by Annie Lyons
“Come on. Let’s try. I bet I can get you to swim like a little fishy.”
Stella rolled her eyes. “O-kay then. But just five minutes.”
They felt like the longest five minutes of Eudora’s life. Stella was a defiant pupil, refusing to do what her sister asked, continuing to make the same mistakes, splashing Eudora at every opportunity. “Come along, Stella. You’re not even trying!” cried Eudora with exasperation.
“I am too! You’re bossy and mean like Mother. I hate you!”
“Now, Stella. You don’t mean that, and you mustn’t be rude.”
“I don’t care. Leave me alone,” she said, wading off in the opposite direction.
Eudora sighed. “Tricky pupil?” said a voice. She turned and very nearly bumped into the muscular torso of Sam Buchanan.
Eudora gave a casual laugh. “A little. She’s not very good at being taught.”
“Poor you.” Sam smiled, and Eudora wondered what would happen if she kissed those lips. The idea made her shiver with illicit joy. “Listen, I’ve got to go now but I wondered if you fancied coming to the cinema with me one night? That new Cary Grant picture is playing at the Ritzy.”
Eudora felt as if she were in a trance, a delicious, hopeful trance. “I would love—”
“Eudora! Help me!”
Eudora turned to see her sister’s head bobbing up and sinking below the surface of the pool at the deep end.
“Stella!” she screamed.
Life seemed to move at double speed after that. The lifeguard who had scolded them earlier sprang into heroic action by diving in and pulling the trembling girl to safety. Eudora raced to Stella’s side, fell to her knees, and held her sister tightly, stroking her head.
“Oh, Stella, I’m so sorry,” she said after thanking the lifeguard. Stella remained silent and scowling. “Are you okay, my darling?” Silence. “Stella. Please speak to me.”
Stella glared up at Eudora, her face a picture of haughty, unforgiving rage. “It was all your fault. It would never have happened if you hadn’t been flirting with that stupid boy.”
Guilt flooded through Eudora. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. I’m so sorry, Stella. I should have been watching you. I’m very sorry.”
“Good. You should be sorry. You were mean to me. It was all your fault. You made me do it.”
Eudora stared into her sister’s eyes and saw the defiance. You made me do it. There was something about the way Stella said this that nagged at Eudora, something about her victorious air when Eudora had come running that bothered her. Eudora frowned. It was a ridiculous notion. She was far too young to think of manipulating her sister in that way. Besides, Stella loved her. Eudora knew this. She wouldn’t pretend to drown just to get her attention. Eudora was immediately ashamed for entertaining these thoughts. She was just a child. It was Eudora’s job to protect her. She kissed the top of Stella’s head and wrapped the towel around her small body. “Come on. Let’s go and find you some dry clothes.”
Eudora saw Sam at the lido again the following week. “Is your sister okay?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you. Luckily, she’s fine.”
“I’m glad.” His face softened into a smile. “So, when can I take you to the cinema then?”
Eudora cast her eyes downward. “Oh, I don’t think it’s such a good idea. Thank you all the same.” The words tasted like medicine in her mouth—antiseptic and sour but necessary in order to absolve herself from the burden of guilt.
Chapter 6
Eudora stares at the long, drab hospital corridor stretching before her and questions the wisdom of whichever NHS operative decided to place the Geriatric Medicine Clinic at the end of it. Having negotiated the bus alongside a distressingly colorful cast of characters and walked in the shimmering heat to the hospital entrance, Eudora feels as if she has scaled the octogenarian’s equivalent of Everest. What is more, she knows this appointment will be a waste of time, another item to be ticked off some poor overworked doctor’s to-do list. And yet, Eudora has made the epic journey because for her the NHS is one of the last bastions of civilization in this morally bankrupt country. If they summon her, she will move mountains or catch the 194 toward Bexley in order to answer their call. It is her duty.
She inhales deeply, setting off along the seemingly endless corridor with fresh determination. Its walls are hung with cheerfully colored mosaics spelling different words, which Eudora reads were produced by St. James Primary School. She notices that the word “HAPPY,” decorated in an eye-popping combination of pink and yellow, was created by seven-year-old Rosie. She decides that Rose and Rosie would no doubt be great friends, bonding over a love of disastrously clashing colors.
“Why, Miss Honeysett, fancy meeting you here!”
She turns to sees Stanley Marcham moving toward her, grinning broadly, arms outstretched. Fearing he is about to embrace her, Eudora takes a step back. “Good morning,” she says, undecided as to whether or not she is pleased to see him. Eudora finds him innately irritating, but there’s a certain amount of relief in seeing a friendly face in this soulless place.
“Going my way?” asks Stanley, gesturing toward the clinic. She stares at him blankly. “The old duffers’ clinic,” he adds.
Eudora clears her throat. “I prefer to call it the geriatric clinic.”
“Of course you do,” says Stanley, eyes twinkling. “Would you allow me to escort you?” He offers his arm.
“I can manage quite well, thank you.” She realizes this sounds brusque, so she adds, “But I’d be glad of the company if you don’t mind walking at my pace.”
“It will be my pleasure,” he says. “My Ada was on a go-slow during her last few years. She used to say, Why are people always hurrying, Stan? You miss so much when you’re dashing here, there, and everywhere. You’ve got to take a moment to feel the sun on your face.”
“She sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was.”
Eudora can hear a choke in Stanley’s voice and decides to save them both the embarrassment by changing the subject. “Do you have any children?” she asks.
“Two,” he says with obvious pride. “Paul, who’s nearly fifty, and Sharon, who’s fifty-two. They’re both married with their own kids. They’re good to their old dad.”
“Quite right too,” says Eudora.
Stanley smiles. “I’m lucky. I’ve got two wonderful kids, four amazing grandkids. I just wish Ada were here to share it with me.”
“Here we are,” says Eudora with relief as they reach the entrance to the clinic.
“After you,” says Stanley, pulling open the door.
“Thank you.”
They report to reception and take a seat in a couple of laughably uncomfortable blue plastic chairs. God’s waiting room, thinks Eudora as she takes in her surroundings. She notices an elderly couple sitting together, the woman gripping her husband’s arm, staring into the middle distance while he frowns at the Telegraph.
Another woman paces the floor, eyes flitting left and right, looking hopefully as if searching for something that may spring into view at any moment. She is tiny like a bird, with sharp, pointed features and straggly black-gray hair. She reminds Eudora of a crow with bead-bright eyes, always on the lookout. Her faded yellow sundress hangs baggy and misshapen over her shrunken body. Eudora recognizes a woman who no longer dresses herself, who has to trust this task to someone else, someone who dresses her for comfort rather than style. She recalls the day she visited her mother in the hospital to find her wearing tracksuit bottoms and shivers at the memory. The woman’s gaze rests on Eudora. A flicker of recognition passes across her face. She darts forward and grabs Eudora by the arms.
“Margery, you naughty girl! Where have you been?”
Eudora glances nonplussed at Stanley, who seems to know exactly what to do. “Hello,” he says, holding out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”
The woman gives Stanley what can only be des
cribed as a coquettish smile. “Of course we have, Peter. It’s me—Enid!”
“Ahh, Enid! How are you?”
“Well, I’m all right but my flight’s been delayed, so I’ve no idea how long I’m going to be here.”
“Oh dear. What a bother,” says Stanley. “Where are you flying to today?”
“New York,” says Enid.
“Lovely.”
“I prefer San Francisco but I have to go where my editor sends me. Follow the story and all that.”
“Of course.”
“Come along, Mum,” says a frazzled-looking woman who appears at Enid’s shoulder.
“And this is my editor, Catherine,” says Enid, gesturing to her daughter.
“Pleased to meet you,” says Catherine with the weary but kindly air of someone who is used to playing along with these games.
“Have they called our flight, dear?”
“They have, Mum. Let’s go.”
“Bye, Enid,” says Stanley.
“Yes, goodbye,” echoes Eudora.
“Goodbye, you two,” says Enid, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Let’s grab drinks at the Groucho when I’m back in town.”
“We look forward to it, don’t we, Margery?” says Stanley.
“Very much,” says Eudora.
Enid’s daughter flashes them a grateful smile before leading her mother toward the exit.
“Poor soul,” says Eudora.
“She seemed very happy to me,” says Stanley. “But I feel for her daughter. Ada was like that at the end; it’s best to go along with it but it’s not easy.”
“I’m sure,” says Eudora. “I thought you were very kind.” She’s not one for flattery but believes in giving credit where it’s due.
Stanley shrugs. “It’s what anyone would do.”
It’s not though, thinks Eudora. The world isn’t kind and understanding. It’s impatient and full of judgment.
“I almost forgot; I’ve got your handkerchief here,” says Stanley, fishing it from his pocket. “Washed and ironed, just as madam likes them. Thanks for lending it to me. I’ve been carrying it around on the off chance I might see you.”
“Thank you,” says Eudora, impressed by his thoughtfulness. His incessant cheer may be annoying at times, but she is grateful for his presence today. She doesn’t like hospitals and he is a welcome distraction.
“So I suppose it’s a bit like prison,” says Stanley.
“I beg your pardon?” asks Eudora.
“We’re not allowed to ask each other what we’re in for,” he says with a chuckle.
Eudora rolls her eyes. It’s exactly this kind of idiocy that vexes her. “For your information, I am attending the falls clinic.”
“Ah right, I see. They’re checking up on you after your drunk and disorderly episode last year,” says Stanley, nudging her arm.
Eudora ignores this immature attempt at humor. “What about you?”
Stanley taps his forehead. “Memory clinic. My son thinks I’m getting a bit forgetful since Ada died. I’m sure it’s nothing but doesn’t hurt to get it checked out, does it? Biscuit?” He pulls a packet of fig rolls from his pocket and offers it to Eudora. She eyes them with suspicion. “Don’t worry, I haven’t poisoned them.”
“Thank you,” she says, taking one. “You’ve come prepared.”
“I know what the waiting times can be like in this place,” he says, biting down on his treat. “Mind you, it’s better than sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself, isn’t it?”
“I try not to do that,” says Eudora, reaching into her handbag for a book of crosswords.
“Ah, you’re a puzzler, are you?” asks Stanley, gesturing at the book.
“You’re not the only one who comes prepared for a lengthy wait. I make sure I do at least one crossword every day. It keeps one’s brain ticking over.”
“That’s what my Ada used to say. She was a big puzzler—crosswords, word searches, the whole kit and caboodle. Never really appealed to me.”
“Well, you should try it if you’re worried about your memory.”
“Use it or lose it?” says Stanley.
“Something like that,” says Eudora, taking out her pen.
“Stanley Marcham,” calls a brightly smiling nurse.
“At your service, madam,” cries Stanley, leaping to his feet.
“Good luck,” says Eudora.
“I don’t need luck,” says Stanley.
“I was talking to the nurse.”
Stanley laughs. “Very good, Miss Honeysett!”
Eudora shakes her head and turns back to her crossword. It’s a tricky one today, but she relishes the challenge, enjoying the moment of immersive concentration, searching for the right word. The Times crosswords have always been her favorite. Eudora used to have the newspaper delivered every day but canceled it when she realized she was only buying it for the crossword. At least with these compendiums at hand, she no longer has to deal with stories or images of the half-wits who are currently running the world. She dreads to think what Churchill would make of these dangerous fools.
Her pen is poised over seventeen across—“meaningless language” (12)—as she considers how many e’s are in the word “gobbledegook” when her hand begins to tremble. A flurry of panic intensifies the shaking so that Eudora is forced to fold her arms and tell herself to breathe.
“Miss Honeysett?” calls a small, hopeful voice. Eudora looks up at the woman, wondering how someone who is barely old enough to drive can be summoning her. She notices her stethoscope and sighs.
“That’s me,” she says, rising to her feet, relieved that the shaking has stopped for now.
“Do you need a hand?” offers the doctor, venturing forward.
“No, I can manage.” She regrets her abrupt tone as the doctor shrinks back. “Thank you.”
Eudora follows her into a small, stuffy room with unprepossessing views of the car park. She spots Enid and her daughter making their way, arm in arm, toward their car. Enid says something. Her daughter laughs and kisses her mother’s cheek. Eudora finds herself envying their connection. She can’t recall ever having such a bond with her own mother.
“Please take a seat,” says the doctor. “My name is Doctor Abbie Jarvis. I’m a registrar specializing in geriatric medicine working under Mr. Simons. I believe this is a follow-up appointment after your fall last year?”
“You believe correctly,” says Eudora. “Although I’m not entirely sure why it’s necessary.” She looks at the young woman properly now. She feels guilty for dismissing her so readily. Eudora detects a sweet nature behind the doctor’s huge bottle-top glasses but also a disastrous lack of self-confidence.
Doctor Jarvis’s smile lights up her face. “Hopefully it’s just routine and we can send you on your way as quickly as possible.”
“Very well,” says Eudora. She decides to help this young woman and resolves to be as cooperative as possible.
“Do you remember the circumstances of your fall?”
“I tripped over a loose paving stone. I complained to the council. There are hundreds of them all over the borough.”
“And you didn’t break anything?”
“Thankfully, no. I was concussed and bruised but no lasting damage.”
“That’s good. And you’re still able to get around okay?”
“I have a stick now and that helps.” Eudora’s hand begins to tremble again. She tries in vain to hide it.
“Do you often experience shaking like that?” asks Doctor Jarvis with the hint of a frown.
“On occasion. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Any stiffness in your joints or slowing of movement?”
“Of course,” says Eudora. “I’m eighty-five years old.”
The doctor reaches forward and takes her trembling hand. “Would you mind if I brought Mr. Simons in for a second opinion?”
Yes, thinks Eudora. I absolutely would mind. I want to be left alone. I’m just old. Why won’t y
ou listen? Then she remembers her resolution to cooperate.
“Very well,” she says.
Doctor Jarvis squeezes her hand gently. Her touch is cool and reassuring. “I’ll be back as quickly as possible.”
Eudora sits very still. She stares at her hand accusingly, commanding it to stop shaking. The consultant bursts through the door moments later without bothering to knock. He has the ham-faced look of a man who believes himself to be a great deal more important than everyone else. Eudora dislikes him on sight. Doctor Jarvis trails in behind him, and Eudora is struck by how terrified she looks.
“I’m Mr. Simons,” he says in the bored voice of someone who has been told he has to introduce himself but finds the whole thing beneath him. “Doctor Jarvis suspects you may be displaying symptoms of Parkinson’s.”
Doctor Jarvis breathes in sharply. “I hadn’t actually mentioned that.”
The consultant sighs but makes no apology. “Any stiffness in your muscles or slowing in your ability to walk?”
“A little,” says Eudora, pursing her lips. “But I put that down to age.”
“Do you indeed?” he says. He turns to Doctor Jarvis. “These really are the most basic questions. Am I supposed to do your job for you?”
“No, of course not. Sorry,” she says, looking as if she may be on the verge of tears.
Eudora begins to shake again. The consultant glares, seizing her hand as if he means to give it a sound telling off. He sniffs and drops it, looking faintly disappointed. “Tremors,” he says. “Very common in the elderly.” He turns to Eudora and addresses her with the patronizing slow-speak of the ignorant. “Are-these-affecting-your-everyday-life?”
Eudora’s shoulders stiffen. “They’re a nuisance but generally no.”
“They can be caused by stress or anger or too much caffeine,” he tells Doctor Jarvis. “Write to the GP and ask them to monitor,” he adds, turning toward the door.
“I would put it down to anger then at this precise moment,” mutters Eudora.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, I think you probably should,” she says, narrowing her eyes. Mr. Simons looks nonplussed. “May I ask you something?”