The Imposter

by Anna Wharton

  ‘Oh Maureen, this is ridiculous, will you get a hold of yourself?’

  ‘Why? Why is it so ridiculous? What if I’m right?’

  ‘But you’re not, you’re . . . you’re . . .’

  ‘I’m what, Patrick? Say it?’

  ‘OK then, you’re crazy, that’s what you are.’ She hears the scrape of a chair on the lino. ‘You’re sick. Sick in the head. I mean, to even think . . .’

  Chloe hears footsteps in the hall. She quickly pushes the door closed, the thickness of it muffling the rest of the argument. She gets down on her floor, pressing her ear to the boards, but it’s no clearer. Then the thud of feet on the stairs starts reverberating under her head. She jumps up, stares at the door as if someone might just burst right through it. But it’s Maureen and Patrick’s bedroom door across the landing that slams shut. Then everything is still. Except Chloe’s mind – that’s whirring. What has she just overheard?

  Chloe waits a moment or two and then opens her door again. Everything outside on the landing is still, but a residue of something hangs in the air. The photograph of Angie sits on the windowsill, offering no answers. Chloe looks across at the closed bedroom door opposite. Who is in there? Maureen or Patrick? Should she knock? She clutches the neck of her pyjamas and feels the bristle of carpet under her bare feet as she steps onto the landing. She takes the stairs, carefully, silently, egged on by nothing more than curiosity. She’s almost at the bottom of the steps when she has a change in tact – she can’t make it look like she’s been eavesdropping. She coughs, landing with heavy footsteps. In the kitchen, it’s Patrick she finds, not Maureen. His elbows are resting on his folded newspaper, his head is in his hands. He reminds her in that moment of the man she first knew in the newspaper cuttings – he looks fragile, close to breaking.

  Patrick turns his head a little, looking up at her through his elbows. Chloe is motionless, waiting for him to speak, but he says nothing, just turns back, shaking his head a little as he does, and sighing loudly.

  Should she ask what has gone on between them? No, of course not.

  Patrick gets up then. He turns, as if to say something, then changes his mind. Instead he snatches his newspaper from the table and grabs a bunch of keys from the hook by the back door as he leaves. A moment later, Chloe hears his car engine on the driveway. She stands in the cold hall until the chug of his exhaust heads away from the house.

  For a second all is still, then above her she hears the creak of Maureen’s bedroom door.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Chloe calls up to her. ‘I just saw him go.’

  Maureen creeps down the stairs.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Chloe reassures her.

  In the kitchen, Maureen stares at Patrick’s chair. She fixes her hair, weaving a stray tendril back into her loose bun. But Chloe sees her hands are shaking, and she looks like she’s been crying.

  ‘Can I get you anything for breakfast, love?’ Maureen says. Her voice unsure, wavering.

  ‘What happened, Maureen?’ Chloe asks.

  ‘Don’t mind Patrick, he’ll be off to the bookie’s.’

  Chloe sits down at the table while Maureen puts bread in the toaster, obviously more out of habit than hunger. Maureen leans on the sink, bending at the elbows to look up at the sky.

  ‘Looks like another grey day,’ she says. ‘It’s beautiful out here in the summer but in winter you just want to stay home. You’ll still be here in the summer, won’t you, Chloe?’

  That was the moment, just that short sentence, those ten words. Why would Maureen ask that? What makes her think she wouldn’t be? Had that argument been something to do with her? Is that why Maureen is asking? But before she has time to question it, Maureen continues:

  ‘I was hoping to get some gardening done today, but if it rains, I shan’t be getting out there.’

  Chloe doesn’t say anything as Maureen passes by, in turn taking the butter from the fridge, putting jam on the table, side plates, two knives.

  ‘Oops, forgetting myself,’ Maureen laughs, scooping up one of the side plates she’d put down and replacing it with the same Bunnykins one. She pushes it towards Chloe.

  The bread pops out of the toaster. Maureen puts it on a plate and carries it over to the table. She sits down opposite Chloe and offers her a slice of toast for her Bunnykins plate. Chloe takes one slowly. Maureen starts buttering her piece, then rolls her eyes, getting up again to go to the cutlery drawer. She rummages inside it, all the way to the back this time, then returns with a knife – a smaller knife – and places it in front of Chloe.

  ‘Can’t bear it with margarine,’ Maureen says. ‘It’s got to be butter, don’t you think?’

  The knife she has handed Chloe has a plastic handle and a blunt curved blade. The handle is a pale cream and on it is a bunny that matches the ones leaping around on her plate.

  ‘I don’t even like these butter blends,’ Maureen says, ‘They call them things like I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. Well, it isn’t, so I sure can believe it.’

  She laughs to herself and Chloe manages a faint smile in return. This Bunnykins knife, with its faded pattern, feels too small in her hands. Chloe dips it in the butter and smooths it over the toast, on the bunny plate, with the bunny knife, while Maureen hums to herself as if desperate to fill the silence.

  Chloe reaches out for Maureen’s arm, touch seeming the best way to penetrate this facade.

  ‘You know you can talk to me, don’t you, Maureen? I mean, if anything’s happened . . .’

  Maureen’s chewing slows, but she doesn’t answer. Chloe continues:

  ‘I heard . . . when I was upstairs in my . . .’ Chloe says, swallowing a piece of toast. ‘I heard you and Patrick arguing.’

  Maureen doesn’t answer her.

  ‘I heard what he said to you,’ Chloe continues, ‘that you’re crazy.’

  Maureen stops chewing.

  Chloe carries on talking: ‘You know that’s not right, don’t you? That no one should talk to you like that . . .’

  Maureen struggles slightly to swallow her toast. Her voice is husky when she speaks.

  ‘Maybe he’s right,’ Maureen says, dropping the slice in her hand to her plate. ‘I have been having some strange thoughts lately.’

  Chloe shakes her head quickly.

  ‘You’re not crazy, Maureen. If anything, Patrick is the one who won’t face reality. He’s the one who isn’t at peace with the past.’

  Maureen pulls at the cuff of her sleeve, twisting it round between forefinger and thumb. Chloe knows only too well that sometimes the truth can feel uncomfortable. But this is important, this is something Maureen needs to hear.

  ‘Patrick says that it’s too painful to look back,’ Maureen says. ‘But isn’t it normal? It’s grief, isn’t it? But I can’t even do that. I don’t even know that she’s . . . that she, you know . . .’

  Chloe nods because she does know. She still remembers those hours when Nan was missing. Imagine decades spent in that no-man’s land.

  Maureen starts to cry, and on cue, Chloe gets up from her chair and wraps her arms around her shoulders. She feels Maureen relax into her arms, and she knows then that’s she’s got her. She can feel it. Between the soft sound of Maureen sobbing, Chloe listens out for Patrick’s car on the drive. She hates him for doing this to Maureen, she doesn’t want him to walk in and ruin this moment for them.

  Maureen pulls a tissue from her sleeve, and reaches for Chloe’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, Chloe, I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t here. Things have been hard with Patrick over the years. He’s a good man, but he’s not always been easy to live with. But recently – well, since you arrived, or perhaps it’s since we moved – he’s been different, he’s been . . .’

  Chloe senses an opening. She sits back down opposite Maureen. Sometimes over the weeks, as she and Maureen have grown closer, it’s been easy to forget why she is here. But that one sentence reminds her that she has a job to do.

  �
�How has he been different?’ Chloe asks.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong—’

  ‘You’re not wrong, Maureen, you’ve got to stop thinking like this, you’ve got to stop letting him tell you you’re wrong or you’re crazy or . . .’

  Maureen looks up at Chloe and her face softens. She reaches for her cheek, tucking a loose coil of black hair behind her ear.

  ‘Perhaps this does sound crazy,’ she says, ‘but I’ve often wondered what it would have been like if Angie . . . well, you know . . . and you being here, it’s answered that for me. You’re a good girl, Chloe. Your mum, she would have been proud of you.’

  Chloe swallows down the mention of her mother. She doesn’t want to talk about that. She needs to hear more from Maureen.

  ‘Oh, don’t listen to me, Chloe, love. I’m feeling emotional today. I don’t like arguing with Pat, and you know what it’s like, in an argument you both say silly things.’ She gets up and tucks her chair in, but Chloe isn’t ready to let this go.

  ‘What did you say that was silly?’ Chloe asks.

  Maureen stops still on the kitchen lino. ‘Well, I didn’t, but I’m sure in the past—’

  ‘But he said you were crazy, that was ten minutes ago. That’s a terrible thing to say to someone, let alone his wife.’ She leans back in her chair, feeling the front two legs lift from the floor.

  Maureen goes to speak, but instead lets whatever it was drift away. She starts tidying the dishes, scraping her remaining toast into the bin. Chloe knows there’s no need for her to say anything, that the seed she’s planted will take root without her watering it with more words. Still, she is wholly unprepared for what Maureen says next.

  ‘Maybe Patrick’s right, maybe it’s not such a good idea you being here.’

  Chloe tips forward in her chair, landing against the kitchen table.

  ‘What?’

  Maureen bites the corner of her lip. She doesn’t answer. Not right away. But Chloe feels something familiar stir deep inside her.

  ‘You know he’s jealous, don’t you, Maureen?’ Chloe says. She can’t help it. ‘That’s the problem, he’s jealous of how close we are.’

  ‘But how could he—’

  ‘It’s not you and I that are the problem, it’s him.’ Chloe speaks quickly. She knows she should stop before she says too much. But the thought that Maureen thinks she should leave . . . ‘Maybe . . . maybe he’s the crazy one. I mean, why else would he think it’s unhealthy for me to be here? What does he know that we don’t?’

  There, she’s said it. The truth beats against the kitchen walls. Chloe stands up from the table and pushes her chair in.

  ‘What do you mean, Chloe?’ Maureen asks.

  ‘I’ll start looking for another place—’

  ‘What do you mean?’ A trace of panic in Maureen’s voice.

  ‘I’ll be out of here as soon as I—’

  ‘No, Chloe.’ Maureen takes a step towards her. She grabs hold of her hand.

  ‘But if Patrick thinks I shouldn’t be here . . .’ Chloe tries to shake her off. She hates doing this to Maureen, hates to see her broken like this, but sometimes, it’s true, you do have to be cruel to be kind.

  Maureen grips her harder, tries to weave her fingers through Chloe’s, to make them one.

  ‘No, he’s wrong,’ Maureen says. ‘You mustn’t go, Chloe. You can’t—’

  ‘I don’t want to be a bother, you and Patrick were happy here before I—’

  ‘No, not again. I won’t lose you again, Angie.’

  She lets go of Chloe, but the words hang there between them. Maureen wraps her arms across her waist.

  ‘I . . . I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . . well, it’s not like you . . . and Angie . . .’

  Chloe goes to speak, but there really isn’t anything to say. It has already been said. Chloe is so much more than just the lodger.

  The silence is broken by the sound of Patrick’s car hitting the pebbles on the drive. Maureen lets go of her arm and spins around to fix her hair.

  ‘I’ll talk to him, Chloe,’ Maureen says quickly as the car door slams and they hear his footsteps heading towards the house. ‘The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable here. I’ll talk to him.’

  Chloe turns to go up to her room, but as she climbs the stairs, she can still feel Maureen’s grip on her arm. She reaches out to touch the pink marks that Maureen’s grasp has left. She runs her fingers across them and remembers how insistent Maureen was, how determined she was not to let go.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The carers at Park House have decorated Nan’s bedroom door with two red balloons. The door is open when Chloe arrives and Nan sits on the leather chair next to her bed, two birthday cards on the bedside table beside her. Her eyes light up when she sees Chloe holding a bunch of daffodils.

  ‘Happy birthday, Nan,’ Chloe says, bending down to give her a kiss on the head. She no longer recognizes the shampoo she uses, or the scent of the washing powder her clothes are rinsed in here. Everyone knows the disease makes Chloe a stranger to Nan, but people forget that towards the end it works the other way around too.

  ‘Are those for me?’ Nan says, reaching for the flowers. ‘My daughter Stella always buys me daffodils on Mother’s Day. Is it Mother’s Day today?’

  Chloe picks up the birthday cards next to her bed, both illustrated on the front with flowers and fine copperplate writing. One is signed by all the staff at Park House, and the other is from Claire Sanders. The one from Claire Sanders also has ‘85’ on the front and Chloe hates her for remembering when she had not. She hasn’t even bought a card this year. Last year had been so different when it had just been the two of them. She’d even baked a cake, Nan’s favourite, lemon drizzle. She’d decorated it with candles and encouraged Nan to blow them out and watched as she made a wish – making her own wish that they would always be together. But it is true what they say, all good things must come to an end.

  Chloe had stayed out of the way at Low Drove for the rest of the day yesterday. Patrick had put an old TV in her room during the week and so she sat upstairs watching classic black and white movies that barely held her interest. How could she follow any plot when what she really wanted to know was what was going on downstairs? She spent every few minutes turning the sound down on the remote control, but no voices had floated back up in response. She certainly hadn’t heard any more arguing, which she was surprised to find disappointed her. No one had been there when she went down to breakfast this morning. She ate alone, each mouthful sticking in her throat, wondering if this was what awaited her now.

  ‘Are you the florist?’ Nan says.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’re the lady who brought the flowers, aren’t you?’

  One of the carers bustles in.

  ‘Of course she’s not a florist, Grace, she’s your granddaughter.’ This carer speaks in a loud, clear voice, articulating all her words. There’s nothing wrong with Nan’s hearing, Chloe thinks.

  ‘Who?’ Nan replies.

  The carer sighs with a smile and rolls her eyes at Chloe. ‘Right, shall we get your shoes on? We’ve got a little surprise for you in the communal room, a bit of a birthday party.’

  ‘Is it your birthday?’ Nan asks.

  ‘No, Grace, it’s yours.’

  ‘Oh, is that why this young lady has brought some flowers?’

  The carer sighs again, getting up from the floor as Nan wriggles her toes inside her shoes.

  ‘Come on, Grace,’ she says, helping her up off the chair.

  The two women shuffle down the corridor and Chloe trails behind them. There was a time when she would have envied the ease with which this woman now chats to Nan. But as she passes the watercolours that line the corridor, she feels trapped inside her coat. She takes it off, but she doesn’t feel any better as she follows Nan down the corridor, fitting her own feet into footsteps Nan leaves behind. Not that she says anything. She can’t. She just allows herself to be
swept along by it all. She plays her part.

  ‘Here we are,’ the carer says, guiding Nan towards two armchairs by the window, then she mouths to Chloe, ‘I’ll just go and get the cake.’

  Nan sits in the chair and turns to Chloe.

  ‘Oh, hello, dear, do you live here too? I’m just visiting.’

  A few moments later, three carers come into the room holding a cake and singing ‘Happy Birthday’. A few other residents start miming the words too – a familiar song embedded in their brain that dementia can’t steal.

  Chloe watches Nan blow out the candles. She longs to be released from this. She knows she’s not alone; she’s seen the other visitors here at Park House – they all have that same haunted look, ground down by the loyalty that has chained them here. But you can’t just give up on someone, can you? Maureen and Patrick never have.

  Chloe walks over to the window, and looks out over Ferry Meadows. Today the view is a little obscured by the scaffolding the builders have put up as part of the redevelopment.

  ‘Nasty stuff,’ a voice says at her side.

  Chloe spins round. It’s the matron.

  ‘Already makes the room so much darker,’ Miriam says. ‘I hate the stuff – and its expensive – but we’d be hard pushed to get the extension done without it.’

  Music is playing now – wartime tunes that ease residents back into a world they’re more familiar with. Each resident sits alone, or chats to their neighbour, two trains of conversation running parallel. Chloe catches Nan’s eye then and the old woman flashes her the brightest smile across the room, and for a second, there it is again, a whisper of the woman she once was. It happens still from time to time, as if she has risen to the surface, just for a moment as part of this long goodbye they are living.

  Miriam nudges her. ‘She wouldn’t be without you, my love,’ she says.

  The lies we tell ourselves to live with ourselves, Chloe thinks. They even do it here, in this place, the last stop.

  ‘She talks a lot about Stella,’ Miriam says. ‘Was that your mum or was your mum—’