I wish it had been finished,” I said. “If only the painter had worked faster.”

  My father nodded. “Now it will never be finished,” he mused. “And it’s no good as it is, with blanks where the heads should be.”

  It was as he spoke that an idea occurred to me. Unfinished paintings can be finished, even if it’s years later. Perhaps I could trace my aunts. Perhaps I could get them all together again and we could have the painting finished at last. Although my grandfather was no longer alive, it would be a marvelous thing to finish off the one thing that he had wanted so much and that had not worked out for him.

  I turned to my father.

  “Couldn’t we get the painting finished?” I asked. “If we found my aunts again and got them together …”

  My father thought for a moment. He looked doubtful.

  “I’ve lost touch,” he said. “I’ve got one or two addresses somewhere, but it’s all so long ago.”

  I was determined to persevere.

  “Please, let’s try,” I said. “Please, let’s see if we can do it.”

  “I’ll think about it,” my father said. “Maybe.”

  Over the next few days, I thought about little else. My father, though, appeared to forget about it all and seemed rather surprised when I asked him for the addresses he had told me about.

  “I want to write to my aunts,” I said to him. “Could you give me those addresses you had?”

  He looked at me vaguely. “Aunts? Oh yes, of course, all those aunts.” He frowned. “I don’t think the addresses will be any use. They’re from about ten years ago.”

  I insisted that I still wanted to try, and, grumbling under his breath about being disturbed, he went off to search in a drawer of his desk. His desk was always overflowing with bits of paper, and I was astonished that he ever managed to find anything there.

  At last he came back with a scrap of paper.

  “This is the only one I can find,” he said. “I don’t know what happened to the others.”

  I took the piece of paper with trembling hands. The name Veronica was written at the top, and underneath there was the number of a house and a street in a town with a name I had never heard before. I fetched my diary and carefully transferred the information to a page at the back. The search had begun.

  I did not write a long letter to Aunt Veronica. All I did was introduce myself and tell her that the only reason why I had not written before was that my father had never told me of her existence.

  “You must have thought me very rude,” I wrote, “not even to send you a Christmas card. But it really is my father’s fault. Now I am writing to make up for it all.”

  I sent the letter, dropping it into the mailbox with a silent wish that it would find its destination. Then, for the next ten days, I eagerly awaited the arrival of the mailman.

  “Anything for me?” I asked as he made his way up the garden path.

  The answer was always the same.

  “Nothing today. Sorry.”

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And then…

  When the mailman handed me the letter, I could hardly believe that it had really come. I examined the postmark and caught my breath as I saw that it was from the very town I had written. It was a letter from Aunt Veronica—that was all it could be.

  There was a single page inside. “Dear Harriet Bean,” I read. “I opened the letter that you sent to your aunt because I now live in that house and it was delivered to me. If I knew where to send it, I could have forwarded it on to her unopened. But I’m afraid that I have no idea where she is. She went away from here years ago and did not leave a new address. All I can say is that I believe that she worked in a circus. This meant that she was away from home most of the time and never had the time to make many friends. So nobody knows where she is anymore. I’m very sorry, and I do hope that you find her.”

  I put the letter down and closed my eyes. I was bitterly disappointed, but I knew that I was not going to give up. At least I now had a clue. Aunt Veronica worked in a circus. There were probably quite a number of circuses, and I might not find the right one, but I was sure to discover somebody in the circus world who had met her or who would know something about her.

  I had not been told what she did in the circus, though, and that could make my search more difficult. Did she sell tickets in the box office? Did she work with horses, or even lions? Or was she one of those people who swing on the high trapeze? All of these were possible.
r />   From then on, I studied the newspaper every day to see if there were any circuses performing nearby. There were all sorts of other events—concerts, races, motorcycle shows—but nothing about a circus. Then, at last, just when I was beginning to think that circuses had disappeared altogether, my eye fell on a small notice at the bottom of the page.

  “Circus Romano,” it said simply. “A great treat for all! Don’t miss it!” This was followed by the dates and places, and one of the places was not far away.

  I took the advertisement and showed it to my father.

  “Please take me to the circus,” I begged. “I’ve never been to one before.”

  My father looked at the notice and wrinkled up his nose.

  “Nasty, noisy things,” he said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy yourself.”

  “But I would,” I protested. “I really want to go.”

  He could tell that I was very eager to do this, and because, in spite of all his faults (and he has a lot of them), he’s really very kind inside, he said that we could go. I was delighted. This was my first chance of finding Aunt Veronica, and I had a feeling that I was going to be lucky the first time.

  A Trip to the Circus

  The days of waiting for the Circus Romano dragged painfully. I began to have doubts about what would happen when I met Aunt Veronica. What would I say to her?

  “How do you do? You’re my aunt.” That sounded rather abrupt. Perhaps I should say, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I’m your niece.”

  And what would her reply be? Would she be pleased, or would she be annoyed? Perhaps she wouldn’t want a niece. Perhaps she’d think that I wanted something from her.

  By the time we left for the circus, I felt very anxious indeed and the sight of the great tent and its glare of lights did nothing to calm my fears. I had made no plan about what to do at the circus, although I hoped that I would have the chance to ask some of the performers after the show whether they knew anything of Aunt Veronica.

  We took our seats by the ringside. My father had bought good tickets—the best available, in fact—and so we were seated right at the very edge of the ring. He was still not at all interested in the whole thing, and he looked around with disapproval.

  “Look at those trapezes,” he said, pointing to the silver swings suspended from the very top of the tent. “What a ridiculous place to put them. Why don’t they put them closer to the ground so we can all see what’s happening?”

  I tried to explain to him that what made trapezes so exciting was the fact that they were so high, but he seemed to take no interest. So I sat back and waited for the show to begin.

  With a fanfare from the circus band the first act began. This was horses—marvelous, jet-black animals bedecked in glittering harnesses, plumes rising proudly above their heads. As they cantered around the ring, a great cheer rose from the crowd.

  The horses were followed by clowns. They fell down, squirted each other with water, and played the trombone as they tripped each other up. The audience loved them, or rather, most of the audience loved them. My father just sat and stared at them, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Silly people,” he muttered. “I don’t see what’s so funny about having a red nose and tripping over your feet.”

  Then, when the clowns had left, a circle of stout iron bars was set up around the ring and a man in a red coat and top hat strutted proudly to the center. This was the lion tamer, and at the crack of his whip five great lions bounded in through a tunnel. Everyone gasped as the lions sprang onto stools and bared their vicious-looking teeth at the trainer. Everyone, that is, except my father. He took out a newspaper he had tucked into his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and began to read.

  My father was still reading when the lions had disappeared and their cage had been dismantled. He was still buried in his newspaper when the next act started, and so he did not see the strong woman march into the ring, nor see her flex her bulging muscles for the admiration of the crowd. I saw her, though, and knew in my heart that this was my Aunt Veronica. I had found her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” cried the ringmaster. “This strong lady, the strongest lady in the country, will now demonstrate her mighty strength. She will begin by tearing up three telephone directories all stuck together!”

  “Impossible!” called a voice from the back of the tent, but Aunt Veronica did not bat an eyelid. She took the directories from the ringmaster, held them before her, and then, with one great rip, tore them in two.

  There was a burst of applause and one or two jeers directed against the man who had shouted out that it was impossible. There was applause too, for her next feat, which was to bend a thick iron bar until its ends touched one another, and for the feat after that, in which she picked up a piece of railway line with her teeth.

  “Now,” said the ringmaster, “the strong lady will take on the circus elephant in a tug-of-war!”

  Laughter and clapping greeted the plodding arrival in the ring of the circus elephant. Coolly and calmly, Aunt Veronica tied one end of a thick rope to the elephant’s trunk and then braced herself against the other end. Then the two of them tugged away, but try as it might, the elephant could not move Aunt Veronica.

  The applause almost brought the tent down around our ears. Aunt Veronica bowed, raised her hands in the air, and then led the elephant to the side of the ring to stand there while she performed her final and most difficult feat.

  I watched in fascination as Aunt Veronica lay down on the ground. Then, on top of her stomach, three circus assistants laid heavy iron weights, each the size of a football. They were burying my aunt in iron weights! Only one of these weights would have crushed the breath out of an ordinary person, and Aunt Veronica now had at least fifteen piled on top of her.

  Suddenly my father lowered his newspaper. I think it was the silence that made him wonder what was going on. He looked into the ring, opened his eyes wide with surprise at the strange sight of the weighted-down strong lady, and then gave a sudden jolt.

  “Veronica!”

  Aunt Veronica heard my father’s exclamation and turned to look in his direction. Their eyes met, and I think that she recognized him immediately.

  My father was now on his feet.

  “Veronica!” he called out again. “Surely it can’t be you?”

  “Harold!” Aunt Veronica called out from under her weights. “Is it really you, Harold?”

  Without further ado, my father leapt from his seat and vaulted into the ring.

  “No,” shouted the ringmaster from the other side. “Keep out, sir!”

  My father ignored the ringmaster’s cry and began to run across the ring to his long-lost sister. I watched, fascinated—proud to have found my aunt, but embarrassed by my father’s behavior. Why could he not have waited until the end of the act? There would have been plenty of time for reunions then.

  The ringmaster called out another warning, but it was too late. The elephant had been disturbed by my father’s sudden arrival in the ring and had lumbered forward to meet him. Now, before my father could do anything about it, the elephant had grabbed him with his trunk and wound it around him.

  “My father!” I cried. “He’s going to be squeezed to pieces!”

  I watched in horror as my father turned a strange purple color. I was convinced that this was the end, and I was powerless to do anything about it.

  When Aunt Veronica saw what was happening, she lost no time in throwing off the iron weights. With a great shrug and hurrumph she pushed the weights away and staggered to her feet. Then, with one or two bounds, she dashed across to the elephant.

  The elephant had now unwound part of my father and had laid him on the ground. I thought that it was going to release him, but I soon realized that it had other plans. Slowly, but very deliberately, the elephant was beginning to sit on my father!

  I closed my eyes in horror. Only a miracle could save him now … or Aunt Veronica. When I opened my eyes again, she was in between my father and the elephant, pushing the elephant up and away. The elephant looked very annoyed and gave a bellow of anger. Then, realizing that it had met its match, it ambled away and looked resentfully at my aunt.