The Lost Child

by Emily Gunnis

  The rain began in earnest and as a crack of thunder rumbled in the distance, Rebecca started to cry. ‘It’s all right, darling. We’re nearly there.’ Rebecca was struggling to carry the little girl on her hip and hoisted her up with a groan. As rain dripped from her hair into her eyes the little girl clung to her nervously and her apprehension slowly turned to anger.

  She had known all along it was a mistake to bring Rebecca to Greenways. ‘Could you slow down please?’ she called out to the man as she hurried to catch up. A nurse scurried past holding hands with a patient in a white coat who was enjoying the rain; her black hair was greasy and limp, her teeth yellowing as she tipped her head up, smiling at the sky. As they passed her, the patient stared at Rebecca, stopping in her tracks to touch the little girl’s hair as they passed. Rebecca pulled away and let out a whimper, clinging to Harriet tightly.

  ‘It’s all right, darling, she won’t hurt you.’ As the rain started to fall harder, the man broke into a run, clearly anxious that the linen in his charge wouldn’t get soaked. ‘It’s through there,’ he said, running ahead, as Harriet looked at him and towards a building flanked by wooden huts with steps up to the entrance. ART THERAPY read the sign on the door. Harriet put the little girl down on the bottom step, took her hand and together they ran up.

  At the top of the steps, they looked around. ‘Mummy, can we go inside?’ said Rebecca, shaking from the cold. Harriet reached for the handle of the art block door and turned it. The door creaked open and they stepped inside.

  Despite it still being the middle of the afternoon, the blinds at the windows were pulled and the room was in darkness. It smelt musty, like damp wood burning, and she could make out a row of desks and in front of her a wooden easel. She hunted for a light switch.

  She found one and flicked it on. Rebecca stood next to the easel, now illuminated, and was staring at it. Harriet had to cover her mouth to stop herself screaming.

  It was a painted portrait. The same green eyes, the same long blonde hair, the same beautiful face as the little girl standing next to it. Harriet knew immediately that the woman staring back at her was Cecilia Barton.

  As she drew closer, she saw the initials in the corner: JW. Dr Hunter’s words came racing back to her: ‘Jacob has particularly benefited from the talking therapies, especially art therapy.’

  She couldn’t breathe and rushed to the window to open it. ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ asked Rebecca, her green eyes wide.

  Harriet’s mind spun. Why was Jacob painting portraits of Cecilia? Was he still obsessed with her, after all these years? What hope was there for them as a family if she was so indelibly ingrained in his mind?

  ‘Mrs Waterhouse? What are you doing? This area is staff only. You aren’t supposed to be in here.’ A voice brought her out of her thoughts.

  ‘Dr Hunter? Did my husband paint that picture?’ snapped Harriet, already knowing the answer. ‘What is the point of all this art?’ she cried, her eyes full of tears. ‘Are you trying to torture these poor men?’

  ‘Torture them?’ Dr Hunter shook his head. ‘Mrs Waterhouse, art therapy has been extremely beneficial for you husband. It helps patients to express the things they cannot talk about and can unlock painful memories, which we can then help them to process.’

  ‘Painful memories?’ Harriet repeated. ‘Does he blame himself for Cecilia’s death? Is that why he’s drawing her?’

  ‘Her death? I don’t understand what you mean, Mrs Waterhouse. Cecilia Barton is alive.’

  ‘What?’ said Harriet. ‘I don’t understand. She drowned.’ Harriet stepped back from him, as Rebecca clung to her tightly. ‘I know she did.’

  Dr Hunter frowned and shook his head. ‘No, she tried to drown herself and her child. Her baby’s body was never recovered, but she was rescued. She is here, Mrs Waterhouse. Cecilia Barton is a patient at Greenways.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Iris

  6:30 p.m. Wednesday, 19 November 2014

  ‘Are you sure you want to keep waiting, love? This is going to cost you quite a bit.’

  ‘Yes, boss’s instructions,’ said Iris, looking down at her watch.

  It had been an hour and a half since Miles had called her with the address of Jane Trellis, the midwife charged with taking care of Jessie and her baby when she had snuck out of the hospital that morning.

  Miles had texted regularly over the past hour since they’d arrived at Jane’s house, which lay in darkness. He truly had the bit between his teeth now; there was no way this was going to end well, thought Iris.

  Iris closed her eyes for a moment in an effort to try and calm herself down and collect her thoughts, but an image of Jessie walking into the sea at Wittering Bay holding baby Elizabeth in her arms kept playing on repeat in her mind. She had no plan of what she would say to Jane Trellis, if she was home even. And from the state Miles was in, Iris knew it had gone well beyond the point of being able to fob him off. He wanted an exclusive, and from what Mark was saying, the hospital wanted a scapegoat. Iris could imagine the article now, ‘Exclusive interview from the midwife who let Jessie Roberts go!’ Iris took a deep breath and turned her attention to the papers in her bag.

  She started to read the first Wishing Well, dated December 1947. It opened with a Christmas message from the medical superintendent congratulating everyone on the success of the magazine and encouraging patients to continue sending in their contributions. There followed pages of beautiful poems and short stories written by the patients, about their experiences of war, of mental illness, of visitors they longed to see who never came, of summer trips to the beach in their childhood. The final pages had news of a dance that was shortly taking place and information about a new wing. Nothing about Jacob Waterhouse. She looked through the others. Again, nothing.

  Her phone beeped with a text from Miles. How’s it going?

  Iris cursed at her phone and thought long and hard before typing out her reply. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes away.

  Miles didn’t respond and Iris read on, flicking through the issues, one after the other. No sign of Jacob’s name anywhere. Iris read back to make sure she hadn’t mis-read Dr Hunter’s statement.

  I told Mrs Waterhouse that Jacob is benefitting from the talking therapies, particularly art therapy, and has re-discovered a talent for drawing and painting; even submitting some of his work to our patient magazine, The Wishing Well.

  Iris felt her stomach knot as she carefully turned each page. ‘Come on, where are you?’ she muttered to herself as she reached the end of each issue. Lifting the last one from the pile, she turned the first page, then the second – then she saw it. A beautiful single-line sketch of a woman, her profile, looking down, the curve of her nose, her chin, her shoulder, her hip. It was entitled simply ‘CB by JW’. ‘CB by JW – Jacob Waterhouse,’ muttered Iris. She referred back through the pages: Jacob had been the only patient with the initials JW.

  Iris took a sharp intake of breath and reached for the patient notes next to her on the seat.

  She scanned the pages, running her finger down line after line of names. Then, finally: Cecilia Barton. CB. The initials on the sketch and the only CB in the entire patient list.

  ‘Cecilia Barton,’ said Iris out loud.

  ‘Sorry?’ said the driver.

  ‘Oh, just ignore me, I’m talking to myself,’ Iris said, frowning down at her paperwork.

  ‘First sign of madness that is,’ said the driver, chuckling to himself.

  She pulled out her phone and googled the name, added Chichester and a match came up. Archives from a National Trust website.

  A black-and-white photograph of a couple at what looked like a party. The man was tall and handsome, with a narrow face, and he was looking at the woman who was staring at the camera smiling. She was wearing a heavy fur coat and wore a locket around her neck. The caption read, ‘Charles and Cecilia Barton, Northcote Manor Boxing Day Hunt, 1944.’

  Iris zoomed in. The woman’s face, her body a
nd the way she held herself were immediately familiar to her. The woman in the photograph was the image of her mother. Goosebumps prickled up Iris’s arm as she scrolled down looking for further proof. Another photograph, this one colour. A portrait of Cecilia Barton dressed in a green evening gown. Her blonde hair was tied up away from her face and her green eyes stared out at Iris. Emerald green eyes, exactly like Rebecca’s. Tears stung Iris’s eyes, as she frantically tried to think back to the documents she had read that day in the County Records Office. Mr Jacob Waterhouse was first admitted to the Battle Neurosis ward here at Greenways in January 1947 when he was employed at Northcote Manor as head groundsman. Iris looked up from the pages now swimming in front of her. The truth was impossible to ignore, thought Iris. Cecilia Barton and Jacob Waterhouse had had an affair when he was employed at Northcote – and Rebecca was the result.

  Not only that. But because of her refusal to ever discuss that night, and her desperation to keep the past locked away, her mother didn’t know – and probably never wanted to know – the truth.

  Iris was so engrossed that she didn’t notice a young woman approaching until she was almost at her front door.

  ‘I think she’s back, love,’ said the driver as Iris looked up to see a young woman with a child walking down the path of number fifteen Wilson Road.

  ‘Christ!’ said Iris, springing into action and throwing all the papers onto the seat next to her. ‘Do you mind waiting here for a few more minutes?’ She said, snapping herself back to the present.

  ‘Sure,’ said the driver as Iris pushed open the car door.

  Iris opened the gate just as the woman was putting her key in the lock.

  ‘My name is Iris Waterhouse,’ she said. ‘I’m Jessie Roberts’s half-sister.’

  Jane Trellis shook her head. ‘I’m sorry but I’ve been told not to talk to anyone about her.’ The woman was at her door now and opened it to let the child through.

  ‘I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’m desperately trying to find out any information about where Jessie might be.’

  ‘Well, I’ve told the police everything I know. I can’t talk to you,’ said the woman, easing her daughter through the front door.

  ‘I’m sure you have, and I realize this must be very difficult for you. It’s just that as her family we are desperately worried about her.’

  ‘Well you should be talking to the police. How did you get my name and address?’ she said, frowning.

  ‘I’m a journalist,’ Iris confessed. ‘I have a contact at the hospital who is also an old friend.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘But all I care is about is finding my sister. Please, Jane, I know the baby has an infection and time is running out for her. I just wanted to ask you one specific thing and then I’ll go. Please.’

  ‘I can’t talk to you, I’m sorry. You’ll get me in trouble. I’ve told the police everything I know.’ Jane turned to close the door.

  ‘I know, but they won’t tell us anything. They’re keeping us in the dark. Did she mention her family at all? Our mother Rebecca maybe? They don’t see each other very often, but Jessie went to see her, on Friday. She had psychosis when Jessie was born, did Jessie say anything about it?’ It was starting to rain again. Jane looked shattered as if she had been up all night.

  The young woman’s eyes filled with tears, her face pale and drawn. ‘She didn’t say anything about her mother.’

  ‘Okay, thank you.’ Iris turned to go.

  ‘But she did mention her grandmother.’

  ‘Her grandmother?’ Iris frowned.

  Jane nodded. ‘Yes, she said that her grandmother had psychosis when she had her mother, that the child was taken away and she was put in an asylum. We talked briefly about how much times have changed, how they do everything they can now to keep mother and baby together. I didn’t realize how bad she was feeling, and I’ll never forgive myself for not giving her more time. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. You’ve been really helpful, thank you, Jane,’ said Iris, still reeling from what Jane had told her. How could Jessie have known about Cecilia? It was impossible. As she walked back towards the cab ‘Miles’ flashed on her phone.

  ‘Tell me what I’ve just been told isn’t true!’ he roared. ‘Jessica Roberts is your half-sister?’

  ‘Miles, I—’

  ‘I don’t appreciate being lied to. Go home, Iris. Come in first thing tomorrow. I think we need to have a chat about your future. I’ll send one of the other reporters over to speak to Jane Trellis.’

  Miles hung up the phone and before she had a chance to catch her breath, her phone rang again.

  ‘Mum Mob’ flashed on the screen. Iris had so much to tell her mother she had no clue where she was going to begin. She felt absolutely wrung out. It now appeared that she had lost her job, as well as her husband and her house all in a day.

  ‘Hi, Mum, are you okay?’ She got back into the cab and closed the door.

  ‘Where to, love?’

  ‘Mum? Is there any news about Jessie?’ Iris panicked, ‘Mum?’

  ‘No, darling, not really. I’ve just been asked to go to St Dunstan’s Hospital to meet an elderly lady who is claiming to be my mother. It’s ridiculous! And so hurtful. It’s probably someone who has called in after the news conference, a crank caller, and I’ve got to deal with it, when we should be focusing on Jessie.’

  Iris took a deep breath. ‘Is her name Cecilia Barton?’

  There was a long pause. ‘How did you know that? What on Earth’s going on, Iris?!’

  ‘Mum, you have to go to her.’

  ‘Iris, Jessie is missing!’

  ‘Jessie knew about this woman, Mum. She talked about her in the hospital. To the midwife. Cecilia Barton had postnatal psychosis and was put in Greenways Asylum. Jacob worked for her at a place called Northcote House. Mum, she looks just like you,’ said Iris gently. ‘I know Harriet brought you up, but I think it’s possible she wasn’t your birth mother.’

  Rebecca paused. ‘Iris, please, don’t do this to me now.’

  ‘Mum, you have to go to Cecilia.’

  ‘No, Iris! This whole thing is bloody ridiculous!’ Iris could hear her mother breaking down on the end of the line.

  ‘Mum, it’s okay,’ said Iris.

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Harriet would never have done that to me, lied to me my whole life,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Mum, Jessie was talking to the midwife about her grandmother being put in an asylum. That she had psychosis after you were born and that Harriet took you away from her. Is there any way you can think of that Jessie could have found out about it? Anyone that Harriet might have confided in?’

  There was a long silence. ‘No. My mother was a very private person. The only place she might have written about it was in her diary,’ Rebecca said quietly.

  Iris thought for a minute. Could Jessie have maybe found Harriet’s diary? And read about it all? Where would it be?

  ‘I have no idea – unless . . . My mother used to escape to the bomb shelter at Seaview sometimes – that’s where we used to go to hide from my father. But the entrance is sealed off. Harvey said we couldn’t get access. It belongs to another family now, and I can’t imagine it would still be down there. There’s no way Jessie certainly could have got in, on her own, with baby Elizabeth.’

  ‘She must have found the diary though. How else could she have known all those things?’ Iris was speaking fast, her words tumbling over each other.

  ‘Iris, Jessie said something to me when she saw me. About my mother living a lie. She said maybe I didn’t know my mother as well as I thought. That everyone had secrets. Iris, you have to go to Seaview and try and get into that bomb shelter. I’ll talk to the police liaison officer about this now.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go now. Mum, you must go to the hospital. Please, promise me,’ Iris pleaded. ‘For Jessie’s sake.’

  ‘Okay, Iris, I promise,’ said Rebecca as she end
ed the call.

  Iris leaned forward in her seat. ‘Thanks for waiting. Can you drive me to Wittering Bay, please. As fast as you can.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I wake and my lamp gives out a soft glow in my darkened room. From the quiet on the ward it feels like the witching hour. Rosie and Harvey and the police officer have gone and I am alone. I am sitting up, because lying down makes me cough until I can’t breathe. The mask is over my face permanently now, the sound of the hissing of the oxygen like the rushing of the sea in my ears. My whole body aches; my legs feel like they are on fire.

  I take a slow breath in and my lungs crackle angrily in response to my efforts to stay alive. I know I don’t have long, but dying is hard work – it’s not something that just happens to you. It’s not the physical part but the heart of me – who I have been and how I will be remembered. I cannot go without saying goodbye to my child. Without telling her I am sorry.

  We are afraid that talking about death beckons it, that if we don’t acknowledge it, death might not notice us. Now it is here, standing next to my bed, I cannot let it take me before I unburden my heart of Harriet.

  The door opens and a nurse comes in, wheeling the machine which will tell her that I have a high temperature, that my sweats and crackling cough indicate I have an infection, that the antibiotics they’re giving me aren’t working. It is the brisk nurse with dark hair. She starts banging at my pillows with a vengeance to prop me up, then takes off my mask, puts a thermometer in my mouth and wraps Velcro round my arm. As it pinches tighter and tighter, she tells me the doctor will be doing his rounds soon and that they may need to send me down for another X-ray. She is efficient, organized, professional. But where is Rosie? This cannot be the person who is with me in my last moments. My head throbs and sweat gathers under my body so my bed feels wet beneath me.

  I doze off and when I wake a doctor with blue eyes behind black glasses is at the end of my bed. He is looking at my notes, talking quietly to his colleague. I breathe in and out, listening to my lungs crackle.