The Lost Child

by Emily Gunnis

  ‘Okay,’ said Iris, and hung up.

  What was going through Jessie’s mind to walk out of hospital on a freezing November day with her poorly newborn baby? Where could she be? If they’d had any kind of relationship, Iris would have been there, visiting her in hospital, looking after her. Instead, she’d had no idea that her half-sister had even been pregnant. It broke her heart to think about it. She pictured Jessica standing on a train platform somewhere, in a cold station, chronically sleep deprived, in pain from the birth, desperately trying to get as far away as possible and find somewhere to hide. She would have cowered at every loud noise – the crashing ticket barriers, the train conductor’s whistle – while her broken body would wince at every bustling commuter who knocked into her and her tiny baby.

  Her mobile rang again.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Thanks for calling back. Miles, my news editor, is sending me to Chichester to try and find out what’s happening.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Rebecca’s voice was quiet.

  ‘He wants me to try and meet up with a contact I was at university with, Mark Hathaway, he’s an A&E consultant at St Dunstan’s.’ Iris stood by the doors so as not to be heard in the train carriage. ‘Do you mind telling me what Jessie talked to you about, Mum? What might have upset her, I mean.’

  ‘You sound like the police.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Iris, slightly taken aback. ‘So are they at the house now?’

  Rebecca spoke quietly so as not to be heard. ‘Yes, they arrived half an hour ago, and Harvey has obviously planted the seed that Jessie and I had a falling-out when she came to see me. That somehow this is all my fault.’

  ‘That’s nice of Harvey to try and blame you,’ said Iris shaking her head.

  ‘Yes, and of course they’re not giving me any updates, other than to tell me they’re holding a press conference that Harvey doesn’t want me at.’

  ‘Okay, well I’m doing my best to find out what I can. Like you asked.’ She frowned, annoyed at her mother’s change of heart. She had failed to mention to her mother that, on a quiet news day, her news editor had positively leapt on the story. It had been a long time since she’d brought anything to the table, and he hadn’t been subtle in showing his disapproval.

  ‘I know, I just thought you might have heard something in the office. I didn’t realize he might send you on Jessie’s trail.’

  ‘It’s a good thing, isn’t it? I’ll be at the heart of it, and I’ll be able to update you. He wants me to attend the press conference too.’

  ‘Oh dear. Won’t Harvey notice you there?’

  Iris let out a sigh. ‘I think he’s got a lot on his mind, Mum. And he knows what my job is. Besides, who cares? You have a right to know what’s going on – you shouldn’t have to resort to this subterfuge.’

  It always staggered Iris that her mother, who had worked her way up to being a senior paediatric consultant, always kowtowed to anything that involved Jessie or Harvey. Her daughter was missing. She should be in Chichester with Harvey, being told everything he was. Not getting snippets of information from a police liaison officer.

  ‘So, what was it you talked about? Why did Jessie get upset? I won’t share it with anyone.’

  ‘I don’t really want to talk about it, darling.’

  ‘You always do this, Mum, and it’s not fair.’

  Iris felt her hackles rise. It was unlike her to argue with her mother, but seeing James that morning, the possibility of having her house taken away from her and, then, finding out her half-sister had had a baby and no one had told her about it, was putting her on edge. She was risking her job to try and find out what she could; the least her mother could do, she felt, was to tell her what she knew. She was tired of always tiptoeing around the subject of Jessie. Her sister and her newborn niece were missing. They needed to pull together.

  ‘Do what, Iris?’

  ‘Shut me out of anything to do with Jessie. Dad used to fill me in on this stuff, but now he’s not around I never have a clue what’s going on with her.’ Iris knew she was being childish, but it was at times like these that she missed her father desperately. She had a good relationship with her mother but Rebecca could be a closed book, and the two of them had often relied on John to ease any friction.

  ‘That’s not true, I talk to you about her all the time,’ her mother said curtly. ‘And I know you miss Dad. I miss him too. I so wanted to talk to him about Jessie, I wanted to talk to you about her visit and the baby but I didn’t want to upset you.’

  ‘But you’re upsetting me now!’ Iris surprised herself at her honesty as she looked out of the window at the Sussex countryside hurtling by.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Iris. I get it wrong sometimes, well, most of the time, as Jessie was very quick to point out.’

  ‘Mum, this is not your fault. I love her because she’s my sister, but I hate what she’s done to our family. I can’t believe she was pregnant and didn’t tell me. Why does she hate me so much?’ Iris angrily wiped at a tear. ‘She’s always pushed me away.’

  ‘Iris, I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I really don’t think it’s a good idea, you going to Chichester. It was stupid of me to ask for your help. I don’t think it’s appropriate.’

  ‘Mum, who cares what’s appropriate! Jessie’s had a baby, you’re a grandmother, I’m an auntie. They’re missing and I want to try and find out what’s happened. Why can’t you tell me what you talked about?’

  ‘Because it’s upsetting, and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that she’s missing. I don’t understand why everyone needs to dwell so much on the past.’

  It was then that the penny dropped. Jessie had gone to talk to her mother about the night her parents were killed. The shadow that hung over their broken family, the subject that was never broached, that she’d never been allowed to mention.

  ‘But Mum . . .’

  ‘Darling, I have to go. The police liaison officer here wants to talk with me again. I’m very sorry I’ve upset you.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Iris. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

  She felt a desperate yearning to speak to her father. Ten years had passed since his death, and yet still, at times like these, there was no one who could smooth things over better than him. Her separation from James had hit her all the harder without her father there to pick her up and tell her that there would always be a man in the world who loved her unconditionally.

  As the train pulled into the next station a throng of commuters poured on. Iris found a seat and looked out of the window, her mind darting to the articles she had found as a fourteen-year-old, only a year older than her mother had been when her life was torn apart.

  It had been almost a relief to find them, in a scrapbook in the bottom of a box in the attic, after years of wondering and worrying about this big secret. She felt wretched for her mother, to have witnessed such horror so young. But as time wore on and Iris’s teens turned into her twenties, it became increasingly hard for her to understand why her mother, despite their closeness, would not discuss it.

  Iris sighed and logged on to Jessie’s Facebook page. She sometimes looked at it, for lack of any other contact with her half-sister, and seeing it now she wished she’d looked at it sooner. A picture of Jessie and her boyfriend Adam on the beach at Wittering, Jessie’s bump just showing under her sundress. It was dated August 2014, and it was a clear summer’s day, Jessica’s hair was cut in a neat blonde bob around her pretty, smiling face and her sunglasses were propped on top of her head. She looked happy, Iris thought, but so thin it was hard to believe she must have been five months pregnant. She reminded Iris of a fawn and was sun-kissed in the photograph and wearing a loose summer dress, so you would have barely known but for her boyfriend, who Iris had never met, pointing at her stomach and biting his fingernails like a character in a cartoon. The caption read, ‘And in other news, we’re due in December!’ A stream of likes and comments followed, all offering congratulations. Iris scrolled through. Several mentioned Jessie�
��s stepmum, Liz, and how proud and excited she would have been at the news of her first grandchild.

  Iris scrolled through the other pictures of Jessie at various work events and pub lunches with friends and turned her attention to another photograph. It had been posted in December 2011, and in it Jessie and Liz were wearing Santa hats and beaming at the camera. The hats were at a jaunty angle and you could see that Liz had no hair, presumably because of the chemotherapy. Despite the smiles, the intensity of their embrace gave the impression they were clinging to each other for dear life. Across the bottom of the photograph in blue italics was written, ‘Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again.’

  Of course Liz was going to mean a lot to Jessie, she had looked after her since she was a baby, but it saddened Iris to the pit of her stomach that Liz had always kept Jessie’s birth mother at bay. But Liz had been gone for two years now and they had seen no more of Jessie than when Liz was alive. There was so much pain to contend with, so much hurt and misunderstanding. And her mother wasn’t one to put everything out there for discussion. Least said, soonest mended. At least Jessie had tried to reach out to her mother.

  As the train pulled into the penultimate station before she got off at Chichester, Iris scanned the frozen commuters as they filled her carriage with the cold air they brought with them.

  Where are you, Jessie, Iris thought to herself, and why did you go to see our mother? As she thought back to how defensive her mother had been on the phone about her and Jessie’s meeting, Iris became increasingly convinced that her half-sister had quizzed her mother about the night in 1960 when her grandparents were killed.

  And if she was right, Iris had to find out why.

  Chapter Nine

  I wake in a small room with a large window overlooking Chichester. I don’t know what time it is, but it feels like the evening, there is a trolley of food being wheeled around. I turn my head slowly to see the hustle and bustle beyond the window in the door out to the nurses’ station, but the light from the corridor hurts my eyes and I look away again. I cough hard and my chest rumbles. My eyes scan the room. There is a chair in the corner, a sink on the wall opposite, a cabinet next to me with a jug of water on it and a door to a bathroom.

  I don’t want to be here. But I know I don’t have the strength to leave.

  I have stopped shivering, but my body feels broken. My arms ache, my head pounds, my back throbs and, as I look down, I see a drip attached to my forearm which leads up to a clear pouch of fluid hanging from a stand next to my bed.

  I try and swallow, but my mouth is dry and I feel desperately thirsty. I look longingly at the cup of water on the bedside table but I don’t have the strength to push myself up. As I lie listening to the nurses’ chat in the corridor, I pick up the faint sound of a baby crying and try to work out where it is coming from.

  I need water. I see a red button and reach out to press it, but my arm is too heavy. Tiredness overwhelms me and I close my eyes. I hear the sea in my ears and it calms me.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  When I open my eyes again a girl in a nurse’s uniform is standing over me, smiling.

  She cannot be more than twenty years old, and her long, wavy brown hair is pulled back in a half-ponytail. She has sea-blue eyes and a big smile which creeps up the sides of her kind face and takes over. It is the smile of a girl filled with optimism.

  ‘Where am I?’ My throat hurts.

  ‘You’re on Churchill Ward. I’m the night duty nurse. They brought you down from resus a couple of hours ago once you’d warmed up a bit. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Okay, let’s sit you up and get you comfortable.’ She reaches out for a button and presses it and slowly the bed raises until I’m upright. She hands me a cup of water and I take it gratefully.

  ‘I need to take your obs, if that’s all right?’ I don’t reply, just nod, and she reaches behind her to a monitor which has a clip attached to it for my finger. While we wait, the machine beeping noisily, she smiles at me again. I notice a small diamond on her engagement ring finger.

  ‘Your oxygen levels are good, and your body temperature is right back up, but we need to keep an eye on you. The consultant thinks you might have a chest infection, so they’ve given you some IV antibiotics and fluids as you were dehydrated. I think they were quite worried about you when you came in.’ She moves carefully; she is self-assured and calm.

  I watch her as she takes my blood pressure. The cuff pinches my sore arm and when I wince she apologizes, still smiling.

  ‘They said you were at Wittering Bay for quite a while, it can be really harsh down there at this time of year – no wonder you got so cold. I love going for walks there in the winter, but I spend a lot longer by the fire in the King’s Head afterwards.’

  I say nothing, just watch her as she slides the monitor away then sits on the edge of my bed and presses two forefingers into my wrist. She has long eyelashes, which with her long limbs and graceful movements make me think of a gazelle.

  ‘I didn’t want to leave the beach. I don’t want to be here.’

  ‘I know, but you’re quite poorly so we can’t discharge you yet. Could you give me any contact details for your family? We need you to tell us your name and where you live so we can let anyone worrying about you know that you’re okay. Is there a family member I can get in touch with so they can come and see you?’

  I look over at the door behind her, picture visitors bundling through it with flowers, handmade cards, tears, hugs. Love. I don’t know how to answer her. I start to cough and cannot stop. When it is finally over she hands me some more water and a tissue.

  ‘I have been trying to find my daughter,’ I whisper. I haven’t said those words out loud for twenty years, because nobody has ever believed that she is still alive.

  ‘Trying to find her? Did you lose each other when you went to the beach?’

  I want so much to tell her, but I don’t know how. My body shakes as the fear in my heart takes over, as it always has.

  I shake my head but say nothing. She looks at me then away again as she writes my heart rate in my file. I cough and swallow hard in an effort to gather myself.

  ‘Do you know her number? I’ll call her for you.’ She clicks her pen closed and returns it to her top pocket.

  ‘I don’t know where she is. I don’t want to hurt her. But I really want to tell her I’m sorry. Before it’s too late.’

  My voice is quiet and I stop, but she waits for me to go on. I think of this morning, which started the same as any other – a fight to wake up, get dressed, eat, get through the hours without thinking of her and what could have been. I had given up long ago, resigned myself to never seeing her again. And then I saw his face. Harvey Roberts.

  ‘And when did you last see her? Your daughter?’

  I start to cough again but manage to catch my breath so it doesn’t take over. My chest burns. ‘When she was five days old. I went back today, to where I last held her, to try and remember.’

  I know I have to tell someone what happened to me and my baby. I can’t keep it inside any longer, it has eaten away at me for so long that there is nothing left, but I don’t know where to start. I don’t know if this girl is the angel I’ve been praying for or if I’m just wishing her to be because I know she is my last hope. Because I know I am never leaving this room.

  Another nurse appears at the door and asks her a question. I panic she will leave and not return. That this conversation, which has barely begun, will never have existed. My body floods with relief when the other nurse goes and she looks at me again.

  ‘And you stayed at Wittering Bay until it got dark? On your own?’ she says, frowning.

  ‘I couldn’t leave. I realized that I would rather die than face another day without her.’

  I watch for her reactions, silently wishing I hadn’t said anything. I fee
l frightened that she will take my words and act on them. And equally frightened that she won’t.

  I think back to this afternoon, stepping out of the taxi at the top of Seaview Lane as I made my way towards the seafront. The prickle of hairs on the back of my neck as I came to Seaview Farmhouse.

  I stopped at the gate to look at the small Georgian farmhouse set back from the road by a courtyard as memories flooded back.

  I walked down to the cove where I left her, the white stone cottage jutting out from the headland, and there I stayed until my blood froze from the bitter wind.

  I close my eyes and drift off until the sound of a baby crying wakes me again. But as soon as I open my eyes it stops. I see it is night now and the darkness is heavy in the room. My chest hurts more than it did earlier. I start to cough again and a stabbing pain throbs in my chest.

  I see the nurse I like through the glass. She’s talking to one of the other nurses, and I remember what I told her about my daughter with rising panic. I don’t know why I did it. I think every part of me has accepted that I will never see her again, but somehow I still find myself believing in a miracle.

  She looks up and sees me and starts to walk towards my room.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks when she reaches me. She looks a little tired now, her eyes less bright, her neat ponytail loosened so wisps of hair escape around her pretty, oval face.

  ‘My chest hurts,’ is my reply.

  ‘The consultant is coming to see you later. I won’t be here because my shift finishes soon, but I’ll do a handover so they know how you are. He may decide to do another X-ray and see how you’re responding to the antibiotics.’ She takes my temperature and blood pressure.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  I frown. ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone called Rosie, one of the carers at Maycroft. The police called us, everyone at your care home has been worried about you.’

  ‘Don’t the police have better things to do? I don’t want to be any trouble,’ I say, though my heart lurches with hope. Rosie. I like Rosie. She is kind to me. I have always wanted to talk to her about my baby but I’ve never had the courage.