I put the phone down several minutes later, having learned more of the secrets my darling father had been hiding. The company had gone through a bad slump the previous year. Trying to claw their way back to profit, certain departments had been merged, and several employees were offered statutory redundancy. Perhaps they’d been given little choice but to accept. We’d never know because my father never told us. He accepted the redundancy and was given the car he was driving as a final thank you for his years of service.
The assistant had said the redundancy had been paid out the previous January. I hung up in the middle of her commiserations on the loss of my father and reached for the folder containing his bank statements. It took a few minutes to work back and find the deposit, running my finger down the column of figures and stopping at a larger sum. Larger but not large enough. This couldn’t be right… it was only a little over thirteen thousand pounds.
A quick internet search taught me the difference between the statutory redundancy he’d been offered and an employer’s redundancy scheme. Statutory redundancy was a miserable amount of money. It had been quickly swallowed by outstanding bills.
It was obvious from looking through the statement that my father hadn’t managed to get another job. There was no money being paid into his account, just regular money leaving for the dinners, days out, the indulgences he kept providing, refusing to admit to himself… and certainly to us… that he couldn’t afford them.
I’d have liked to have given up, to have shoved all the papers back into the broken drawers, willy-nilly. I wanted my carefree life back. The father I adored, not this pathetic lying, cheating failure. I wanted my mother – the neglectful or the indulgent one – either, both, any version of her as long as she came back and didn’t leave me here all alone.
Foolish thoughts. That life was over. I sat and went through every statement, item by item. Years of them. Hoping to find the one thing that might make things… not better, but maybe bearable… evidence my father had paid into some form of insurance policy. Because he had to have done, hadn’t he? He was a responsible adult, the father of a child, he’d have known he’d need to provide security in case the worst happened… the worst that did happen.
I relaxed when I found what I was looking for. A lying bigamous cheat he may have been, but he wasn’t stupid. I changed my mind when I read through the final several months’ statements. The premium hadn’t been paid. A frantic search through the final drawer brought the policy to light and it was as I’d feared, if consecutive premiums are missed, the policy ends.
No insurance policy.
No money to pay my mother’s medical bills. Perhaps she would be coming home soon. Doctor Brennan had promised someone from the clinic would ring to let me know how she was doing. That they hadn’t didn’t worry me unduly. It would take time to assess her and decide about treatment. Rather than ringing the clinic to speak to strangers, I rang the surgery and asked to speak to Dr Brennan. He was with a patient, and I was put on hold that lasted so long I was drifting off to sleep to the sound of ‘Evergreen’， jerking upright when the music stopped suddenly, and his deep voice rang down the line.
‘Lissa, my apologies, I was planning to ring you later. How’re you holding up?’
‘My neighbour, Mrs Higgins, has been very kind. I’m going to stay with her for a few days until I get things sorted.’
‘Good, I’m pleased to hear it, I really didn’t like leaving you alone.’
I heard paper being shuffled before he spoke again.
‘I’ve spoken to the consultant psychiatrist looking after your mother. I’m afraid it’s not good news, Lissa. Your mother’s mental state has always been fragile. Dr Ramirez considers she is in a withdrawn catatonic state. Putting it simply, your mother has a decreased response to all external stimuli. There’s an absence of speech, she’s refusing to eat independently and refusing to move. This means she requires twenty-four-hour care.’
‘But they’ll be able to make her better, yes?’
‘They’ve started a course of benzodiazepines which may prove effective. Dr Ramirez also suggested that ECT might be of benefit.’
ECT… I’d seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I knew exactly what that was. Electroconvulsive therapy. My poor mother.
‘It’s very effective,’ Dr Brennan insisted as if he’d read my mind. ‘It had bad press in the past, but I know patients who have benefited from it. I think you need to trust that Dr Ramirez has your mother’s best interests at heart.’
I didn’t have much choice. ‘When can I visit her?’
‘Dr Ramirez suggested you wait for a few days. He knows your situation, that you have lost your father. He’s very sympathetic.’
How sympathetic would he be when he knew there was no money to pay the bill? Perhaps staying away was the best option in the circumstances. I wasn’t sure I could have faced seeing my mother staring into space. ‘But I can ring, find out how she is?’
‘Yes, of course. Here’s the number for reception.’ He reeled it off. ‘And this is Dr Ramirez’s direct line.’
I scribbled both down, thanked Dr Brennan for his help and hung up.
A withdrawn catatonic state. An internet search for the term didn’t make me any wiser.
What was concerning was the twenty-four-hour care she needed. It didn’t sound like she’d be coming home anytime soon.
I needed to find a way to pay for what sounded like a very expensive stay. I picked up the files on both houses. My mother only lived in one. The other… where my father’s second wife lived… needed to be sold.
Whatever it took.
The end… as it always did… would justify the means.
12
Mrs Higgins was kind and comforting without smothering me. ‘Here you go,’ she said, opening the door into the spare bedroom. ‘There’s a TV here, so you can watch whatever you want, whenever you want.’
The room was spacious, the bed dressed in crisp white linen. She’d put a carafe of water and a glass on the bedside table. ‘It’s a lovely room, thank you. I’ll try not to be any trouble.’
‘As if you could,’ she said, giving me a quick hug.
As if she’d let me. She was kind, she wasn’t stupid. The TV looked like a recent addition, it made it clear that I was welcome to stay, but mostly in my room. It suited me. She and her husband had two children, both of whom were married and living abroad. The Higgins spent part of the year visiting them, months in Australia, and a strictly equal amount of time in Canada. If I was right, they should be heading off soon. I wondered if they’d allow me to stay in their home or if Mrs Higgins would drop a broad hint about moving on.
What I was going to do, I had no idea.
But there was one absolute certainty – whatever I had to do to secure my mother’s care, I’d do it.
The following day, I met with the solicitor, Jason Brooks. A short, very handsome man, he rose to greet me with an outstretched hand. He held mine for several seconds, assessing me as he did so, then nodded as if satisfied with what he saw. ‘Have a seat,’ he said, leading me to a leather chair on the visitor side of the desk.