by Emily Gunnis
‘I think most women stayed with their husbands, however unhappy they both were, but they poured all their heart and their ambition into their daughters. Like my mother did. I always remember her standing at the sink one night saying, “Don’t get married, Harriet, it’s a mug’s game.”
‘That’s unbelievably sad,’ said Jessie. ‘That was her whole life, thrown away because of a sense of duty to a man that didn’t love her. How could he, if he could do that to her?’
Rebecca nodded. ‘I remember she went to the police once, after a particularly bad beating from my father. It took all her courage – she was still shaking when she told me about it that night when she came home. She asked them to help her. All they did was give her a good ticking-off, told her she needed to get on with it, that it was her duty, after what he had been through. As did the priest, when he spoke to her at confession. Her hell was not just my father, but having nowhere to turn.’
‘He went into a psychiatric hospital, didn’t he?’ Jessie was still now, her hands in her lap as she locked eyes with her mother.
‘Yes, he did, just after I was born. He was there until I was five. It was just my mother and me until then. His violent temper had a profound effect on me, growing up. Watching her trapped every day of her life and living with him, it rubbed off on me. He had battle neurosis from the war, and I had it from living with him. I was jumpy, anxious. I wet the bed until I was eleven. I made a promise to myself that I would live my life and not marry until I had achieved my ambitions. That I would earn enough money of my own that I always had choices.’
‘It makes me really sad to think of you as a thirteen-year-old girl, seeing your mother hurt like that. Why don’t you ever talk about that night to anyone, Mum?’ Jessie rested her hand on her bump.
‘Would you?’ Rebecca frowned at her.
‘I would if my daughter asked me about it. Surely having secrets is never a good thing.’
‘It’s not a secret!’ said Rebecca. ‘It’s my pain, it’s personal to me, and I had to lock it away in order to cope. I find it hard that you can’t respect that, but I’m trying to understand. Why do you think knowing about it will help you?’ Rebecca felt her defensiveness rise.
‘Because I feel like I don’t know you. Something like that would shape who you are, and it might help me to understand you more,’ said Jessie.
‘But it’s not just you, Jessie. I didn’t talk about it to anyone – not to John, not to Iris. No one. I wish you wouldn’t take it so personally.’
‘But if you’re keeping a secret as big as that inside you, how can you really be honest about anything?’
Rebecca let out a heavy sigh. ‘I said, it’s not a secret, Jessie.’
‘If you say so.’ Jessie shrugged, then continued quietly. ‘Dad said my birth was quite traumatic. Do you think the trauma of that night was locked inside you until you had me?’
‘Is that what your dad said?’ Rebecca looked over at the small scrapbook of newspaper cuttings she had found in the loft.
‘He’s told me bits and pieces, but I really need to hear it from you.’
‘What did he tell you?’ said Rebecca, standing and fetching the cuttings.
‘He said that when I was born you became very anxious. He said you thought you could see the policeman who interviewed you the night your parents died. That he was following you.’
Rebecca nodded, sitting down on the seat next to Jessie. ‘When the birth was finally over and they had stitched me up, I was sitting up in my bed at the hospital, holding you, and . . .’ Rebecca cleared her throat and pushed herself to go on. ‘I remember I felt something click in my head. It’s so hard to describe. I just felt this very strange sensation come over me. I started to hear this male voice, talking about me. I asked Harvey what it was, but of course he couldn’t hear it. I was frightened. I didn’t know what or who it was.’
‘What was the voice saying?’
‘He seemed to be talking about me to the medical staff around me, saying that he knew what I’d done, and that they were coming to take me away from you and they were going to put me in prison.’
Jessie stared at her mother, transfixed.
‘After that I started to unravel very quickly. I was convinced this man was following us everywhere. I didn’t sleep because I thought he was going to take you away from me, because he didn’t think I was fit to be a mother. He was there, everywhere I went. In every room, in the road outside Harvey’s farm where we were living. Just watching me, all day and night, smoking the Woodbines he was smoking in the interview room the night my parents were killed. When they made me sit in an interview room for four hours, with my mother’s blood still on the nightie I was wearing. I could smell the smoke, from his cigarette. It was that real.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Jessie, turning to face Rebecca.
‘I have dreams still. Dreams where my father is climbing the stairs in our house at Seaview to come and find me.’
Rebecca pulled out the police cuttings slowly from the file and handed them to her daughter.
‘He’s holding his gun, the wooden stairs creak as he steps on them one by one, closer to me. I am under my blanket. I can hear him come into the room, and just as he gets to me I turn and look him in the eye as he pulls the trigger.’
Chapter Twenty
Iris
4 p.m. Wednesday, 19 November 2014
Iris looked around the emptying café from which Mark had just made a hasty exit and pulled her notepad from her bag. She wrote down the name Jane Trellis, adding, midwife, Maternity Wing, St Dunstan’s Hospital. It hadn’t been hard to find her on the hospital website, with a picture. She looked mid-twenties, Iris guessed, with a broad smile, and the tips of her hair were dyed pink.
Iris’s phone began to ring and Miles’s number flashed on the screen. Iris looked down at it with dread. She needed to own up to Miles about being Jessie’s sister, but as time ticked on it seemed more and more impossible to come clean. There was still a chance she could hold together this mess she had created and thanks to Mark she had Jane Trellis’ name, now she needed to find her.
‘Hope is fading this afternoon for a young mother on the run with her newborn. Jessica Roberts and her baby, Elizabeth, have not been seen since Jessica walked out of the Maternity Wing of St Dunstan’s Hospital in Chichester at eight o’clock this morning.’ Iris looked up at the small television in the corner of the coffee shop, unable to take her eyes from the pictures of Jessica holding her newborn baby as they walked out into the bitterly cold November morning.
Her phone began to ring again and, when a local number she didn’t recognize came up, she answered it.
‘Hello, is that Iris Waterhouse?’
‘Yes, who is this?’ asked Iris.
‘My name is Helen Tate. I’m calling from the County Records Office.’
‘Oh, hi,’ said Iris, slightly thrown.
‘We’ve just heard back from the coroner regarding your request to access the file on the inquest into the murder–suicide of Jacob and Harriet Waterhouse in November 1960. As you are related to the deceased, it has been approved, so if you’d like to look at it, it’s currently at the County Records Office in Chichester. You’d just need to bring some ID.’
‘Oh, okay, great. What time does it close today?’
‘They’re open until five o’clock, so just under an hour from now. You’ll need to bring some ID with you.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ If she was going to make this work, she needed to buy an hour to get to the records office and photocopy the files.
Iris tried to gather her thoughts. She had no idea if that fateful night in 1960 was connected to Jessie’s disappearance in any way. But her instinct was telling her the past was rearing its head. Having barely spoken to their mother for the past year, she felt certain that Jessie had gone to see Rebecca to ask her about something specific. Rebecca wasn’t willing to discuss that night; she completely shut down if Iris even tried. So it was up to her t
o find a connection.
Iris tapped out a text message to Miles: Managed to get the name of Jessica’s midwife, Jane Trellis, St Dunstan’s Hospital, Chichester. No contact number or address. Can you help? Will send picture, from hospital website. Doing some background checks on Jessica now will call asap.
Within seconds Miles had texted back: On it, will let you know as soon as we have something. Good work.
The journey out to the records office was slow, the pelting rain slowing the traffic down as rush hour began to bite. By the time the taxi pulled up outside, it was nearly half past four.
‘Hello, my name is Iris Waterhouse,’ she said to the woman behind the desk.
The woman took in Iris’s bedraggled, rain-sodden appearance and glanced at the clock. ‘You will need to register, I’m afraid, and it will take a while for them to bring the file down, so you won’t have long to look at it. We close in half an hour so it may be better if you come back tomorrow.’
‘I can’t, unfortunately, I work up in London and I’ve got rather a heavy day tomorrow. The inquest was a murder–suicide,’ said Iris. ‘Jacob and Harriet Waterhouse, 1960.’
‘I see.’ The woman had the disapproving look of a person with a great deal of time on her hands. ‘Well, if you start to fill this in, I’ll call and see if they can bring it down.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Iris, forcing a smile. She pulled a pen from her bag, her hair dripping on to the form, as she pretended not to eavesdrop.
‘Luckily, the file is waiting for you,’ the woman reported. ‘The Coroner’s Office emailed earlier to say you were on your way.’
‘Wonderful. Is it through here?’ said Iris, signing the form and walking towards the door.
‘I need to issue you with a card,’ the woman said curtly, ‘and you’ll need to sign in. Also, if you want to take any pictures of the file, you’ll need a photo permit, and that costs twelve pounds for the day.’
By the time Iris sat down with the file on the inquest into her grandparents’ deaths, she had signed most of her life away to get her laminated card and had exactly twenty minutes until the office closed.
She took a deep breath, looked down at the light blue file tied like a birthday parcel with coarse white ribbon and realized her hands were shaking. Despite her desperate rush to get to it, the inquest report which detailed the events of the night of 18 November 1960 now felt like Pandora’s box. It wasn’t a thick file, but she could feel the weight of her mother’s past within its pages. A past her mother had never shared with her.
As her hand hovered over the cover page in the quiet open-plan room she felt as she had when she was fourteen, sitting in the loft of her childhood home, feeling the rush of blood to her face as she spotted the small scrapbook while she cleared out old boxes of books on a rainy day. She hadn’t hesitated then, sensing its importance and that it had been an oversight on her parents’ part, leaving it in a place she might discover it. She had known that her grandparents had been killed when her mother was young. And that her grandfather Jacob Waterhouse was a violent man who had killed his wife, and then himself. But what she hadn’t known, and discovered as she sat alone in the dusty loft of her childhood home, was that her mother, aged thirteen, had been in the house at the time.
After years of never being allowed to ask questions about her mother’s parents, of her father giving her weighted looks across the dinner table if the subject ever came up, reading the first article, faded to light grey and dated November 1960, had, despite the abject horror of what had happened to her mother, almost felt like a relief.
For as long as she could remember, Iris had known that their family was different. That her mother wouldn’t be at the school gates or at school nativity plays or assemblies, and because it was all she had ever known, she was okay with it. Because her kind, patient, funny father always bridged the gap with great enthusiasm and made her feel like she was special for understanding.
‘She’s saving lives, Iris, and by supporting her we are helping those families too.’
Her father was enough. More than enough, and over time she had begun to feel sorry for the other girls, as their mothers fussed over them endlessly, suffocating them in their teenage years, until it ended in explosive rows. She had an element of freedom and independence in her life that she learned to love. She and her father had bumbled along, all the world to each other, until his sudden death from cancer when she was twenty-three threw her and her mother into a situation where they had to cope without him. But they managed it, sharing their grief, their heartache and their secrets. Except one: the night in November 1960 that her mother would never discuss, the details of which Iris held in her hand now.
Iris felt a stab of guilt digging into her mother’s past, when she knew she was against it. But the thought of Jessie and her baby drove her on. Her hand hovered for a moment before opening the cardboard folder and reading the opening page. At the top, in bold heavy wording: County of West Sussex: POLICE REPORT TO CORONER CONCERNING DEATH.
Then, below it, several boxes filled with questions and, in answer to them, the distinctive typeface of an old-fashioned typewriter. She could picture a policeman stabbing at it with two forefingers. Her eyes ran down the first page, slowly, carefully, struggling to take in the last moments of her grandfather’s life.
Full name, age, occupation and address of deceased: Jacob Robert Waterhouse, 53, Ex-Services, Seaview Cottage, Wittering Bay, Wittering, West Sussex.
State where and when (day and hour) the deceased died, or was found dying or dead: Seaview Cottage, Wittering, 1.10 a.m. on Saturday, 19th November, 1960 Found dead.
What is the opinion of the Medical Practitioner as to the nature of the illness and cause of death? Gunshot wound to the temple.
If any known illness or injury existed before death, state if possible, the nature of it, and its duration: Chronic Battle Neurosis, admitted to Greenways Psychiatric Hospital in January 1948. Discharged back into Community Care April 1953.
State the supposed cause of death, if known or suspected, and the circumstances relating to it: A 999 call was received from Miss Rebecca Waterhouse, age 13, daughter of Harriet and Jacob Waterhouse, at 1.30 a.m. on Saturday 19th November 1960 requesting an ambulance for her mother, Harriet Waterhouse, and her father, Jacob Waterhouse. The police were notified and arrived at the house to find Miss Rebecca Waterhouse in the front room of Seaview Cottage in a highly distressed state, next to her mother. On the other side of the room was the body I now know to be that of Jacob Waterhouse, with a gunshot wound to the head. It was apparent to me straight away that he was dead. I attended to Mrs Waterhouse, she was breathing, but it was very laboured. She had severe bruising to her face and neck, and her left eye was bleeding heavily. She told me that her husband had shot himself. Mrs Waterhouse then lost consciousness and stopped breathing. I attempted CPR on Mrs Waterhouse, but soon after the ambulance crew arrived and declared Harriet Waterhouse – and Jacob Waterhouse – to be dead. A small Luger pistol was lying on the ground next to his right hand. I took possession of the Luger pistol.
Iris sat back in her seat and closed her eyes. She could imagine the clacking of the typewriter keys as the policeman filled in the form back at the police station, the form Iris now held in her hand: ‘I found Miss Rebecca Waterhouse in a highly distressed state, next to her mother.’
Iris began trying to piece together the scene after Harriet and Jacob had died. What had happened to her mother? Had the police officer comforted her, taken her from the room where her parents had suffered brutal and violent deaths? Put her in a police car and taken her to the station? She knew her mother had lived with Harvey and Ted Roberts before going to medical school, but presumably she hadn’t been placed with them on the night her parents were killed? Iris’s eyes swam with tears at the thought of Rebecca as a child, sitting helplessly as her mother lay dying in front of her.
She looked up at the clock: twelve minutes until closing. She moved on to the next pag
e.
East Sussex Constabulary
Statement taken at: Chichester Police Station
Time: 6 a.m.
Date: Saturday, 19th November 1960
Name: Miss Rebecca Waterhouse
Address: Seaview Cottage, Wittering Bay, Wittering,
Chichester, West Sussex
Occupation: n/a
Age: 13 years
My father, Jacob Waterhouse, came home to live with me and my mother, Harriet Waterhouse, when I was five years old. Before this it had been the two of us at Seaview. I had not met him before this as he was admitted to Greenways Psychiatric Hospital for Battle Neurosis when I was born on the 8th January 1947. He always had a violent temper, flashbacks and night terrors – he was very depressed at times, possessive of my mother, and often hit her. She went to the police, as she feared for her life but they were unable to help her. There had been an upset between my parents that evening as we were due to move away from Seaview Cottage the following day and my mother and I didn’t want to go. He was angry because I had played truant from school and went on the bus to visit Harvey Roberts at the farm at Greenways Hospital in Chichester where he was working. There was a storm that night and as I lay in bed, I thought I heard a knock at the front door and someone else in the house. My father’s shouting became louder and I heard my mother screaming. I was normally too frightened to go downstairs when my father was angry but when I heard the gunshot I ran downstairs. I found my mother lying in the front room. Her face was very swollen, she was bleeding from her ear and eye. I called 999 and sat with her. She died a few minutes later. I did not go to my father . . . I could see that he was dead. There was no one in the house. Perhaps I imagined it from the knocking and whistling sounds the storm made at the doors and windows.