by Anna Wharton
‘Rabbits,’ he says.
The car slows to a halt. They’re sitting in traffic now, waiting behind a lorry which is turning right across the single carriageway. He takes his hands off the steering wheel and mimes shooting a shotgun through the windscreen.
‘It’s a bit of fun really, but Maureen don’t see it like that. There’s a farmer I know, next place on from Low Drove, he lets me shoot on his land. Works for both of us, see? I get to shoot, he gets rid of the rabbits.’
Chloe eyes Patrick through her fringe. It sounds harmless to her – well, not to the rabbits. Why would Maureen care?
‘She feels sorry for them,’ Patrick says, as if reading her thoughts. He rolls his eyes. ‘But they’re vermin, pests, ask any farmer out here.’
Chloe nods, and looks back over her shoulder.
‘How long have you had it?’ she asks.
‘Now let me think,’ Patrick says, sucking his teeth. ‘Near on forty years. It was my eighteenth birthday present from my dad.’
‘And it still works?’
‘Oh, yes. Like I say, if you look after them . . .’
‘And Maureen has no idea?’
‘She thought I got rid of it when . . . well, when Angie was little, like.’
They both look away slightly at the mention of Angie. The sun shines straight into the car, bathing it with yellow light. Perhaps neither of them know what to say in the brightness of a new day.
‘No, she didn’t want it in the house with a little one around. I told her it was gone, like, put her mind at rest.’
‘But you kept it?’
Patrick turns to Chloe with a smile and leans towards her. ‘It’s always best to have a few secrets in a marriage,’ he says.
The traffic starts moving again, and they both stare straight ahead. Chloe wonders what other secrets he has kept from Maureen, and every so often, as they head into the city, she glances again to the back seat.
‘It won’t bite,’ Patrick laughs.
Chloe attempts a smile. She’s never been this close to a gun.
As they near the city, land makes way for roundabouts and concrete. Patrick takes each turn, over various roundabouts, as if he knows the way. As if he’s been here a thousand times before. They leave the city centre behind them and Chloe looks over her shoulder as it disappears. He takes one dual carriageway after another, back out towards the sky, away from the newspaper offices. Chloe feels the back of her legs tense against the passenger seat. She has been so distracted by the thought of the gun that she’s forgotten to give him directions.
‘Where are we going?’ she says.
Patrick turns from the wheel. ‘Your office, ent we?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ She points over her shoulder, back towards the city, and it’s then – only then – that she remembers it’s the insurance company, not the newspaper, that he’s taking her to.
‘It’s still over near the showground, isn’t it? Unless it’s moved since—’
‘No, no,’ Chloe says quickly. ‘We’re still there.’
‘Oh good,’ Patrick says, ‘thought I was having a dementia moment then.’
He laughs, and she does too, expelling the breath she’s trapped inside her lungs at last.
Patrick pulls up outside a glass-fronted insurance building, people in dark suits filtering in like ants to a nest.
‘This is the place, right?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ she says, undoing her seat belt.
He looks up under the sun visor to the building.
‘I wonder if John’s about . . . I could say hello.’
Panic sticks to Chloe’s skin.
Patrick shakes his head. ‘Probably have to get an appointment to see him these days.’
Chloe nods, grateful to be pushing on the car door, stepping out of the vehicle. In fact, she’s so keen to get out, she doesn’t notice who is standing there when her feet reach the pavement.
‘Chloe?’ a voice says.
Patrick indicates with his eyes and she turns around.
‘I thought it was you,’ Phil says. ‘What on earth are you doing—’
‘Phil,’ Chloe says quickly, and strangely – for her – the first thing she can think to do to stop him talking is to wrap him in a hug. He seems surprised. He takes a step back awkwardly, then straightens his suit.
Patrick leans across from the passenger seat and looks up at the building. ‘Impressive, ennit? Which floor do you work on, Chloe?’
Phil looks confused. He points to the building behind them. ‘Oh, you’re working—’
‘Anyway, thanks, Patrick, thanks so much for the lift.’ She slams the door before she hears his answer, and taps the top of the car. Patrick pulls away.
‘Who’s that then?’ Phil asks, his forehead creased into a question.
‘Oh, no one,’ Chloe says. ‘Just a neighbour who was heading the same way this morning . . . Anyway, I haven’t seen you in ages. How are you?’
She doesn’t care. Phil rattles on about a cough he’s had that won’t go away. He tells her they’re getting quotes for a conservatory, about the holiday to Lanzarote. Chloe nods and smiles in all the right places, but she’s also got one eye on the tail lights of Patrick’s car; she sees him brake at the end of the car park, the orange indicator flickering left. Finally, he’s gone.
‘So you’re working here now?’ Phil asks.
‘Well, not quite – an interview,’ she says. It’s all she can think of.
‘Oh right, which department?’
‘Oh, er . . .’ She’s rummaging through her bag then, pretending to search for a piece of paper. ‘It’s an agency that’s sent me so . . .’
Phil starts shuffling on his feet, looking at the clock on the outside of the building that reads a few minutes past nine. He’s carrying a briefcase that Chloe is sure will have nothing more in it than his sandwiches. When she notices him glance towards the doors, she starts searching deeper inside her bag.
‘How’s Hollie?’ she starts.
But Phil’s discomfort is obvious as he checks his watch.
‘Listen, good luck with your interview – wherever it is. I’d better go. Duty calls and all that.’ He smiles awkwardly, in that geeky, dull way of his.
‘Yes, of course,’ Chloe says. ‘Send my love to Hollie, tell her I’ll call.’
Phil nods, but he’s already heading into the building through the revolving glass doors. Chloe pretends to be rifling through her bag for something – anything – until she sees him get into the lift in the lobby. Then she puts her bag back on her shoulder and walks towards the nearest bus stop.
FORTY
Chloe misses several calls on her phone that day. Two from Park House, and three from Hollie. Hollie sends a text too: Phil said you had an interview at his place today, how did it go? I miss you. Call me back. I’m sorry about before. xxx
She doesn’t call back. Instead she sits on a swing in Angie’s play park at Ferry Meadows and eats her packed lunch. Her feet scuff the woodchip floor intermittently. She can’t face visiting Nan today, even though she is so close by. She is still reeling from the revelations of last night. She can’t be Chloe for Nan today – not when she’s Angie for the Kyles.
She closes her eyes, pushes herself back on the swing in her office shoes. It still doesn’t feel real. She opens her eyes, hoping the world might be clearer, that one definite memory might make itself apparent if only she blinks and tries again. But today everything feels a blur, as if she’s drowning, as if she’s clamouring to stay afloat, as if nothing she tries to hold on to is real.
Her feet skid on the ground and she gets up from the swing, throwing away the last of her packed lunch. It’s almost time to return to Low Drove.
On the bus home she gets out her phone – another missed call from Park House, one more from Claire Sanders. She reaches up to her breast pocket and pulls out the photograph of Nan and Stella. It’s been weeks since she’s looked at it. Those faces feel like another lifetime now.
She’s thought about replacing it with a photograph of Maureen, Patrick and Angie, that nice one of the three of them on Hunstanton beach perhaps, but then she remembers Patrick in the background, that looming shadow of him. No, she’s sure she can find a better one. She replaces the photograph of Nan and Stella back in her pocket for now.
She rings the bell on the bus and gets off at her stop at Low Drove. Her stop. Even after all this time, she’s never seen anyone else alight here. She makes her way through the willow and down the lane towards Elm House. Patrick’s blue car is in the drive as usual. As she approaches it, she peers through the window to see if the gun is still lying across the back seat, but it has gone. Like much that happens at Elm House, she feels she might have imagined it.
Maureen greets her at the short garden gate beside the pebble drive. Chloe has the feeling she’s been waiting for a long time. Her face lights up on spotting Chloe.
‘I was beginning to get a bit worried about you, Chloe, love,’ Maureen says. ‘You’re usually back by quarter to six.’
Chloe glances at her watch. It is eight minutes to six.
‘Anyway, you’re here now. Come inside, I’ve got your favourite for tea.’
Inside the kitchen, the windows are steamy, and on top of the counter are three plates colourful with food. Patrick sits at the kitchen table.
‘Hello, love,’ he says, as she walks through the door. She still isn’t used to this change in Patrick’s attitude, and she tries to keep the suspicion from her smile. Maureen helps her take her coat off and indicates for her to sit down. Patrick folds his newspaper and puts it on the table beside his knife and fork.
‘Good day at work?’ he asks.
‘Oh, you know, same old.’
He nods.
‘You didn’t see my mate then?’
‘Now, here we are,’ Maureen says, interrupting and bringing two plates to the table. She puts Chloe’s down first, the same plate that she has been giving her for the last couple of weeks. It’s slightly smaller than the one Patrick has, and the fish fingers vie for space with the rabbits.
‘Your favourite,’ Maureen says, then stands back as if awaiting Chloe’s reaction.
She looks down at the plate of fish fingers, mash and peas, and then back at Maureen.
‘Of course, ketchup,’ Maureen says, tipping the bottle this way and that and putting it on the table beside her.
Chloe stares at her dinner. ‘This looks lovely,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
Maureen smiles, bringing her own plate from the worktop. ‘That’s quite all right, Chloe, love. I thought we could try some of the old stuff, in case it brings anything back to you.’
‘Oh,’ Chloe says. ‘Oh, right, yes, of course.’
Chloe picks up the cutlery – the blunt knife, a fork with three tines. She hesitates for a second, watching how easily Maureen and Patrick tuck in with cutlery that fits their hands more appropriately. Chloe glances down at the child’s cutlery in her own hands, and then back at the Kyles. They eat, oblivious, as if no one has noticed the absurdity of the situation.
‘This takes me back,’ Maureen says, putting another forkful into her mouth with a smile.
Chloe tentatively tries a small mouthful of food.
‘That’s it,’ Maureen says. ‘Eat up.’
After dinner, Chloe goes upstairs to change. She’s grateful to be back in the sanctuary of her room. But as she lies down on the bed, she feels something uncomfortable under her neck. She fishes one arm behind her, onto the pillow, and pulls out Puss – Angie’s cloth cat. She nearly drops it in surprise. She sits up quickly, looking this way and that.
‘Who put thi . . .?’ she says to no one but Puss.
But she knows. Isn’t it obvious?
She lies on her bed until the room turns black. She’s grateful for the darkness that engulfs her. She holds Puss across her belly. Only then she hears Maureen calling to her from downstairs. She shuffles out onto the landing; the light is on and it makes her blink.
Maureen stands at the bottom of the stairs with a pile of photo albums.
‘Come on,’ she says, ‘I thought this might help.’
Chloe obeys her command to join her downstairs, then on the sofa, side by side, she and Maureen sit down and look again through the same dusty photo albums she’d got out that very first night. This time, though, Maureen pauses over each photograph, searching Chloe’s face for recognition, pointing out everyone, giving her every name. She seems disappointed when Chloe fails to feel what she does.
‘It’s all . . . it’s all such a blur,’ Chloe says finally, knowing Maureen just wants to hear something.
‘Don’t worry,’ Maureen says, tapping her arm, ‘it’ll come back eventually. We can try again tomorrow.’
Across the room, Patrick watches the news on mute, ready to join in with their conversation whenever Maureen attempts to include him. She’s talking to him when Chloe turns the last page and finds the photograph she was thinking of earlier. A day on the beach at Hunstanton. She opens the cellophane protector, and loosens it from its sticky page. It has been years, but eventually the photograph yields and it’s there in her hands. There is something about this photograph that feels familiar. Maureen turns to see her holding it. She points to the place where they’re sitting.
‘Do you remember the steps down to that part of the beach, and the green that ran all the way up to it? Do you remember the carousel? The painted horses? Oh, you loved them. And we’d sit and eat fish and chips on that green, do you remember?’
Chloe nods, just a little, and as she does she’s aware of Maureen turning round to Patrick and saying, ‘Look, Pat, it is coming back to her, I knew it.’
But Chloe is distracted by Patrick’s face in the picture, a different man to the one who sits with them now. She thinks of what he said earlier, about the secrets you keep in a marriage. She pictures again the gun on the back seat of the car, the newspaper article about his arrest. She brings the photograph towards her face. What else has he been hiding all these years?
‘Can I keep this one?’ Chloe says. ‘Just up in my room.’
‘Of course, love. It might even help.’ Maureen gets up. ‘I’m just going to get a tea. Would you like one?’
Chloe shakes her head, yawning. ‘I think I’ll just head to bed, busy day tomorrow,’ she says, and pictures the same insurance building, as if that were really where she worked. It’s amazing how quickly things can feel real.
‘Poor love, it’s getting that bus that does it to you. Pat, are you on a late tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Late tomorrow and Wednesday, then nothing till next Monday.’
‘Oh good. Well, you’ll run Chloe into work, won’t you?’
‘Oh no—’ Chloe tries to protest. She can’t risk bumping into Phil two days running, and anyway, she was planning on visiting Nan tomorrow.
‘Honestly, pet, it’s no bother at all,’ Maureen says. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Pat?’
‘Not if you say so, Mo,’ he replies, rearranging his legs on the pouffe.
‘There, it’s settled. Anyway, it would be good for you two to spend some time together.’
FORTY-ONE
Within days, it is a regular thing, Patrick giving her lifts to ‘work’. Chloe managed to convince him after that first day that she missed stretching her legs on the walk from the bus stop, so he drops her there without question and as soon as she sees his car disappear, she crosses the road and waits for the bus back to town.
They’ve left a little earlier this morning. Chloe had hoped that she could steal out and catch the bus before he was up, only when Maureen realized, she had hurriedly shooed Patrick into action, standing over him while he quickly pressed his feet into his shoes.
The fields that they pass are bathed in a soft golden light that has yet to burn through the fog that still blankets the crops, and the radio fills the silence between them inside the car. At Elm House there is no time for awkward silences; Maureen
fills them, mining memories as if searching for gold. Evenings in Low Drove for Chloe now are more often spent with faded polaroid pictures scattered across the sofa cushions as they pore over every photo album in turn.
Patrick obediently carries boxes from the storage room up and down the stairs, as Chloe is made to sit on the living room floor among Fuzzy-Felt and Playmobil sets while Maureen encourages her to open each battered box and handle its contents. It is now Maureen who ploughs Chloe for long-buried relics of the past – how the tables have turned. Even Patrick seems pleased to see his wife’s new delight when one tiny gem is retrieved from the deep dark recesses of Chloe’s memory – or something like that.
In the car, though, when it’s just the two of them, Patrick seems less concerned with Chloe’s fuzzy memory, as if part of him switches off the moment they pull out of the drive at Elm House. She can’t explain this about-turn. Outside of Low Drove, he never mentions Angie. Although he never mentions DNA tests either, so Chloe has resisted picking at that particular scab. She wonders what their friend Josie would think of him going along with this idea that she really is Angie. Chloe would go so far as to say that Josie seemed suspicious of him. And even Chloe herself has been watching him more closely lately.
At night, when she has managed to escape to the sanctuary that is her bedroom, Chloe pulls out her own dusty archive where she now keeps the photograph that Maureen gave her. She has scanned it for clues and each time returns to the haunting face of Patrick, unable to pinpoint what about it unnerves her so much. At first she had thought this was a simple case of bringing Angie home, that however ridiculous it might have sounded, her fresh eye on the case could have brought some answers for these shattered parents. But more often these days her curiosity is replaced with a looming sense of dread about what really happened, and the closer she gets to Maureen, the more protective she feels towards her. But who exactly does she need to protect her from?
She glances at Patrick from the passenger seat.
‘Another lovely day,’ she says.
‘Yeah.’ Patrick stares straight ahead at the road.