The Lost Child

by Emily Gunnis

  They all shouted at him as he passed, their questions bleeding into one, louder and louder.

  Then silence as the doors closed behind him. The policeman stretched out his arm towards the long, empty corridor ahead and said, ‘DC Galt is waiting for you on Churchill Ward.’

  The clicking of the policeman’s shoes in front of him rang in his ears as Harvey followed him along the corridors, the endless red signs directing them to Churchill Ward. The last few days had felt like a never-ending car crash, with him, Jessie and Elizabeth skidding towards a collision that was yet to happen. He was exhausted from the lack of sleep, from the worry, from the constant pumping of adrenaline.

  The policeman pressed the buzzer on to the ward, they turned the corner and the sound of beeping machines began to bounce off the white walls. Harvey’s eyes scanned the corridor, along which a row of wheelchairs were backed up. Beyond it a desk with three nurses on the telephone or writing on a whiteboard. DC Galt was walking towards him, holding out her hand for Harvey to shake.

  And behind her, the open door to a private hospital room containing an elderly woman who, as DC Galt gently eased him forward, stared at him intently with her emerald-green eyes before the door slammed shut behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Harriet

  July 1952

  Harriet stood in the cool surf in Wittering Bay and clapped her hands together in happiness as her little girl swam towards her for the first time, her blonde curls tumbling in front of her emerald-green eyes which fixed on her with sheer determination.

  ‘You did it, my clever girl!’ she said as Rebecca fell into her, her tiny bronzed arms wrapping themselves around her neck.

  ‘I can swim, Mummy!’ said the little girl, looking up at her and laughing. Harriet waded back to a spot where Rebecca could stand, and as the sunshine danced on the surface, walked backwards several feet along the seabed and opened her arms to her.

  Again, the little girl began swimming towards her enthusiastically, her smile beaming, and as she reached her, Harriet showered her with kisses and pulled her in tight. As she stood with the child in her arms, seawater dripping from their tanned bodies, the warm sea air from Wittering Bay blew past and goosebumps danced up their forearms.

  As they looked to shore, they could hear the sound of children laughing and the surf rushing at the golden sand of the bay. A fishing boat chugged across the horizon. Harriet inhaled the sea air, kissed Rebecca’s sea-drenched cheeks. At moments like these, it was hard to believe that the picture-postcard scene surrounding them was the same hostile place which had greeted her that fateful night.

  Five years had passed since she had found Rebecca freezing to death in the cave, since she had staggered and tripped along the cliff face, hammering frantically at the door of Seaview Farm until Ted Roberts let them out of the bitter night and into his life.

  Unable to return to Northcote with baby Rebecca, she had made a new life for them both. Ted Roberts, a recently widowed farmer, was happy to take in Harriet and the baby he believed to be hers, and for her to run the farmhouse and look after his little boy, Harvey. She spent her mornings cooking and cleaning and her afternoons playing with the children. Though the happiness of her days distracted her, when she climbed into bed at night her guilt returned in earnest. As she lay in the dark, she lived the day that she lost Cecilia over and over in her mind. Her body still moved along with the rattling train on the painstaking journey from Northcote to Seaview, she could still feel her panicked heart and the fierce winter wind as she stumbled across the beach in the darkness looking for them. In her dreams every night she heard Rebecca’s faint cry guiding her into the cave and her own desperate cries for Cecilia as she stood at the sea edge in the moonlight.

  Time did nothing to heal the guilt of what she had not done to save her; that she had not told the police about Seaview as they questioned her relentlessly; not got to Cecilia in time. And as Rebecca grew, the beautiful, fair-haired child looked more and more like her mother every day. To Harriet, despite the untold happiness that Rebecca brought to her life, when her baby’s green eyes locked on to hers, it was like Cecilia’s ghost coming back to haunt her. At first, she had held out hope that Cecilia was alive, prayed night after night that news of her would surface. Too afraid to go to the police and ask about her for fear of drawing attention to herself, she had accepted Ted’s offer to stay at Seaview and work on the farm in the hope that if Cecilia did ever return, she would be able to find them.

  All she could do was take care of Rebecca, love her as her own. And wait.

  It was spring 1947 when, three months after arriving, she had walked into Wittering with Rebecca in her pram and seen the headline screaming at her from the newsagent’s window.

  BODY OF UNKNOWN WOMAN

  WASHES UP AT WEST WITTERING

  Harriet’s hands had immediately begun to shake and, stopping in her tracks, she had wheeled the pram slowly towards the glass to read the front page of the Chichester Evening Herald on display.

  The body of woman was discovered by fishermen close to the shore on the morning of 10 April.

  The woman’s body was recovered by Lifeboat teams and is severely decomposed, the Chichester inquest heard.

  The coroner said, ‘The body was badly degraded. It’s impossible for me to state when she entered the water. I would not suggest there’s any evidence of third-party involvement.’

  Anyone with any information about the woman, who is believed to be aged between twenty and forty, five foot six inches tall with green eyes should contact Sussex police.

  Harriet had turned and walked back to Seaview, closing the front door before breaking down. Her worst fears had been realized: Cecilia was dead. Finding her shoes at the shore of Wittering Bay the night she found Rebecca was evidence enough. But this proved it to her beyond a doubt.

  The body of a woman? Why hadn’t Charles come forward to claim her? He must have read the papers, heard about a body washing up or been notified by the police. Perhaps he thought the body was too far away to be Cecilia. Or perhaps he just didn’t care. She couldn’t bear to think of Cecilia’s body, unclaimed, in an unmarked grave somewhere.

  Several times after that she had plucked up the courage to go to the police and tell them what she knew, but every time the thought of Rebecca being taken away stopped her.

  Rebecca was Jacob’s little girl, her responsibility. Rebecca was a scandal Charles wanted to bury and he would ensure Rebecca was sent away somewhere she would never return from. It wouldn’t bring Cecilia back to tell the police that she knew who the unidentified woman was. She owed it to Cecilia to be strong, to raise and love Rebecca as her own.

  ‘Can we see Harvey now, Mummy?’ Rebecca said, holding her mother’s face in both hands and turning it to meet her eyes, as she always did when she wanted her full attention.

  Harriet smiled at the little girl’s words. Mummy. She still remembered the first time she had said it but like the day Rebecca had taken her first steps, instead of the warm feeling it should have given her, Rebecca’s first words – and steps – acted as a reminder of time passing, of the gaping black hole since Cecilia had fled Northcote, left her baby to die and taken her own life in the cruel January sea.

  ‘Yes, we should go or we’ll be late!’ said Harriet, and Rebecca wrapped her little body around Harriet’s as she waded through the water towards shore.

  When they reached Seaview, their bodies dripping seawater all through the cottage, Harriet smiled at the little girl and then walked across the cool stone floor to the dresser and pulled out the drawer containing Rebecca’s colouring book. As the heavy drawer fell forward and her red leatherbound diary slid from the back, where she had hidden it from sight on the day Ted gave them the keys to Seaview. She had not looked at it since. She couldn’t bear to read it, to think of Cecilia and Northcote and what she had done. Her diary and her post-office savings book were the only things she had as a reminder of the life she’d had before.<
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  Rebecca had been a newborn when she had last poured out her heart on to its pages, sitting at the kitchen table at Seaview Cottage on the first day of their new life at Wittering Bay. Harriet slowly reached in and pulled the diary out and then handed Rebecca her colouring book and crayons which the little girl pounced on happily. As she did so, Cecilia’s gold locket, which had been around Rebecca’s little neck, fell onto the floor. She picked it up and examined it, the Northcote family coat of arms engraved on to its now dull surface.

  Harriet looked up at the clock: ten minutes until she needed to be at Seaview Farm to take over from Ted. She could picture him now, rushing around looking for his boots, which Harriet always put neatly by the back door, a piece of toast in his mouth, butter in his beard, shouting at Harvey to move his toy cars before they found their way under his shoes and sent him flying. Even though she had turned the small Georgian farmhouse around, from the chaos she had found when she’d first arrived to the organized, tidy home and farm office it was today, Ted and Harvey still managed to leave a trail of destruction in their wake.

  ‘Right, little one, let’s go,’ she said, returning the locket and diary to the drawer. She pulled Rebecca’s hand-knitted cardigan on, buttoning it up before opening the front door of Seaview Cottage and stepping out on to the cobbled stone pathway that led along the cliff edge to the farmhouse.

  As Harriet pulled the door shut, Rebecca darted past her and skipped along the path they had trodden a thousand times over the past five years. As Rebecca performed her usual trick of walking too near to the edge to wind her mother up. Harriet looked down at the sun-kissed little girl, who smiled back at her, delighted with herself. Harriet reached out and clung to Rebecca’s hand, which she held high over her head, inviting Harriet to tickle her under her arms.

  ‘Good morning, Matilda,’ said Rebecca, pointing into the distance, where several fat hens were thundering towards them across the courtyard.

  Rebecca opened the gate and let her mother through before the gaggle of hens made their escape. The clucking birds surrounding them, and Rebecca started to giggle. ‘It’s not lunchtime yet,’ she said, as the hens trotted along beside them, pestering them for food.

  ‘Will there be any eggs left?’ said Rebecca, pointing to the chicken coup at the far side of the courtyard.

  ‘Ted and Harvey have probably gobbled them up already for breakfast, but we can try,’ said Harriet, lifting open the lid of the coop and smiling at Rebecca’s glee as she spotted a single egg nestling amongst the hay.

  As Rebecca retrieved the egg and beamed up at her mother, Harriet looked over at the Georgian farmhouse, from which Ted Roberts was emerging. Set back from the limestone courtyard, two narrow pillars framing the blue front door, wisteria taking over its symmetrical form, it was a pretty house, perfect but for the telltale signs of jobs she still needed to get to despite her best efforts; peeling paintwork on windowsills and windows greying with dirt. As Ted opened the door and waved at her, his blue eyes squinting in the summer sunshine, she smiled and waved back.

  ‘Shall we tell Ted about your swimming?’ said Harriet, so that Ted could hear.

  ‘You’re not swimming, are you, Miss Waterhouse? You could teach my wimp of a son a thing or two. Harvey, get out here!’ he said, leaving the front door ajar as he crossed over to them with his lolling walk. Ted lifted Rebecca up and blew a raspberry on the little girl’s cheek as they turned to see a seven-year-old boy with blond hair and wearing dungarees appear at the door. ‘Miss Rebecca here is swimming, Harvey Roberts, and she’s two years younger than you!’

  As Ted picked the little girl up and threw her into the air, Harriet heard the familiar sound of the postman’s bicycle bell and she looked up to see him cycling towards the gate.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ shouted Ted, as he headed through the gate on his way out. ‘I need to get up to the top field and mend the electric fence. I’ll see you at lunchtime. Are you okay to take the truck to Mr Tucker with the littles and get feed?’

  ‘Something for you this morning, Mrs Waterhouse,’ said the postman as Ted passed him, and he and Harriet exchanged looks once his eyes fell on the envelope being passed to her.

  Harriet smiled at the postman and took the letter. Her heart raced and her cheeks flushed as she felt Ted watching her. There was only one person who knew where she was – Jacob’s doctor at Greenways. She had written to him just the week before, after wrestling with her conscience.

  What he had done to Cecilia was unforgivable, but he had been in the grip of battle neurosis. Jacob was a good man, she loved him and he was Rebecca’s father. The little girl could never know her mother, but she was his child, Jacob was her husband and he needed them. She could not just abandon him.

  She looked down at the letter. The stamp was punched with a Chichester postmark and as she turned it over to open it she looked over at Rebecca sitting on a hay bale and laughing as Harvey chased the hens around the yard. Watching her daughter’s happiness, she wished she could freeze the moment in time, as if the envelope were a bomb about to explode in their lives and change everything. As she carefully slid the typed letter from the envelope, she saw that her hands were shaking.

  Greenways Psychiatric Hospital, Chichester

  18th July 1952

  Dear Mrs Waterhouse,

  Thank you for your letter dated 14th July notifying us of your new address.

  As you know, we have been treating your husband as an inpatient on the Battle Neurosis Ward at Greenways since January 1947. Mr Waterhouse was originally admitted suffering with acute states of neurotic disturbances or battle fatigue, and he had to be heavily dosed with lithium carbonate. Electro-convulsive therapy has proved to mechanically lift Mr Waterhouse’s depression, and after a year he was able to leave the locked ward and for the past three years has been on the open ward. He is for the first time showing signs of wanting to reintegrate himself back into society and is able to go for a half a day or a single day excursion before returning to the safety of the ward. Lastly Jacob has particularly benefitted from the talking therapies, especially art therapy.

  I am happy to say he is no longer at risk to himself or others and is making progress. I feel the time has come where it would be beneficial for him to see his family. It is my hope that, with your support, he will be able to return home for weekends before his formal discharge. You mention in your letter that you have a five-year-old daughter at home and we would need to ensure you are happy for him to live with you and that you have community support for your husband before he is fully discharged.

  In the hope of rehabilitating him and enabling him to come home to his family, I would appreciate the opportunity to discuss his behaviour towards you and any triggers which you found brought on the flashbacks to his experiences in Normandy. We would need to work together to make sure that you understand how the triggers for Battle Neurosis work and how best to avoid them at home, particularly as you have a young child who could potentially make loud noises and startle him.

  If possible, I would like to meet with you on Thursday of next week, and as this doesn’t leave us much time, I would be grateful if you could reply to me at your earliest convenience. If you would like to bring your daughter, I know that Jacob is very keen to meet her, and we could arrange for your husband to take your daughter to the farm here at Greenways in order to make it as relaxed as possible.

  Jacob speaks of you often and I very much look forward to meeting with you,

  Yours sincerely,

  Dr Philip Hunter

  Harriet let out a sigh, returned the letter to its envelope and pushed it into her pocket.

  ‘Come on, little ones, in the truck. We’re going to get some feed.’ As she reached down to lift Rebecca up in her arms, she looked out at the sea beyond Wittering Bay, which was starting to churn. The bright sunshine of the morning had faded, the temperature had dropped and it was beginning to cloud over. As she started up the engine in the truck, little spatters of rain
began to tap at the windows and she knew in her heart that a storm was coming.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Harvey

  6 p.m. Wednesday, 19 November 2014

  Harvey Roberts stood at the door of Cecilia Barton’s quiet side room and looked in at the elderly lady. Her eyes were closed and the head of her bed was elevated, her faded hospital gown hung from her frail shoulders and her long grey hair fell around her sunken cheeks. From her laboured breathing it was clear that she was struggling to hold on to whatever life she had left. Her cheeks were deathly pale and a mask sat over her mouth. A nurse was at her side, reading the monitor which beeped next to her.

  DC Galt stood too close to Harvey at the door’s entrance, breathing heavily, so that Harvey had to inch forward to get some space. She made her way over to Cecilia’s bedside and fixed her gaze on Harvey. He stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. He was still not sure what was required of him; what this woman wanted from him on her deathbed was not a priority to him. He had enough grief of his own to deal with, enough pain and regret, without having to deal with hers too. He wished he hadn’t come here, he should have stayed at Wittering Bay, looking for Jessie. There was a repugnant smell in the air, a stale odour which made him feel as if death were close. He could taste it and it made him feel nauseous.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen this woman before. It feels wrong – she should be with her loved ones, not us, not strangers.’

  ‘That’s what we are trying to help her with. She wants to find her daughter before it’s too late. As you can see, she doesn’t have long.’

  The woman stirred but didn’t wake. DC Galt leaned over and whispered in her ear. ‘Cecilia, can you hear me?’

  As the woman began to stir, Harvey winced. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want to talk to her, he didn’t know who she was. What he did know was that she represented the past, a past he didn’t want to wake.