The social worker is precisely seven minutes late and Eudora is vexed. She has never been late in her life and considers anyone who is as suffering from a weakness of character.
Her annoyance is heightened by her weariness. She enjoyed the party over the weekend, but it has left her tired and peevish. She longs for a swim to reenergize her fatigued soul. However, the summer’s heat refuses to abate and so she is forced to spend yet another day imprisoned at home. What with Britain’s scorching summers, monsoon-like autumns, and arctic winters, it feels as if there are only a handful of days a year when it’s safe for the elderly to venture outside. Eudora often finds herself harrumphing at the television as another beaming Met Office presenter promises yet more inclement weather.
“There’s no need to be so cheerful about it—black ice is no laughing matter when you’re eighty-five!”
Eudora approaches the window, peers out at the moody-looking sky, and prays for rain. At least that would cool everything down a little. A small red car, which looks to Eudora like something a toddler might play with, pulls up outside. A harassed woman climbs out, darting an anxious glance toward the house. Eudora recognizes her as the social worker who visited before. Ruth, her name was, and she was very kind. The woman hauls a huge black bag and folder from the back of the car and hurries up the garden path. Eudora waits for the knock before making her way to the front door. She values kindness, but that won’t save Ruth today.
“You are nearly fifteen minutes late,” she says by way of a greeting.
“Yes, and I’m very sorry. My little boy was sick today, so I had to wait for my mum to come over to look after him,” says Ruth, out of breath, her eyes creased with worry.
Eudora purses her lips. As far as excuses go, this one is difficult to counter. “Very well. You’d better come in.”
“Thank you. And sorry again.”
“There’s no need to keep apologizing.”
“Right. Yes. Sorry.” Eudora raises an eyebrow. Ruth holds up her hands. “Force of habit. Got it. No more apologies.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Only if you’re having one. I can make it if you like?”
This feels like a test. “No. I’m perfectly capable, thank you. Why don’t you go into the living room. I’ll join you shortly.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
As Eudora makes the tea, she wonders what Ruth would say if she told her about her application to the clinic in Switzerland. She would be horrified of course. Human beings are only programmed to judge information based on their own experiences. Ruth spends her time ensuring that life is preserved and enhanced wherever possible. It’s a noble cause, but what happens when someone like Eudora doesn’t want her life to be preserved? It’s not long before the hand-wringing starts, swiftly followed by pained expressions.
But why would you want to die? You have so much to live for!
No. You have so much to live for. I don’t and I’m absolutely fine with that. If I can have the choice of how I live my own life, why can’t I choose how to die my own death?
Eudora despairs of a world that can’t at least have a sensible conversation about this.
She finishes making the tea and carries it into the living room. “Thank you very much,” says Ruth, accepting the bone-china mug.
“So,” says Eudora, sitting in her chair. “What is this all about?”
Ruth puts her mug on a coaster, a gesture that ingratiates her with Eudora. She pulls out a form. The dreaded forms. Eudora is touched by the NHS’s unrelenting attention but is a little tired of answering the same questions over and over again.
Name? (Honeysett. With two t’s.)
Date of birth? (Pause while person filling in form registers that you are rather old.)
Do you live alone? (Pause while form-filler adopts a sympathetic expression as you answer in the affirmative.)
How do you feel about living alone? (Eye roll.)
Would you benefit from extra help around the home? (Shudder.)
Eudora feels like a record on repeat as she tries to give each person the information they need, in the hope that they will leave her be. Their concern stems from kindness of course, but it also stems from that fundamental principle of preserving life at all cost.
Eudora is painfully aware that some healthcare professionals have no idea what to do when confronted with an old person. She recalls Mrs. Carter from three doors down who had a fall and was sent to A&E. For three years, she went back and forth between home and the germ-laced emergency department. Eventually, she died in the back of an ambulance, her final snapshot of life a flashing blue light and a kindly, overworked paramedic telling her she was going to be all right. Eudora is determined that this will not be the ending to her story.
“So, really, I wanted to see how you’re getting on. I know you went to the falls clinic and they were very pleased with your progress.”
Gold star, Eudora. “I am quite well, thank you,” she says.
“That’s excellent. And you’re using the stick I gave you?”
“Yes. It’s a godsend. I use it when I go to the swimming pool and manage well enough without it around the house.”
“Wonderful. It’s great to hear you still go swimming. You’re an example to us all, Eudora.”
“Thank you.”
“And you’re managing at home? With washing and toilet needs?”
Eudora is appalled. “Yes. Yes, thank you.”
“How about getting up from your chair, and in and out of bed?”
“Everything is fine. Really.”
“Good. What about your mental health?”
Eudora frowns. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting there is. I’m just aware that you live alone.” Here we go, thinks Eudora. “And I have some activities I could suggest, which you might enjoy—various groups and the like.”
Good heavens above. A place where all the miserable old people can sit together and moan about their ailments. Eudora is reminded of the Groucho Marx quote: “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.”
“I’m not sure it’s for me. Thank you,” says Eudora firmly.
“Okay,” says Ruth. “I’ll leave you some leaflets to peruse at your leisure.”
“Mmm,” says Eudora vaguely.
Their conversation is interrupted by Ruth’s phone ringing. She glances at the screen and pulls a face. “Sorry, Eudora. I need to take this.” She carries the phone into the hall.
Eudora takes a sip of her tea, hearing every word of the conversation that follows.
“Mum? Is everything okay. How’s Max? Yes. Yes, he had some Calpol at eight. Is his temperature not coming down? Okay, try Nurofen and check it again in half an hour. Keep me posted. Thanks, Mum, love you. Give Max a kiss from me.”
Eudora hears the shakiness in Ruth’s voice. She doesn’t claim to have firsthand experience of motherhood but does understand about caring for another human being.
Ruth returns to the living room, her face pale and fretful. “Right,” she says, taking her seat again. “Where were we?”
“You should go,” says Eudora.
“Pardon?”
“You should go and be with your baby. It’s far more important than all this.” Ruth stares at her with shining eyes. Eudora fears she’s about to cry, so she speaks quickly. “I am an old woman and I am perfectly fine. I appreciate your efforts, but you do not need to worry about me. You do, however, need to worry about your little boy. So please leave now or I shall be forced to call your office and complain.”
It takes Ruth a moment to realize that Eudora is joking. She clutches her heart and gives a relieved laugh. “Are you sure? I think you might be right. I need to be with him, don’t I?”
Eudora realizes that only she can grant this young mother permission. “Of course. You young women are trying to do it all. You need to give yourselves a break sometimes.” She heard someone use this phrase on Woman’s Hour. It sounds faintly ridiculous on her lips, but she decides that it’s the correct thing to say.
Ruth nods rapidly. “Thank you, Eudora. You’re absolutely right. Max has to come first. I’ll go. Is it all right if I call you again, to finish our chat?”
“As you wish, but make sure your baby’s well first. Otherwise I shall hang up on you.”
Ruth smiles. “Thank you. You’re very kind. Take care of yourself, Eudora.”
“You too.”
Eudora hears the door shut and sinks back into her chair, tired but satisfied. For beauty lives with kindness, she thinks as she closes her eyes and lets sleep descend.
It’s around lunchtime when Rose knocks on the door. Eudora has just finished a very acceptable ham sandwich and is making good progress with the crossword. Usually, she would be irritated by the interruption. However, as she opens the front door, Eudora is unexpectedly cheered to see Rose, not least because today’s outfit is extraordinary, comprising buttercup yellow, ecclesiastical purple, and neon orange. There’s something surprisingly reassuring about Rose’s questionable sartorial experiments.
“Good afternoon, Rose. How are you?”
“Hello, Eudora. I’m fine but I’m worried about Stanley.”
“Oh?”
Rose’s face is serious. “He hasn’t been past with the dogs today and that never happens. And I remember he said he gets a bit down about Ada sometimes. Mum sent me ’round to ask if you know where he lives.”
“Actually, I do. Are you going to go and check on him?”
“I am, but Mum is really tired because of the bloody baby.”
“Rose!”
“Sorry. That’s what Mum said. If you give me the address, I’ll go and knock on his door.”
Visions of this eccentric little girl shinnying up Stanley’s drainpipe flood Eudora’s mind. She would rather not get involved but feels as if her hand is being forced somehow. Besides, she is also a little worried about Stanley Marcham. “I’ll come with you.”
“Are you sure? Mum said not to bother you when it’s this hot.”
“It’s perfectly fine. I think it’s going to rain soon anyway. We’ll go together.”
“Okay. I’ll tell Mum.”
The sky is the color of anger, with grumbling thunder threatening in the distance, as Eudora and Rose make the short walk to Stanley’s house. Rose is now accessorizing her outfit with an umbrella decorated with gold llamas as spots of rain start to fall. Eudora holds her stick in one hand and a functional burgundy umbrella in the other. A shiver of panic runs through her as she notices that the curtains to Stanley’s house are still drawn.
She shakes her head. It’s utter madness coming here alone with Rose. What if he’s lying on the floor unconscious? She’s too old for all this.
“Come on, Eudora,” says Rose, leading her by the arm to the front door. Eudora steels herself, reaching forward to press the doorbell. There’s a cacophony of barking from somewhere in the house but no sign of Stanley. She tries again. More barking but no other signs of life. Eudora glances down at Rose, who takes this as a cue.
The little girl pushes open the letterbox and leans in. “Stanley! It’s Rose and Eudora! Are you there? We’re worried about you!”
The barking begins afresh along with another sound, human this time. “All right. I’m coming.” It’s a small, reluctant version of Stanley’s voice. They stand back as he opens the door. Eudora is shocked by his appearance. He looks so different from the larger-than-life character she is used to. She can hardly believe that this shrunken man is the same one with whom she drank champagne on the weekend. He is also still in his pajamas and dressing gown, which, to Eudora’s mind, is an abhorrence, particularly given that it’s well after two in the afternoon.
“Oh. Are you having a pajama day, Stanley?” asks Rose.
Stanley stares down at his attire and then at Eudora. She sees shame in his eyes and something else: a plea for help. “Well, I . . .”
“Let’s all go inside,” says Eudora, glancing at the steadily falling rain. “Before we get washed away.”
“Oh yes, of course,” says Stanley, moving back to let them in.
As Rose steps over the threshold she wraps her arms around his waist. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
Eudora notices Stanley’s face crumple and, fearing the avalanche of emotion that may follow, she asks, “Do you have any cordial?”
“She means squash,” whispers Rose behind her hand. “It’s Eudora’s posh word for it.”
Stanley’s expression lifts to one of confusion. “Erm, yes, I think so.”
“Right. Rose, unhand Stanley and go into the kitchen and make us three of your best glasses of cordial, please. Stanley and I will be in the living room.”
Rose stands poker straight like a regimental soldier. “Aye, aye, captain,” she says. “Do you want me to check on Chas and Dave too?”
Stanley looks as if he’s remembered something important. “Oh yes. They’re in the back room. They’re probably hungry. The food and bowls are on the side.”
Rose puts a hand on her heart. “Leave it to me, Stanley. You go and have a nice chat with Eudora.”
Stanley stares at Eudora. “I didn’t feel like doing anything today. I couldn’t see the point.”
“Let’s go and sit down,” says Eudora.
Stanley Marcham’s living room is a shrine to a happy life. It’s bright and cheerful, with two upright but comfortable Ercol chairs set against one wall opposite the television. An Ercol sofa flanks the adjacent wall. The red velvet curtains and peacock-feather flocked wallpaper are not to Eudora’s taste, but she finds herself admiring them all the same. What is most eye-catching are the photographs lining each surface and wall, bordered by frames of every color and design. There are pictures of babies, elderly people, toddlers, teenagers, and lots of photographs of Stanley and Ada, smiling out at her. Pictures of love and happiness.
She hears the dogs yelp with excitement as Rose opens the door to the back room and delivers their food. Her voice is kind and reassuring and their barking immediately calms to an occasional yap.
Eudora takes a seat on the sofa as Stanley sinks into what she realizes is his usual chair. She notices his glasses case on the side table next to a framed photograph of a beaming woman who has to be Ada and a “Best Pops in the World” mug decorated with more pictures of Stanley with his grandchildren. Then she spots the empty chair to his right holding the large cushion decorated with a huge photograph of Chas and Dave, who stare out at her with optimistically eager eyes. Ada’s chair.
“So what’s this all about then?” asks Eudora.
Stanley adopts the expression of a small boy being questioned by his mother. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Did something happen?”
His eyes grow misty with the promise of tears. “I miss Ada.”
Eudora folds her hands in her lap. “I know you do.”
Stanley gazes into the distance, lost in a moment’s reverie. “I had this dream. We were about to go dancing. She looked so beautiful, all dolled up. I could smell her perfume. And I was so happy to see her. I thought she was still with me and that her leaving me had all been a dream. And then I woke up . . .” Stanley glances at his late wife’s chair and starts to cry. He wraps his arms around his body and shakes as the sobs engulf him.
Eudora freezes, darting a glance at the door and hoping Rose might burst through it, but she can hear the little girl still fussing over the dogs and realizes it’s down to her. She rises to her feet and approaches Stanley. He is hunched over like a man adopting the crash position, a picture of heartbreaking grief. She reaches out a hesitant hand, glancing toward the photograph of Ada on the side table and willing her to give Eudora strength. As her palm makes contact with Stanley’s shoulder, he stops crying but remains curled over with sadness.
“There, there,” says Eudora before realizing how inadequate this sounds. She searches her mind for the right words. “You mustn’t upset yourself. Ada wouldn’t want you to be sad.”
Stanley looks up at her in bewilderment. “She’d think I was a silly old fool sitting here feeling sorry for myself.”
Eudora nods. “Very possibly. Now, come along. Dry your tears. Rose will be back with her astonishingly sweet cordial in a minute. It will make you wince, but it might make you feel better.”
“Made with love, eh?”
“Something like that.”
Stanley fishes out his handkerchief and wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry, Eudora.”
“What on earth are you sorry about? You miss your wife. You feel sad. It’s perfectly understandable. You certainly shouldn’t be apologizing to me.”
“I just know you don’t like all this weeping and wailing.”
“Everyone is different,” she says.
“Thank you for coming to check up on me.”
“You would do the same for me,” says Eudora.
“I would.”
“Here we are,” says Rose, carrying a tray into the living room. “And I found some chocolate biscuits, if that’s okay with you, Stanley?”
As Stanley smiles and nods, Eudora sees a little of his old self return. “Of course, Rose. Anything for my two knights in shining armor.”
“Can you have lady knights?” asks Rose with genuine interest.
Stanley gestures at them both with open palms. “It would seem that way.”
“Are you feeling better?” she asks, handing him a glass.
Stanley takes a sip of the drink and winces before regaining his composure. “Much better, thank you, Rose.”
“Good,” she says, munching on a biscuit. “Because I’ve got an invitation for you both.”
Stanley glances at Eudora and smiles. She gives an uncertain laugh before darting her gaze back toward the photo of Ada. Eudora sees the sparkle in her eyes, a spirit of adventure, and a deep kindness, which makes her wish they’d known each other. She sends her a silent promise. I’ll make sure he’s all right, Ada. I’ll do my best for you while I can.
Rose is pogoing up and down in her seat with excitement.
Eudora turns to her. “Come along then, Rose. Don’t keep us in suspense any longer. What have you got in store for us now?”
1958
Sidney Avenue, South-East London
The dress was perfect—a deferential nod to the exquisite gown Grace Kelly wore for her wedding only two years earlier, with a demure high-necked lace collar, empire waist, and elegant full skirt. It was everything Eudora could wish for. Her mother had cried and clutched Sylvia’s arm when she saw her daughter wearing it. Even Stella had nodded and smiled with obvious affection. Eudora had been relieved when her sister agreed to their mother’s idea of a shopping trip to London with fellow bridesmaid, Sylvia. Beatrice was adamant that they should do things properly.
“The mother of the bride must buy her daughter’s dress. It’s tradition,” she said, eyes brimming with tears.
Eudora didn’t want to put her mother to unnecessary expense, but she was glad her wedding was bringing Beatrice a rare moment of joy. She squeezed her mother’s hands. “Thank you, Mummy.”
There had been a truce of sorts between Beatrice and her youngest daughter over the past six months and a change in Stella, which Eudora welcomed like a cooling breeze on a hot day.
Stella had been attending the local church-run youth club and had even volunteered to run activities for some of the younger kids. Eudora was further reassured by the presence of Eddie, who often went along to teach mechanics to any teenagers who were interested. Having her fiancé there to keep an eye on Stella made Eudora feel as if life might finally be settling into something more hopeful. Eudora’s future was there for the taking and she intended to embrace it with open arms.
With little over one month to go before the wedding, Eudora was skittish with excitement. Apart from the one extravagance of her dress, she had done her best to keep costs to a minimum. Although rationing was a thing of the past, she still harbored a strong sense of thriftiness. Eudora had rejected the idea of a fancy wedding reception for afternoon tea in the hall next to the church where they were to be married. She and Eddie would leave the reception at around six and catch a train to Eastbourne. There they would enjoy a weeklong honeymoon staying in a bed-and-breakfast run by a friend of Eddie’s mother, who had given them a reduced rate on a room with a sea view. Eudora was more than satisfied with their plans and couldn’t wait to begin their life together.
Two weeks before the wedding, Sylvia suggested they go for afternoon tea up in town.
“My treat. It can be our last hoorah before you walk up the aisle. Ask Stella and your mum along too if you like.”
Eudora had been relieved when her mother and Stella had each declined the invitation. She loved them dearly, but it would be more relaxing with just Sylvia.
“I’ve got to get on in the garden while the weather’s fine,” said Beatrice. “You go and have fun with Sylvia.”
Eudora intended do just that. It was a beautiful, warm day and she was wearing her favorite summer dress. She stood in the hall getting ready to leave as Stella came down the stairs.
“That dress always looks lovely on you, Dora,” she said, pausing to admire her sister.
“Thank you, Stella,” said Eudora, looking up from the mirror as she smoothed her hair.
“I’m sorry I can’t make it this afternoon.”
Eudora turned to face her sister, noticing that her blue eyes were narrowed with concern. She patted Stella’s arm. “It’s all right. I understand. It’s far more important that you help out at the youth club.”
“Mmm,” said Stella, staring at the floor.
Eudora reached out and lifted her chin. “Really. It’s okay. It’s only afternoon tea with Sylvia.”
“Darling Dora,” said Stella, flinging her arms around her sister and squeezing her tight. “You deserve to be happy.”
Eudora smiled, holding her sister at arm’s length. “I am happy.”
Stella stared into her eyes and nodded. “I think you will be. And you won’t need to worry about me anymore.”
“I will always worry about you. It’s my job as your sister,” Eudora told her. “But I am proud of you. I know things haven’t been easy, but I feel as if you’ve turned a corner.”
Stella opened her mouth to speak, hesitating as if struggling to find the right words. “I think I have too. I love you, Dora. Always remember that.”
Eudora planted a kiss on her forehead. “Silly goose. Of course I will.”
It had been a wonderful afternoon with Sylvia. They had laughed and reminisced about those magical evenings, dancing the night away. Then they shared their hopes and secret wishes for the future. Sylvia longed for a proposal from Kenny. Inspired by her own fairy tale, Eudora reassured her that she was certain it would happen any day. They talked about their dreams of happy marriages and homes full of children, of the domestic bliss they were convinced was a heartbeat away.
When Eudora looked back on that afternoon, she viewed it as one of the last times she was truly happy. It all came as such a shock. She felt naïve for not having had the faintest idea of what was about to happen. As the freight train plowed its way through her life, she realized she hadn’t even heard the whistle or the click-clack of the track.
The house was quiet as she entered later that afternoon. Eudora relished the peace after so many years of coming home to the battling of her mother and sister.
“Dora dear. Is that you?”
“Yes, Mother,” she said, hanging her coat on the stand and making her way to the kitchen, where Beatrice was pouring boiling water into the teapot.
“Would you like a cup, dear?”
“No, thank you. I feel as if I’ve drunk gallons of the stuff.”
Her mother smiled. “Did you have a nice time?”
“It was lovely. Is Stella home yet?”
“I haven’t heard her come in, but then I’ve been in the garden all afternoon. I’ve planted out the runner beans and lettuces,” she said, her mind clearly more focused on her horticultural endeavors than her younger daughter.
“Mmm, strange. Maybe she’s in her room. I’ll go and check.”
Eudora padded up the stairs and pushed open the door to Stella’s bedroom. It was uncharacteristically ordered, and Stella was nowhere to be seen. Eudora’s mouth went dry as she took in her surroundings, reaching out a hand to open Stella’s wardrobe. Empty. She cast around, realizing that all of Stella’s personal items were missing, along with the suitcase that usually sat on top of the wardrobe. “She’s gone!” cried Eudora, rushing out onto the landing.
“Gone?” said Beatrice, appearing in the hallway. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
Eudora hurried downstairs. “I mean, she’s taken everything and left.”
“Good heavens above. Should we call the police?”
Eudora realized at that moment that she would be forever responsible for her mother. Beatrice didn’t have the first clue what to do. “Yes. I think we should.” The telephone began to ring as she reached the bottom step. Eudora snatched it up. “Stella?”
“It’s Eddie,” said a voice.
“Eddie. Oh, thank goodness. You have to come ’round at once. Stella’s gone missing. We’re worried about her.”
There was a moment’s hesitation before he answered. “She’s with me.”
“Oh. Good. Where did you find her?”
Eddie cleared his throat. “The thing is, Dora . . . There’s no easy way to tell you this, but, well, Stella and me, we’ve become close over the last year or so and, well, I’m sorry but the wedding’s off.”
Eudora knew she had to keep speaking, even though words were failing her. “What? What do you mean?”
“Yeah, I mean, we’ve fallen in love and we’re getting married.”
“You and Stella?” It sounded like a joke. A terrible, tragic joke.
Eudora detected a hint of impatience in Eddie’s voice. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m sorry but, you know, these things happen.”
“But she’s just a child.”
“Well, no, actually. She’s eighteen, so she can make up her own mind. Sorry, Dor, but you and me, it was never going to work. You’re too . . .”
Too trusting?
Too foolish?
Too naïve?
“Too . . . ?” said Eudora, wondering at her perverse need to hear the awful truth.
“Too straight and too nice. You deserve better than me. I’m a bit of a joker and so is Stella. Listen, I know this is a lot to take in but it’s for the best. You’ll see. We want you to be happy, Dor. I think you will be with us out of the picture. Find yourself a nice, reliable bloke like Kenny.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Look, we’ve got a train to catch. No hard feelings, okay? Oh, Stella wants to say something.”
There was a crackle on the line as Eddie handed over the receiver. Eudora realized she was holding her breath.
“Dora? I’m sorry, Dora. I wanted to tell you face-to-face but Eddie thought it was for the best this way. I meant what I said. I love you and I want you to be happy. I think you will be with us gone.”
Eudora’s heart was pierced with white-hot hatred at the sound of her sister’s voice. It was a slap across the face and the wake-up call she needed. “Never call this number again. You are dead to us,” she said, before replacing the handset and crumpling to the floor.