The Imposter

The sister was at her desk at the top of the corridor. Two orderlies sat nearby.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“Good afternoon, sister. I’m here to see Richard Stern.”

“And you are?”

“I’m a friend of his son.”

“Your name?”

“Peter Broom.”

“I don’t think we knew he had a son.”

“He’s been in Burma. The war. I served with him. I was demobbed last week.”

The nurse warmed visibly. “Bless you,” she said. “You boys don’t get the credit you deserve.”

“Thank you.”

Her smile became sad. “I’m afraid your friend’s father is not a well man. He has a progressive disease. We do our best to make him comfortable.”

“It’s his birthday today,” Edward said. “His son asked me to bring him a cake. I’ll give him a slice now if that’s alright and leave the rest next to his bed.”

“You know you won’t be able to take a knife into his room?”

“Oh, no, of course not––don’t worry, I sliced it last night. I wonder if you’d be so kind to ask one of the nurses to give him another slice for his tea?”

“Of course,” the sister said. “I’ll let the girls know. Here––let me take you to him.”

She led the way along the corridor: half a dozen rooms were arranged on each side, the open doors betraying the smells of urine and disinfectant. It was quiet, save for the mumbling of an old man who sat on the edge of his chair, rocking gently. His father’s room was at the end. There was a fire in the grate and the remnants of a meal––a dirty bowl, an empty cup––rested on a small table next to an armchair. The walls were painted in pastel shades, the furniture looked comfortable and the early afternoon sunlight poured in through the wide window. His father was in bed, propped up by pillows. His eyes lolled hopelessly, never focussing, and a streamer of drool dripped down from the corner of his mouth. Edward took out his handkerchief and wiped it away.

“It’s a side-effect of the drugs,” the sister told him. “I’ll leave you together.”

His father was wearing a dressing gown over a pair of pyjamas. Spilt soup from his lunch had spattered across the fabric. He had not shaved, and his whiskers––white, the same colour as his wild shocks of hair––lent him an unkempt, dishevelled air. He wore a pair of spectacles with thick lenses, the glass magnifying his eyes so that they seemed to bulge from their sockets. The old man looked as if he were about to say something but frowned with confusion again, the thought passing unsaid.

“Happy birthday, father,” he said quietly, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. The old man said nothing, chewed, his eyes unfocused.

Edward opened his bag and took out the cake tin and the carton of candles. He opened the tin, and took out the cake; it was a Victoria Sponge, a recipe he had clipped out of the Sketch. The first effort had been a failure; he’d used normal flour rather than self-raising and the mixture had failed to rise. The second effort was a little better. He planted a handful of candles around the edge, lit them with his lighter and lifted the cake closer to his father’s mouth. The old man looked at it, dumbly, as if unsure what it was; the candles flickered in and out with his breath. He coughed for a moment, his breath thin and reedy. Edward blew the candles out for him, set the cake down on the bedside table, unwrapped the skirt, and took out two slices. He took one and held it to his father’s mouth. The old man took a bite, chewed absent-mindedly, crumbs showering onto his day blanket. Edward bit into it. It was brittle and dry, a bit flavourless. He hadn’t been able to afford the vanilla essence the recipe suggested and the cake missed it. He was no cook, that was for sure, but it’d have to do.

The old man turned his head and gazed out of the window onto the pretty garden beyond, his eyes glazing and, as Edward watched, bubbles of saliva gathered at the edge of his mouth and slowly trailing their way through the bristles on his chin. Edward took a handkerchief and dabbed the spittle away.

Edward said, “How’ve you been?” The old man looked at him, nothing in his eyes. “Did you get my letters?” Nothing. “I’ve been abroad. I’ve been in Burma, fighting the Japs. Jimmy has been writing to me, though, so I’ve been kept abreast of how you are. And I sent you cards at Christmas and your birthday. I expect the nurses put them up for you? I’m sorry it’s been so long. You don’t mind much, do you? I know you understand––you always wanted me to join the army, didn’t you? Anyway, I’m getting you a nice new pair of slippers for your present. Good ones they are, proper fur inside, look nice and comfy. They’re in the shop, I’ll bring them when I’ve saved up the rest. You can wear them when you go to the bathroom.”

The corridor outside was still: the other patients were either asleep or out in the grounds with their relatives. Wan sunlight filtered through dusty windows; Edward watched motes of dust turning in the shafts. He would be his father’s only visitor today. Save Jimmy, there was no-one else. It was just the three of them now.

He kept talking. “Things are hard at the restaurant. Ingredients are hard to find what with all this rationing. I think Jimmy has been having a tough time of it. I’m back now, though. I’ll find some money for him.”

His father sat quietly. The change in him had been rapid: he’d been a big man, before, played prop forward on Sundays, but Jimmy said that within six months of the diagnosis he’d lost his weight and all his muscle. He was just a husk now, unrecognisable. His father turned his head away, nodding. Edward felt bad leaving him stuck here but there was nothing else for it. He had provided Jimmy with a lump sum before he left the country, but that had run out months ago. Jimmy had somehow found enough to keep the hospital sweet, but it was a constant battle. Edward was going to have to find money from somewhere. Better care––a room of his own, more comfortable surroundings––he couldn’t even begin to think about things like that yet.

There was a gramophone record on the sideboard. Edward had remitted the money for Jimmy to buy it––his father loved music and it seemed as if it was the least he could do. The old man had always had a particularly fondness for Beethoven, and Edward slipped Symphony No. 5 from its dust jacket, rested the phonograph on the platter and lowered the tone arm. The ominous First Movement played, the famous main theme opening loud and dynamically, the crescendos and diminuendos putting Edward in mind of tension, stress and a feeling of impending doom. He tried to ignore it but he could not. He needed to hear something optimistic, something creative. He would have chosen something by Vivaldi––the Four Seasons, perhaps. He was in a difficult spot. He was in need of optimism.

“Alright, Dad,” he said, standing. “Got to run. I’m helping in the kitchen again this evening.” He took his jacket and put it on. He took his hat from the hatstand and set it on his head. His father’s rheumy eyes wandered across him, flickered to the window. “I’ve told the sister it’s your birthday today, she’ll get the nurse to give you another slice for your tea. You’ll be alright, won’t you? I’ll come and see you again on Monday.” Edward put the rest of the cake into its tin, replaced the lid and left it in the bedside table. The record kept playing. “Happy birthday,” he said as he leaned in, kissing wrinkled skin that smelt of the ointment he had sent two months ago. His father’s face suddenly broke out into a wide, open smile. While it lasted, its warmth seemed to peel away the canker of the illness and age and Edward saw him as he remembered him. The moment did not last and he felt an empty feeling of helplessness as he smiled to the nurse on the way out. His father was dying before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to make it easier for him. Even the meagre comfort that they had managed to find for him was under threat. He needed money.