Shell House (26 page)

       
“That’s what it felt like when he was telling me. I might be wrong and it could be wishful thinking but it was as though he’d expelled something he’d guarded for years and wasn’t going to allow anyone to uncover. That reminds me, did you tell DS Delton about Gabrielle’s diary?”

       
“Yep, he’s taken the notebook with him as evidence.”

       
“What did he say about it?”

       
“Nothing much; he just said it was very helpful.”

       
The conversation suddenly seemed pointless to Harry because none of it was bringing Gabrielle back. He just hoped Jonathan was right and she would turn up at the house or be found at one of her old haunts. But this didn’t stop him feeling panicked and the hours passed so slowly, it was almost physically painful.

        Eventually having had supper in front of the television that neither of them could concentrate on they both went up to bed feeling dog tired but wondering how they were ever going to sleep with everything that was running through their minds.

       
Harry had a peculiar night filled with strange dreams as his mind danced on the edge of slumber until he finally slept properly as the sun began to rise.

       
The sound of knocking at the front door, which turned into loud banging some time later, brought him back to the surface of consciousness. He was far too disorientated to register what it was at first and before he could get his tired, creaky body out of bed he heard Jonathan race downstairs to answer it.

       
He hauled himself from his bed as quickly as his body would allow and ran his hands across his face and head in an attempt to wake himself up. He pulled on his dressing gown and made his way downstairs to see who was at the door, hoping beyond all hope it was Gabrielle or at least news of her whereabouts.

       
He heard what he recognised as DS Delton’s voice in the kitchen. He opened the door, expectant of some good news.

       
Jonathan was sat at the table, his face chalky white.

       
Harry looked from one to the other, not wanting to hear what had been said or was being said.

       
“Sit down Dad.”

       
“No, what’s happened?” His hand clung to the door handle as though it were the only thing holding him up.

       
“A body was found washed up on the shore this morning. The ocean and the tides have rendered it beyond recognition, but we can tell it is a female. We’re waiting for the DNA results to see if it matches your daughters. I’m sorry Mr. Rochester.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TWELVE MONTHS LATER

        Harry sighed deeply as he sat on his bench overlooking the sea as though he’d completed a momentous task that had lasted for years.

       
It was the first time he’d walked down to the sea unaided, apart from a stick, since he’d suffered a stroke almost a year ago, his stressful past having finally caught up with him. He didn’t remember much about it except that the last thing he’d been doing was having a nap in his favourite armchair. Apparently, so he’d been informed, he’d slipped into a coma and was asleep for quite a few weeks; the prognosis hadn’t been very good due to his age and the severity of the stroke. But he’d proven everyone wrong and woken up wondering where the hell he was. On reflection he likened it to hibernating like a tortoise; warm and pain free. When he’d first woken up he’d felt amazingly refreshed and recuperated once he’d become fully conscious, which had taken him a couple of days. He soon became aware that his new found replenishment was internal, when he realised he couldn’t move his left arm or leg and talking was hugely tiring and difficult. The words were there in his head but he couldn’t formulate them properly, as though they were being scrambled in his mouth.

        With consciousness came flashes of the past and with it the old familiar anxieties and emotional pain. He missed those days when he’d just woken up in hospital and he’d felt as though his life had begun again; a clean slate with no past. He could remember who people were but he had very little recollection of past events at first, and then it was as though someone had switched on a television screen in his head; the pictures passing from black and white to clear colour.

       
Back then he’d been made to embark on a rehabilitation programme, which was extremely painful and tiring and made him feel irritable most of the time. Even trying to lift a cup or a spoon at first exhausted him. His biggest hurdle and goal had been to walk to the sea and sit on his bench. The thought of this had made him cooperate better with his physiotherapist, because it became the most important thing to achieve in his new life. He’d taken so much for granted, even past achievements, over the years and now this one thing which, he thought, must seem ridiculous to anyone else, meant the world to him.

       
He refused to be taken there in a wheelchair when it was offered to him, and vowed he wouldn’t sit on his beloved bench until he could walk there. He settled for seeing his dear old friend through the windows of the house until the time eventually came when he felt strong enough to make the journey.

       
The day had finally come and he’d gulped in the sea air as though he was desperately thirsty. He’d been tucked up for months like a chrysalis, with very little contact from the outside world. Today was a huge achievement and a sign of his increasing recovery. The physiotherapist had told him the movement in his limbs would get easier once he was walking again. His speech and memory were another matter, and as good as they were ever going to get. He could speak easily enough, apart from when he was tired, but he sounded as though he had a slight foreign accent, which was quite comical to Nancy and she teased him over it as she did his memory, which was very temperamental. All in all, for a man of his age he was recovering extremely well.

       
A tear escaped from his eye and he caught it with his good hand, not wanting anyone to see he was crying.

       
Jonathan looked across and smiled at him. “Are you warm enough, Dad?” He slid across the bench so he could pull Harry’s coat collar higher up around his neck.

       
“Don’t fuss, I’m alright. It’s not that cold. I want to feel the fresh air on my skin and through the few wisps of hair I have left on my head.” He chuckled.

       
“What time are we going to the church?”

       
“In a few minutes by the look of it, here’s Nancy with your wheelchair.” Jonathan stood up to help his daughter get the chair as close to the bench as possible.

       
Nancy kissed Harry on the cheek and saw the tears resting in the creases around his eyes.

       
“Come on, Gramps. Don’t upset yourself.” She whispered into his ear.

       
“I’m alright, dear heart. The wind from the sea makes my eyes water.”

       
She nodded, unconvinced, and turned to her father to give him a hug. “I wasn’t entirely sure what flowers to get. Are these okay?” She tipped the large bunch towards Harry so he could see. There were white lilies, soft pink roses and deep purple irises.

       
“They’re perfect and her favourites. Thank you.”

       
“I thought they were what you said, but when I got to the shop I wasn’t sure if you’d asked for gladioli but I couldn’t find any so I got irises.”

       
“You won’t get gladioli this time of year and I did say irises. Did you bring the pot for them to go in?” Harry looked round sharply at Jonathan who had been relegated for that particular task.

       
“Dad, you’ve asked me that about five times. Yes I’ve got the pot.”

       
“Righto, just checking.”

       
“Did you get the food for later, Nancy?”

       
“Yes, Dad and I’ve dropped it off at the house. Can we get moving I’m cold?” Nancy shivered pulling her coat tighter around herself.

       
“I am here you know?” Harry said to them both, feeling as though he were being ignored.

       
“Sorry Dad.” Jonathan rolled his eyes causing Nancy to laugh as she began to help him manoeuvre Harry into his wheelchair.

       
“I’m glad you brought this; I’m exhausted.”

       
“Well there’s no way you’d have made it up that steep hill to the church and then back home again, Gramps.”

       
“One day I will though.”

       
Harry nodded a farewell to the sea as he always did, and relaxed back into his chair as Jonathan slowly pushed him up the road. They all walked in silent contemplation, enjoying the unusually warm spring sunshine.

       
As they reached the top of the hill they could see the church in clear view, its steeple casting a shadow across the graveyard. Harry had always been fascinated by the many emotions a religious building could conjure up. It looked eerie and foreboding but at the same time serene and noble.

       
Jonathan pushed the wheelchair the last few yards down the path to the grave. Clearly out of breath, he stretched his arms in front of himself and wriggled his fingers; they were so stiff from gripping the handles of the chair.

       
“I thought you were fit, Dad?” Nancy grinned.

       
“I am, but that’s no mean feat pushing him up that hill. I’d like to see you do it.”

       
“He has got a name and he is not that heavy.”

       
“I know you’re not, Dad, but you’re over six foot.”

       
“I don’t mind pushing Granddad home.”

       
“I bet you don’t, it’s all down hill.” Jonathan looked at Nancy as they both suddenly fell in with the same vision of her not being able to hold onto the wheelchair and it flying off down the hill and over the cliff.”

       
“Best not, hey Dad?”

       
“No.” They both laughed.

       
“I’d love to know what’s so funny. That’s the trouble when you’re in a wheelchair − you get ignored. People talk about you as though you’re not there.”

       
“Sorry Gramps.” Nancy nodded at Jonathan and then at the bag hanging on the chair, containing the bottled water and the pot they’d brought, letting him know it was time to fill them up so she could arrange the flowers. She didn’t want to talk through it; she wanted to prepare it all quietly so that Harry could have some peace while he looked at the grave.

       
“Oh right.” Jonathan eventually caught on and got on with the task at hand.

       
They tidied the grave and arranged the fresh pot of flowers on the stone slab which was set in the ground.

        S
ilence fell as they paid their respects; tears rolled down Harry’s face causing Nancy to shed a few. She knelt down next to his chair and reached for his hand.

       
“I wish Gabrielle could have been here.”

       
“We know, Gramps.” Nancy squeezed his hand hard.

       
“Where is she anyway?”

       
Jonathan and Nancy looked at one another and shook their heads in disbelief.

       
“Dad, we’ve told you a hundred times, she had to stay behind and meet the photographer for the article she’s written for the local magazine. It was the only day he could do it.”

       
“What article and what local magazine?”

       
Jonathan and Nancy rolled their eyes at one another.

       
“The article she wrote about your shell museum? She’s written it for that glossy Norfolk based magazine.” Nancy smiled at him and tried not to laugh.

       
“Oh yes. I remember.”

       
Not long after he’d become fully conscious and eventually able to speak, they’d been extremely concerned about his patches of memory loss. But then it had improved as his brain became more active. It wasn’t that bad and they soon learnt that it was worse when he became fatigued. They got used to the fact that in some ways he wasn’t the same person and even though it was painful at the start they were just grateful he was still alive. Gabrielle and Nancy had learnt to make light of it but Jonathan became irritated when he’d been asked the same question over and over again, causing him to be short tempered.