Nissen - My Mother and Other Secrets

First published in 2021

Copyright Wendyl Nissen, 2021

The cover photograph and the images featured in the picture section are from the authors private collection.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Allen & Unwin

Level 2, 10 College Hill, Freemans Bay

Auckland 1011, New Zealand

Phone: (64 9) 377 3800

Email:

Web: www.allenandunwin.co.nz

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065, Australia

Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

ISBN 978 1 98854 721 3

eISBN 978 1 76106 129 5

Design by Madeleine Kane

To my parents, Elis and Cedric

Contents

When I started writing this book it was a simple memoir of my mothers interesting life and a guide for people dealing with dementia. What I hadnt counted on was the number of secrets my family held, on both sides. Wild tales and stories of intrigue took me over, and before I knew it I was uncovering, and then writing, a family history my parents had not been aware of or, perhaps, had not wanted to know.

This is also a book about how women suffer, especially in my mothers era, when childhoods were tough, and when women had to fight for every bit of independence they gained, if they gained any at all. It was a time when mental illness was stigmatised, so you just got on with it and did the best you could. I know that my mother would take pills and then sleep for a long time to escape what was going on in her head. I know she drank alcohol to help get away from it all. I dont blame her. I dont have voices in my head or dark moods. Or the impulse to abuse my children verbally and physically. But if I did, I think I would want to take something to make me sleep and escape for long periods quite a lot.

My mother could be cruel and unkind to me, but it was what she knew and what she had been taught and what her brain was doing to her. She could also be extraordinarily nice to many people. Inclusive, warm, generous and lovely. I know that she did the best she could with her life, made it a good one and Im proud of her for that.

Following Mums death I embarked on a research project which I expected to be quite short. I had submitted her DNA to Ancestry.com several years earlier, simply to find out whether I could find her birth father, as she had been adopted out as a baby. I had suggested finding him to my mother several times when she was alive, but always got a negative reaction. She simply wasnt interested, and when I found out more about him I would understand why. I was given the firm impression that I was welcome to do the research but she would prefer that she wasnt around to hear about it. In other words, do it after her death. Im also pretty sure she knew there would be more to uncover than just the name of her father, hence her reluctance.

When I started the research I found myself going down rabbit holes that I never expected to be there, and ended up exploring leads and tunnels of research that told me stories I had never heard or even suspected the existence of. I unearthed relatives I never knew about, and this helped me understand my mother properly, for the first time. She was a complex woman from a complex background. Im a journalist, so uncovering secrets is something I love to do. For me, the research path that takes you down rabbit holes and brings you up somewhere totally unexpected is a thrill. Which is why this book took over my life in a lovely, all-consuming way. When I finally finished tying up all the leads and writing them down in this book, my husband joked: I always knew you were descended from rogues and scoundrels.

My parents were born to a generation that kept secrets. Big secrets for a long time, and usually they took them to their graves. Their parents generation had lived through two world wars and a depression, and suffered a lot of deprivation. I can understand why they were reluctant to sit around on a Sunday afternoon and share it all over a cup of tea. My parents generation wasnt much better as they ventured into new lives, new prosperity, and a new social level which meant that you didnt really want to be telling people about the sins of your fathers. You would rather they didnt know the sordid secrets of your past.

I found out that my parents knew very little about their parents or grandparents and saw no reason to explore further. They both knew there were things they didnt really know about sins and suffering and they were quite happy to keep it that way. Then I decided to write this book, which has exposed secrets and stories that I found fascinating; its a clich, but I was able to weave a tapestry of my existence using the threads of research. The process, the completed job this book helped me become a little more whole. I now knew what came before. I think that is very healthy for the mind; it certainly was for mine.

After sitting back in wonder at something my computer had thrown up, I would often pause to consider what my mother would have said if she were alive to hear the latest detail. She most likely would have looked at me, laughed, and then said, Is that right? Well I never! Then she would have clamped her mouth tight shut so as not to let out any more secrets that had been long buried.

Dad had the fortune, or possibly misfortune, to be alive to hear these secrets. Sometimes he shed a tear at the information I found out about his father and mother; other times he just shook his head and said, I had no idea. Thank you. And that was it.

As a result of all my digging I developed a strong connection with my paternal grandfather, Arthur, who I never knew, and my maternal adopted grandmother, Olive, who I have no memory of as I only met her as a baby. I started talking to them in my mind and acknowledging their pain. I found and visited Arthurs grave for the first time, and did the same with Olive. It felt great to have those two people in my heart at last.

There were two children in our immediate family and Im only going to tell the story from the perspective of one of them. Ive done my best to leave my brother Mark out of this story because he has his own version of what happened to us and his own story to tell.

My father, Cedric, is still alive and has given me permission to write this book, as did my mother when she was alive. Ive done my best to be truthful and respect his dignity as well.

It is hard to write about your family when the subject matter is difficult. I once bravely put my hand up at a reading in the Auckland Town Hall and asked celebrated American writer David Sedaris how his family reacted when he wrote so much about them, often in unflattering ways. His answer was simple: Whenever I write about someone in my family, I give it to them first. And I say, Is there anything you want me to change or get rid of? You can portray them with real flaws and depth without betraying them.

My dad has been given this opportunity.

On the day I killed my mother I sewed a dress. It was the first dress I had sewn in nearly 40 years, and I was a bit rusty. I had bought the material online: a fine black netting fabric, beautifully embroidered with flowers, along with a very simple pattern that I hoped would be flattering. A simple, straight shift dress with elbow-length sleeves where I allowed a brief flutter of ruched fabric to give the sleeves a little extra something. Id remembered how to pin the delicate tissue paper of the pattern onto the fabric, making sure I knew the fabrics wrong and right sides. I had carefully cut each piece out with pinking shears and then pinned the darts.