The Lost Sister, Kathleen McGurl [best desktop ebook reader txt] 📗

‘In what way?’ Sheila asked, sounding concerned.

Harriet sighed. ‘I mean, I should be used to it all by now. And I was prepared to feel emotional going through memorabilia of my life with John, but it’s Davina’s things, and the photos of me and my brother as children that have really got to me.’

‘You weren’t prepared to find those, I guess, so they caught you unawares.’

‘But I was – I mean, I knew all that stuff was there. It’s just that I keep looking at those old photos of my gran and my brother, and the other ones of the four of us – me and John, Sally, and Davina. And then I get all depressed, and feel that I’ve lost so much. I keep disappearing into memories of old times, wallowing in the past.

‘Oh love, shall I come round? You sound like you need cheering up.’

Bless Sheila, Harriet thought. A good friend indeed. ‘Ah, it’s all right. I’m just feeling a bit maudlin I suppose, going through this old stuff. I mean, it’s triggering lots of happy memories too. I just wish that there’d been more memories, and that we were still making them now. I miss my family.’

‘There’s still a chance, always a chance, that Davina will come back to you one day. Never let go of that hope, Harri. What was it you told me once – love is always open arms.’

‘Yes, those were John’s words.’ Harriet smiled at the memory.

‘He was a wise man – it’s so true. Meanwhile, make the most of Sally and Jerome. The little lad will pull through – I’m sure he will. Bless him.’

‘He’d better do. I can’t bear the thought that he might not.’

‘He will. I looked it up. The odds are good. So, would you like to meet for a coffee soon? Or come round for lunch? I’m at a loose end for most of the week so it’d be nice to see you. And you’ll need a break from all that sorting out!’

‘You come to me, for lunch. Monday or Tuesday – either. We can discuss our cruise – it’s not long now.’

‘Perfect, Tuesday works for me,’ said Sheila. ‘I shall see you then. And you can show me some of these old photos you’ve found.’

It had become a regular thing for Harriet – once a week she’d take a walk along tree-lined streets of inter-war housing, across a busy shopping street, up a side street past Victorian terraced houses, and into the cemetery. Tucked away on the edge of a large park it was a peaceful spot, as long as you picked a time to visit when Bournemouth weren’t playing at home – the football stadium was on the other side of the park. Wide paths led between trees through the middle of the cemetery. Today was a pleasant day with warm sunshine and enough birdsong to lift her spirits, as Harriet took the familiar right then left turns to the section where John’s grave was. She put the pot of purple hyacinths that she’d been carrying beside the headstone, and spent a few minutes tidying the grave up – pulling out a few weeds, gathering up fallen leaves.

‘There, John. Those hyacinths should look nice for a few weeks, as long as there’s some rain.’ She smiled as she put a hand on the gravestone. John had never liked cut flowers. ‘Waste of money,’ he always said. ‘They only last a few days. They’re dead when you buy them, and you’re then just watching them decay. I much prefer living plants.’ And so Harriet had made a point of putting only potted plants on his grave, bringing a plastic bottle of water with her each visit to water them, replacing the pot when the plant stopped flowering. Then she’d bring it home and transfer the plant into her garden.

There was a bench nearby where she often sat to have a conversation with John, as long as there was no one around. It was quiet today, so she took her seat. ‘Well, John, here I am again, another week has passed. Actually, it’s eight days – I didn’t come yesterday because Sally and her family were visiting. And I won’t be able to come next week because guess what – Sheila and I are going on a cruise! Isn’t that exciting?’ She chuckled, as she imagined John rolling his eyes at the news. Cruises had never been his idea of a good holiday. Harriet had always hoped that as they aged she might have been able to talk him into trying one, but she suspected he’d never have agreed.

‘Davina rang me again. So good to hear her voice. She’s well, and so are her girls. They’re living in France now, you know …’ Harriet tailed off. There wasn’t really much else she could report – Davina had given her very little real news as usual. She sighed. ‘Oh John, we ended up rowing. Again. Every time. I know, I know – I must let her take her own course through life. She’s an adult. She’s free to do whatever she wants, including keeping away from me and keeping her daughters away from me. But, oh John, it does hurt so much.’

It wasn’t the first time she’d sat on that bench saying much the same thing. And she suspected it wouldn’t be the last. But sometimes it felt as though it helped a little – admitting out loud how difficult it all was and how much it hurt. She sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to a blackbird singing its heart out somewhere high in a tree above her. A tiny wren flew down and landed near the bench, pecking around on the path and she watched its little tail bobbing up and down. Was there any bird more adorable than a wren? John had liked magpies, she remembered. Their personality, the way they asserted their authority over other birds in their territory, the way they’d