The Lake Louise Sharland (each kindness read aloud txt) 📖

I look up at her in astonishment. ‘How can you possibly be so cruel? Lisa was a victim.’ Turning to DC Verby I say. ‘Why aren’t you writing this all down?’

‘Mrs Hardy,’ says the head teacher. She sounds kind, sympathetic. ‘Lisa was—’

‘You’d better let me,’ interrupts Verby. He pulls the chair a little closer. ‘I have to inform you, Mrs Hardy, that Lisa Gannon was known to the police in Helston.’

‘Of course she was. That’s where she reported the abuse.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not the case,’ says Verby. ‘As far as I’m aware there is no record of Lisa Gannon née Edwards reporting any abuse, or in fact anything else to do with any incident at Edgecombe Hall.’

‘But she said—’

‘The only police record we have for Mrs Gannon is for drink-related public disorder offences.’

I am dizzy with confusion. ‘But she said she reported it.’

‘You weren’t the only one caught out,’ says Mrs Drake. ‘We took her on with an excellent reference from a school in St Ives and having seen the DBS check they’d run.’ The head teacher gives a loud sniff. ‘I had a call yesterday afternoon from the HR department at our lead school. Lisa’s new DBS came back with community orders listed. I just thank God she was never left alone with the children.’

‘Was she dangerous?’

‘Not as far as I could tell,’ says the head teacher, ‘but she clearly had some issues with substance misuse. She also failed to disclose her public order offences on her application form. Not only is that illegal, but it’s also cause for immediate dismissal.’ Mrs Drake reaches for a tissue from the box on her desk and I realise what their meeting had been about yesterday afternoon. Lisa was being sacked. ‘It could have put the school in an exceedingly difficult position.’

All I can think about is the blood dripping down Lisa’s arm as she picked at her imaginary scab.

‘I just can’t believe it.’

‘There is something else,’ says Mrs Drake, her tone a warning.

I can’t imagine it getting much worse.

‘During our meeting yesterday afternoon, Lisa confided in me that she had been detained at the West Cornwall Hospital earlier this year.’

‘I’m not sure—’ says Verby, clearly irritated at this disclosure of confidential information.

‘The poor woman has a right to know,’ says Mrs Drake.

‘When you say detained, you mean sectioned, don’t you?’ I ask, and Mrs Drake gives a tiny nod of confirmation. ‘And the diagnosis?’ She looks at me in surprise. ‘I’m a nurse. I did a couple of rotations in the mental health ward at Royal Exeter.’

‘She wasn’t specific,’ she replies, ‘but from what she told me I gather it was rather serious; some form of psychosis. She had not disclosed this on her application form either.’

I can’t believe this is happening. I am completely overcome. ‘After everything she told me yesterday.’

‘She was a very unwell young woman,’ says Verby, opening a fresh page of his notebook. ‘I would appreciate it if we could start from the beginning and you tell me everything you and Lisa talked about yesterday.’

21

It is nearly seven by the time I leave Helston. Following my interrogation by DC Verby and Mrs Drake, I also had to make a formal statement at the police station – the very same one that I had been expecting to attend with Lisa before this day was turned upside down.

I’m exhausted, confused, and utterly, utterly dejected. It’s only after going through a red light and hearing the honks of furious drivers that I finally decide to stop to try and collect myself. Pulling into a lay-by, I remove the photograph from the folder and trace a fingertip around Lisa’s image, her sullen, frightened expression.

‘Oh you poor, poor girl,’ I whisper, and then, unable to hold back any longer, I break down and cry for a solid twenty minutes.

Once the tears have dried and my emotion is spent, I am able to re-examine my notes from yesterday’s meeting. Less than half an hour ago I had been sent away by DC Verby with a patronising pat on the arm and a list of bereavement services in the southwest.

‘She was a disturbed young woman, Mrs Hardy,’ he had said, barely glancing up from the computer screen where he was completing his report. ‘I have no doubt it wasn’t her intention to deliberately mislead you, but unfortunately it seems to be the case.’

I hear the buzz of my muted mobile and notice that it’s a missed call from a Plymouth number. My pulse quickens as I press the recall button.

‘Acute stroke unit.’

‘This is Kate Hardy.’

‘Mrs Hardy, we’ve been trying to reach you.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m in Helston and couldn’t get a signal. Is everything all right?’

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Hardy. Your mother has had another stroke. You need to get to the hospital as soon as possible.’

The drive back to Plymouth is a blur of road signs and traffic lights. As I push through the swinging doors and into the ward, two nurses spot me and quickly approach. My mother’s bed is empty.

‘Mrs Hardy,’ says one nurse, softly. ‘Would you like to come and sit down?’

They’ve laid my mother out in a private viewing room so that I can sit with her for a while before they take her to the hospital mortuary.

‘We thought it would be easier for you here,’ whispers the nurse I met on my very first visit. She places a cup of tea on the table next to me. ‘Take as long as you need.’ I’m overcome with gratitude and heartbreak. ‘It was very quick,’ she adds. ‘She didn’t suffer.’ I wait for her to leave before telephoning Grace.

The call is as difficult as I had expected. Grace, never one for emotional restraint, howls like a wounded animal. I envy my sister’s ability to express her pain so openly. I, unfortunately, have held back my heartbreak for much too long. I’m not certain I can ever access those feelings again.

I reach out and touch