Chapter Fifty-Six

London, August 25, 1976

Eve woke to the dawn chorus. It seemed as if it had never been so loud and urgent. She used to have a knack for identifying birdsong when they lived in the countryside, but you didn’t hear it so much in the city.

She listened hard, trying to separate the different calls: the tuneful melody of a blackbird, the chatter of jays, the cawing of a crow. “Get up, get up!” they were saying, but she and her husband had a routine. He always brought her breakfast in bed so she had to wait for him to get up first. This morning he was still sleeping soundly, so she decided to wait.

There was a heatwave that summer, and they slept with just a sheet on top and the windows flung wide to catch any breath of air. It hadn’t rained for months. There was a ban on watering gardens and Eve hoped her poor plants at the old house were not suffering too badly. She often thought about that garden, where she had spent so much time. The hollyhocks, the roses, the lupines . . . It had been so pretty, with the most delicious scents. They sometimes went to stately homes to look at the plants, but they hadn’t been since spring because of the heat. It could be dangerous for old people, according to the leaflet that came through the door.

She had discovered a gold clock hidden away in her bedside cabinet, buried among the unread books and tubes of hand cream. It seemed an odd place to keep it, she thought, but now it came in handy because she could simply open the door and check the time. Almost eight o’clock. He’d probably wake soon. He was lying on his back with his mouth slightly open, the way he did when he’d been snoring. It was lucky she slept soundly because he could snore like a bull.

A ladybug landed on the sheet and she recited the old rhyme in a whisper: “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are gone.” She was pleased with herself for remembering this and turned to see if her husband had heard, but he was still sleeping.

Eve was starting to get hungry so she decided to waken him. She slid her head onto his shoulder and eased her body so she was pressing against his side, but he didn’t respond. He felt cooler than her, although he was usually the hotter of the two of them—like a hot water bottle in winter. He was very still. He must be in a deep sleep. Maybe he was dreaming.

Gradually she got a creeping sensation that something was wrong. She hugged him tight, kissing his neck, but there was no response, and somehow he didn’t feel right. She called, “Waken up!” No response. Had something very, very bad happened?

Fear gripped her. Why was he so cool? So still? She didn’t know what to do. Panic was nudging her brain. She tried flapping her hands to make it fly away. “You’ll be fine,” she said out loud. “Just be calm.” She decided she would keep lying by his side, without moving, until he woke up.

She must have dozed off because she wakened a while later to the sound of a key turning in the front door.

“Hellooooo . . .” a woman called, singing the word. It was her daughter. Eve heard her go into the living room, then the kitchen, looking for them.

When she pushed open the bedroom door, Eve whispered, “He’s still asleep.”

“Dad?” her daughter said with a question in her voice, and came over to look at him. She shook his shoulders and touched his forehead, then bent her head to listen to his chest.

That panicky feeling came back and Eve held her breath, trying to drown out the noise in her head. Please no, please no, please no.

“I’m going to make a phone call,” her daughter said in a strangled voice and disappeared from the room with a hand over her mouth. When she returned several minutes later, she was composed. She came around to Eve’s side of the bed and kissed her cheek, then gently pulled her away from her husband, saying, “Let me help you get dressed, Mum.”

Eve didn’t want to get up. She wanted to stay in bed, holding her husband, but she allowed her daughter to pull off her nightie and put on some underclothes, then a long cotton dress with a summery print. There was no need for stockings in the heat. She wanted to cry, but it was nice that her daughter was being so kind.

Her husband was still in bed, still in the same position. Now she looked at him, she could see he looked the way Pups had looked at the end: as if he wasn’t there anymore. He’s gone and died, the voice in Eve’s head told her. Your husband is dead. You’re all alone. What will become of you?

She tried not to listen but the voice was getting louder and more insistent so she could hardly hear what her daughter was saying. Something about the doctor.

They walked through to the kitchen together and her daughter filled the kettle and put it on the stove, then she made a little choking sound and rushed out of the room. She must be upset. Eve was upset too. She tried not to cry because once she started, she didn’t know how she would ever stop.

And then she heard a voice.

“What’s up, Pipsqueak?” it said. “Are you sad because I didn’t bring you breakfast? Don’t worry—there’s nothing to worry about.”

It was definitely his voice. She turned and couldn’t see him but there was no doubt he was there.

“What shall we have for breakfast, Pipsqueak?” he asked.

It had to be him. No one else called her that.

“Toast?” she said cautiously.

“Good choice,” he said, so she got up to turn on the grill.

When her daughter returned, Eve said to her, “Don’t worry. It’s going to be OK. Would you like some toast?”

* * *

The doctor went into the bedroom to see Brograve first, then he came to talk to Eve in the sitting room. Her daughter brought them all some coffee. Eve thought she should have laid out a plate of biscuits, even though the doctor said he didn’t want any. He was too thin for a young man, probably working too hard.

“You’re doing really well,” he told Eve, making a steeple with his fingers. “I’ve been talking to Patricia and we think it would be best if you go and stay with her for a while, to give us time to make arrangements.”

“Alright,” Eve agreed. “Him too?” She gestured over her left shoulder to where she could sense her husband was sitting, out of sight.

Her daughter caught eyes with the doctor, looking worried. “I’ll pack a bag for you, Mum,” she said.

“Will the boys be there?” Eve asked. She couldn’t remember their names for the life of her.

“They’re grown up now. They’ve got their own homes, but I’m sure they’ll come and visit. And they’ll be at the funeral.” Her daughter’s voice cracked on the word.

“Whose funeral is it?” Eve asked. They told her, but her mind was wandering and she didn’t listen. She’d been to so many funerals. Friends were dropping like flies, her husband said. The church services were terribly solemn but she liked the parties afterward, where you got sandwiches cut in triangles and with any luck a glass of sherry, and everyone said lovely things about the dead person.

“Will there be sherry?” she asked, and her daughter said she would make sure of it, and gave her a hug. She was in a very emotional mood.

* * *

There were lots of people at the funeral. Eve glanced around, trying to estimate the numbers, but it was a big church and she couldn’t even see all the way to the back. It was terribly grand. The coffin was carried in by soldiers in smart red tunics and there were white lilies on top, with a very strong scent that was a bit like burning rubber.

The minister said his bit, then lots of people went up to the lectern to speak, including one of her grandsons, bless him. He got an appreciative laugh from the crowd with a story involving a waiter in a restaurant. Eve was numb. None of it felt real, until they sang the hymn “Abide with Me,” with that mournful old tune. A wave of grief crashed over her and she began to sob noisily. Her daughter put an arm around her and offered a handkerchief, but Eve couldn’t stop. She wanted to scream and wail, but through her sobbing she heard her husband’s voice.

“Pull yourself together, Pipsqueak. Put on a good show, that’s a girl.”

Eve hadn’t realized he was there, but it seemed he was. She couldn’t see him but suddenly she could feel the warmth and pressure of his arms around her. He was so big he could wrap her up completely in his limbs. She could smell the scent of him: masculine and extraordinarily comforting. She dried her tears and sat up straight, balling the handkerchief in her fist.

She remembered doubting it as a girl when her father told her he got in touch with his mother at séances. She hadn’t believed that Sherlock Holmes author and the psychic man’s words, and she felt guilty now because it turned out they had been right after all. Spirits did return, and you could talk to them.

“Good turnout today,” she commented to Brograve, and he agreed: “Jolly good.”

When it was over, Eve and her daughter stood by the church exit and everyone filed past and shook her hand and stopped for a few words. Her daughter did most of the talking while Eve said, “Lovely to see you,” and “Thank you for coming,” and “How kind!” They all seemed to know her, so she smiled as if she knew them too.

Afterward they went to her daughter’s house and there was a lovely spread of afternoon tea, with sandwiches, scones and jam, and a Victoria sponge. She’d gone to a lot of trouble. Eve got quite tipsy on the sherry but resisted when they tried to make her go to bed. She was enjoying chatting with all these lovely people and didn’t want the party to end.

Besides, she hated going to bed at her daughter’s because it meant waking up alone. There was no warm body in the bed. Her husband didn’t bring her breakfast anymore. She lay there with a big ball of tears in her throat, feeling empty and lost and worried, until her daughter came to help her get dressed.

Her husband wasn’t there, at least not so she could actually see him, and she didn’t want to think about that too much. Maybe when she went back to her own house, he’d be waiting for her. He’d have to be, because she didn’t think she could manage on her own.