by Annie Lyons
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 that 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, she 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-colored 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 toward 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 from 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 nosy 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 nosy, 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 nosy.”
“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 forward 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 label to the envelope, placing it in
the large gray 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 into her palm. Eudora is struck by the novel sensation of this child’s soft, warm touch. She puts the sweet into her mouth and is amazed. The flavor 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 gray sack of letters and parcels he’s collected from the post office toward 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 toward 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 her gaze was fixed on her, but it hardened as she turned her attention to Stella. She pointed a finger toward 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 toward 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 toward the far end of the garden. Beatrice lurched forward, 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 toward 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, while 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 harbored 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 th
e vagaries of life, and she 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 she detected a hint of jealousy in her tone.
“I’m washing the carrots!” cried Stella, spinning around and splashing dirt and water everywhere.
“You’re making a terrible mess!” scolded Beatrice, color rising to her cheeks.
“It’s all right, Mummy. I’ll clean 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.