Eudora Honeysett is Quite Well, Thank You
ANNIE LYONS

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Annie Lyons 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Annie Lyons asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008405380

Ebook Edition © 2020 ISBN: 9780008405373

Version: 2020-07-03

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Annie Lyons

About the Publisher

For Peg

I want death to find me planting my cabbages.

Michel de Montaigne

Chapter 1

When Eudora Honeysett hears the flip-clunk of the letterbox on this particular Tuesday morning, her heart skips before she pulls it back down to earth like a rapidly descending hot-air balloon. It will be junk mail as usual. Unsolicited junk. As she struggles to a standing position, retrieves her stick and anchors herself to gravity, Eudora marvels, not for the first time, at humanity’s ability to fill the world with unwanted junk. The oceans are stuffed with plastic, the landfills with broken three-year-old fridges, and her doormat with an endless littering of pizza leaflets, advertisements for retirement homes, and flyers from individuals offering to re-pave a driveway she doesn’t have. Occasionally, she casts a critical eye over the expensively produced retirement home brochures filled with photographs of smiling elderly couples toasting their successful move to the old person’s equivalent of a Premier Inn. Eudora can’t imagine anything worse. She was born in this house and intends to die in this house, hopefully sooner rather than later.

Death is an inevitable preoccupation for a woman of Eudora’s years but she can’t recall a time when it wasn’t lurking in the background. It’s partly due to growing up during a world war, she supposes. She doesn’t fear it though. She is wryly amused by the world’s innate ability to deny death but wholly unsurprised too. People are too busy staring at their telephones, endlessly searching for some truth that will never come, idly sniggering at infantile video clips of goodness knows what, never stopping to notice the universe around them or the people in it. They certainly never notice her. Eudora Honeysett is invisible and she doesn’t care one jot. She has lived her life as best she can. She is ready for the next step, the final destination, or whatever half-baked euphemism people insist on using these days.

Death. The end. She’s rather looking forward to it. It may be a black hole or, if she’s lucky, she’ll be reunited with all the people she’s ever loved. This is a short list but then why do people insist on having hundreds of friends? She heard a discussion on the radio the other day about ‘toxic friendships’ and how you need to rid yourself of these kinds of people. Eudora’s advice would be to avoid them in the first place. Keep yourself to yourself. Mind your own beeswax, as her mother was fond of saying.

She retrieves the post from the mat with a certain amount of difficulty and is pleasantly surprised to find an A4-sized envelope with a Swiss postmark addressed to her in amongst the rubbish. Eudora experiences that skip of anticipation again, this time well-founded. She’s been expecting this, looking forward to it even. She carries the envelope with the other items balanced on top to the kitchen, holding it out like a holy artefact, worthy of respect and awe. She sifts through the other post. There’s another letter addressed to her – one more wholly unnecessary hospital appointment. Eudora understands that it’s the NHS’s duty to preserve life but sometimes she wishes they’d leave her alone. Sometimes she wishes there was an opt-out clause, a way of making it all stop. Eudora throws the letter to one side and grasps the A4 envelope in her faltering grip. Glancing at the clock, she reluctantly places the precious item on the side. She will save it for later so that she can give it her full attention.

Eudora gathers her belongings in preparation for leaving the house. She welcomes this daily routine. She may be world-weary but she refuses to stay indoors all day, slumped in a chair like many of her peers. Her body is winding down like an old clock but she is damned if she’s going to accelerate the process. Eudora gets up every morning at eight and leaves the house by ten. There are far too many slovens in the world. Eudora does not intend to join their ranks.

She picks up the bag containing her swimming things and leaves the house. The bright sunlight is rather dazzling and it takes a few moments for her glasses to adjust, bringing shade and comfort. Eudora notices that the estate agent’s ‘for sale’ sign in front of the house next door has been changed to ‘sold’. She shivers with dread at the prospect of new neighbours. Hopefully they will keep themselves to themselves like the last lot. She notices the postman to-ing and fro-ing from house to house and avoids his gaze. They’ve been on bad terms since she scolded him for taking a short cut in front of her house, tramping a path through her day lilies so that they failed to bloom last year. He used to stop and chat occasionally but now he looks the other way. She doesn’t care. He was being inconsiderate and needed to be told.

Eudora makes slow progress but remains doggedly determined. She soon falls into a steady tap, step, step, tap, step, step rhythm using her walking stick or ‘third leg’ as the smiling social worker called it. Her name was Ruth and she was enthusiastically positive. Eudora didn’t share her cheer but didn’t mind it either. Ruth was kind and in Eudora’s world, this commodity was in short supply. It was wise to embrace it whenever possible.

Ruth had appeared as if by magic one day last year after Eudora’s fall. One minute Eudora was walking along the pavement and the next, she was kissing it. Unfortunately, a man with two irritatingly yappy dogs witnessed the incident and insisted on calling an ambulance. Eudora had tried to assert that she would be fine if he could simply direct her back to her house. She was then overwhelmed with sudden panic as she tried and failed to recall her address. In a flash it came to her.

‘Quay Cottage, Cliff Road, Waldringfield, Suffolk.’

The man frowned. ‘Suffolk?’

‘Yes,’ insisted Eudora.

His expression was kindly. ‘I don’t think so, my love. This is south-east London. Not Suffolk. I’ll call that ambulance. You might have concussion.’

And so the process began with a hair-raising ambulance trip leading to a lengthy wait in the Accident and Emergency department. It was during this time that Eudora experienced something of an epiphany. She’d never considered the terrifyingly closed atmosphere of a packed A&E waiting room to be a conduit for enlightenment but Eudora had lived long enough to know that life never ceases to surprise.

It was the woman with barely any teeth and the hairy mole on her cheek who set the fires of Eudora’s mind ablaze. She looked like a witch from a children’s fairy tale, except there was kindness that shone from her rheumy eyes as she talked, which she did incessantly as soon as Eudora made the questionable decision to sit beside her.

‘Not long now for you and me,’ she wheezed, glancing up at Eudora.

‘One can only hope,’ replied Eudora with a polite smile. ‘Although it’s very crowded. I fear we may be here some time.’

The woman shook her head. ‘Not in here, you silly goose. I mean we’ve not got long to live.’

Normally Eudora would have been offended but could see that this strange little woman was something of a kindred spirit. ‘Well, that too,’ she admitted. ‘But unfortunately we don’t have much control over these things.’

‘I thought about killing myself,’ said the woman as if she were discussing what she might have for lunch.

‘Good heavens above!’

The woman eyed her with amusement. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t. Everyone our age thinks about it.’

A horror from the past elbowed its way into Eudora’s memory. ‘Certainly not,’ she said, sitting up straighter in her chair.

‘Mind your backs!’ shouted a paramedic as she and a colleague burst through the door with an elderly man on a trolley. A host of medical professionals appeared from nowhere, checking the man’s vital signs as they hurried him through. ‘He’s going into arrest!’

The waiting room seemed to hold its breath as they disappeared down a corridor. ‘Don’t want to end up like that poor old bugger, do you?’ said the woman, tapping Eudora’s arm. ‘Being poked and prodded when you’re on your way out. May as well take control of your destiny if you can.’

‘But how?’ asked Eudora, curiosity getting the better of her fear.

The woman tapped the side of her nose and winked before reaching into the bag which she wore slung across her front like a lifebelt. She held out a dog-eared leaflet, which Eudora accepted as if it were a dirty sock. ‘Give them a call.’

‘Elsie Howlett?’ called a nurse.

The woman rose steadily to her feet. ‘Take care, Eudora,’ she said without a backward glance.

It wasn’t until much later, after Eudora had undergone rounds of tests and consultations with overworked, red-eyed doctors and breezily efficient nurses, that she realised she’d never told Elsie her name. Eudora supposed she must have overheard her conversation with the paramedic. Against her better judgement and for want of something else to do, Eudora had read Elsie’s leaflet from cover to cover. It had set her brain into overdrive as a frenzy of thoughts rushed through it like a series of fireworks igniting one after another. As the doctor addressed her with hand-wringing sympathy, presumably in response to the fact that she was extremely old and he couldn’t offer a cure, a switch flicked in her mind and a decision was made. When she was finally given permission to leave, she clutched Elsie’s leaflet to her chest and approached one of the nurses.

‘Excuse me, I was wondering if I might be able to see Elsie Howlett, please?’

The nurse’s face fell. ‘Are you a relative?’

‘No. I’m a …’ Eudora searched for the appropriate word, ‘… friend.’

The nurse glanced behind her as she spoke. ‘I’m not really supposed to give information to non-relatives.’

‘Oh right. Well I’m her sister then.’

The weary nurse managed a half-smile. ‘I’m sorry, my love. Elsie passed away about half an hour ago.’

‘Oh,’ said Eudora, squeezing the leaflet into a ball. ‘She died.’

The nurse touched her lightly on the sleeve. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

Eudora looked into her eyes. ‘Don’t be. She was ready to go.’

The nurse nodded uncertainly. ‘You take care.’

As Eudora travelled back from the hospital, blinking into the autumn sunshine from the questionable comfort of the patient transport vehicle, she felt as if she’d been reborn. The NHS now had her in their well-meaning grasp, but Eudora had Elsie’s wisdom and bloody-minded determination on her side. She couldn’t imagine a more potent force.

* * *

Ruth had been another one in the long list of people determined to preserve Eudora’s existence at all costs. She arrived on a drizzly day in October. Eudora had been housebound for nearly a week and was frustrated to the point of fury with her uncooperative joints. When Ruth presented her with the walking stick, Eudora experienced an unexpected wave of fondness for this woman. It was a gift in the truest sense of the word. Her freedom was restored, the outside world hers for the taking. She could start to put her plan into action.

This fondness rapidly dissolved as Ruth produced a folder and a pen from her bag and pulled out the inevitable form.

‘Eu-dora Honey-sett,’ she said as she wrote.

‘With two t’s,’ said Eudora. The misspelling of her name was a lifelong bugbear.

‘And you live alone, Eudora?’

Eudora would have preferred ‘Miss Honeysett’ but managed to stifle her disappointment. ‘Yes.’

‘Any relatives at all?’

‘No.’

Ruth’s expression folded into one of sympathy. ‘Friends?’

‘I have a cat.’

Ruth glanced over at Eudora’s fat, lazy excuse of a feline, who was asleep on the back of the sofa. She smiled. ‘I’m guessing he’s not much help when it comes to shopping or cleaning the house.’

It was meant as a joke but only served to provoke defensiveness in Eudora. ‘I manage,’ she said firmly.

‘I’m sure you do but I want you to know that we offer all kinds of support. I can put you in touch with agencies who offer cleaning and laundry services, or even organise a carer to come in every day.’

Eudora stared at the woman as if she’d suggested a Bacchic orgy. ‘I don’t need any help. Thank you.’

Ruth nodded. It was a knowing nod – a nod that had heard this response many times before from all manner of elderly people like Eudora. ‘Please be assured that the help is there if you need it. I’ll leave one of my cards in case you change your mind.’

Eudora had thrown it straight in the bin as soon as Ruth left. Montgomery the cat curled around her feet, almost tripping her up, as he demanded food by issuing forth a series of loud miaows.

‘We don’t need anyone do we, Montgomery?’ said Eudora, filling his bowl with biscuits. She placed it on the floor and attempted to scratch the cat behind his ears before receiving a sharp nip in response.

* * *

Eudora reaches the leisure centre and is grateful for the anonymity that her swim membership brings. She has a card which enables her to sweep past reception. The only issue is with the card-activated barrier. Eudora loathes and detests all technology and very nearly rescinded her membership when they installed these monstrosities. However, she has become well-practised at the skill of swiping and manages to sail through to the changing rooms with little effort now. She goes to the same changing cubicle, puts her belongings in the same locker and makes her way to the pool, nodding to the swimmers she sees every week whilst blessedly avoiding verbal communication. Once in the pool, she ignores the initial chill, disregards the cheerful young woman who remarks on the temperature of the water and launches herself into aquatic bliss. This is the only place where Eudora feels something akin to joy. For a moment in time, she is weightless and pain-free. She has always been a strong swimmer and glides through the water now with a similar ease to when she swam as a teenager. The aches are still there but they melt into the background as she stretches and reaches her way along the pool.

Eudora doesn’t swim for long – half an hour or so – but it’s enough to bring her what she needs: a sense of purpose and sufficient impetus to face another day. She climbs out of the pool feeling the inevitable weight of reality again as she retrieves her stick and traipses back to the changing room.

As she leaves the leisure centre a while later, she notices two women arguing over a parking space. The air is filled with vibrant expletives. Eudora stares open-mouthed, unable to mask her horror. When did the world get so loud and angry? One of the women notices her.

‘What the fuck are you staring at, Grandma?’ she snarls.

In her younger days, Eudora might have replied, scolded her to stop being rude and respect her elders. But those days are long gone. Eudora can see that this woman is unpredictable and beyond reasoning. You were vulnerable when you were old. Everything is fragile and in danger of breaking.

‘Excuse me,’ mutters Eudora, ducking her head and shrinking away. She hurries as best she can. One of the most frustrating aspects of growing old is the slowing of life’s pace. Up until the age of seventy, Eudora had been able to nip here or pop there, but her nipping and popping days are over. In this age of rush, rush, rush, she is redundant.

She casts a furtive glance over her shoulder. The women are still arguing. One of the leisure centre employees has come out to try and reason with them as a queue of horn-blaring cars forms. Eudora realises her hands are shaking and decides to stop off at the shop, which marks her halfway point to home. Although she dislikes most aspects of modern life, Eudora has nothing but praise for these scaled-down supermarkets, which have appeared on almost every main street in recent times. Not only are they convenient, well-placed and large enough for her to remain anonymous whilst she shops, they also carry the reassuring presence of a security guard.

She nods to this particular gigantic bear of a man standing with arms folded by the front door and breathes in the sacred cool of refrigerated goods. She walks steadily around the store, retrieving a pint of milk before finding herself in front of the bakery display.

Her mother never entertained the idea of shop-bought cakes when Eudora was a child. There was always a homemade sponge or fruitcake in the tin and often half a dozen lemon curd tarts made with leftover pastry. Eudora’s eyes alight on a plastic carton containing what promises to be apple turnovers. A memory flickers in her thoughts bringing with it an unexpected wave of comfort.

She finds herself reaching for the cakes and carrying them to the till before she has time to change her mind.

Eudora continues her journey home with a renewed sense of calm and a secret thrill at her unexpected purchase. On rounding the corner of her street, she is startled by a cacophony of barking as two small dogs encircle Eudora with their leads in a flagrant attempt to up-end her.

‘Chas! Dave! Come here right now!’ The dogs dance back the other way, releasing Eudora, who scowls into the face of their owner. ‘I am so sorry, Miss Honeysett,’ says the man. ‘Pardon my French but these two are little buggers. Are you all right?’

Eudora experiences a conflict of emotions. Her annoyance is abated by his use of her proper name but heightened by his cursing and south-east London accent. Added to which, Eudora has no idea who this man is. She guesses him to be a few years younger than her but probably no more than five. His white hair is thin, his appearance relatively smart – a blue checked shirt with pressed navy trousers. He has laughter lines at the corner of his eyes. She’s never trusted people with laughter lines. ‘I’m quite fine, thank you. Do I know you?’

The man holds out his hand with a smile. ‘Stanley Marcham. I scraped you up off the pavement when you’d had a few too many last year.’ Eudora stares at him in horror. He laughs. ‘I’m joking. But I was there when you had that fall. How are you feeling now?’

Eudora hears the sympathetic concern and wants to be away. ‘Never better. Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me …’

Stanley nods. ‘Of course. Places to go, people to see.’

Eudora sniffs. ‘Quite. Good day.’

‘Mind how you go.’

Exhaustion overwhelms Eudora like a wave as she closes the front door on the world. She manages to make some tea and a sandwich and carry them into the lounge before sinking into her chair with relief.

She wakes hours later, tea cold, sandwich untouched, limbs heavy with weariness. Sleep never seems to refresh her these days. It merely keeps her going until the next rest. As her mind returns to full consciousness, she remembers the envelope and the pastry. This is sufficient motivation for her to leave her chair and fetch the items along with a fresh cup of tea. As Eudora moves around the kitchen, she is struck by a thought. Rummaging in the back of a drawer, she finds what she’s looking for. Returning to the living room, she pushes the candle into the turnover and sparks a match. Its flame illuminates the framed photograph behind of her mother and father with five-year-old Eudora sandwiched between them.

‘Happy birthday, Eudora,’ she whispers before blowing out the light and making a silent wish for the future. She removes the candle and picks up the turnover for a bite. It’s syrupy sweet but she’s hungry and devours half of it before drinking a mouthful of tea to dilute the taste. Eudora wipes her hands and mouth on a handkerchief and picks up the envelope. This is what she’s been waiting for. This is her real birthday treat.

She retrieves the letter opener, which had been her father’s. It’s shaped like a small silver sword. Eudora can remember being fascinated by it as a child but never allowed to touch it. She slices through the envelope and pulls out a stapled sheaf of pages. Her heart quickens as she reads the heading:

Klinik Lebenswahl – offering choice and dignity in death as in life.

She takes a bite from the half-eaten pastry, turns the page and begins to read.

* * *

1940, Lyons Tea Shop, Piccadilly

‘Choose anything you like. Anything at all.’ Albert Honeysett’s eyes glittered with possibility.

‘Are you sure, Daddy? Don’t we need to eat in moderation?’ Eudora had read this on a poster. She wasn’t sure what it meant but it sounded important.

Her father laughed. The laugh was huge and warm and always felt to Eudora like an embrace. ‘Dearest Dora,’ he said. ‘Always so good and kind. Don’t worry. I put in a call to Mr Churchill only this morning and he said that as it’s your birthday, you’re allowed a special treat.’

Eudora giggled. ‘In that case, please may I have one of the fancy pastries and a glass of lemon cordial?’

‘An excellent choice,’ declared Albert, nodding to the waitress that they were ready.

Eudora sat up straighter in her chair with her hands in her lap and peered around at their fellow diners. Apart from a scattering of men in uniform, you would hardly have known there was a war on. She admired the women with their smart hair and neat appearance. She smoothed down her own wrinkled dress – a baggy gingham affair with misshapen collars, which her mother had made from an old tablecloth.

Eudora would never say it out loud, of course, but she found the war thrilling; the idea of their heroic soldiers fighting for freedom, and Mr Churchill leading them to victory, was quite the most exciting thing that had ever happened. She had gone to stay with her mother’s uncle in Suffolk for a while soon after war broke out, but her parents decided that it was safe for her to come back to London. She was sure that it would all be over soon. Life could carry on as it had before the war with their happy family of three.

The waitress appeared moments later with their order and, as Eudora noticed the candle on the top of her cake, she decided that life was perfect.

‘Happy birthday,’ said the waitress, placing it in front of her.

‘Thank you,’ replied Eudora.

‘Happy birthday, Dora,’ said her father. ‘Make a wish.’

Eudora blew out the candle and closed her eyes. I wish. I wish. I wish this moment could last forever.

The air-raid siren screamed its response. Maybe Hitler’s in charge of wishes today, thought Eudora as her father took her hand and led her to the shelter. It was a squash and a squeeze but Eudora didn’t mind because she was safe with him. Nothing bad ever happened when Albert Honeysett was around. In the half-light of the shelter, he pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head.

‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ he said, pulling a napkin-wrapped parcel from his huge overcoat pocket.

‘My pastry,’ said Eudora. ‘Thank you, Daddy.’

‘Happy birthday, Dora.’

‘Would you like a bite?’ she asked.

She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘No. You enjoy it. It’s your treat for being such a good girl. You make Mummy and me very happy.’

Eudora nestled closer, making sure she savoured every bite, the sharp-sweet taste of apples reminding her of days spent picking fruit from Uncle John’s orchard.

‘It’s a shame Mummy couldn’t come today,’ she said, wiping her mouth on the napkin when she’d finished.

‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.’ Eudora stared up at her father. There was a note of caution in his voice. Her skin prickled in the close heat of the shelter. ‘You see, Mummy is very tired at the moment because she’s going to have a baby.’

Eudora froze, unsure of how to react. Her father seemed to sense this. ‘Now, you don’t need to worry because it’s going to be wonderful. You’ll have a new playmate and someone to be your friend for always.’

Eudora felt reassured. That did sound nice. Most of her friends at school had siblings. She sometimes wondered if she was missing out. ‘And, of course, the baby is going to be the luckiest child in the world to have you as a big sister.’ Eudora nestled her head against her father’s chest, breathing in the peppery scent of tobacco. ‘And there’s something else.’ There was that note of caution again. Eudora held her breath. ‘I’m going away for a while.’

‘Where? How long for? When will you come back?’ The words tumbled from her.

He squeezed her to him. Eudora started to feel claustrophobic. ‘I can’t really say and I don’t know for how long. So I need you to be very brave and look after Mummy and the new baby while I’m away.’

Questions flooded her mind. But why now? And why can’t you say how long? And why don’t you know when you’ll be back? And why can’t you tell me that it’s going to be all right? Eudora pressed her lips together tightly to stop them spilling out because she knew he would never lie to her and, more than anything, she feared the truth.

The all clear sounded but the two of them stayed where they were until everyone else had gone. Her father held her tightly. Years later, Eudora realised that, rather than comforting her, Albert Honeysett had been clinging on to his child, painfully aware of the uncertain future ahead.

‘So, will you look after Mummy and the baby for me? Please?’

She gazed up at him. She thought she saw the reflection of a tear but decided it was a trick of the light. ‘Of course, Daddy. I’ll look after them until you get home and then we can do it together.’

Her father nodded before hurrying them to their feet. ‘Good girl, Dora. I knew I could rely on you.’

As they emerged, blinking, into the light, Eudora stared up and down the street. Everything looked exactly as it had an hour previously. She could see two women through the window of the tea shop, sitting at the table where she and her father had sat earlier, drinking tea and eating sandwiches as if nothing had happened. She watched the buses and taxis hum along the street, the people milling back and forth, continuing with their lives. Business as usual.

In contrast, as she walked along Piccadilly hand-in-hand with her father, it was as if every cell of Eudora’s being had changed. It wasn’t until adulthood that she recognised this as the moment her childhood ended. If she’d known the dark times which lay ahead, Eudora probably would have begged her father to let them run back to the shelter and stay there forever.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Eudora is woken not by her alarm clock but by the sound of a lorry reversing. She retrieves her glasses and looks at the clock. 7.27am. She frowns at the intrusion but as her brain slides into consciousness, Eudora realises that for the first time in many years, she has slept through the night without waking. And then she grasps the unfortunate fact that her bed will need to be changed as a result. She takes a deep breath and hauls herself into a sitting position, contemplating the effort of the task ahead. The words of Ruth, the endlessly encouraging social worker, spring into her mind.

Please be assured that the help is there if you need it.

Then Eudora remembers the booklet she read from cover to cover last night. It galvanises her into action.

‘Come along, Eudora. No sense in idling. Let’s get this done and make that telephone call.’

Stripping the bed is easier than re-making it. Eudora has to take several breaks during the process, cursing the inventor of duvets and fitted sheets as she works. She remembers changing the beds with her mother – the holy trinity of sheet, blanket and eiderdown all smoothed with hospital-cornered precision. Eudora had succumbed to the infernal duvet trend when her mother became ill, deciding that it might make life easier. And it had. For a while. But then she got old and discovered that elasticated sheets and plastic poppers are the enemy of arthritic fingers.

By the time she’s finished, Montgomery has sloped upstairs in search of food. He jumps up onto the freshly made bed with a petulant miaow. Eudora shoos him off, receiving a sharp hiss in reply.

‘You really are the most bad-tempered cat,’ she tells him. He fixes her with a cold green stare before yawning to reveal dagger-sharp teeth.

Like the duvet, she’d bought the cat in a moment of weakness, thinking he would be good company during her twilight years. Sadly, Montgomery has morphed into the equivalent of a long-endured husband – cantankerous, off-hand, and only interested in being fed.

Eudora uses her last remaining energy to dress. She won’t go swimming today. There is a far more important task at hand.

She pulls back the curtains to be confronted with the sight of a removals van, vast as an ocean liner, parked across next door’s kerb and hers as well. A gang of men of different sizes and with varying quantities of body tattoos are loading items of furniture into it with practised efficiency. One of them glances up at her with a cheery smile. Eudora drops the curtain. She doesn’t need distractions from the outside world today.

As she carries her soiled bedsheets to the landing, the cat plants himself with defiance across the top step.

‘If you trip me up, there’ll be no one to feed you,’ she tells him. He stares up at her with momentary distaste but seems to take the point, slinking down the stairs with practised arrogance.

Eudora stuffs her washing into the machine’s gaping mouth and feeds the ungrateful cat, who devours it and exits the house in record time. She settles with tea and toast in the living room, taking tentative bites before realising that she’s ravenous. Once finished, Eudora switches on the radio and decides to close her eyes for a moment before making the phone call. They’re talking about a woman who ended her life at a Swiss clinic. She’d worked as a geriatric nurse and couldn’t bear the idea of old age, having seen the indignities and hardship people had to suffer first-hand.

‘Wise woman,’ murmurs Eudora as she drifts into sleep.

A sharp knock at the door jolts Eudora back to startled consciousness. She closes her eyes again but whoever it is seems determined as they rap the knocker with renewed vigour. Eudora struggles to her feet and makes her way to the door. She is relieved to see that the chain is on, enabling her to peer through the narrow gap. A young, shaven-headed man carrying a large holdall leans forwards with leering smirk.

‘All right, missus. ’Ow are you today?’ he says in that voice which people reserve for the old and infirm. Eudora is used to this but detests it all the same.

‘What do you want?’ she demands with as much fierceness as she can muster. She feels emboldened by the safety chain.

The young man frowns but ploughs on with his pitch. ‘My name’s Josh and I’m part of a scheme to help young offenders reintegrate into the community.’ He speaks as if reading a script and holds up a card, which Eudora can’t read. For all she knows it could be a library card. Although she doubts it.

‘What do you want?’ she repeats. She longs to shut the door on him but is too afraid.

Josh unzips his bag and holds up a dishcloth. ‘I’m selling these. Best cloths out there. Five quid a pack.’

‘I do not require any dishcloths.’

Josh is undeterred. ‘’Ow about tea towels then? Free for a fiver?’

‘No. I don’t want to buy anything. Please leave.’

He stares at her for a second, all traces of friendly patter replaced with glinting menace. ‘Silly old bitch,’ he growls before hauling the bag onto his back and stomping down the path. He pauses at the gate, staring back at her with contempt. ‘’Ope you die soon,’ he adds before clearing his throat and spitting on the floor.

‘That makes two of us,’ says Eudora, shutting the door with trembling relief and turning the deadlock.

Fear often spurs people into action, forcing them to make a clear choice between fight or flight. Eudora doesn’t have the strength or ability to fight anymore but she senses that her own unique version of flight is the right one to follow. A one-way flight and an end to all this.

The world is too much for Eudora and it isn’t even hooligans like Josh who are the worst. Everyone is selfish and caught up with themselves these days. They have no time to notice her or others like her. They consume news or food as if they’re trying to eat the whole world; they watch and judge and spit out their opinions as if they’re the only ones worth listening to. Eudora is invisible to these people but she has stopped noticing them too. They’re welcome to their, ‘post-Brexit, Donald Trump, condemn everyone, be kind to no one’ world. There is no helping them now. Soon enough, she won’t be around to witness their continuous decline into moral torpor. Good riddance and goodnight.

Back in the living room, her hands are shaking as she reaches for the phone. Eudora puts on her reading glasses, finds the number on the back of the booklet and carefully stabs the buttons.

‘Klinik Lebenswahl. Kann ich Ihnen helfen?’ Eudora is surprised to hear German. A reflex part of her brain considers ending the call, such is her long-held loathing of Germans. Other people may have forgiven what happened in the war but she never will. In the nick of time she remembers that this clinic is Swiss-German and therefore there is nothing to fear.

‘Do you speak English?’

The woman’s voice is soft and soothing. Eudora is immediately reassured. ‘Yes, of course. How can I help you?’

Eudora opens the booklet. She wants to get the terminology right. ‘I would like to book myself in for a voluntary assisted death,’ she says firmly. The rush of adrenaline at finally uttering these words out loud is dizzying.

‘I see. And is this the first time you have called us?’

‘No. I telephoned to request a booklet after I read about your organisation.’ She decides not to mention Elsie. This is her decision. The ending to her story. ‘Thank you for posting it to me,’ she continues. ‘I have now read the booklet from cover to cover and made my decision. I would therefore like to book myself in. Please.’

Manners, Eudora, even when discussing your death.

‘I see,’ repeats the woman. ‘Well, as you may know, we have a protocol to follow.’

‘What protocol?’ demands Eudora.

‘We must be sure that you have thought about everything properly and fully, that you understand all the implications, that you have discussed it with those close to you and that you are absolutely sure this is the only option available to you.’

Eudora clears her throat. She has had enough of this woman’s honeyed tones. ‘I am eighty-five years old. I am old and tired and alone. I have nothing I want to do and no one I want to see. I am not depressed, merely done with life. I don’t want to end up dribbling in an old people’s home, wearing adult nappies in front of a shouting television. I want to leave this world with dignity and respect. Now, can you help me or not?’

There is a moment’s pause. ‘Yes. We can help you but there are procedures to be followed. If you are sure, I can send you the forms, which will start the process and we will take it from there. Is that what you would like?’

‘Yes. Please,’ replies Eudora, her voice wavering as she realises that finally someone somewhere is listening. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are welcome.’ She hesitates before continuing. ‘This is an unusual situation for me. Forgive me, but I do understand what you are asking. My grandmother felt the same as you. She wanted to be as good at dying as she’d been at living.’

‘Did she manage it?’ asks Eudora, her curiosity aroused.

‘She did. It’s how I ended up working here.’

Her honesty gives Eudora courage. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Petra.’

‘Thank you, Petra. So, will you send me the forms?’

‘Of course. I am thinking that you are not able to travel to us, so we will be conducting this process by telephone?’

‘Will that be a problem?’

‘It shouldn’t be but you will need to provide various forms and have detailed conversations with Doctor Liebermann. Do you know about the costs?’

‘I can pay.’

‘That’s fine. Forgive me for asking. So, if you would be kind enough to give me a few details, please.’

Eudora does as she asks. ‘And can you tell me how long it takes?’ She doesn’t feel that she needs to add the obvious words, to die.

‘It depends. But I would say between three and four months from when you sign. You can change your mind at any time, of course.’

I won’t, thinks Eudora feeling relieved that she’ll be gone by Christmas – the loneliest, unhappiest time of the year.

‘I will be your contact for the whole process,’ Petra tells her. ‘Please call me at any time with questions or concerns. I am here to help.’

‘Thank you, Petra.’ Eudora hopes the woman can hear how grateful and relieved she is, how much this means to her. She hangs up a short while later with a mixture of euphoria and exhaustion. The die is cast. Eudora hobbles to the kitchen. Standing before the almost blank calendar, she counts forwards four months and writes one word in a shaky, spidery script.

Freedom.

Eudora smiles. She is in control for the first time in years. She won’t be defeated by old age; she will defy it, cast it aside like an unwanted skin. The end will be on her terms and her terms alone.

She is roused from her reverie by a knock at the door. At first she fears it’s that hateful young man returning to terrorise her but the knock is gentler and more considered. She takes a while to reach the door, leaving the chain on as she answers. She peers with a frown into the face of a little girl who wears a blank expression but who, on seeing Eudora, changes it to a frown, mirroring the old woman’s.

‘Yes?’ demands Eudora.

Another face appears above the child’s – a nervously smiling woman with unkempt hair whom Eudora eyes with disdain.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ says the woman a little too loudly.

The child’s frown deepens. ‘Mum. Why are you shouting?’

Eudora raises an eyebrow.

‘Sorry,’ says the woman to the child. ‘Sorry,’ she repeats to Eudora. ‘We just wanted to introduce ourselves. We’re your new neighbours.’

‘Oh,’ says Eudora.

‘Why have you got this chain on your door? Is it broken?’ asks the little girl.

‘It’s to keep out unwanted intruders,’ replies Eudora with meaning.

‘We’re not intruders so you can open it properly, if you like.’ Eudora does not like but she is never rude. She unhooks the chain. ‘That’s better,’ says the little girl. ‘I’m Rose Trewidney, by the way.’ Eudora regards Rose Trewidney for a moment. She is dressed in a cherry-red T-shirt calamitously teamed with a purple ra-ra skirt.

‘And I’m Maggie,’ adds her mother. ‘We’ve moved up from Cornwall today. It’s been quite a journey but we’ve made it. It seems like a lovely neighbourhood, rather fewer beaches than Cornwall, of course.’ Maggie laughs although Eudora has no idea why. She remains silent as this woman fills the air with words. She is aware of the little girl gazing up at her. Eventually Maggie runs out of words. ‘So anyway, we just wanted to say, “hi”.’

‘Will that removals lorry be there long?’ demands Eudora, nodding in its direction.

Maggie glances over her shoulder. ‘Oh, erm, hopefully not. Is it in your way?’

‘It is parked over the space in front of my house.’

‘Right, well, I’m very sorry about that.’

‘What’s your cat called?’ asks Rose, ignoring the tension building above her head.

‘Montgomery,’ says Eudora irritably.

‘Aww, Montgomery. Here Montgomery,’ says Rose, kneeling down, making kissing noises to entice him.

‘He’s not very friendly,’ warns Eudora.

The cat makes a beeline for Rose and to Eudora’s amazement not only allows her to stroke him but starts to purr when she makes the potentially life-threatening move to pick him up. ‘Aww, you’re a lovely boy, aren’t you? We used to have a cat but he got run over.’ Eudora stares as Rose hugs the cat tightly whilst firing a series of questions at her. She finds herself with no choice but to answer.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Eudora.’

‘And how old are you?’

‘Eighty-five.’

‘I’m ten. Do you live here alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you have any children?’

‘No.’

‘That must be lonely.’

Eudora frowns. ‘It isn’t.’

‘Do you like the Queen?’

‘Of course.’

‘Me too.’

Her mother interjects. ‘Rose, I think we’ve taken up quite enough of Eudora’s time,’ she says. She mouths an apology to the old woman. ‘Come on. Let’s go and sort out your room.’

‘Oh. Okay,’ says Rose. She kisses the cat on his head and plonks him on the floor before following her mother back down the path.

‘Bye Eudora. Bye Montgomery. See you soon.’

Eudora closes her front door and stands there for a moment, wondering what on earth has just happened. A sound emits from her mouth – a strange, foreign sound – quiet and wholly unexpected. The cat stares up at her in surprise as he hears his owner chuckle for the first time in his living memory before he skulks away in search of food.

* * *

1940, Sidney Avenue, south-east London

Stella Honeysett announced her arrival to the world with a scream as piercing as the siren’s wail that forced her labouring mother into the Anderson shelter, which Albert had built before he left.

‘To keep my angels safe,’ he’d told Eudora as she helped him cover its corrugated iron structure with tarpaulin and watched while he shovelled great spades full of earth on top. ‘Snug as a bug,’ he said, standing back to admire their handiwork. He glanced down at Eudora with a smile. ‘Now, will you help me re-plant my poor old marrow on top? I had to dig him up to make way for your new night-time home.’

‘Of course, Daddy.’

‘Good girl. And then we can make it nice and cosy inside for you and Mummy.’

‘And the new baby,’ said Eudora, adopting what she hoped was a responsible expression.

Albert leant down to kiss the top of her head. ‘I can see that I’m leaving Mummy and your new brother or sister in good hands.’

Eudora beamed up at him like a flower turning its head towards the sun. Although she didn’t want her father to leave, she knew that he was doing his duty and that Eudora, in turn, must do hers. She was sure that if she did exactly as her father asked, God and Mr Churchill would send him back to them unharmed.

‘Someone’s gone up in the world,’ came an accusing voice from over the fence.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Crabb,’ said Albert, propping his shovel against the new shelter and approaching their neighbour. ‘You and Mrs Crabb are more than welcome to use our shelter if London’s bombed – there’s enough room for six people.’

Mr Crabb looked appalled. ‘Adolf Hitler is not going to chase me from my bed.’ Eudora’s eyes grew wide as an image of their terrifying enemy chasing Mr Crabb around his bedroom flooded her imagination. ‘We didn’t let Fritz beat us last time and we’re damn well not going to let them beat us this time!’

Eudora gasped. Albert placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘Well, you’re both welcome if you change your mind. Now, if you’ll excuse us,’ he said, leading his daughter away. Mr Crabb was still muttering about ‘the bastard Boche’. Eudora clung tighter to her father’s hand. She sometimes woke to hear their neighbour crying out in the dead of night. It was a chilling sound, not of anger but more like an animal, trapped and desperate. The first time she heard it, she ran from her room and bumped straight into her father on the landing. He had knelt down, pulling her trembling body close. ‘It’s all right, my darling Dora. It’s all right. Mr Crabb can’t help it. He lost his son during the war, you see, and he’s having a nightmare. That’s all. It’s a terrible nightmare. Do you understand?’

Eudora didn’t but nodded her head rapidly to pretend that she did. Any shared confidence with her father was treasure to Eudora, a precious gem to be cushioned in her heart forever. She always tried to be kind whenever she saw Mr Crabb but there was something about his wild gaze and unpredictable nature which terrified her.

Eudora helped her father drag an old rectangle of carpet into the shelter and held pieces of wire mesh across wooden frames whilst he nailed them together to craft makeshift beds. Albert placed roll-up mattresses on top of the bedframes and stood back satisfied.

‘Shall we try them for size, Dora?’ he asked, eyes sparkling as he lit a candle and placed it inside a flowerpot.

‘Okay, Daddy,’ said Eudora, wriggling into the tiny space. ‘It’s very cosy.’ She giggled.

Albert took his place on the other side and smiled at her. ‘See? I told you. Snug as bugs,’ he said reaching out across the divide. She placed her small hand in his and wished, as she always did with her father, that they could stay like this forever. Life hadn’t changed that much since the start of the war. She had to carry her gas mask with her at all times and listen out for the air-raid sirens but apart from that, they carried on as before. Her father would listen to the news on the wireless every evening. Eudora would sit by his feet and try to do the same. She didn’t understand much of what was being said but she heard her father reassuring her mother that they were safe in London. This was enough for Eudora. Her father would never lie to them. As long as he declared them to be safe, all would be well.

‘What on earth are you two still doing out here?’ Beatrice Honeysett’s sharp words brought a swift end to Eudora’s reverie as her mother frowned down into the shelter.

Albert let go of his daughter’s hand and jumped up. ‘Come and see what Dora and I have made,’ he said with a gallant bow.

‘How on earth am I going to get down there?’ demanded Beatrice, running a hand over her burgeoning belly.

‘I’ll help you, Mummy,’ said Eudora, her heart leaping as Albert shot her a wink.

Beatrice huffed and puffed her way into the shelter and sat heavily on one of the homemade beds. ‘It’s a bit dark and cramped,’ she said.

Albert took a seat beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. ‘I think madam will find it rather cosy in time,’ he said, planting a kiss on her cheek.

‘Oh, get away with you, Albert Honeysett,’ scolded Beatrice, but she was smiling. She took another look around. ‘You’ve worked very hard.’

‘I helped Daddy make the beds,’ said Eudora. ‘And we planted his marrow on top of the shelter.’

Beatrice looked from her husband to her daughter and back again. ‘You two. What a pair you are.’

Albert held out his arms to Eudora, pulling them both into a tight embrace. ‘My precious girls,’ he said.

‘Well, let’s just hope this baby doesn’t decide to make an appearance during an air raid,’ said Beatrice.

* * *

Albert had been gone a month and London was barely a week into the Blitz when Beatrice went into labour. Eudora was relieved that Mrs Crabb had decided to take up the offer to share their shelter during the now nightly air raids. She found her mother’s keening to be altogether more terrifying than Hitler’s bombs and was grateful for their neighbour’s presence. Eudora held her breath and squeezed her mother’s hand as their next-door neighbour took charge of the situation. Mrs Crabb was rake-thin and smelt of peppermints. She was a trained librarian but still seemed to know exactly what to do as Beatrice brought new life into the world in the same moment that many other lives were being snuffed out by the enemy. Eudora fixed her eyes on the wavering candle flame and prayed. The clamour of the bombs seemed to intensify and then there was silence. Eudora exhaled before being knocked sideways by a huge explosion, which shook the shelter with a violence that was truly terrifying. Her heart drummed ten-to-the-dozen as lumps of metal clattered against the sides and she glimpsed what looked like a sky on fire through the tiny gap in the shelter. Eudora longed to cry but knew she mustn’t. Her father would want her to be brave. Her mother’s eyes were wide with pain and fear, seemingly oblivious to the horror outside. Eudora screwed her eyes tightly shut and prayed for a miracle, for her father to save them. And then, through the damp darkness, she heard a small voice.

‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag and smile, smile, smile.’

Eudora blinked in astonishment at the sound of Mrs Crabb singing before realising that her mother had gone quiet, her face set and determined, eyes tightly shut as she pushed with all her might. The siren screamed out the all clear and Stella joined in, emerging, bloody and furious, into a chaotic, fractured world. Mrs Crabb wrapped her in a blanket before handing her to Beatrice.

‘Promise me you’ll get these girls out of London,’ she said, her voice heavy with a mother’s loss. ‘Promise me.’

Pale and exhausted, Beatrice stared up at her and nodded. ‘I promise.’

They emerged hours later to find that Mrs Crabb’s house had suffered a direct hit; the front wall was all that remained, like the opening to a doll’s house. They found Mr Crabb at the end of the garden, still in his bed, blown clean from the house. Mrs Crabb went to live with her sister in Devon and although Eudora was sad about Mr Crabb, she got the feeling he would be satisfied that Hitler hadn’t succeeded in expelling him from his bed.

Chapter 3

A sense of restless anticipation descends over Eudora during the following week. Her heart soars whenever she hears the post drop onto the mat and dives as she discovers nothing but junk mail. Her one consolation is hope; hope for a smooth process bringing an ending to life on her terms.

My death. My way.

The mere thought of this makes day-to-day life more endurable.

One morning, she is following her customary routine of dressing, eating breakfast whilst tuned in to the Today programme, and leaving the house by ten o’clock. The day is breezy but warm. Eudora pauses on the doorstep, permitting herself a moment to feel the sun on her face before setting off along the road. She spots Stanley Marcham further along the street, walking his infernally yapping dogs and is glad for once that the ravages of old age prevent her from catching up with him.

Eudora is lost in thought as she reaches the leisure centre and perturbed to find that her usual locker and changing cubicle are both occupied. Irritated, she casts around for another before hearing someone call her name. She is so unused to hearing it spoken out loud these days, that if it weren’t for the unusual nature of her moniker, she would have assumed the person to be addressing someone else.

‘Eudora!’ call two voices in unison.

Eudora turns to see Maggie, grinning like a lunatic, with Rose standing beside her.

‘Hello,’ says Eudora, her heart sinking at the inevitable exchange.

‘I thought it was you,’ says Maggie brightly.

Eudora wonders at the obviousness of this statement. ‘And so it is.’ She notices that Rose is wearing large green goggles, giving her the appearance of a boggle-eyed frog.

‘Do you swim here regularly?’ asks Maggie.

‘Every day if possible,’ replies Eudora.

‘Wow. That’s amazing. I wish I could get my mum to go swimming.’

‘Granny likes to sit and watch the world go by,’ says Rose.

‘Mmm. I’ve told her she needs to move more. You’ve got to use it or lose it, right?’ says Maggie to Eudora.

Eudora has no idea what she’s talking about so opts for a peremptory nod. ‘If you’ll excuse me …’

‘Can I come round to see your cat again, please?’ asks Rose.

‘Rose, you can’t just invite yourself round to people’s houses,’ says Maggie, embarrassed.

‘Why not? How else do you get to see them?’ Maggie looks to Eudora for help but the old woman remains silent. Rose seizes the opportunity. ‘So can I come? A bit later? I’ve got a present for you.’

Eudora regards the little girl for a moment. There’s something about her tenacious character that she admires. Eudora also senses that Rose won’t take no for an answer and, although she habitually avoids human company, can’t see the harm of letting the child visit her recalcitrant feline.

‘Very well. Two o’clock. Don’t be late.’

‘Yes, ma’am!’ cries Rose with a salute.

Eudora’s lips twitch before she disappears into the changing room with a shake of her head. Rose and Maggie are splashing about in the shallow end when she emerges into the bleached light of the main pool. Eudora ignores them and walks towards the swimming lanes. Sinking into the shallow end, she relishes the soft weightlessness of water on her skin. After a few lengths, Eudora rests for a moment. She notices Rose and her mother laughing together. The little girl is standing on the side whilst Maggie waits in the pool, arms outstretched, encouraging her to jump. She sees joy mirrored in their faces as Rose leaps and Maggie catches her. Eudora takes a deep breath and dives under the water to drown it out.

Her post-swim weariness seems to slide away as she arrives home later to find a large, thick envelope with a Swiss postmark sitting on the mat. Eudora can’t wait a moment longer. She drops her swimming bag in the hall before carrying the envelope into the living room. Once again, she uses her father’s letter opener, pulling the sheaf of documents onto her lap. There is a note attached, written in a looping European hand:

Dear Ms Honeysett,

It was a pleasure to talk to you today. I enclose the forms as requested. Please call me if you want to discuss any of this or just to talk. I know what a big decision it is and am here if you need me.

Kind regards,

Petra

There is something about these words which touches Eudora. She is not used to thoughtful people. She presses a hand over Petra’s writing before turning to the forms. There is a lot of information required. She isn’t surprised but tires quickly as she begins to work her way through them.

Come along, Eudora. He who hesitates is lost. You’ve made the decision. Keep going.

It takes her a couple of hours to complete everything. She puts the forms into an envelope and seals it.

Eudora sits back in her chair, a sense of satisfaction spreading through her body like an embrace. She considers making herself a sandwich but as her eyelids grow heavy, decides to take a moment to rest. It’s been a busy morning. All this living and dying takes it out of you.

* * *

She wakes with a start.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ calls Rose through the letterbox.

Yoo-hoo indeed, mutters Eudora, hauling herself to her feet. As she opens the door, Eudora fights the urge to shield her eyes from the alarming clash of Rose’s outfit – purple, yellow, orange and green all mingled to startling effect.

‘I’m experimenting with fashion,’ explains Rose, registering her surprised expression. ‘And we made you these.’ She holds out a plate of honey-coloured biscuits.

‘You’d better come in,’ says Eudora.

‘Okay.’ Rose follows Eudora to the living room. ‘These are a delicacy where I come from,’ she says, placing the plate on the little side table. ‘They’re Cornish fairings – ginger biscuits really.’

‘Thank you,’ says Eudora.

‘Shall we have a drink? That’s what I usually do with my granny.’

‘If you like.’ Eudora hopes Rose isn’t trying to recruit her as a surrogate grandmother. She’ll be sorely disappointed if she is.

‘Shall I get the drinks?’

‘Can you make tea?’

‘No.’

‘What can you make then?’

‘Squash. I’m excellent at squash.’

‘I may have some fruit cordial in the cupboard.’

‘I’ll find it,’ says Rose, skipping off towards the kitchen. ‘Do you want one?’

‘People usually say, “would you like one” to be polite.’

‘Oh. Okay. So do you?’

‘What?’

‘Want one?’

Eudora fears this is going to be one of the longer afternoons of her life. ‘Very well.’

Rose nods and disappears out of the room. Eudora can hear cupboards being opened and closed and wishes she were sprightlier so she could at least keep an eye on her. Rose starts to sing to herself. It’s strange to hear this sound in the usual quiet of her house, but not unpleasant. She appears moments later carrying two bone china mugs filled to the brim with cloudy lemon liquid. Rose smiles as she hands one to Eudora, who frowns at the drink but takes it all the same.

‘Cheers!’ says Rose, clinking her mug against Eudora’s. ‘Biscuit?’ She offers the plate.

‘Thank you,’ says Eudora, taking one. The drink is tooth-numbingly sweet. Eudora winces as she takes a sip and places it on the table. She nibbles the biscuit. It’s also sweet but in a warm, comforting way that reminds Eudora of the ginger cake her mother used to make. ‘These are delicious,’ she admits.

‘I know,’ says Rose. She drains her drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Who’s that for?’ she asks, gesturing at Eudora’s precious envelope.

‘Meddlers for nosey parkers,’ says Eudora.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s something my mother used to say. It means, “none of your business”.’

‘Fair enough,’ says Rose. ‘Mum says I’m very nosey but I just like to know what’s going on.’

‘I suppose that’s fair enough too,’ says Eudora.

‘Can I ask another question? You can say no if it’s too nosey.’

‘Very well.’

‘Is that you in the photograph?’ Rose points at the framed picture on the side table.

‘Yes. That’s me in the middle.’

‘And is that your dad?’

‘It is. And my mother.’

Rose peers at the photograph for a long time. ‘I love old pictures. They make me want to go back and see what it was like.’

‘Why?’ asks Eudora, intrigued. She didn’t think people cared about the past anymore.

‘Because I love history. I love all the stories about the war and what it was like. It’s much more interesting than life now. Do you ever wish you could go back?’

Eudora gazes at the photograph. ‘All the time.’ She is aware of something brushing against her ankles and looks down in surprise to see the cat, nuzzling his way around their legs.

‘Aww, Montgomery, there you are,’ says Rose, scooping him into her arms and rubbing her chin against the top of his head. Eudora watches in amazement as the cat nudges her in reply. ‘What shall we do now?’ asks Rose.

‘I actually need to go out to the post office,’ says Eudora, eyeing the envelope.

‘Great. Let’s do that.’

‘Are you sure your mother will allow it?’ asks Eudora, hoping this will deter her.

‘Good point. I’ll go and check. You get ready. I’ll meet you outside.’

Eudora is ruffled but for some reason does as she is told. There is no sign of Rose as she leaves the house, so Eudora decides to seize the opportunity. Her mother has probably forbidden it and, besides, Eudora would prefer to make this trip alone.

She is only a few yards along the street when she hears Rose calling. ‘Eudora! Wait up – I’m coming!’

Eudora knows pretending not to hear is futile. She pauses to wait for the little girl to catch up. They walk along in silence, Rose hopscotching from paving stone to paving stone.

‘When I was a little girl, my father used to tell me to avoid the cracks in the pavement otherwise the bears would get me,’ says Eudora.

‘That’s funny,’ says Rose.

They reach the post office to find a small queue with Stanley Marcham holding court at the front. He is laughing at something the man behind the counter has said. Eudora isn’t surprised. She had him down as a joker as soon as she saw him. As he turns to leave, Eudora pretends to be interested in a display of Jiffy bags. Stanley spots them, nonetheless.

‘Hello there,’ he says.

‘Mmm,’ replies Eudora.

‘Hello there,’ echoes Rose.

‘Is this your granddaughter then?’ he asks, eyes sparkling at Rose.

‘Good heavens, no,’ says Eudora.

‘We’re friends,’ declares Rose.

Eudora is astonished. ‘Are we?’

‘Aren’t we?’ asks Rose.

‘Of course you are. And how lucky you are too,’ says Stanley.

‘I’m Rose, by the way,’ she says, holding out her hand.

Stanley takes it with a smile. ‘And I’m Stanley. Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Rose.’

Rose giggles. Eudora has reached the front of the queue. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, moving forwards to the counter, irritated by their easy chatter.

‘Bye, Stanley,’ calls Rose over her shoulder before turning back to Eudora. ‘He was nice.’

‘Mmm. Airmail to Switzerland, please,’ Eudora tells the man. She notices he doesn’t joke with her. In fact, she can’t ever remember having had a conversation with him.

‘Have you ever tried these?’ asks Rose, plucking a bag of sweets from the display in front of the counter.

Eudora squints at the packet. ‘Haribo Cherries. No, I haven’t.’

‘You should. They’re really nice.’

The man sticks a stamp and an airmail sticker to the envelope, placing it in the large grey sack behind him. ‘Anything else?’

No. Just this date with destiny, thank you, thinks Eudora. She glances down at Rose. Her gaze is so open, as if she’s seeing the whole world for the first time. ‘May I have these too, please?’ she says, picking up the sweets and showing them to the man. He flashes a grin at Rose and smiles at Eudora.

‘That’s £7.79 in total, please.’

Eudora hands over a ten pound note and carefully counts the change back into her purse. As they leave the post office, she hands Rose the sweets. Rose stares up at her. ‘Thank you, Eudora.’ The little girl opens the packet and offers it to her. ‘Try one.’

Eudora can’t get her fingers inside, so Rose carefully cups her hand and tips a sweet onto her palm. Eudora is struck by the novel sensation of this child’s soft, warm fingers under her own. She puts the sweet into her mouth and is amazed. The flavour of cherry is strong and rather wonderful. ‘Thank you, Rose.’

‘No, Eudora. Thank you.’

‘Mind your backs, ladies,’ says a voice. Eudora turns to see a postman hauling the large grey sack of letters and parcels he’s collected from the post office towards his waiting van. She watches as he flings it inside, pulls the door shut and races off to his next stop. It’s a reassuring sight. The deed is done. All she can do now is wait.

* * *

1944, Quay Cottage, Cliff Road, Waldringfield, Suffolk

‘Again, Dora,’ demanded the small girl.

Eudora smiled and lifted the rickety wooden swing-seat carefully to avoid the risk of splinters. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready!’

Eudora let go, feeling heady with love as the air was filled with her sister’s ticklish laughter. The oak tree’s branches creaked as the swing flew back and forth and she felt the dappled sunlight kiss her face through whispering leaves. Eudora remembered being pushed on this swing by her father. She sent up a silent prayer for his safe return. His last letter had sounded positive.

I miss you, my darlings. I hope to be home soon.

Hope. That perfect word. Eudora embraced it like a talisman.

‘Higher! Higher! Higher!’

Stella was a demanding child but Eudora didn’t mind. She doted on her younger sibling, relishing the fact that her mother entrusted Stella to her care. Eudora also remembered the promise she’d made to her father before he left. It was as constant as the beating of her own heart.

Stella’s cries were increasing in pitch and intensity now. Her laughter had a piercing, hysterical edge. Eudora wondered if it might be wise to stop.

‘Shall we take a break, Stella? Go inside and have a drink? It’s very hot out here.’

‘Noooo, Dora! Noooo! Again! Again! Again!’ shrieked Stella.

‘What on earth is all this racket?’

Eudora winced at the sight of her mother, neck flushed scarlet, storming towards them, tea towel in hand. Some girls’ mothers completed their outfits with neck-scarves or pearls. Eudora’s mother’s accessory of choice was a tea towel.

‘Sorry, Mummy. We were just playing,’ said Eudora. In this time of war, she took her role as peacekeeper very seriously. She was sure Mr Churchill would approve.

Beatrice Honeysett eyed her daughters. Eudora noticed a softness around her mother’s eyes when the gaze was fixed on her but it hardened as she turned her attention to Stella. She pointed a finger towards her youngest child.

‘I don’t want to hear any fuss or shrieking from you, young lady. Don’t you know there’s a war on?’

Stella jutted out her chin and stared at her mother. Beatrice’s eyes narrowed at this gesture of open defiance, her breathing intensifying as she studied the child’s face. Eudora’s eyes flicked from one to the other and noticed her mother shrink slightly at Stella’s knife-sharp gaze – clear blue and as open as the wide Suffolk skies, a carbon copy of their father’s. Beatrice’s sadness quickly gave way to anger. Her fist tightened its grip on the tea towel as she began to whip it towards Stella.

‘Wicked, wicked girl!’ she cried.

Instead of inciting fear and shame, as it might have done in Eudora, Stella squealed with mocking laughter, dodging both the tea towel and her mother’s fury, darting away towards the far end of the garden. Beatrice lurched forwards, ready to follow, but Eudora caught hold of her.

‘It’s all right, Mummy. It’s all right. I’ll look after her. You go and rest for a while. It’s so hot. We’re all just too hot.’

Beatrice’s eyes swam with tears as they fixed on her eldest daughter’s face. Eudora saw a never-ending pit of sorrow in that gaze. It frightened her.

I need you to be very brave and look after Mummy …

Eudora breathed in fresh courage from the memory as she searched for the right words. ‘It’s all right, Mummy. Daddy will be home soon. We can go back to London and everything will be all right.’

Beatrice squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘You’re a good girl, Dora,’ she said before retreating inside.

Eudora could feel sweat trickling down her back, the heat of the day as burdensome as if she were carrying stones in her pockets. She looked towards the end of the garden and spotted Stella staring back at her from behind an apple tree. She wore an expression of malevolent glee on her tiny, perfect face as if it was all a huge game and she was sure she had just won.

Eudora sighed and held out a hand. ‘Come on, Stella. Come and help me make the pie for supper.’ It was ridiculously hot to be making a pie but she knew her great-uncle expected something hearty after a day working in the fields, even in summer.

The kitchen was welcomingly cool and Eudora set about making pastry, rubbing fat and flour through her fingertips, whilst humming a tune.

‘What’s that song, Dora?’ asked Stella, who was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking milk.

‘We-ell meet again,’ sang Eudora. ‘Don’t know where, don’t know whe-en!’ Despite her mother’s outburst, she was in a happy mood. As her father had taught her, Eudora had been following the news on the wireless and felt sure victory was close at hand. Her mother refused to listen to the radio. She found it too depressing but Eudora couldn’t help herself. She owed it to her father, as if she was protecting him somehow by tuning in. She knew it was silly but she also harboured a secret idea that he would know she was listening. His letters sounded optimistic too. Eudora knew he couldn’t share what was really happening but she gleaned that he was okay and that was enough for now.

Every day was a step closer to him returning home and every night Eudora would kneel beside her bed and pray with all her might. She persuaded Stella to do this too, even though the child had never met their father. Stella fidgeted as they prayed but always rewarded Eudora with an obedient ‘Amen’ at the end.

Despite her deep love for the child, Eudora knew her sister had a troublesome streak.

‘There’s something of the devil in that one,’ warned her great-uncle after they’d caught Stella pulling the wing from a butterfly one day. Even Eudora agreed with the punishment of her being locked in their room with no food for the rest of the day. She’d expected Stella to kick and scream as she led her upstairs at her mother’s behest but the child was strangely calm and remained silent and expressionless as she sank onto the bed. Eudora sat down beside her for a moment, folding her hands in her lap.

‘Why did you do it, Stella? How could you be so cruel?’

Stella glanced up at her sister with a lack of contrition that sent a chill through Eudora. ‘I just wanted to see if it could still fly. But it couldn’t.’ She turned away from her sister and lay down, her large blue eyes staring into the middle distance.

Eudora told herself that Stella was just a child. Children could be cruel sometimes. She was sure Stella would grow out of it. It was hard for her growing up during the war, having never met her father, with a mother who seemed to resent her and a great-uncle who spent the day in the fields and the night drinking. Eudora felt like the only one who could steer a path through the vagaries of life and was determined to take care of Stella at any cost.

‘Could you fetch me some carrots for the pie, please, Stella?’ asked Eudora.

‘Okay, Dora,’ said Stella, skipping out through the back door. Eudora smiled and went back to her humming.

We’ll meet again, Daddy, she thought. I know we’ll meet again.

Pastry finished, she turned her attention to the rabbits, which her great-uncle had caught the day before. Eudora had become an expert at skinning and butchering rabbits. She’d cut herself on the sharp knives the first few times she’d performed this task but now she was a dab hand. She’d become extremely adept at all manner of domestic tasks since they’d moved here, almost taking over her mother’s role. She didn’t mind. The doctor said Beatrice’s nerves were bad and Eudora saw it as another strand to keeping her promise to her father.

Stella skipped back into the kitchen holding the carrots aloft like a trophy. ‘Got them!’

‘Good girl. Can you rinse them for me, please?’

‘Okay, Dora.’

‘Look at you. Like two little housemaids doing all the chores.’ Eudora turned to see Beatrice standing in the doorway. She’d thought her mother would be pleased to see them getting on so well but detected a hint of jealousy in her tone.

‘I’m washing the carrots!’ cried Stella, spinning round and splashing dirt and water everywhere.

‘You’re making a terrible mess!’ scolded Beatrice, colour rising to her cheeks.

‘It’s all right, Mummy. I’ll clear it up. Shall I make you some tea?’ said Eudora.

There was a sharp knock at the front door. Beatrice put a hand to her heart. ‘Oh my shattered nerves. Whoever can that be?’

Eudora froze. Daddy. Let it be Daddy. ‘Shall I go?’

Beatrice dismissed her with a wave of her hand. ‘No, no. You make the tea. I’ll go.’

Eudora craned her neck to see who was there as her mother opened the door. ‘Who is it, Dora?’ asked Stella, nudging in front of her sister.

As soon as Eudora saw the boy, she knew. ‘Angels of death’ they called them. She couldn’t hear his words but she heard the mumbled, ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Eudora closed her eyes and pushed the kitchen door shut. She wrapped her arms around Stella and covered her ears as the scream went up. It was a scream that filled the whole house, the whole village, the whole world, and, to Eudora, it felt as if it was a scream that would never end.

Chapter 4

The following day hangs hot and heavy. Eudora longs for a swim but can’t face the walk. She throws open the windows and back door to allow what precious breeze there is waft through to the living room. She lingers a moment at the back door, blinking out at her parched lawn. There is more soil than grass. It’s baked and cracked like an overdone pie crust. Her next-door neighbour used to cut the lawn whilst he was doing his own. He was a little slapdash with his efforts but she was grateful for his kindness. He also barely spoke and she was grateful for that too. She has no idea who will cut it for her now that he and his family have moved. Eudora can just about manage to tend her flowerbeds but even this is starting to prove a struggle. Hopefully these concerns will soon be a thing of the past.

After breakfast, Eudora resolves to make the best of being trapped at home and settles down to put her affairs in order. Firstly, she considers whether to make a will. She’s not sure there’s any point. There’s no one to inherit her estate. In the absence of beneficiaries, the Crown will get everything. Eudora would like to hope they will spend it wisely but she doubts it. She hasn’t trusted a single prime minister since Churchill and as for her local politician, she wrote him off the day she attended his surgery and he addressed her as ‘Eudora’. He hasn’t done anything about the uneven pavements on her street yet either. Montgomery sidles into the room and casually rubs his head against her ankles.

‘That tickles!’ exclaims Eudora. He does it again. Eudora reaches down to scratch his head. He nudges her hand in reply. ‘Someone’s in a good mood today,’ she remarks, watching him take up position in an inviting patch of sunshine on the back of the sofa, before falling asleep, his nose rested on folded velvet paws. On impulse, Eudora seizes her writing pad and pen.

She writes,

These are the final wishes of Eudora Honeysett. I am of sound mind and wish for the following to be adhered to after my death.

She taps her pen against her top lip before continuing.

I wish for my house and all its contents to be sold and the proceeds, along with any money remaining in my bank accounts, to be used to help fund the NHS. I wish for my cat, Montgomery, to be given to Rose Trewidney, who lives next-door to me.

Eudora glances at the concertina file on the shelf beside her chair, containing all her financial documents. She ought to write something specific about these. Her thoughts are interrupted by the rumble of the council dustcart pulling onto her street.

‘Oh blast,’ she says, remembering the bag of rubbish she’d left on the front step, ready to take to the dustbin. Eudora hauls herself to her feet, hurrying with some effort to the door. Hobbling down the path, she reaches the pavement in time to see the lorry pulling off. ‘Blast!’ she repeats with more venom. She hasn’t noticed Stanley talking to Rose, as his yelping dogs weave in and out of their legs. Stanley has seen her though. He hands the dogs’ leads to Rose and approaches with a smile.

‘Do you want me to take that?’ he asks, holding out his hand. Eudora looks round in surprise, drawing the bag out of reach as if fearful he’s trying to rob her. Stanley laughs and peers in the direction of the lorry. He plants his fingers in his mouth and issues a loud, confident whistle.

Eudora is appalled whilst Rose stares at him in awe. ‘Please can you teach me how to do that?’

‘’Course I can.’

One of the binmen glances in his direction. ‘You missed one!’ calls Stanley. The man gives a thumbs-up and jogs back to fetch the bag.

‘Sorry, Stan,’ he says with a grin. ‘Thanks, darlin’,’ he adds to Eudora, wresting it from her grasp.

She can’t remember the last time anyone addressed her in such a fashion and is surprised to feel her cheeks grow hot.

‘That was cool,’ Rose tells him.

‘Thank you,’ says Eudora. Stanley gives a gallant bow. His dogs are up to their usual tricks of barking and trying to trip up everyone in sight. Resisting the urge to kick one of them, Eudora turns away.

‘Do you both want to come to my house for tea?’ asks Rose.

Eudora regards her for a moment. She doesn’t want to but is starting to realise that it’s difficult to refuse Rose.

‘I would love to but I think I should leave these menaces at home,’ says Stanley, gesturing towards the dogs. ‘I’m sure you agree, Miss Honeysett?’

‘I do,’ admits Eudora.

‘Why don’t you come round at about four o’clock then?’ suggests Rose. ‘And we could use our surnames like you just did. So you can be Mr Marcham and I’ll be Miss Trewidney. It’ll be like something out of olden times.’ She hugs herself with delight.

‘Very well, Miss Trewidney, Miss Honeysett. I shall look forward to the opportunity of taking tea with you both at four of the clock,’ says Stanley with a deep bow.

Rose giggles. ‘This is going to be so much fun.’

Eudora is perturbed as she makes her way back inside her house. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t need their company. She has managed perfectly well for many years without unnecessary acquaintances. She wants to be left alone to put her affairs in order and put an end to all this. Why can’t people leave her be?

However, Eudora Honeysett prides herself on never being impolite. Besides, it is just tea. She will show willing this time and extricate herself at the earliest available opportunity.

At precisely 3.58pm, she leaves her house and makes her way up Rose’s front path. ‘I knew you’d arrive on the dot,’ says a voice behind her. She turns to see Stanley walking through the gate, carrying a delicate bunch of sweet peas and a cake tin.

‘Of course. It’s bad manners to be late,’ says Eudora, ringing the doorbell.

‘Quite right too.’

Rose flings open the door. Eudora had been alarmed by her outfit from the day before but this one is even more startling. She wears a purple T-shirt with the words, ‘Girls Rule’, written in rose-coloured sequins, a pair of striped orange shorts, a fluorescent green feather boa and a huge gold bow in her hair. ‘Good day, Miss Honeysett, Mr Marcham!’ she cries with a clumsy curtsey.

‘Good day to you, Miss Trewidney!’ replies Stanley, ushering Eudora in before him. ‘Ladies first.’

‘Hello,’ says Eudora, refusing to go along with their ridiculous charade.

Maggie appears in the hallway. ‘Hi there. Lovely to see you again, Eudora. And you must be Stanley.’ They shake hands. Maggie’s chaotic hair is tied with a red and gold scarf and she is wearing a pair of paint-splattered denim dungarees over a white T-shirt. Eudora notices for the first time that she is pregnant. ‘Excuse my appearance,’ she adds, patting her hair. ‘I’m busy decorating the nursery.’

‘Ahh, so you’re going to have a new baby brother or sister,’ says Stanley to Rose.

‘Sister. She’s called Daisy,’ reports Rose, sounding bored.

‘We moved up from Cornwall because of my partner’s job,’ explains Maggie. Eudora is momentarily confused by the word ‘partner’ before remembering that it’s modern parlance for, ‘other half’.

‘Shall we take tea in the garden?’ asks Rose.

‘Sounds perfect,’ says Stanley. ‘These are for you, by the way.’ He hands over the flowers and cake tin. Eudora is embarrassed by her empty hands.

‘Thank you,’ says Rose. ‘Mmm, don’t these smell lovely, Mummy?’

She holds out the flowers for her mother, who inhales deeply. ‘Heavenly,’ says Maggie.

Eudora catches the fragrance. It transports her momentarily towards a memory, which leaves her breathless with sadness. ‘Is the garden this way?’ she asks pointing her stick towards the back door, hoping that this will move things along.

‘It is,’ says Maggie. ‘Everything’s on the table. Rose and I made a jug of peach iced tea and a sponge cake.’

‘Snap on the cake front!’ says Stanley. ‘But then as my Ada used to say, there’s no such thing as too much cake.’

There is if you don’t know when to stop, thinks Eudora.

‘I’ll leave you in Rose’s capable hands then,’ says Maggie.

‘Miss Trewidney,’ corrects Rose.

‘Sorry – Miss Trewidney. I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.’ As she smiles, Eudora is struck by how beautiful she is. It’s the natural beauty of someone who is content within their own skin. Eudora envies and admires her for this.

Rose leads them into the garden. Someone has made a half-hearted attempt to cut the ailing lawn and there’s a sagging trampoline at the far end opposite the shed. The garden is surrounded by towering shrubs punctuated with the odd rose or lavender bush. They sit at the garden table underneath a green parasol. It’s still hot but there’s a pleasant breeze wafting through the leaves.

‘Well isn’t this lovely?’ says Stanley.

‘Mmm,’ admits Eudora.

Rose pours brimming glasses of iced tea and cuts generous slabs of cake. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you,’ says Eudora.

‘Thank you, Miss Trewidney,’ echoes Stanley.

‘So was Ada your wife?’ asks Rose, taking a large bite of cake.

Stanley nods sorrowfully. ‘My angel. We were married for nearly sixty years but my darling girl couldn’t hold on to celebrate that particular anniversary.’

‘That’s sad,’ says Rose. Eudora says nothing. She’s not a fan of the open discussion of feelings.

‘It is but I feel lucky to have known her,’ says Stanley. ‘We had the best life and a long one too. We met at school when we were younger than you,’ he tells Rose.

‘How old?’ she asks, enthralled.

‘Six,’ says Stanley smiling fondly.

‘Six!’ cries Rose. ‘So cute. And was it love at first sight?’

‘Oh yes,’ says Stanley. ‘Ada was the prettiest girl in the school with huge blue eyes and blonde ringlets. And she had this beautiful laugh, like a little bell ringing. I used to do everything I could to make her laugh. She said I was the class joker but then everyone loves a joker, don’t they?’

Not necessarily, thinks Eudora. Her suspicions about Stanley Marcham are turning out to be true. He really did like the sound of his own voice.

‘I think it’s romantic that you found your true love aged six,’ declares Rose. ‘I can’t imagine that happening to me. Most of the boys I know are plonkers.’

Stanley laughs. ‘A lot of boys are plonkers.’

‘What about you, Miss Honeysett?’ asks Rose. ‘Have you ever been in love?’

Eudora frowns.

‘Meddlers for nosey parkers?’ suggests the little girl.

‘Precisely.’

‘Sorry,’ says Rose. ‘Shall we talk about your cat then?’

‘If you like.’

‘How long have you had him?’

‘Twelve years.’ Eudora had bought him soon after her mother died in an attempt to dilute her grief. It didn’t work.

‘Why did you call him Montgomery?’

‘Let me guess. After the Field Marshal?’ suggests Stanley.

‘Not really,’ says Eudora. He is right but Eudora’s not going to let him know it.

‘Did you ever think about getting a dog?’

‘No.’

‘I reckon you’re either a cat or a dog person,’ says Stanley.

Of course you do, thinks Eudora.

‘My Ada loved dogs, whereas we always had cats growing up.’

‘So you’re a cat person,’ says Rose. ‘Like Eudora.’

Stanley nods. ‘But Ada had always wanted a dog so I couldn’t say no. I’d have lassoed the moon if she’d asked.’

‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ says Eudora.

‘What’s a wonderful life?’ asks Rose.

Stanley smiles. ‘That line. About lassoing the moon. It’s from a film called It’s a Wonderful Life, starring the great Jimmy Stewart.’

‘And Donna Reed,’ adds Eudora.

‘She was a beauty,’ says Stanley. ‘It’s a great film. You’d like it, Rose.’

Rose was gazing at them both, her elbows resting on the table. ‘I like listening to you two talk.’ Eudora and Stanley exchange glances. ‘So what kind of dogs are Chas and Dave?’

‘Cavalier King Charles spaniels,’ says Stanley. ‘They call them that because their ears make them look a bit like King Charles the first.’

‘The second,’ interrupts Eudora. Stanley stares at her. ‘They’re named after King Charles the second – the Restoration king.’

‘I stand corrected,’ says Stanley with a bow.

‘You certainly do,’ replies Eudora.

‘How old are they?’ asks Rose.

‘Ten. We had other dogs before them but I think these two were Ada’s favourites.’ Stanley’s eyes mist. ‘They’re all I’ve got left of her now. Little blighters.’

Rose stands up and puts her arms around Stanley, squeezing him to her small frame. Eudora watches, appalled and intrigued. ‘You must miss her,’ says Rose.

Stanley nods and, to her horror, Eudora realises he’s crying.

‘It’s okay, Stanley,’ says Rose. ‘It’s good to cry sometimes. It always makes me feel better.’

Eudora is panicked at this public outpouring of grief. She reaches into her handbag, retrieving a clean handkerchief. It’s the only way she can think to make him stop.

‘Here,’ she says, handing it over.

‘Thank you,’ says Stanley, smiling at her. ‘I’m sorry. I get a bit down sometimes. It comes over me all of a sudden. You must think I’m a silly old fool.’

Eudora welds her lips together.

‘Not at all!’ cries Rose. ‘You miss your wife and you’re sad. We all need to cry sometimes and we’re your friends, aren’t we?’ Rose gazes at Eudora with dark brown eyes, which draw you in and refuse to let go.

‘Why don’t we have another piece of cake?’ suggests Eudora. It’s the best she can do given the circumstances.

‘That’s an excellent idea,’ says Rose.

‘Thank you,’ says Stanley, his voice husky with sadness. ‘You’re both very kind.’ Eudora nods and Stanley nudges her. ‘We’re like peas in a pod, aren’t we? Two old duffers together!’

‘Speak for yourself,’ says Eudora.

Stanley laughs. ‘Maybe you and I should trip the light fantastic one evening? Go for a meal? Or the flicks?’ Eudora frowns. ‘Or a nightclub?’ She looks horrified. ‘I’m joking!’ He grins. ‘You’re a funny one, Miss Honeysett.’

She shoots him a sideward glance. ‘Takes one to know one, Mr Marcham.’

‘Touché,’ he replies.

‘It’s lovely to make new friends, isn’t it?’ says Rose. ‘BFFs forever!’

‘BFFs?’ asks Eudora.

‘Best friends forever!’ cries Rose.

Eudora is weary. She isn’t used to such frivolity. ‘I think I shall go home now. Thank you both for a …’ she searches for the right words, ‘… pleasant afternoon.’

‘Oh, thank you for coming. It was so much fun,’ says Rose, following her down the hall. As Eudora is about to leave, Rose wraps her arms around her middle. Eudora freezes at the rare experience of human warmth. It’s an awkward sensation but unexpectedly comforting too. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ Rose tells her.

Once home, Eudora deadlocks the door on the world and puts the chain across. She is exhausted and confused. She wasn’t lying when she said it had been a pleasant afternoon. She finds Stanley irritating but Rose is a force of nature. However, Eudora doesn’t have time for this. She has a death to plan and can’t allow the distraction of human kindness to stand in her way.

* * *

1948, Sidney Avenue, south-east London

Eudora bought the sweet pea seeds on a whim. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Something to cheer her mother and occupy Stella. Her father used to grow sweet peas. Eudora recalled vases on every surface when she was small, filled with delicate pastel clouds of perfume. She thought it would be a happy memory, a comfort, like looking at his photograph or listening to one of his favourite songs. But if Eudora had realised the trouble they would cause, she would have left the seed packet in the shop.

Moving back to their family home at the end of the war had made Eudora feel as if she were losing her father all over again. Everything reminded her of his absence – the tang of tobacco, his dressing gown hanging on the back of the bedroom door. She watched her mother move around the house, wearing widowhood like a cloak. The expression on Beatrice’s shrunken face was that of a woman who couldn’t quite comprehend that this was her life now. Eudora understood that she needed to take action before the grief swallowed them all whole. She had only been thirteen at the time but it was as if her childhood had accelerated into adulthood without notice or permission.

Eudora knew her father’s words to her in the air-raid shelter had never been more salient. It was her duty to look after her mother and sister, and now that he wasn’t around, to protect them too.

She encouraged her mother to accept a job at the primary school which Stella attended. Beatrice seemed to enjoy the work and it meant Eudora could go to her own Secondary Modern safe in the knowledge that her mother wasn’t sitting at home, dwelling on her loss. Eudora always made sure she was there to collect Stella after school and did a lion’s share of the chores. She realised that if she took some of the stress out of her mother’s daily life, they were more likely to avoid an argument.

These conflicts always involved her younger sister. Much to Eudora’s regret, Stella had failed to grow out of her defiant phase. If anything, she was wilder, having developed an almost feral streak during carefree years spent in the countryside. She was forever in trouble at school, receiving the slipper for her efforts on countless occasions. Eudora tried to reason with her but Stella would merely shrug and insist she had no idea why she did the things she did. Beatrice had no patience with her at all. The shame she harboured at having such a wilful child and the ever-present burden of widowhood only served to fuel her anger towards the brazen girl. Eudora lived her life on tenterhooks, a reluctant go-between in whichever battle raged next.

And yet there were moments when she saw a sweetness and eagerness to please in Stella. This was one of the main reasons she’d bought the seeds.

‘I’ve got a surprise,’ she told her one afternoon. Their mother was working late at school so Eudora thought it would be a good time to start her secret mission.

‘What surprise, Dora?’ asked Stella, eyes glinting with expectation. It was a look that made Eudora’s heart swell with love, particularly as the little girl bore an uncanny resemblance to their father.

‘I’ve bought some sweet pea seeds. I thought we could plant them together as a surprise for Mummy.’

Stella folded her arms. ‘I don’t want to.’

Eudora realised she’d taken the wrong tack. ‘Oh please, Stella. I think you’ll love the flowers once they’ve grown. They smell wonderful. You could use them to make some of your perfume.’ Much to her mother’s annoyance, the little girl had a habit of pulling petals from roses and storing them in jam jars filled to the brim with water. It made Eudora smile when she presented her with yet another sticky jar of stagnant water, declaring it to be ‘Chanel N°5’. She could imagine her father erupting into laughter at such a scene.

Stella chewed a fingernail before giving her decision. ‘O-kay, Dora. Show me how.’

Eudora and Stella spent a happy hour carefully filling trays with compost and sowing the tiny seeds.

‘We’ll keep them on the windowsill in the back bedroom until they germinate and then we can plant them in the garden. We need to keep an eye on them, mind, and make sure they don’t dry out.’

Stella gave an earnest nod. ‘I’ll check them every day.’

‘Good girl. And let’s keep it a secret between us for now, all right?’

‘Shhhhhh,’ replied Stella, drawing a finger to her smirking lips.

It didn’t take long for the seedlings to develop. ‘When can we plant them in the garden?’ asked Stella on the day they delighted to find sturdy green shoots pushing through the compost.

‘Tomorrow after school,’ said Eudora, remembering that her mother was working late again.

‘I can’t wait to smell the flowers,’ said Stella. Eudora rejoiced in a thrill of victory. She was making progress with her sister. All would be well.

Eudora found the homemade obelisk of bound canes that her father had used when he grew sweet peas tucked in the back of the cobweb-laced shed. She carried it to a bare patch of soil and pushed the spikes into the earth. ‘Now we must dig little holes all around the outside and carefully transplant the sweet peas so that they can climb up the canes.’

‘Okay, Dora,’ said Stella, waving her trowel in the air.

Eudora was impressed with the care her sister showed as she dug, planted, and patted the soil around their precious seedlings. When they were finished, they stood back to admire their handiwork.

‘Well done, Stella. It won’t be long until we’ve got flowers – provided we keep them watered.’

‘And then I can make my perfume?’

‘And then you can make your perfume.’

Stella wrapped her arms around Eudora’s middle. ‘I love you, Dora.’

Eudora planted a kiss on the top of her head like her father used to do to her. ‘I love you too.’

One Saturday morning a few weeks later, Stella came running into the kitchen. ‘Dora, Dora, there are flowers! Come see! Come see!’

Eudora followed her sister into the garden and, sure enough, the sweet peas bore an array of beautiful, fragrant flowers.

‘Let’s pick some!’ cried Stella.

Eudora fetched some scissors and snipped a dozen stems. ‘Here’s some for you,’ she said. ‘And I’m going to put the rest in a vase for Mummy.’

‘Thank you,’ said Stella, accepting the blooms with the tenderness of a new mother cradling her baby.

Eudora was changing beds later that day when the shouting began.

‘Where did you get them, you wicked girl?’

‘Dora and I planted them. They’re mine!’

‘Liar! You’re a liar. You must have stolen them from someone’s garden.’

‘I DIDN’T! THEY’RE MINE!’

‘HOW DARE YOU SHOUT AT ME?’

‘YOU’RE SHOUTING AND I DON’T CARE. I’M NOT LYING! I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!’

Eudora rushed down to the kitchen in time to see her mother deliver a stinging slap, which sent Stella flying. ‘Mummy, stop! Please stop!’

Her mother turned, face contorted with ugly rage. ‘Did you hear how she spoke to me, Eudora? Her own mother. She wishes her own mother dead.’

Stella’s face was a mask of anger but there were no tears. Later in life, Eudora would muse on the fact that she never saw her sister cry. ‘It’s true,’ said Stella quietly. ‘I do.’

‘DEVIL!’ shrieked Beatrice, lurching towards her. Stella darted out of the way as her mother stumbled to the floor.

‘I HATE YOU!’ screamed the little girl, disappearing out through the kitchen door.

Eudora knelt next to her sobbing mother and tried to console her. ‘She doesn’t mean it, Mummy. She was upset because you wouldn’t listen to her. We did plant the sweet peas together. It was meant to be a surprise. For you.’

Beatrice gazed up at her daughter with such sorrow. As the years progressed, this look became as familiar to Eudora as the reflection of her own face. ‘For me?’

Eudora nodded. ‘We thought you might like them. Would you like to come and see?’

Beatrice gave a brief nod, allowing her daughter to help her to her feet. They made their way into the garden together but stopped in their tracks at the sight of Stella. She had pulled the entire tangle of sweet peas, canes and all, from the ground and thrown them onto the grass. She was now ripping them apart like a wolf setting upon its prey. She glanced up but didn’t stop. She kept her gaze fixed on Beatrice as she pulled apart every stem and petal with a cold determination that chilled Eudora to her core.

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