Chapters (55)
- Cover
- ANNA WHARTON
- Dedication page
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Praise
- THE IMPOSTER
‘Can I get another one of these?’ Chloe asks, pointing at her empty cup and beginning to remove her coat. She picks up the spoon again, studying the little beach on the end of it. She wonders if Maureen and Patrick ever took Angie to Jersey.
THIRTEEN
Everyone at Park House has lost something. For some it’s an item of jewellery. One lady, three doors down from Nan, has been searching for months for a pearl necklace she last wore in 1947. Chloe watches her sometimes, rifling through magazines, boxes of backgammon with torn corners, or down the backs of sofas, gathering nothing but crumbs under her fingernails. The other residents are used to her; they sweep their feet out of the way, or pick up their cups of tea and knitting without even breaking conversation. She mutters to herself while she’s searching, telling tales of the times she wore it to no one in particular, taking herself all the way back to pre-war dance halls and their parquet floors, and never catching sight of the beads. It’s an unwritten rule in the care home that everyone exists in their own time frame. Some residents sit alongside each other separated by decades, each as real to them as the year their neighbour finds themselves occupying in the seat next door.
Another thing people lose is time – that’s very common. Yesterday, Chloe was making a cup of tea for Nan when a man started talking about politics; he was furious about something, gesticulating wildly, so much so that one of the nurses asked him to keep his voice down.
‘Well, of course it’s all the Prime Minister’s fault, it’s all down to Edward Heath,’ he protested, in case he could persuade the nurse that the ex-PM himself was the reason residents were struggling to hear Countdown.
Nobody corrected him.
Time is mostly misplaced, which often makes the communal area one big waiting room: for news; for a visit; for a loved one to return from a war that ended more than half a century ago. And that is the most painful thing that people lose – family. This morning Chloe heard one lady ask at least a dozen times where her husband was, the nursing staff gently reminding her he had died five months before. Every explanation wet her cheeks with fresh tears.
‘Terrible for these old folk,’ Nan says suddenly, looking round from their game of rummy. She leans in closer. ‘Some of them are a bit . . .’ Her finger draws circles at the side of her ear until she’s sure Chloe understands.
Chloe nods – she is the cleaner today.
‘It’s marvellous they let you have a little break now and then,’ Nan smiles. She’s wearing a cerise pink blouse that Chloe doesn’t recognize.
‘That’s a nice colour on you,’ Chloe tells her.