Shell House (8 page)

        
Whilst running I passed a man I knew walking his dog. It took me a while to register who he was. He is now elderly and he was fairly young when I last saw him. I ran another mile before it dawned on me and then I remembered who those sharp blue eyes belonged to. It was like a bolt of electricity running through me. It was the father of the two children, Thomas and Alexander. He didn’t recognise m
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just looked straight through me.    Well, I think he did.

       
It really shook me; I hadn’t realised he still lived in the same area. I don’t know why I thought that; I just assumed he and his wife would have wanted a new start away from all the bad memories. Maybe this is what I would do if it were me and what I wanted them to have done.

       
I came straight back to the cottage; all sorts of things were running through my head. My initial reaction was to pack my things and leave. I didn’t feel remotely like fifty-four anymore or even like an adult; I reverted back to the bad child that I was. Asking myself questions like, what right had I got to be here? And who the hell did I think I was?

       
Eventually I pulled myself together, showered and dressed and made my way down to the harbour to meet Harry.

       
It was unusually busy compared to the other mornings I’d been there. There were people on ladders adding strings of Christmas lights to the ones that were left up all year round.

       
Harry was already on the bench with two boxes full of breakfast and coffee when I arrived.

       
You may think I’m going into too much detail for a diary but I need people to get a feel of what I’m trying to say. It’s important to me that I write down everything that I recall.

       
Anyway, I remember feeling that when I saw him on the bench in the distance, it was as though I was seeing my safety rope again. I could almost see it winding its way across the road from the bench and wrapping around my waist like a snake. It occurred to me that it was a peculiar emotion to have because I’d never felt like that all those years ago. I’d just felt abandoned and deservedly so.

       
Again, I wept when I reached him and relayed what had happened. He patted my hand and said it was inevitable that at some stage I would bump into one of them.

       
He reassured me that I didn’t need to leave and that there were so few of the original locals left that it would take anyone a long time to work out who I was.

       
I went back with him to the house for a short while and he showed me the room where he keeps his shells. I recalled it clearly then as it was when I was a child. That had been what my dream had been about. I’d forgotten all about it.

       
It’s a very interesting room and far grander than I remember it. He says he’s added to it quite extensively over the years. He’s passionate about it and to anyone who isn’t interested in shells you can’t help but be carried away on his enthusiasm. He adds so much magic to the room with all his stories of what the shells are and where they came from. His memory astounds me.

       
I need to take my Dictaphone next time and record what he is saying. It’s important for the family for when he’s no longer around.

       
No sign of Jonathan. I’m toying with the idea of going to see him. I don’t want to do that without telling Harry first and anyway I have no idea where he lives but I can find out.

       
John and Ellen were the names of the parents of the boys; I have no idea why that’s just jumped into my head.

       
I can still see them lying in their beds; white faces like I’d never seen in my life and never have done since.

       
When I look back the little girl I once was seems to be a separate person. I don’t connect with her in any way; not as I imagine you should do if you had a normal childhood. A lot of the time I hate her and want to berate her for being so stupid. I see her sometimes, mainly in my more dark moments; she sits in the corner and cries.

       
A therapist would tell me I should learn to love her but the gulf between us is too wide. As the years have passed she has become more and more disconnected from me.

       
It’s funny but when I’ve seen similar behaviour on the news I’ve been filled with shock. Then the real horror hits me as it dawns on me that I did that when I was a child. I’m one of the
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those monsters they talk of in the tabloids. I think the best coping mechanism for me is I don’t feel so much like that anymore. The older I get the further away I am from being what I once was. The gulf continues to crack and spread.

Harry Rochester  
December 6
th
2010

        Gabrielle was quite distraught today; she passed the father of the children. I didn’t even give these potential occurrences a thought; very naive on my part. I was very lucky all those years ago that I had the support from my family and friends. Alright, there were malicious gossips but on the whole everyone bent over backwards to help. I was never made to feel unwelcome or ostracised from the village. I often think on this now, that I probably would have paid that price had I chosen to support Gabrielle. It concerns me now that I may have been so frightened of being alone, and I mean that in the real sense of the word, that I chose to turn my back on her for that very reason. I will never know now because I can’t remember exactly how I felt all those years ago. It’s very easy to regret the way we react to situations later on but I believe at the time something drives us to it. Maybe I think like this because it eases my guilt.

       
Most of the residents are long dead and gone but I’m sure the story crops up once in a while and the locals certainly wouldn’t welcome her with open arms once they knew her true identity.

       
I was so wrapped up in her visit, I didn’t give it a thought that she might collide with the victim’s family. Ellen Tailby, the mother, is more or less house bound with senile dementia, so I’m told, and there is just her and John left, no other relatives.

       
They continued to be a tragic family. It was as though they had a curse after Gabrielle. Quite quickly after Thomas and Alexander, Ellen gave birth to a little girl. Can’t remember her name now but she died when she was a baby. I think there were one or two miscarriages that followed her and from what I can gather they couldn’t have any more after that.

       
Nowadays the baby’s death would have been put down to that Sudden Infant Death Syndrome or whatever they call it. In our day it was just the way it was; an accepted part of life. Folks were hard up; houses were damp and living conditions poor.

       
Terrible, terrible business that was though; I think they were trying to fill the spaces they’d lost. I remember feeling desperate for them; responsible for each little life they lost.

       
I didn’t have the heart to tell Gabrielle about all that. I’m sure, knowing the little I do about her that it would only serve to add to the guilt she’s carrying.

       
This last week I’ve spent with her has honestly felt like a few months. By coming back, Gabrielle has brought something to my family that has been absent for a very long time. I’m sad for Nancy because she’s never really experienced the camaraderie of family life.

       
What happened hangs over us and is always there, a bit like the elephant in the room, but we seem to be getting along alright with it.

The elephant has turned out not to be as unfriendly or frightening as we first thought. We don’t have to talk to him or about him if we don’t want to. I told
Nancy this and she laughed and said I was a silly old fool and shouldn’t read her magazines when she leaves them behind!

       
She has suggested I make one of my Sunday dinners and invite her and her parents along with Gabrielle. It’s going to be awkward but any situation of them meeting will be uncomfortable. I must talk to Gabrielle first before I make any definite arrangements.

8/12/2010
   Rebecca Banford   

        Nancy tells me we are all having Sunday lunch together. Harry was worried about how I would react and apparently scalded her for mentioning it to me before he had a chance to.

       
I do feel awkward about it but it’s as good a time as any. I suppose sitting around the table and eating is a stable distraction if no one wants to talk.

       
I’m glad I insisted on staying in the cottage. People are starting to ask Harry questions about who I a
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we’ve been seen out walking so many times. I think because I’m staying away from the house he can pass me off as a distant cousin. I think he’s told most of them that I’m researching the family tree and have discovered we’re related or some such nonsense. I’m not sure how long people will believe this story. It only takes one person to recall the past and the consequences will be disastrous.

       
I will have to go home soon anyway; I must get back to my life, work and friends. I don’t want to. Even after all that happened I feel so at home here. I can’t ever remember feeling like that; it’s as though I never left.

       
My life at home seems blurry and distant; I don’t feel I have any connection or attachment to it anymore. I thought I would miss it; it’s been my safety net, my mainstay, constant for so many years. Even my friends seem like they’re from a distant past or another life. I love them, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never been able to be myself with them; not properly anyway. I have never been able to tell them the truth and it has made them seem, to me, fictitious; as though they were characters in one of my books. I feel sad when I think of each one of them and how fond I am. My feelings toward them have never been false but I’ve told so many lies about where I come from, my family. I even have old framed photographs of people I have portrayed as my family all around the house.

       
When I left that day I did feel like it was the end of something. It was similar to the feeling I get when I’ve finished writing a book and I have to say goodbye to all the characters. You feel slightly bereft but know you’ll be moving on to the next place and meeting new ones. It’s hard to explain.

       
I don’t know. How could I live here? I know Harry would say I could continue under my false identity. If anyone has asked him about me he has carefully referred to me as Rebecca. I don’t know if my conscience would allow me to do that though; it seems disrespectful when I think about what I did.

       
For the first time in my life I feel it’s as though I’m on a journey and revealing who I really am. My old life feels like a discarded snakeskin. I would like nothing more than to be near my father for the last part of his life. I suppose I could stay temporarily. I could tell my friends I’ve discovered a relative; I’ve always told them my parents were killed and I was an only child brought up in care.

       
I owe them all an explanation; they’ve been like family to me. I can always return if it doesn’t work out, I suppose or move on somewhere else; spread my wings and step out of my insular world.

Harry Rochester   December 11
th
2010

        Our Sunday lunch with Jonathan didn’t go very well at all and I’m not sure where we go from here. Gabrielle is leaving today and I am distraught. But I must let her do what she feels is right; it must be so difficult for her. She has promised me she will visit over Christmas but I am hoping I will be able to persuade her in the mean time to spend the festivities with me.

11/12/2010
   Rebecca Banford  

        Dinner with Jonathan was a disaster. I’m not sure where we go from here... I’m going home today just for a short while. I think we both need a break from one another. I have promised Harry I will visit over the Christmas period.

PART TWO

CHAPTER ONE

        Nancy laid the table as though it was Christmas already. She’d insisted on pink napkins and silver crackers. Harry watched her from the doorway of the kitchen, his pinny stained with meat juices and gravy. She was excited at the prospect of having dinner with her new aunt for the first time; Harry knew her father was not.

       
Jonathan had finally agreed, reluctantly, but then he reluctantly agreed to most things. Harry couldn’t shake off the feeling that it wasn’t just because he was trying to keep Nancy happy – she was so excited about the dinner. There was a hint of condescension in Jonathan’s voice, as though he were going along with some childish game to appease his father. It had rattled Harry slightly especially as he’d been able to tell what he was thinking in the few words he’d spoken. That Harry’s morals had slipped; why bother with her now? It would all end in tears. Jonathan’s voice was laced with disgust, disbelief and judgement; all the attributes that Harry thought a good doctor could well do without. In the few minutes they’d been on the telephone, Harry had felt the parental shift he’d had to battle to reverse only a few months previously.

       
He stood in the doorway now, watching his granddaughter and thinking to himself how people often commented that age brings forgiveness. But as he looked at Nancy, her heart open, wanting to make it right for him because she knew how very much it meant, he realised that age had nothing to do with it. Her comments had been that she wasn’t there at the time so how could she have an opinion? Her aunt was only a child. How could anyone judge unless they knew the details? But her father had made it quite clear to her that he had been there and he remembered exactly what happened.

       
Harry knew Nancy was so accepting of her aunt because he’d welcomed her into the fold. If her old grandfather said it was alright then it clearly was in her eyes. He knew out loud that in one sentence, “she killed two children”, sounded abhorrent, unforgivable, barbaric. But there was more to it and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

       
“Come on, Gramps, don’t just stand there.”

       
“Do you really think this is such a good idea?”

       
“Not entirely, but it’ll either work or it won’t.”

       
“Well, that’s reassuring.”

       
“We’ll do our bit and that’s all we can do.” Nancy lit the candles she’d placed on the table and stepped back to survey her handiwork.

       
“Very nice.”

       
“Let’s have some music; that always makes people feel good.”

       
“Not that drivel you listen to.”

       
“No. Let’s have some of your drivel on. Some of that trumpet stuff you seem to like.”

       
“Jazz.”

       
“Whatever. Have you sorted out the wine?” Nancy waved her hands to show him what she meant. “You know − poured it into something else and then back again?”

       
“Decanted.”

       
“That’s it. We must have plenty of wine; it helps Dad talk more.”

       
“And your mother too much.”

       
“Can’t be helped; either way she’s ghastly.” Nancy clamped her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

       
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear.”

       
Nancy laughed and made her way towards the kitchen; Harry didn’t budge from the door.

       
“Dinner coming on okay?” She tried to peer through the gap over his shoulder.

       
“Yes, perfectly well. Get back in there and wipe those wine glasses; they’re smudged. Don’t need you interfering with my cooking, thank you very much.”

       
“I wasn’t − I was using it as an excuse to taste the gravy. How about a little sherry?”

       
“You’re nervous?” Harry grabbed her hand as she moved from the door and could feel the sweat in her palm.

       
“I am a bit. I want them to be alright with her; you know how difficult they can be.”

       
Harry looked at the clock on the wall. “Go and sit down and I’ll bring us a little tipple. They won’t be here yet.”

       
Harry checked the dinner and joined Nancy in the sitting room. It looked spectacular to him every time he entered, even after all these years. A huge tree in the corner by the window, once a rich green, was now covered in tinsel, lights and angel hair. The lights looked as though they were twinkling through masses of spider webs. The fire was glowing at the other end of the room and the reflection of light from it was making everything look new, warm and fresh. It was overcast and dark outside which helped make the room look even cosier; Harry loved days when the weather was moody and unsettled.

       
Nancy was sat in the chair he usually rested, reading the paper, and as his gaze turned he swore he saw Emma sat in the chair opposite. He always felt her presence keenly at this time of year; he wondered whether it was her way of supervising the festivities and making sure he did everything just so. He shook it off and went over to his record collection to choose something appropriate, although for the life of him he couldn’t think what in the present situation.

       
He looked up as he heard Nancy enthusiastically winding the key on an old musical Santa Claus that he’d never had the heart to throw out.

       
“Every year you try and get that thing working. It’s had it.”

       
“And every year Gramps, you say the same thing. It’s my little ritual; my challenge to get him working properly; similar to you insisting on angel hair on the tree.”

       
“A Christmas tree doesn’t look right without angel hair; that’s how I’ve always done it.”

       
“And that’s how you’ll always do it. I know, I know. I don’t understand why he doesn’t work!” Nancy slammed the ornament down on the table next to her.

       
“He was always temperamental. If we got him to rotate it was on the wonk and he never plays a tune at the same time. Someone gave him to your father when he was little and he was obsessed with it, just as you are.”

       
“Will you tell me what happened with Aunty Gabrielle?”

       
Nancy’s sudden change in subject threw Harry and he hesitated as he poured the drinks out and caught up with what she was saying.

       
“I’ve told you what happened.”

       
“Not in any detail.”

       
“Well, I don’t really know myself. I wasn’t there.”

       
“She must have told you.” Nancy thanked him as she took the tiny glass that Harry held out to her.

       
He was silent for a long time as he poked the fire and put a record on. Nancy almost held her breath; she thought she’d pushed him too far and then he sat himself in the chair opposite and spoke.

       
“The day the two boys went missing their mother, Ellen came knocking on our door asking where they were. She said she’d seen Gabrielle playing and asked her to watch the boys while they were asleep, because she had shopping to do and didn’t want to wake them because they’d been sick in the night. When she got back they were gone and so was Gabrielle. She thought Gabrielle had brought them here to play.”

       
“Where were they?”

       
“At first I didn’t know Gabrielle was at home. After Ellen had gone I found her upstairs crying in her bedroom. She just said they’d run away from her. Then a couple of police officers turned up to question her…and then there was a huge search....”

       
“Where were they found?”

       
Harry leant forward in his chair and linked his fingers together.

       
“You have to understand, Nancy, she was a difficult child; defiant, you know? I always used to feel she was letting me know how alive she was, how permanent if you like. It was as though she was saying I’m here, so get on with it.”

       
“I don’t quite know what you’re trying to say.”        Nancy put her half empty sherry glass down on the hearth; it had gone straight to her head and made her feel slightly giddy.

       
“I don’t know myself really. I think I feel guilty and I need you to know my reasons...the decisions I made…”

       
“Granddad, its fine. I said before I’m not going to judge...I don’t know what I’d do in that situation...I really don’t. It must have been so difficult for you. For everyone concerned”

       
Harry got up from his chair and poured himself another sherry. “The two boys were eventually found in a cupboard under the stairs in their home.”

       
“It’s alright, Granddad. You don’t have to talk about it; I shouldn’t have asked.”

       
It was as though he hadn’t heard her. He walked to the window his eyes distant, travelling to another time.

        
“Still wrapped in their eiderdowns. I only know that because the police told me. It looked as though she’d tried to hide them; two little boys, only three years old. Of course she lied about it; said they’d been playing doctors and nurses and then they wouldn’t wake up so she tried to hide them when she realised because she knew she’d be in trouble, some such nonsense.”

       
“What did they actually die of, Granddad?”

       
He turned and looked at her as though he’d just become aware he was talking to her. In his mind he’d been talking to Emma as he had done over and over again for many years.

       
He took a deep breath and emptied his glass. “She said they were like that when she found them, but how could they have been? All I could think of at the time was why and how the hell she’d done it all. When I was told by the police what they thought had happened I couldn’t comprehend it. She wrapped them in their eiderdowns which she’d tried to tie round them with some string she’d found. She strangled them.”

       
Nancy clamped her hand to her mouth, the shock coursing through her like the sherry. Harry sat down in his chair; tears flooded his old tired eyes. Nancy reached out to touch him.

       
“Please don’t, darling.” He shooed her hand away and patted her knee. They both sat in silence for a few moments thinking about the same thing. “Come on, gal we’ve got dinner to sort out.”

       
“Yes, come on Gramps, pull yourself together.”

       
They both took a deep breath; Harry wiped his eyes and nose with his handkerchief and they bustled around bringing themselves back to the present and the task in hand.

       
“You won’t treat her differently, will you?” Harry turned to her as they both entered the kitchen.

       
“Of course I won’t. Stop worrying.”

       
Nancy was trying to convince herself as well as him and he could hear it in her voice as well as she could. It had shaken her, and he could see she had braced herself for it, but it had hit her worse than she’d expected. She was trying to match the person she was getting to know with the child she’d been told about. She couldn’t comprehend that someone could do something so abhorrent; how someone could think something like that up? He could see all this in her face as he looked at her, he knew her so well and she couldn’t hide it from him. The tiny droplet of doubt had landed in her mind and it was beginning to seep through her. He knew she’d begin worrying about him and what he was getting himself involved in. She was often telling him how people could act a good part and show you what they wanted you to see; always concerned he might fall foul of a con man. She was a wise girl having watched her mother perform her various personalities.

        Dinner was as awkward as it was expected to be and ended under very difficult circumstances. Five soon became four when Anna, Jonathan’s wife, decided to make a dramatic exit and flounced from the house, stating that she couldn’t go along with the farce.

       
Harry was angry but wanted quickly to ignore what had happened; the less importance they showed it the better as far as he was concerned. He’d known from the moment dinner was suggested that she’d do something to cause a scene; he knew it would all be planned in her mind. Harry had seen it in her face. But the loud, brash, clearly damaged individual she had been expecting to meet in order to follow through was not presented to her. He saw the disappointment in her face as she was introduced to an articulate, attractive and calm woman.