The officer had obviously emphasised the urgency of the situation because the GP arrived less than thirty minutes later, a concerned look in his eyes.
‘Mrs McColl,’ he said, dropping his bag on the floor and taking my recently vacated seat on the sofa beside her. ‘You’ve had bad news. I’m sorry for your loss.’ He reached for her hand, moved his fingers over her wrist. Checking her pulse. I wonder could he tell from feeling it that her heart was broken.
‘She hasn’t moved and has barely blinked since I told her the news,’ the officer said quietly.
The doctor nodded. ‘She’s always been,’ – he hesitated as if searching for an appropriate, politically correct word – ‘a fragile woman. Mr McColl was her strength. His death is going to be hard for her to deal with.’
They encircled her, the doctor and the two officers, looking at Mother with so much sadness that I wanted to scream, what about me? I was only sixteen. My father was dead. My mother had left me. The cycle of neglect and indulgence I had lived with for so long had finally been broken – unfortunately, it had stopped with the hand pointing firmly at neglect.
8
When all the doctor’s attempts to get my mother to speak, move or react in any way failed, he made several phone calls, then took me into the hallway. ‘I know this is hard on you, Lissa, but I’m worried about your mother, and I think the best thing to do, is for me to admit her so she can get specialist care.’
The burden of everything, my father’s death, my mother’s breakdown – even with my limited knowledge I could see this is what had happened – they pressed down on my shoulders, and I staggered under their weight. ‘Specialist care?’
‘A private psychiatric clinic. They have agreed to take her.’ He looked back through the door to where she sat. ‘I think it’s the best place for her. The only issue would be the cost.’
‘That won’t be a problem. Get the best treatment for her. There’s plenty of money.’ I said it with such authority, he let out a sigh of relief. There was no point in my enlightening him. I had no idea how our finances stood and doubted if my mother did either. We’d always had enough for whatever we needed – and Mother needed this.
‘Good, I think the sooner she’s seen, the better.’
I left him to make more phone calls, and returned to sit beside Mother and hold her hand. The police officers could have told the doctor, had he asked, that I was too young to give consent for my mother to be admitted to a private clinic. At sixteen, I couldn’t enter into a legally binding contract, but I didn’t expect there to be a problem.
I squeezed my mother’s hand and told her what was going to happen. ‘You’re going into a private clinic for a little while. Just to help you get better. But don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ I’d have liked to have had a reaction, some sign of regret for leaving me to cope with the horror of my father’s death all alone. But there was nothing.
‘Is there someone you can call to come stay with you?’
I looked around to where the two officers were sitting. I’d almost forgotten they were there. The question was gently put and filled with concern, but it hit me hard. Because there wasn’t anyone. My parents had both been only children. My father’s parents had passed away before I was born, my mother’s a couple of years later.
I’d liked to have said I didn’t need anyone, but that would have been a lie. Except, of the people I needed, one was dead, and the other had abandoned me. Grief for my loss was edged with conflicting emotions. Unreasonable anger towards my father – how dare he die and leave us? An aching sadness for my mother who adored him – and rage at her for retreating and leaving me to fend for myself. ‘I can call the neighbours if I need someone,’ I said. I could, but I wouldn’t. ‘I’m sixteen, I’ll be fine alone.’
I could see the officer wanted to say something, could see his lips poised to speak but relaxed when an ambulance pulled up outside. I jumped to my feet. ‘I need to pack some things for my mother.’
Ten minutes later, she was in the ambulance, a hastily packed bag on the floor beside her. ‘I’ll be in to see you as soon as they allow me,’ I said to her, leaning down to kiss her cheek. ‘You’ll be better soon and be back home.’ The lie was for her benefit if she heard it. I didn’t believe she’d be home soon; I wasn’t sure she’d be home, ever.
The doctor went with her. ‘I’ll give them your phone number and ask them to ring you as soon as she’s settled.’
‘Thank you.’ And then they were gone.
One of the officers had made more tea and we sat, the three of us, having an uncomfortable tea party. I wanted them to go. Wanted to be on my own so I could howl. But my day of misery wasn’t over yet.
‘We obtained your details from your father’s mobile.’ The teacup rattled on the saucer as he reached to put it down. ‘Do you recognise the name, Olivia Burton?’
The list of our acquaintances wasn’t large. There wasn’t an Olivia Burton among them. ‘No, I don’t, who is she?’
The two men exchanged glances and shifted in their seats. Although, they seemed to be of equal seniority, it was the same officer who had the larger speaking part. ‘If I could get away without telling you what I’m about to say, believe me, I would.’ He shrugged and sighed loudly. ‘Unfortunately, that isn’t possible.’
‘I’m tougher than I look, officer.’ It wasn’t hard. With my short stature and slight physique, I might look like a frail child, but my looks were deceptive… I had killed after all. Not something I could share. ‘Please, just tell me whatever it is.’
‘Olivia Burton is… was… your father’s other wife.’
9
My laughter rang out, startling the two police officers who reared back and then looked at me with an element of fear in their glances. Perhaps they were afraid they were going to have to recall the doctor. They needn’t have worried. My laughter was part disbelief, part instant realisation that my mother and I had been fools, me for sixteen years, her for possibly all the twenty years she’d been married to my father.
My charming, handsome, funny, generous, kind, bigamous father.
Had my mother never been suspicious? I hadn’t, but I was young, tougher than I looked, granted, but I hadn’t seen much of the world, hadn’t yet learned what people were capable of. All those lies my father must have told. The double life he led. It must have been exhausting. No wonder he died so young, the stress of it all.
‘Are you okay?’
I wonder how many times over the coming weeks I’d be asked that particularly stupid question? It was, however, unfair to shoot the messenger. It did explain, of course, why the officers were keen to hang around. ‘I’m fine.’ A stupid answer to their stupid question. I was a long way from fine. ‘Did this woman… Olivia Barton–’
‘Burton,’ he corrected me.
‘Did she know?’
He rubbed a hand over his short hair before answering. ‘No, she didn’t know. They married four years ago; she kept her maiden name.’