Shell House (4 page)

       
My friend’s brother was like it. He just couldn’t cope with life in general. And I’m not saying he was a weak person by any means. He lacked joy in anything. Everything appeared as a black, bleak empty space. If he was enjoying himself, the nothingness that he thought was beyond it depressed him. He was depressed by the atrocities of life. You’d feel slightly down just being in his presence for five minutes, although he was an incredibly interesting person to talk to. Life was good for him too which makes it all the more tragic. But he saw something deeper that went beyond happiness; the black hole beyond the stars; the end to the party. You could feel the emptiness, the despairing clarity of his thoughts. Something I don’t wish to dwell on or think about too much.

       
Had he not killed himself before 9/11 he most definitely would have afterwards. It was like an inevitable task he had to do and in the end he just wanted to get it over and done with.

       
I’ve always used him as a marker against my own bouts of misery. I definitely have visits from melancholy. I embrace it too; give it a great big hug. It goes away quicker in my experience if you do.

21/11/2010
   Rebecca Banford  

        A letter arrived this morning! I am elated! It’s only a couple of paragraphs long but it’s a positive start. The relief that he is still alive is immense. I shut the idea away for a long time, assuming he was dead all these years. Then the fear that this might be true really hit me.

       
I have read it over and over all day. I can detect some warmth between the lines. Maybe I’ve read it too much and am seeing things that aren’t really there.

       
Anyway, he has agreed to see me. Says we have things to discuss. This worries me slightly from the point of view of him giving me a lecture about never wanting any contact from me ever again....I can’t think about this right now. Surely he would have stated this in his correspondence to me.

       
He wants me to go to the house. It is all beyond what I hoped for. A new part of my life is beginning. Even if it is the one and only time I am allowed to visit I feel it will piece together a lot of components for me, however painful.

       
I am to travel over on the 1
st
of December.

       
It’s funny because I remember it being one of his favourite days of the year aside the fact that memories of my mother, Emma and her absence made him slightly maudlin. But the 1
st
of December was always the day he put the Christmas decorations up and it always caused a stir of excitement around the house.

       
The one that is the clearest is the last one I spent with him and Jonathan. He always got the Christmas decorations down from the attic on the 1
st
of that month. Jonathan and I would sneak up the ladder in between his arduous trips up and down it. The attic fascinated us. It was dark and mysterious; full of memories of lifetimes we knew nothing about. It was the only time of year we were allowed up there.

       
My father would set the boxes of decorations out around the freshly cut Christmas tree, sitting proudly in its hand painted clay pot. He’d light his pipe along with the fire and on would go his favourite Chopin records; this was all closely followed by a glass of whiskey. He tried in his own way to make things fun for us. I’m not sure who the decorations ritual was for most; us, my mother or him.

       
We were allowed to help him as long as we didn’t chatter too much or bicker, which was worse. My father liked silence to be filled with classical music or gentle conversation. His face wore so many expressions when he was engrossed in something, and if you looked carefully you could see exactly where he was in his mind and what he was feeling. Maybe that’s just because he’s my father and I know him. Well, knew him once.

       
It has come to my attention whilst writing this that I’m not sure how to address him. I know he’s my father but maybe he won’t like me to refer to him as so. It feels peculiar. When I think of calling him Harry, it hurts. I’d like to think it’d hurt him too, but I don’t know. I don’t really know him now. I just remember the man with the pipe who liked to play his records.

       
I can’t really say anything more about him other than that. Apart from him being a solicitor and that he liked collecting shells. I guess I don’t know him now at all. I used to panic when I couldn’t picture his face or hear his voice; it was as though he was fading away from me into the distance. Then in my quieter moments when I’d calmed and finished crying he’d drift back to me and I’d hear his voice.

Harry Rochester   November 25
th
2010

        I am a creature of habit. I know this is a common phrase but it fits me perfectly. I find that I slip easily into a routine and then I try to change it because I never wanted to become one of those types of people. I invariably revert back because I’ve found I actually like my rituals and routines. I find great comfort from continuity. It never bothered me when I worked and it enabled me to have a successful career so why shouldn’t I carry it on now I am retired?

       
I get great satisfaction from areas of my routine. Eleven O’clock always pleases me; it’s time to stop whatever I’m doing and have a hot drink, normally coffee, and biscuits.

       
I always go out for a stroll around three and mainly talk to the sea. I stop off on the way home to get something nice for supper. I can not and will not ever understand people who won’t cook for themselves because they are on their own. It’s one of my favourite times of the day. I can think of nothing better than preparing, cooking and eating a meal that you have created solely for yourself. That’s not entirely true in my case because I share my supper every evening with my dog, Bruce. He’s also retired. He was a top notch gundog up until a year ago. His hearing isn’t what it was so we decided it was time for him to hang up his gun. He still accompanies me for beating when the shooting season starts though and he’s still good at it.

       
I’m sure you find this all mundane and boring but it is part of my life. The whole idea of this project is for you to get a feel of whom I was and who I am.

       
Anyway, I have asked her to come over. Gabrielle. She’s coming on the 1
st
; as good a day as any. I’m wondering if I should ask her to stay for a few days. We’ve a lot to get through and she’s travelling a long way. I don’t know. I’m not sure what I want or what to expect. We might not get on and I could be stuck with her. I don’t know her, yet she’s my flesh and blood; our flesh and blood, mine and Emma’s.

       
I’ve wasted so many years brushing it under that big carpet. Now I can feel time trying to engage me in a race that for the most part I don’t want to participate in. Not yet anyway.

       
I feel quite excited at the thought of seeing her and getting to know her. That small connection of a letter has dispersed, for me, so many strong emotions that I felt a long time ago. I can’t forget what happened but there is now nothing for me to forgive anymore.

       
I’m going to make a room up for her just in case. I’ll write and mention it to her then we’ll see how it pans out.

       
I have decided not to mention it to Jonathan at all. I’m going to see how it goes first. There’s no risk of him turning up while she’s here, he never calls round without ringing first. I have pondered on the thought that Nancy, my granddaughter, might, but I’m going to cross that bridge if it occurs.

       
I remember how much she reminded me of Gabrielle when she was younger. I used to indulge myself in thinking she was her and I was having my time all over again. That’s why we’re so close I think, because I’ve spent so much time with her. We have a strong bond. I think all grandchildren have a special relationship with one or more of their grandparents, however well they get on with their parents. I’m sure some of the time she spends with me is because she worries about me being on my own. Loneliness frightens her so she needs to soothe it for others. She’s a kind girl. She’s now at that age where her college work and social life are keeping her busy so I don’t see as much of her. I’m fine with it, I like my own company and I want her to live her life. Not spend it worrying about a silly old codger like me.

       
I’m sure I could trust her with my news of Gabrielle’s visit but this is something that goes beyond our friendship and I must remember she is my granddaughter and this issue must be kept within those boundaries.

       
I told her a couple of years ago about Gabrielle. She’d grown up believing she was dead; we thought this was best at the time, the least questions asked the better and all that. That feels terrible now I’ve seen it written on paper.

       
She was shocked obviously, but very understanding, as I knew she would be. From the day I told her she has been intrigued by the idea of an aunty and what she may have missed out on. We are such a small family unit that the idea of someone new is extremely exciting.

      
I must just mention it, for I am extremely proud. My Nancy is training to be a solicitor. I like to think I had some influence over this decision!

       
This process of writing a diary feels so strange, even now. I look at all this writing and flick through the pages and can’t believe I am reiterating our family story for anyone to peruse. God only knows whose hands this could end up in.

     
Everyone has a family story, don’t they? Why will ours be of any interest to anyone? I suppose some are more shocking than others.

27/11/2010   Rebecca Banford  

        It’s strange but ever since I received the letter from Harry, (I have decided this is the best form of reference for now), I have remembered so much more from my time with him and Jonathan.

       
The problem is even the happy memories carry a heavy weight because whatever I recall is immediately bound to the terrible event thereafter. It’s going to be a painful journey and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared but I’m excited too. I hadn’t realised how much I wanted to go home. I told myself quite harshly for years that I would never be able to return. I had to in order to cope. It’s all I had wanted for such a long time when I was first sent away, that and my mother who I never knew. The emotion was so suffocating I felt at times I might choke from the mass in my throat of wanting it so much. I guess it was like feeling permanently homesick.

Harry Rochester   November 28
th
2010

        I have flung myself from excitement and elation to outright trepidation. I have toyed all day with the idea of ringing her and cancelling. I haven’t done it, mainly because I’m too frightened to speak to her. It seems ridiculous on paper but in my head it’s been far too long to speak to her on the telephone. The last phone call I had with her was when I told her never to contact me again. She was eighteen at the time and I am deeply ashamed of what I said. I hadn’t seen her since her trial when she was eleven. I’d sent her the odd birthday and Christmas card but never visited and then she called me out of the blue. I think I acted out of shock more than anything but it was dreadful. I couldn’t possibly think of rejecting her again on the telephone in that manner. But then there is no best way to ostracise someone, which is quite simply just what it is. It is cruel and I can’t and will not do it. But then I suppose writing is a cowardly way also.

       
After many hours of thinking I decided against it because I began to worry that she wouldn’t receive the letter in time and then we’d have one of those ghastly scenarios where she’d find it on the doormat when she got home after her visit with me. That would be truly awful too.

       
The other reason following the first is that my emotions might be fleeting and then I would regret my hasty actions and for the main part, I want to see her. It is purely fear and a stirring up of old memories which have caused this storm within me.

       
The day that is the clearest for me is when the police came to take her away for questioning. I can see vividly her pale side profile through the window of the car as she sat morosely next to a police woman.

       
Many things slotted into my head that day. How peculiar she’d been that week: quiet, withdrawn from the rest of us, quite tearful and moody when spoken to. I knew we were in trouble the day they’d come to routine question us over the disappearance of two children from the village. It had felt like something was ending and I had no explanation of why at the time. It felt similar to when Emma was nearing the end of her labour. This creaky old house has never failed to let us know when something is about to change. Its atmosphere would alter the turning of a weathervane.