Shell House (27 page)

       
“I’d like to go home now.”

       
“Are you okay, Granddad?”

       
“Just tired, dear heart.” He sighed and took one last look at Emma’s grave.

       
“It looks lovely, Dad. I’m sure Mother is very proud.”

       
“It’s a bit plain compared to a lot of the others.” Harry looked around him at the various graves and Jonathan and Nancy followed his gaze.

       
Dotted here and there were memorial sites covered in cuddly toys, plastic flowers and an array of brightly coloured bits and pieces.

       
“Nan’s grave looks beautiful, Gramps and I’m sure it’s just how she would have wanted it.”

       
“You don’t need to go over the top.” Jonathan grimaced at some of the sights around him. “A few of them look like something off the Generation Game.”

       
Harry laughed while Nancy just looked at both of them perplexed. “The Generation Game?”

       
“You’re far too young to remember, dear heart!”

       
“It was a game show on television hosted by Bruce Forsythe and there was a conveyor belt with various items on...never mind.” Jonathan waved the explanation off and set about manoeuvring Harry’s wheelchair around in the right direction. Nancy shrugged, not really interested in pressing her father for further details.

       
“Don’t you want to stop at The Nelson for a drink like you usually do?”

       
“Not today, son. We’ll toast her birthday later, once I’ve had a nap.”

       
“Okay.”

       
It was partly tiredness that was causing Harry’s eagerness to return home, but they all knew it was mainly because he wanted to check on Gabrielle and make sure she was there. He panicked if he was away from her for too long and worried constantly that something might happen to her; that she’d have another breakdown and wander off.

       
He’d never forget or let go of what happened and how he’d felt last year when she’d gone missing. The days that had passed when they were waiting for the formal identification of the body washed up on the shore was excruciating and he didn’t want to revisit the experience.

       
He’d suffered a stroke before he’d been able to hear the news that it wasn’t Gabrielle after all, and had actually been a forty nine year old woman from the next village who’d suffered from mental illness for many years. She’d attempted suicide many times, unsuccessfully until she’d ended up on the shore not far from Harry’s house.

       
When Harry had woken up he was not really aware of his family. He’d kept asking for Emma and didn’t appear to know anyone who was present around his hospital bed. Then reality became clearer as he reached full consciousness and he began to remember the events running up to his stroke.

       
The day he remembered Gabrielle properly for the first time, he’d just woken up from a nap and she was sat by his bed with Jonathan. He’d stared at her, his mouth opening and closing as though he was trying to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. His eyes filled with tears and Jonathan saw the recognition in his face. Harry reached out his good hand to Gabrielle and she held it tight in her own as she cried.

       
Jonathan then began to explain to Harry what had happened to Gabrielle all those months ago. That she’d left the Psychiatric Hospital feeling much better, if a little confused, and had made her way back to the safe house to clear her head. Realising it was all locked up she’d booked herself into a Bed and Breakfast until she’d felt ready to come home. She’d arrived home the day after he’d been taken to hospital, completely unaware of the worry she’d caused.

       
Harry never wanted to go through that again and had consequently become very protective, not just of her but of Nancy and Jonathan too.

       
Not long afterwards Jonathan had sold his house as part of his agreed divorce settlement with his estranged wife, Anna. He and Nancy had moved into Harry’s temporarily, which had worked out very well as he was able to help Gabrielle with Harry’s care. Catherine was always on hand to help as was Nancy when she was home from university.

       
Harry reflected on this now as Jonathan pushed him through the fresh spring air billowing off the sea, and for the first time in his life he felt fulfilled. The house seemed to sing again with its new residents coming and going, and he felt like living again and making the most of the time he had left.

       
Whilst Harry had been having his physiotherapy treatment, Gabrielle and Jonathan had secretly organised the opening of his shell room as a museum. He’d seemed to dismiss it whenever it was mentioned and they’d been worried he wouldn’t like the idea or be angry about what they’d done because once it was open to the public there was no going back. Nancy had pressed them along, assuring them that the many discussions she’d had with him over it had all been positive but that he felt too old to do it himself.

       
They were glad they’d pursued it because he’d been completely overwhelmed and touched by the whole event and totally oblivious beforehand that anything had been going on around him. He’d been shocked at the amount of local support and interest that was shown, with many people telling him they felt privileged to be able to view it.

       
And now, here they all were as Jonathan wheeled Harry into the sitting room, a family again, about to prepare a special dinner in honour of what would have been Emma’s eighty second birthday, and even though he felt exhausted he was happy.

PART THREE

CHAPTER ONE

        Rebecca Banford put down her pen and sighed out a breath filled with a myriad of emotions. She felt relieved that she’d finally finished the book she’d always wanted to write but she was sad at the same time. She always felt slightly morose when she’d completed a novel because she was saying goodbye to all the characters who had become like well known friends to her. But this was different, these characters were personal to her; real people. They were her family even though she hadn’t known them properly since she was ten years old. She only knew her brother had a child because she’d paid for the local newspaper to be sent to her address every week for many, many years and had seen the announcement. “
Dr. Jonathan Henry Rochester and Anna Marie Rochester proudly announce the arrival of Nancy Emma Rochester”
was what it had said and she could even recall how much she’d weighed. She’d held her breath every time she’d opened the newspaper and peered at the births, deaths and marriages page.

       
She sat at her computer and began typing up the last two chapters she’d written in long hand and then began the process of reading it through from start to finish. She worked at it solidly and it was early evening by the time she’d read the last page and decided it was time to pack up; her eyes tired and gritty from staring at the computer screen.

       
She disconnected the tiny memory stick that now held her most precious piece of work and placed it in her old Craven “A” tin for safe keeping. She’d brought it from Mr. Jim’s antique shop not long before he’d died. It reminded her of him every time she took it from her bookshelf. He always seemed to have a roll up on the go and she liked to think that he’d smoked this particular type of Virginia tobacco.

       
It was a small red tin with a tiny black cat printed on the top of the Craven “A” emblem and every time she opened it, even all these years on, it smelt of a musky type of old fashioned perfume with a hint of tobacco, which always had the aroma to her, of dark chocolate and raisins, although she had no idea why.

       
As she closed the lid and placed it back on the bookshelf she felt as though she were releasing a toy boat into the sea, and the bitter sweet memories flooded in now as she let it go. She shook them away, not wanting to think about them anymore that evening, having been consumed by it all in the months she’d been writing the book. She busied herself turning all the lights on in the house, which always made her feel safe, and wandered upstairs and into her bathroom for a shower before she made some supper.

      
She’d promised herself a glass of wine and her favourite dinner of Welsh rarebit once she’d completed her project, and that’s exactly what she was going to do as soon as she’d slipped into her pyjamas and made her way back downstairs.

       
And here she was, at the point she’d been imagining for the last few days. It was a simple treat, and probably not one at all to most people, but it was something very special to her. One of the chefs she’d had a teenage crush on at Hellesdown had shown her how to make it properly and she’d loved it ever since.

       
Since she’d turned off her computer she’d constantly been questioning over and over how she was feeling because she was unexpectedly calm; peaceful almost. It was as though she had relinquished something that had been with her forever and she felt herself missing whatever it was. It was a bit like she’d left a bag behind somewhere.

       
While she was cooking she found herself reaching up to touch her hair as if maybe she had really cut it off and had forgotten she’d done it. It was a strange feeling and not dissimilar to when she’d given up smoking many years ago. Weeks into her abstinence she’d found herself missing something but not quite knowing what because the thought of a cigarette had repulsed her.

       
She sat down in her sitting room with her supper and a glass of wine and waited again for her feelings to change but there was nothing and she wasn’t sure what she was expecting to happen − a thunderous burst of rage or a massive flood of tears − she just didn’t know. All she knew was, at that moment in time she felt cleansed in some sort of way and for the first time in her life she sensed a kind of freedom.

       
She knew she was taking a risk writing this book because if anyone happened to get their hands on it her entire identity would be revealed. Not that it was likely, because she hadn’t written it to be published or read by anyone; it had been a completely cathartic experience for no one else but herself.

       
No one could ever know she was Gabrielle Rochester. Not even her literary agent, who had given her a pen name to write under, knew her secret. She was surprised she’d hidden her identity from the media for all these years considering she was a published, well known author and they were like hungry foxes waiting patiently for someone to reveal where she lived.

       
She’d had to write it though. Every time she’d settled down to another book her mind had been filled with this one until she felt her head would overflow with words and she’d have a nervous breakdown again. So she’d written this along side one that had to be sent to her literary agent and now she felt, although it was possibly too early to tell, that it had been a major part of her healing process. She liked to think the story was as close to what may have happened had Harry survived, hoped more than anything.

       
She went into the kitchen with her empty plate and put it into the sink. She fetched her Craven “A” tin from the bookshelf again and pulled out the letters her father had sent her before he died. She wanted to read them and see if they stirred up any kind of emotion. She didn’t want to just accept how she was feeling in case it wasn’t real; she’d spent so many years feeling guilty, scared and ashamed. She was anxious that it was the calm before the storm because it felt so alien to her not to be carrying around these heavy emotions like carrier bags full of tins.

       
She thought she should have felt more contented about it but she wasn’t because deep down she still knew the truth. She’d been convicted of killing two children and her family had disowned her. Writing a story based on her life and what may or may not have happened didn’t change anything at all.

       
Tears fell from her face as she read the last letter he’d sent about how he was looking forward to seeing her. She remembered how fretful she’d been when she’d written back asking for a date and then heard nothing from him. She’d called him at home several times but there had been no answer. She’d gone over in her mind why he hadn’t replied again and again until it nearly drove her insane but she’d been unable to concentrate on anything else. She’d comforted herself with reasonable excuses until more days had passed and the enormity of rejection had hit her again, as it had done when she was ten years old, only this was harder and clearer because she fully understood it all now. In the end she just accepted he had changed his mind and didn’t want to have any contact with her anymore. She wished she hadn’t tried to organise a meeting with him and wondered if that was what had made him decide to cut off all contact with her. She’d wanted so desperately to push things along and meet up with him, but as soon as he became silent she wished she could have gone back to their chats over the phone. She kicked herself for not being satisfied with just that.