by Annie Lyons
Dedication
For Peg
Epigraph
I want death to find me planting my cabbages.
—Michel de Montaigne
Contents
Cover
Title Page
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
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 repave 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 among 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 artifact, 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 to 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 neighbors. 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 shortcut in front of her house, tramping a path through her daylilies 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 a 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 she 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 that she wore slung across her front like a life belt. 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 realized she’d never told Elsie her name. Eudora supposed she must have overheard her conversation with the paramedic. Against her better judgment 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 nonrelatives.”
“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 traveled 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 organize 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 meows.
“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 center and is grateful for the anonymity that her swim membership brings. She has a card that 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-practiced 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 while 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 center a while later, she notices two women arguing over a parking space. The air is filled with vibrant expletives. Eudora stares openmouthed, 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, bu
t 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-center employees has come out to try and reason with them as a queue of horn-blaring cars forms. Eudora realizes 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 while 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 pastries and carrying them to the register 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 upend 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?”