Shell House (3 page)

        I thought she’d come from the devil when she was born because Emma died giving her life. There were complications during the labour and she made me promise I would consent to saving Gabrielle instead of her if it came to that,  I think she knew it was going to happen. ‘Our children matter more’ were her very words. I blindly agreed, not for one minute thinking it would ever become a reality. But anyone looking at her laying in bed in agony would have known that one of them wasn’t going to make it. She had never glowed through that pregnancy and she certainly hadn’t during labour. I remember her cheeks being bright red from the pain but there was a greyish blue colouring around the rest of her face and a clammy unhealthy sweat clung to her skin. It was the cloying smell of death. I can still envisage it now and it makes me shiver.

       
She was so loyal to her Catholic faith; I knew there’d be no budging her on the decision. But as I said earlier I never imagined it would come to that. I’d spent the whole of her pregnancy jollying her along, Pretending it was all fine; carrying her along in my imaginary boat in order to help her reach the shore safely. I brushed all the fear and sickness under the rug, only to lift it after the whole sorry mess and realise how much she was actually suffering. And yes, I went over it a million times thinking I could have changed it all but she’d already told the doctor of her wishes. I arrogantly believed it was a gallant gesture on her part, a declaration of her faith and insurance in case things went terribly wrong. I had little faith in the medical professions predictions and whole heartedly thought they were wrong and that both of them would survive or at least she would. Surely her resilience was stronger than a small baby and we could have more children, couldn’t we, if the worst happened? What a stupid, stubborn ass I was in those days. I probably still am.

      
I lost my faith after that. Not that I’d ever been a great believer. I saw myself as a mild Catholic. It was in the family, but Emma was a staunch follower. Bloody religion. I never spoke of it thereafter. I hear people turning to their faith during a crisis and I can understand it to some degree but it wasn’t a comfort in my eyes.

       
Many, many, many times I have changed that fatal conversation I had with her. I remember wanting to say to her that I was nothing without her; that my life would be pointless. But the words never came, because I thought she was being irrational, and it would be a storm we would never have to face in my happy little boat, so I just squeezed her hand and told her not to be so daft. She fell into unconsciousness after that and then the doctor pulled me aside.... The decision I made seems ridiculous now because I would change it every time. I know that’s an abhorrent thing to say about your daughter but that’s how I feel. There is little point in writing this diary if I’m not going to be honest. I wanted them to do all they could to save the baby, thinking I would heroically rescue Emma and get her through the next part. She couldn’t possibly die from childbirth - she was far too strong for that.

       
I need to think again. I’ve found a saddle oyster in the draw of my bureau. I’d forgotten how much I like these shells. I used to hold one when I was trying to concentrate during the times I had to bring my work home with me. As I hold it now the smooth rivets and ridges still calm me just as they did then. I can appreciate them more now − I am older and not so hot headed.

       
I’m tired now and must close.

14/11/2010   Rebecca Banford   

        I have written to my father. That’s assuming he’s still alive, lives in the same place or even wants to talk to me.

       
I have felt immensely ashamed for years at what I did even though I don’t understand the whys or wherefores. I know the cold hard facts of it all when I address it but anything beyond that baffles me. Sometimes I feel as though it was me as another person in a past life. It’s all a bit of a blur in my memory and that’s not an excuse. I will never make any excuses for what I did. But I know I was a child and children don’t fully understand the consequences of their actions. All I remember is that I didn’t know they were going to die. I was so shocked by it and I still am. I was convinced for weeks that they would both wake up and everything would go back to normal. But they didn’t. Obviously.

        
I’m not ready for this yet. I think I need to see my father before I can formulate my thoughts. He is part of the run of events and I’m staring at a puzzle with most of the pieces missing and I can’t see what the picture’s going to be.

       
Having sent the letter I’m now wondering if I should have traced my brother, Jonathan first.... Well, there is no point worrying about it now, it’s done.

       
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more in my whole life than a letter back from my father right now. Except the obviou
s−
to be able to turn back time.  I’ve never dared ask for anything ever. It’s not because I feel sorry for myself - it’s purely that I’ve never felt as though I deserved it. Not after what I did. I’m not sure I do even now but I know if I had my time again I wouldn’t have done what I did. And it’s not because of the punishment or the life I had following it. It’s because I stole two precious lives. I’d have the same life again if it meant those two little children had lived.

       
I am not a danger to anyone. It didn’t make me a serial killer. I have no urges to kill anyone. Fundamentally I’m a good person.

       
I have spent most of my life burying myself in an education which then led me to write books. My father had high hopes for my brother and I, and I like to think that I made a small contribution for my failings by being a successful writer. Not that he knows anything about it because I write under a pen name. But I know I’ve done okay – that I haven’t turned out as badly as everyone expected me to.

       
For many years as a young adult, when I was first released, I thought my guilt was plastered all over my face. This affected my confidence in getting jobs and holding them down. So I worked in mundane, badly paid jobs under my new identity and that subsidised my education.

      
My life consisted of working, studying and writing. I didn’t have any family to visit and I refused to impose on friends. I have always kept them at arms length because ultimately I am one big lie, as I see it. I hate lies. I was punished many times for supposedly lying. It’s a bitter pill to swallow when you haven’t actually told any. It teaches you never to do it. I can never tell my friends who I really am and that doesn’t sit well with me. They ask questions that I can’t answer without lying. It’s ironic really because without their encouragement I would never have sent my first manuscript off to publishers. Eventually, to my shock, a publishing house offered me a contract along with a pen name to write under. Little did they know that I was already writing under one.

       
So all in all I’ve led quite a privileged, if slightly solitary, comfortable life. I have hidden amid my stories and characters for many years as I did amongst my photographs.

       
Now it is time, for me, to tell the real story. Not for anyone other than myself and my family. If this is the right path to take then my father will write back to me. It’ll be my sign, so to speak; my key to the opening of the next door.

Harry Rochester  
November 15
th
2010

        I can’t quite believe it. The timing I mean. I received a letter from Gabrielle this morning. She wants to see me. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

       
There was an initial shock and disbelief when I first opened the letter and realised who it was from. Now I feel nothing. I’m sure that’s not true but at this precise moment there is nothing there.

       
I became so distracted by it that I found myself sitting on a bench in front of the sea wall. I’d walked into the village as I do most days to get some groceries. The result of which was me strolling out of the shop with a basket full of unpaid food. Nobody noticed. I didn’t realise until somebody stopped to sit on the bench beside me and asked me if I was okay. It was a young man who’d taken a break from his run to have some water. He meant well and I was glad of the interruption and even more pleased that he didn’t use that patronizing voice people save for the elderly. He just spoke to me normally. I don’t know why I was so surprised by it. Not used to it I suppose and sometimes I don’t feel entirely normal, whatever that is. I do think at times I’m going slightly senile. I have many moments of clarity and then find myself in places or doing things I hadn’t consciously thought of.

       
I did eventually go back to the shop and pay for the items after I’d finished thinking and discussing with the sea.

       
The sea has a way of offering me a perspective that I may not have seen or wasn’t fully aware of. I don’t know if it has the same effect on everyone. I look across that grey-blue ocean and see an expanse of power. The realisation of how small and insignificant my life is engulfs me every time.

       
I talk to the sea. It’s the wisest, dearest old friend I have. I can trust it beyond measure and it’s always there for me. I’ve never fished or sailed in it, only occasionally paddled my feet. We like our friendship like that; it works for us. There’s something, for me, about taking fish from the sea. I think you’re ‘chosen’ to do this task and you’re taking quite a gamble if you’ve never had that invite. It sounds very hypocritical because I’m the first person who’ll rush down to the village to buy fresh fish. I just feel I wasn’t cut out to fish in it. It’s a magical place. It’s a bit like some people can whisper to horses or herd sheep. Its tempestuous nature scares me somewhat. Any second it can decide there’s an imbalance in its relationship with you and engulf you as though you were nothing more than a tiny shrimp. My way with the sea works for me. It has allowed me a beautiful house on a cliff from which to observe it, and gifted me many glorious shells. I would never disrespect it or take it for granted.

       
Today it heaved and sighed under the grey clouds. Together we decided I ought to see Gabrielle. I need to see her before I die. I have important things to discuss with her. I won’t tell Jonathan she’s coming. Not yet anyway.

20/11/2010
   Rebecca Banford   

        It has been five days and I have received nothing from my father. I’m wondering if I should wait longer. But surely if it was a no I’d have heard by now. Perhaps his silence is a no.

       
Each day I have eagerly awaited the arrival of the post. I know I shouldn’t be so expectant for something which is very likely not to have the conclusion I wish for.

       
I have toyed with the idea of just turning up at the house. I can remember the address. I repeated it over and over in my head when I was taken away. I felt like Dorothy from
the Wizard of Oz
. I knew I had to remember where I came from. I used to mutter it repeatedly as though I were reciting ‘there’s no place like home’. But then Dorothy wasn’t sent away because she had committed the most heinous of crimes.

        I’m not sure how I’m going to cope with this rejection knowing myself as I do now. I don’t think I deserve it. I’m not saying it’s not fair or anything; I would never be so indulgent. I just think I’m entitled to see my family. You see, it’s still there. Just writing that line causes the guilt and shame to creep over me. I still don’t feel entitled to do or have anything. Yes, I have money, I’m successful, but these aren’t at the core of what really matters.

       
Being sent away and rejected the first time was acceptable to me. It bloody hurt but I accepted it. I knew I didn’t deserve any less. I had taken the lives of two small children; caused untold pain to lots of people. And however difficult a child I was, at that age I generally knew right from wrong, yet I still can’t explain why I did it.

     
Rejection forty -four years on is going to hit me hard. I can feel it already. I’ve begun staying in bed longer, struggling to get out of it only wanting to return to it an hour later.

       
I have always been prone to bouts of melancholy. It’s never depression. People say they suffer from depression when actually it’s just melancholy. It’s like when people say they’ve got flu when really it’s just a bad cold. That’s how I refer to it anyway. I’ve never felt like slitting my wrists you see, even when I fell off my perch. Underneath it all I had the urge to live and I don’t think you do when you’re depressed.

       
I’ve always been grateful for what I have; I’ve never undervalued it. When I was young and self indulgent and indignant I soon snapped out of it. I was lucky. People with depression, through no fault of their own, don’t have this ability.

       
Anyway, I don’t have the balls to kill myself. It’s probably simultaneously the most selfish and brave act someone can do. I think people are either born with it in them or not. It’s almost like an illness waiting for a trigger; a dormant kind of cancer.