The Healing of Broken Souls

Chapter 20

That number bounced around inside my head for a second before I realized her mistake.

"Surely, you mean five thousand pounds sterling?"

"No, Mr Lewis. I mean five million."

I metaphorically picked myself up off the floor.

"Please call me Michael," I said.

Rebecca assured me the figures were accurate and that they hadn't mixed my father up with a different Robert Lewis, and then she told me where the money had come from.

#

Four years ago, Rebecca had been allocated the case of a very old lady who'd died intestate in a nursing home. She was 93 and her name was Mary Maynard-Scott. From census records, Rebecca found that Mary had one son named Robert. The search for Robert Maynard-Scott proved fruitless, but a year later one of her colleagues working on a different case happened to notice that name on a list of Oxford University students from 1966. Further enquiries at Magdalen College had thrown up the existence of a change-of-name deed and from there, the trail eventually led to my father.

Rebecca said that Robert had been as surprised as I was. He thought he'd been disinherited by his father, which turned out to be true. But his father had died many years before and had left everything to his wife, Mary. She was much younger than her husband but never made a will so when she died, Robert was her sole heir.

Then Rebecca told me that last year Robert had contacted her and explained that he'd been recently diagnosed with a lung disease and didn't have long to live. He'd asked her to try and trace me, and that had taken several months. 

From his online bank transactions, Rebecca could see that my father had never touched his inheritance.

#

After I wound things up with Rebecca I called the funeral parlour in Valencia. The director spoke English and said a death certificate had already been issued. My father could be cremated on Wednesday. He explained that it was traditional in Spain to have the funeral as soon as possible after a person passed away. I agreed to his arrangements, there was no point delaying matters.

My busy morning dealing with the practicalities of my father's passing eased the sharp feelings of grief I was suffering. Although I was still saddened, I was also buoyed by our reconciliation and the knowledge that he was at peace with himself when he died. I thought back to what he'd said about his shattered soul being whole again and I knew exactly what he meant. I too, felt as if an old wound, deep inside me, had finally healed. Gradually, my sorrow was tempered by a new sense of purpose and I sprang into action.

I printed Helen's spreadsheet and called her to make sure she was at the port. She asked me to come straight away. She was giving a scuba training session that afternoon.

When I got there she was checking dive gear on the jetty next to her motor launch. She looked up and smiled as I approached. She was wearing denim shorts and a bikini top. Her long sunbleached hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She looked amazing.

"Is that my spreadsheet, oh knight in shining armour?"

"It is, but I have a question for you first."

Before she could say anything I dropped to one knee and grabbed her hand.

"Helen, I've loved you for a long, long, time. Will you marry me?"

Her eyes opened wide and she didn't answer immediately. My heart lurched.

"Marry a penniless aspiring writer and be expected to live in a semi-derelict old mill in the back of beyond? How could any girl resist anything as romantic as that? Of course, I'll marry you, Michael. I thought you were never going to ask me!"

I stood up and hugged her. Then we kissed until I had to break away to breathe. Helen could hold her breath much longer than I could.

We went into the shop and Helen uncorked a bottle of cava. She always kept a few bottles on hand to toast customers when she presented their dive certificates. Then she went to her rack of spare parts and came back with a circular spring clip.

"Here you are. You're supposed to give me a ring," she laughed.

"Ah! I'm an idiot. I meant to give you this," I said, pulling the gold chain out of my shirt front. I fumbled the clasp open and shook the diamond ring into my hand. I slipped it onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. Helen stared at it in surprise.

"And we also don't need this." I tore the spreadsheet in half dramatically.

"What are you doing?" she gasped.

"Order your new boats and find your bigger premises. You don't need the bank."

"Michael! Please don't tell me you've mortgaged your home for me!"

"No need," I shook my head.

"You better tell me what you've done. This ring looks expensive."

"It was my mother's ring," I told her, and then decided to get it over with quickly. "And I've got a confession to make. My visitor passed away on Saturday night, and he wasn't just an elderly relative. He was my father."

"What!" Helen stood up and hugged me. "Michael, I'm so sorry for your loss." Then she took a step back and punched me on the shoulder not at all playfully. "You told me both of your parents were dead! I could have met him! Why did you lie to me?"

"Look," I began lamely. "I told you that when we first met. I didn't know you very well. Something happened when I was a kid that turned me against my father."

"I had a feeling something strange was going on! I take it that's where the money's coming from? I love you, Michael Lewis, but if we're to be married I want no secrets or skeletons in cupboards!"

"I know that, Helen. I can explain, but it's a long, complicated story."

"Alright! But I don't have time for long, complicated stories right now. I have to get the dive gear ready. Are you having a funeral for him here in Spain?"

"Yes, this Wednesday."

"I want to come, and then I want to know everything. No secrets!"

"Agreed. I'll tell you everything. I promise."

#

I left Helen to carry on with her work and drove home feeling like a new man. I made coffee and sat in front of my computer, wondering how I could possibly explain it all to her, and then the answer hit me. I would write it all down for her to read. I had hours of recordings to work with. My father's story would be the 'something new' I'd been trying to come up with for the last five years.

I opened a new document and stared at the blank page on my screen, trying to summon inspiration for a title. I thought about what our short time together had meant to both of us and knew right away there was only one title that would fit the ending of the story.

In bold letters at the top of the page, I typed; 'The Healing of Broken Souls'.