Help! It’s Harriet!

“Sponsor you?” said her mum. “After last time?”

Last time Harriet had done her mum a good turn, which had been on her mum’s birthday, she had left the garden hose running for almost four hours and washed away an entire flower bed.

“It’s for charity,” said Harriet.

“In that case I’d sooner sponsor you for not doing me a good turn.”

“But that would be cheating!” said Harriet.

“I can’t help that,” said her mum. “There’s no way I could survive having another good turn done for me. I’m sorry, Harriet, but there it is.”

Harriet gave up on her mum and tried her sister instead.

“Sponsor you?” said her sister. “You must be joking! What am I supposed to sponsor you for? Ruining a pair of my best tights?”

“That was an accident,” said Harriet. “You could sponsor me for cleaning up your bedroom.”

“No way!”

“What about if I ironed some of your clothes for you?”

“I wouldn’t let you within a thousand metres of my clothes! ’Specially not with an iron in your hand.”

Harriet with an iron in her hand was lethal. The drawers were full of table cloths and handkerchiefs which bore the marks of Harriet’s ironing.

“So, don’t you want to sponsor me?” said Harriet.

“No,” said her sister. “I do not!”

“I see,” said Harriet.

It was really very puzzling. Her sister did nothing but moan and carry on about all the work she was expected to do – all the cleaning, all the tidying, all the homework. You’d think she’d be only too glad to let Harriet take some of it off her hands. People were extremely odd.

“Go and ask Dad.” Her sister sniggered. “Ask him if he’ll sponsor you!”

Harriet had a feeling that it might be better not to bother approaching her dad. Dad wasn’t very pleased with Harriet just at the moment. He said that anyone who could try cleaning a car with paint stripper had to be congenital idiot. (Harriet had only been trying to help.)

“I think I’ll ring Gran,” she said.

“Don’t you dare!” said Mum. “You leave Gran alone. We don’t want you giving her a heart attack.”

“I wouldn’t!” said Harriet. “I just want to do her a good turn.”

“Where’s the difference?” said her mum.

It was very sad to be so misunderstood by one’s own family.

Next day at school Alison Leary went round boasting that, “My sponsor form is practically filled up.” Everyone had found somebody to sponsor them. Everyone except Harriet.

“Isn’t it about time you got started?” sneered Alison.

Harriet wasn’t too bothered; she was quite used to encountering these little setbacks. Her own family were peculiar: they didn’t seem to want to be helped. But there was all the rest of the world to try! Harriet was not a girl to give up at the first refusal – or even at the twenty-first, if it came to that. “Keep at it!” was Harriet’s motto.

On Saturday morning Harriet did the rounds of the neighbours. Some of them were lucky enough to be out. Others, not so lucky, opened the door before they realised who it was.

She caught Mrs Mason taking in the milk bottles. At the sight of Harriet, Mrs Mason grabbed the milk and made a dash for the front door. She wasn’t quite quick enough.

“Would you like to sponsor me for doing you a good turn?” said Harriet.

Mrs Mason turned pale.

“Oh, no, Harriet!” she said. “Please!”

Harriet had done Mrs Mason a good turn last gear, when Mrs Mason had been ill with flu. She had trimmed her front hedge into an interesting shape. Well, Harriet had thought it was an interesting shape. Mrs Mason had never got over it. (Neither had the hedge.)

“I really don’t think,” said Mrs Mason, faintly, “that I could stand it. I’m sorry, Harriet. You’ll have to try somebody else.”

Harriet marched on up the road. The man from Number 10 was walking his dog. He took to his heels and ran when he saw Harriet.

Unperturbed, Harriet stomped up the path of Number 12 and hammered with the knocker. (Harriet did everything loudly.)

Mum’s friend, Mrs Barnes, opened the door.

“Hallo, Mrs Barnes,” said Harriet. “I wonder if you’d like t…”

“No!” Mrs Barnes almost screamed it in her panic. “Whatever it is, the answer is no!”

“But I only w…”

“I can’t stop,” said Mrs Barnes. “I’m polishing the guinea pig… I mean I’m bathing the car… I mean I’m – I’m busy!”

The door shut in Harriet’s face. Philosophically, grown-ups were often rather unbalanced, in Harriet’s experience. Harriet clambered over the low wall that divided Number 12 from Number 14. The lady at Number 14 must have been watching, for a curtain twitched as Harriet approached, and from somewhere inside the house a terrified voice cried, “Help! It’s Harriet!”

The message spread rapidly – “Harriet is coming! Harriet is coming!”

At Number 16 she heard the sound of doors slamming.

At Number 18 a small boy shouted at her through the letter box: “We’re out!”

Everybody knew Harriet too well.

And then she reached the house on the corner.

A new lady had come to live in the house on the corner. A lady called Miss Fanshawe. A lady who had never heard of Harriet…

“Yes?” said Miss Fanshawe.

Harriet and Miss Fanshawe stood looking at each other. Miss Fanshawe was a tall, thin person wearing a dress of spinach green: Harriet was a short, dumpy person wearing blue dungarees. Miss Fanshawe’s hair was like a badly made bird’s nest: Harriet’s was like a dish mop. Miss Fanshawe had an air of being deeply flustered: Harriet was business-like.