Eudora stares at the long, drab hospital corridor stretching before her and questions the wisdom of whichever NHS operative decided to place the Geriatric Medicine Clinic at the end of it. Having negotiated the bus alongside a distressingly colourful cast of characters and walked in the shimmering heat to the hospital entrance, Eudora feels as if she has scaled the octogenarian’s equivalent of Everest. What is more, she knows this appointment will be a waste of time, another item to be ticked off some poor overworked doctor’s ‘to do’ list. And yet, Eudora has made the epic journey because for her the NHS is one of the last bastions of civilisation in this morally bankrupt country. If they summon her, she will move hell, high water and catch the 194 towards Bexley in order to answer their call. It is her duty.
She inhales deeply, setting off along the seemingly endless corridor with fresh determination. Its walls are hung with cheerfully coloured mosaics spelling different words, which Eudora reads were produced by St. James Primary School. She notices that the word ‘HAPPY’, decorated in an eye-popping combination of pink and yellow, was created by seven-year-old Rosie. She decides that Rose and Rosie would no doubt be great friends, bonding over a love of disastrously clashing colours.
‘Why, Miss Honeysett, fancy meeting you here!’
She turns to sees Stanley Marcham moving towards her, grinning broadly, arms outstretched. Fearing he is about to embrace her, Eudora takes a step back. ‘Good morning,’ she says, undecided as to whether or not she is pleased to see him. Eudora finds him innately irritating but there’s a certain amount of relief in seeing a friendly face in this soulless place.
‘Going my way?’ asks Stanley, gesturing towards the clinic. She stares at him blankly. ‘The old duffers’ clinic,’ he adds.
Eudora clears her throat. ‘I prefer to call it the Geriatric Clinic.’
‘Of course you do,’ says Stanley, eyes twinkling. ‘Would you allow me to escort you?’ He offers his arm.
‘I can manage quite well, thank you.’ She realises this sounds brusque so adds, ‘but I’d be glad of the company if you don’t mind walking at my pace.’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ he says. ‘My Ada was on a go-slow during her last few years. She used to say, why are people always hurrying, Stan? You miss so much when you’re dashing here there and everywhere. You’ve got to take a moment to feel the sun on your face.’
‘She sounds like a wise woman.’
‘She was.’
Eudora can hear a choke in Stanley’s voice and decides to save them both the embarrassment by changing the subject. ‘Do you have any children?’ she asks.
‘Two,’ he says with obvious pride. ‘Paul, who’s nearly fifty and Sharon, who’s fifty-two. They’re both married with their own kids. They’re good to their old dad.’
‘Quite right too,’ says Eudora.
Stanley smiles. ‘I’m lucky. I’ve got two wonderful kids, four amazing grandkids. I just wish Ada was here to share it with me.’
‘Here we are,’ says Eudora with relief as they reach the entrance to the clinic.
‘After you,’ says Stanley, pulling open the door.
‘Thank you.’
They report to reception and take a seat in a couple of laughably uncomfortable blue plastic chairs. God’s waiting room, thinks Eudora as she takes in her surroundings. She notices an elderly couple sitting together, the woman gripping her husband’s arm, staring into the middle distance while he frowns at The Telegraph.
Another woman paces the floor, eyes flitting left and right, looking hopefully as if searching for something which may spring into view at any moment. She is tiny like a bird, with sharp pointed features and straggly black-grey hair. She reminds Eudora of a crow with bead-bright eyes, always on the lookout. Her faded yellow sundress hangs baggy and misshapen over her shrunken body. Eudora recognises a woman who no longer dresses herself, who has to trust this task to someone else, someone who dresses her for comfort rather than style. She recalls the day she visited her mother in hospital to find her wearing tracksuit bottoms and shivers at the memory. The woman’s gaze rests on Eudora. A flicker of recognition passes across her face. She darts forwards and grabs her by the arms.
‘Margery, you naughty girl! Where have you been?’
Eudora glances nonplussed at Stanley, who seems to know exactly what to do. ‘Hello,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.’
The woman gives Stanley what can only be described as a coquettish smile. ‘Of course we have, Peter. It’s me – Enid!’
‘Ahh, Enid! How are you?’
‘Well I’m all right but my flight’s been delayed so I’ve no idea how long I’m going to be here.’
‘Oh dear. What a bother,’ says Stanley. ‘Where are you flying to today?’
‘New York,’ says Enid.
‘Lovely.’
‘I prefer San Francisco but I have to go where my editor sends me. Follow the story and all that.’
‘Of course.’
‘Come along, Mum,’ says a frazzled-looking woman who appears at Enid’s shoulder.
‘And this is my editor, Catherine,’ says Enid, gesturing to her daughter.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Catherine with the weary but kindly air of someone who is used to playing along with these games.
‘Have they called our flight, dear?’
‘They have, Mum. Let’s go.’
‘Bye, Enid,’ says Stanley.
‘Yes, goodbye,’ echoes Eudora.
‘Goodbye, you two,’ says Enid, eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Let’s grab drinks at the Groucho when I’m back in town.’
‘We look forward to it, don’t we, Margery?’ says Stanley.
‘Very much,’ says Eudora.
Enid’s daughter flashes them a grateful smile before leading her mother towards the exit.
‘Poor soul,’ says Eudora.
‘She seemed very happy to me,’ says Stanley. ‘But I feel for her daughter. Ada was like that at the end; it’s best to go along with it but it’s not easy.’
‘I’m sure,’ says Eudora. ‘I thought you were very kind.’ She’s not one for flattery but believes in giving credit where it’s due.
Stanley shrugs. ‘It’s what anyone would do.’
It’s not though, thinks Eudora. The world isn’t kind and understanding. It’s impatient and full of judgement.
‘I almost forgot; I’ve got your handkerchief here,’ says Stanley, fishing it from his pocket. ‘Washed and ironed, just as madam likes them. Thanks for lending it to me. I’ve been carrying it around on the off-chance I might see you.’
‘Thank you,’ says Eudora, impressed by his thoughtfulness. His incessant cheer may be annoying at times but she is grateful for his presence today. She doesn’t like hospitals and he is a welcome distraction.
‘So I suppose it’s a bit like prison,’ says Stanley.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asks Eudora.
‘We’re not allowed to ask one another what we’re in for,’ he says with a chuckle.
Eudora rolls her eyes. It’s exactly this kind of idiocy which vexes her. ‘For your information, I am attending the Falls Clinic.’
‘Ah right, I see. They’re checking up on you after your drunk and disorderly episode last year,’ says Stanley, nudging her arm.
Eudora ignores this immature attempt at humour. ‘What about you?’
Stanley taps his forehead. ‘Memory clinic. My son thinks I’m getting a bit forgetful since Ada died. I’m sure it’s nothing but doesn’t hurt to get it checked out, does it? Biscuit?’ He pulls a packet of fig rolls from his pocket and offers it to Eudora. She eyes them with suspicion. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t poisoned them.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, taking one. ‘You’ve come prepared.’
‘I know what the waiting times can be like in this place,’ he says, biting down on his treat. ‘Mind you, it’s better than sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself, isn’t it?’
‘I try not to do that,’ says Eudora, reaching into her handbag for a book of crosswords.
‘Ah, you’re a puzzler, are you?’ asks Stanley, gesturing at the book.
‘You’re not the only one who comes prepared for a lengthy wait. I make sure I do at least one crossword every day. It keeps one’s brain ticking over.’
‘That’s what my Ada used to say. She was a big puzzler – crosswords, word searches, the whole kit and caboodle. Never really appealed to me.’
‘Well you should try it if you’re worried about your memory.’
‘Use it or lose it?’ says Stanley.
‘Something like that,’ says Eudora, taking out her pen.
‘Stanley Marcham,’ calls a brightly smiling nurse.
‘At your service, madam,’ cries Stanley, leaping to his feet.
‘Good luck,’ says Eudora.
‘I don’t need luck,’ says Stanley.
‘I was talking to the nurse.’
Stanley laughs. ‘Very good, Miss Honeysett!’
Eudora shakes her head and turns back to her crossword. It’s a tricky one today but she relishes the challenge, enjoying the moment of immersive concentration, searching for the right word. The Times crosswords have always been her favourite. Eudora used to have the newspaper delivered every day but cancelled it when she realised she was only buying it for the crossword. At least with these compendiums to hand, she no longer has to deal with stories or images of the half-wits who are currently running the world. She dreads to think what Churchill would make of these dangerous fools.
Her pen is poised over seventeen across – ‘meaningless language’ (12) – as she considers how many e’s are in the word, ‘gobbledegook’, when her hand begins to tremble. A flurry of panic intensifies the shaking so that Eudora is forced to fold her arms and tell herself to breathe.
‘Miss Honeysett?’ calls a small hopeful voice. Eudora looks up at the woman, wondering how someone who is barely old enough to drive can be summoning her. She notices her stethoscope and sighs.
‘That’s me,’ she says, rising to her feet, relieved that the shaking has stopped for now.
‘Do you need a hand?’ offers the doctor, venturing forwards.
‘No, I can manage.’ She regrets her abrupt tone as the doctor shrinks back. ‘Thank you.’
Eudora follows her into a small, stuffy room with unprepossessing views of the car park. She spots Enid and her daughter making their way, arm-in-arm, towards their car. Enid says something. Her daughter laughs and kisses her mother’s cheek. Eudora finds herself envying their connection. She can’t recall ever having such a bond with her own mother.
‘Please take a seat,’ says the doctor. ‘My name is Doctor Abbie Jarvis. I’m a registrar specialising in geriatric medicine working under Mr Simons. I believe this is a follow-up appointment after your fall last year?’
‘You believe correctly,’ says Eudora. ‘Although I’m not entirely sure why it’s necessary.’ She looks at the young woman properly now. She feels guilty for dismissing her so readily. Eudora detects a sweet nature behind the doctor’s huge bottle-top glasses but also a disastrous lack of self-confidence.
Doctor Jarvis’s smile lights up her face. ‘Hopefully, it’s just routine and we can send you on your way as quickly as possible.’
‘Very well,’ says Eudora. She decides to help this young woman and resolves to be as co-operative as possible.
‘Do you remember the circumstances of your fall?’
‘I tripped over a loose paving stone. I complained to the council. There are hundreds of them all over the borough.’
‘And you didn’t break anything?’
‘Thankfully no. I was concussed and bruised but no lasting damage.’
‘That’s good. And you’re still able to get around okay?’
‘I have a stick now and that helps.’ Eudora’s hand begins to tremble again. She tries in vain to hide it.
‘Do you often experience shaking like that?’ asks Doctor Jarvis with the hint of a frown.
‘On occasion. I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘Any stiffness in your joints or slowing of movement?’
‘Of course,’ says Eudora. ‘I’m eighty-five years old.’
The doctor reaches forwards and takes her trembling hand. ‘Would you mind if I brought Mr Simons in for a second opinion?’
Yes, thinks Eudora. I absolutely would mind. I want to be left alone. I’m just old. Why won’t you listen? Then she remembers her resolution to co-operate.
‘Very well,’ she says.
Doctor Jarvis squeezes her hand gently. Her touch is cool and reassuring. ‘I’ll be back as quickly as possible.’
Eudora sits very still. She stares at her hand accusingly, commanding it to stop shaking. The consultant bursts through the door moments later without bothering to knock. He has the ham-faced look of a man who believes himself to be a great deal more important than everyone else. Eudora dislikes him on sight. Dr Jarvis trails in behind him and Eudora is struck by how terrified she looks.
‘I’m Mr Simons,’ he says in the bored voice of someone who has been told he has to introduce himself but finds the whole thing beneath him. ‘Doctor Jarvis suspects you may be displaying symptoms of Parkinson’s.’
Doctor Jarvis breathes in sharply. ‘I hadn’t actually mentioned that.’
The consultant sighs but makes no apology. ‘Any stiffness in your muscles or slowing in your ability to walk?’
‘A little,’ says Eudora, pursing her lips. ‘But I put that down to age.’
‘Do you indeed?’ he says. He turns on Doctor Jarvis. ‘These really are the most basic questions. Am I supposed to do your job for you?’
‘No, of course not. Sorry,’ she says, looking as if she may be on the verge of tears.
Eudora begins to shake again. The consultant glares, seizing her hand as if he means to give it a sound telling off. He sniffs and drops it again looking faintly disappointed. ‘Tremors,’ he says. ‘Very common in the elderly.’ He turns to Eudora and addresses her with the patronising slow-speak of the ignorant. ‘Are – these – affecting – your – everyday – life?’
Eudora’s shoulders stiffen. ‘They’re a nuisance but generally no.’
‘They can be caused by stress or anger or too much caffeine,’ he tells Dr Jarvis. ‘Write to the GP and ask them to monitor,’ he adds, turning towards the door.
‘I would put it down to anger then at this precise moment,’ mutters Eudora.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Yes, I think you probably should,’ she says, narrowing her eyes. Mr Simons looks nonplussed. ‘May I ask you something?’
He folds his arms. ‘Very well.’
‘Is your mother proud of you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your mother. I was wondering if she would be proud of the way you conduct yourself. I mean, you’ve clearly achieved a great deal in your professional life and yet you appear unable to behave in a civilised fashion.’ Mr Simons opens his mouth to protest. Eudora holds up a hand to silence him. ‘I am an eighty-five-year-old woman with no time for bullies. I suggest you rethink your career because to my mind you shouldn’t be dealing with other people. You are rude, undignified, and unkind. You owe this young woman and me an apology.’
Mr Simons glares at her for a moment before clamping his mouth shut and storming out of the room without another word.
The young doctor and old woman stare at one another as a flicker of recognition passes between them. It’s the look of two women who are united in support of one another, regardless of age. For Eudora, it is as if she’s found her voice again and discovered, to her surprise, that she has something to say.
‘I hope I haven’t caused trouble for you by speaking my mind,’ she says.
‘Not at all, Miss Honeysett,’ says the doctor, shaking her head. ‘I’m very sorry for what happened. Mr Simons is …’
‘A despicable human being who needed to be told,’ says Eudora, rising to her feet. She fixes the doctor with a steady gaze. ‘You have nothing to apologise for. I can’t abide bullies and I urge you to stand up to this one. You are a kind young woman and an excellent doctor. You deserve better.’
‘Thank you,’ says Doctor Jarvis. ‘Sometimes I feel as if I should find another career.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ says Eudora. ‘You need to be strong and fearless because you are more than capable. And besides, who will I visit when I come here for my next appointment? You have an important role to play.’
The doctor studies her face. ‘I think we both do.’
Eudora is momentarily caught off-guard before she regains her composure. ‘So are we finished here?’
‘Yes. I’ll write to your GP and if these tremors get worse, please get in touch.’ She holds out her hand. Eudora accepts it. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Honeysett.’
‘And you, Doctor Jarvis.’
* * *
Her conversation with Doctor Jarvis sifts through her mind as she returns to the waiting room. The older she gets, the more redundant she feels. It’s as if her life is a long corridor lined with different doors leading to activities past and present. In her youth, she could enter through any number of these doors. Going out to work, socialising with friends, trips to the seaside. Everything was possible. Now, most of the doors are marked with strict ‘no entry’ signs. She is limited to hospital appointments, daily crosswords, and preparing easy-to-chew food. It’s not the end of the world but it’s a shrunken world, which makes her feel a lot less useful.
As she reaches the waiting room she is pleasantly unsurprised to find Stanley waiting for her.
‘I thought you might appreciate a lift home,’ he says.
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘How did you get on?’ he asks. ‘Everything all right?’
Eudora decides not to mention the shaking or the bullying doctor. She hasn’t quite worked it out in her own head yet. ‘Everything is fine. How about you?’
Stanley shrugs. ‘They want to keep an eye on me but they always do at our age, don’t they?’
‘They’ve got us in an iron grip,’ says Eudora.
Stanley laughs. ‘True but it all comes from a good place.’
‘I suppose it does.’
He opens the passenger door for her as they reach his car. She climbs inside, relieved at not having to catch the bus home. ‘You know, I’m always happy to give you a lift if you have an appointment,’ he says, settling behind the wheel and switching on the ignition, bringing a welcome breath of cold air from the air conditioning.
‘Thank you, but I don’t mind public transport,’ says Eudora.
‘You’re not a very good liar,’ says Stanley. ‘Seriously. It’s no bother. It helps get me out of the house. I’ll give you my telephone number when we get back to yours.’
‘Thank you,’ says Eudora. She knows she’ll never use it but is grateful for the gesture.
Stanley switches on the radio. Eudora winces as ‘Hound Dog’, blares through the speakers. Instead of turning it down, Stanley joins in, howling and jigging about in his seat like a man possessed. He glances over at her. ‘Not a fan of the King?’
‘He was a little after my time,’ says Eudora.
‘Fair enough. But you used to go dancing, didn’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Eudora’s eyes glitter at the memory. ‘Every Saturday night.’
‘Magical times,’ says Stanley.
‘A long time ago now,’ says Eudora.
‘Well. You’re only as young as you feel.’
‘In which case I feel about two hundred years old.’
‘Now then, Miss Honeysett. We can’t be having that. So, I’ve got a proposal for you.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Eudora, wishing she’d caught the bus after all.
‘It’s my Paul’s fiftieth birthday at the weekend and I was wondering if you might like to come to the party with me? It’s at the old dance hall round the corner. I don’t really want to go on my own and it might be fun.’
Eudora glances at him. Of course she doesn’t want to go but how can she refuse? And besides, what harm is there in indulging him for one evening?
Might as well make myself useful while I’m waiting to die.
‘Very well,’ she says. ‘But I’ll need to be home by ten.’
Stanley pretends to doff a cap. ‘Your wish is my command, Cinderella.’
* * *
It was a missing button which started the argument. A fat brown button as shiny as a freshly uncased conker. There had been three of them on Stella’s blazer when she left for her first day at secondary school, a picture of nervous excitement in her new uniform.
‘Smart as a new pin,’ said Eudora, eyes brimming as she held her sister at arm’s length. ‘And ready for adventure.’ She glanced over her shoulder at her mother, who watched them both without emotion. ‘Doesn’t she look smart, Mum?’ prompted Eudora, ever the appeaser.
Beatrice took a step forwards. ‘You have a speck of fluff on your collar,’ she said, brushing it away with a scratch of her fingernail. ‘But otherwise you’ll pass muster.’
Stella glanced at her sister, who gave her a nod of encouragement. ‘See you later then,’ she said, picking up her satchel and heading for the door.
‘Have a good day, precious girl,’ called Eudora. Stella flashed a brave smile before disappearing along the street. ‘I hope she’ll be all right.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Beatrice dismissively. ‘Don’t be late for work, will you?’
Since she left school, Eudora had worked as a secretary in a bank in London. She enjoyed the job but, more than this, she loved commuting into the city every day. It made her feel important and necessary. She was providing for her family, looking after them just as her father had asked her to. She missed him every day and often wished he was there to provide respite from her mother and sister’s stormier episodes. She could imagine her and her father, rolling their eyes at one another, diffusing the situation with a shared smile.
Eudora had hoped that Beatrice would soften towards Stella as the child became older and less demanding. Unfortunately, the brooding seed of resentment, which had been planted the day her father died, had taken root, growing into something more permanent. Ridiculous as it sounded, it was almost as if Beatrice held Stella responsible for her husband’s death. Her life had been settled before he was killed – Albert, Beatrice and Eudora had been a happy band of three. And then the war came and stole him away just as Stella made her dramatic, noisy entrance into the world. Unfortunate as it was for Stella, she was synonymous with tragedy in Beatrice’s mind and the child’s sometimes cruel and demanding nature solidified her position as someone to be endured rather than adored.
Eudora took it upon herself to compensate for her mother’s negative attitude towards her youngest child. It was a burdensome and often thankless task.
Work was a welcome refuge. Eudora’s colleagues were friendly enough and a couple of the older secretaries had taken her under their wing. Mr Wells, her boss, was a kindly older man, who reminded her a little of her father when he called her ‘dear’.
Eudora’s mother still worked at the primary school that she and Stella had attended and was now in charge of the school office. Last year a male teacher called Mr Harrison had asked her mother to the theatre. Beatrice had been deeply offended by the suggestion, which Eudora secretly decided was a shame. She understood that her mother missed their father but she couldn’t understand why this meant avoiding all male company for the rest of her life. She was certain her father would want her mother to be happy, but for some reason, her mother seemed unable to free herself from the weight of grief.
As Eudora let herself in through the front door that evening, she was looking forward to seeing Stella and hearing about her first day.
‘Hello! Mum? Stella?’ There was a heavy silence followed by a gasping sob from the kitchen. ‘Mum?’ Eudora knew something bad had happened as soon as she spotted her mother’s anguished face and the unpeeled carrots and potatoes on the side.
‘That child is a devil!’ cried Beatrice.
‘What has she done now?’ asked Eudora, trying to mask her impatience.
‘She slapped me! Her own mother!’ Beatrice leant towards Eudora and, as soon as her daughter embraced her, began to sob like a child.
‘What happened?’ asked Eudora softly, stroking her mother’s hair.
‘Well. When she came home from school, I noticed her blazer was missing a button and when I asked her what had happened, she shrugged as if she didn’t care. It made me so cross, Eudora. I told her that she was to sit down and sew it back on immediately, but she refused. Can you believe it? And when I shouted at her to do as she was told, she shouted back at me and told me to go to hell! My mother would have shut me in the coal shed if I’d spoken to her like that.’ Eudora sighed inwardly. ‘She was about to leave the kitchen, so I grabbed her arm and that was when she slapped me. Here.’ Beatrice jutted her cheek upwards to show Eudora the angry pink mark.
‘Oh dear,’ said Eudora, a suffocating weariness descending.
‘What are we to do about her?’ said Beatrice. ‘She’s out of control, Eudora. This would never have happened if your father was still alive. I’m sure of that.’
‘I’ll talk to her,’ said Eudora.
‘Oh, would you? Thank you. You’re such a kind girl. Where would I be without you? Stella listens to you. I think she hates me! What I’ve done to deserve that, I’ll never know.’
Eudora climbed the stairs and tapped lightly on Stella’s door. ‘Go away!’ came a muffled, angry voice.
‘Stella, it’s me. Please can I come in?’ She heard movement from within the room before the door opened a fraction. Eudora took this as a cue and stepped inside. Stella was sitting on the bed still in her uniform, scowling at the world. Eudora sat down beside her.
‘I suppose she told you what happened,’ said Stella after a pause.
‘If by “she” you mean Mum, then yes.’ Eudora stole a glance at her sister. Where Beatrice’s reaction had been tearful, Stella’s was brimming with fury. ‘You know you shouldn’t have slapped her, don’t you?’ Stella shrugged. ‘Stella,’ warned Eudora. ‘You can’t go around hitting people.’
‘She grabbed my arm really hard!’
Eudora swallowed. She knew their mother could be heavy-handed. ‘You still shouldn’t have slapped her.’
‘Why do you always take her side? Every time. She hates me and you always stick up for her. It’s not fair, Dora.’
Eudora knew she was right but then it wasn’t fair that she came home night after night having to referee her mother and sister. ‘She doesn’t hate you.’
‘She does,’ said Stella folding her arms. ‘But it doesn’t matter because I hate her too. She’s a bitch.’
‘Don’t say that, Stella. It’s rude and disrespectful. She’s your mother.’
‘So what?’ said Stella, jumping to her feet, tearing open the bedroom door. She leant over the banister. ‘You’re a bitch, do you hear me, Mother? A B-I-T-C-H. Bitch.’
‘Eudora!’ cried her mother from the kitchen doorway. ‘How can you let her talk to me like that?’
Eudora’s shoulders sagged with fatigue as she let herself fall back onto Stella’s bed. She tried to blot out the creeping realisation that whatever she did, however hard she tried, she would never be able to make her mother and sister happy. As she turned her head, she spied the framed photograph of their father in full uniform, smiling his encouragement, from Stella’s bedside table. Eudora sighed, hauling herself to her feet, ready to face her mother and sister and try, yet again, to broker peace in their bitter, endless battle.