by Annie Lyons
Eudora found the cake knife and followed Stella back to the living room. “Here she is,” said Eddie, clapping his hands together. The room hushed to silence as he took his fiancée’s hand. Eudora saw her mother’s tearful smile and Stella standing behind her, swaying, a maniacal smirk on her face.
Eudora sent up a silent prayer. Please let her behave today. Please let me have this moment.
“I’m not a big one for speeches,” began Eddie. “So I’ll just say thank you for coming and thank you to Mrs. Honeysett for opening up her house to us and welcoming me into the family. I feel very lucky and hope I will make Eudora as happy as she makes me.” A couple of his noisier male relatives whooped and whistled. Eddie grinned.
“I would like to say something, if I may,” said Stella, sidling past her mother to the front of the room.
“Stella,” warned Eudora as Beatrice’s face paled.
“No please, Dora,” said Stella, holding up a hand. “You have no one to speak for you, so I would like to.”
“Just let her,” growled Eddie.
“Thank you, Eddie,” said Stella with a leering smile before flinging her arms wide as she spoke. “My sister Dora is a wonderful human being. She is kind and warm and full of love.”
Eudora glanced at Eddie, who gave her a reassuring nod.
“Our mother, on the other hand, is cold and unfeeling, an embittered old hag.”
“Stella!” Eudora grabbed her sister by the shoulders as gasps went up, along with embarrassed chuckles from various quarters. Beatrice stood still, her mouth gaping in horror.
Stella threw back her head and laughed. “It’s true, Dora. You can’t deny it.”
“You’re drunk and you’re embarrassing us,” said Eudora.
“Oh, I’m embarrassing you, am I? Well, I’m so sorry if I’m spoiling your perfect life and your happily ever after with Eddie the man. Let’s not hold up the party. Come on, cut the cake!”
Eudora remained motionless, so Stella grabbed the knife and started to stab at Beatrice’s cake. “I said. CUT. THE. CAKE.”
Eudora shot a horrified glance at Eddie, whose reaction was immediate. He grabbed Stella’s wrist, and as she dropped the knife, he pulled her out of the room into the hallway with Eudora following on their heels.
“Ow! Get lost, Eddie!” said Stella, trying to twist out of his grasp.
“I should put you over my knee,” he told her.
Stella threw back her head and laughed again before fixing him with a provocative look. “In your dreams, you filthy bugger. Now let go of me.” Eddie released his grip. Stella flexed her wrist as she slid her gaze from him to her sister and back again. “Sorry for spoiling your party,” she said, before turning on her heel and walking out the front door without a backward glance.
“Silly little tart,” said Eddie. “I need a drink.” He stalked off toward the kitchen, leaving Eudora alone in the hall. She stood still, unable to shake the suffocating feeling that the walls were closing in on her. Get ahold of yourself, Eudora. She twisted her engagement ring, running a finger over the sparkling diamonds, smoothed her hair, and made her way back to the living room to comfort her mother.
Chapter 9
The social worker is precisely seven minutes late and Eudora is vexed. She has never been late in her life and considers anyone who is as suffering from a weakness of character.
Her annoyance is heightened by her weariness. She enjoyed the party over the weekend, but it has left her tired and peevish. She longs for a swim to reenergize her fatigued soul. However, the summer’s heat refuses to abate and so she is forced to spend yet another day imprisoned at home. What with Britain’s scorching summers, monsoon-like autumns, and arctic winters, it feels as if there are only a handful of days a year when it’s safe for the elderly to venture outside. Eudora often finds herself harrumphing at the television as another beaming Met Office presenter promises yet more inclement weather.
“There’s no need to be so cheerful about it—black ice is no laughing matter when you’re eighty-five!”
Eudora approaches the window, peers out at the moody-looking sky, and prays for rain. At least that would cool everything down a little. A small red car, which looks to Eudora like something a toddler might play with, pulls up outside. A harassed woman climbs out, darting an anxious glance toward the house. Eudora recognizes her as the social worker who visited before. Ruth, her name was, and she was very kind. The woman hauls a huge black bag and folder from the back of the car and hurries up the garden path. Eudora waits for the knock before making her way to the front door. She values kindness, but that won’t save Ruth today.
“You are nearly fifteen minutes late,” she says by way of a greeting.
“Yes, and I’m very sorry. My little boy was sick today, so I had to wait for my mum to come over to look after him,” says Ruth, out of breath, her eyes creased with worry.
Eudora purses her lips. As far as excuses go, this one is difficult to counter. “Very well. You’d better come in.”
“Thank you. And sorry again.”
“There’s no need to keep apologizing.”
“Right. Yes. Sorry.” Eudora raises an eyebrow. Ruth holds up her hands. “Force of habit. Got it. No more apologies.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Only if you’re having one. I can make it if you like?”
This feels like a test. “No. I’m perfectly capable, thank you. Why don’t you go into the living room. I’ll join you shortly.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
As Eudora makes the tea, she wonders what Ruth would say if she told her about her application to the clinic in Switzerland. She would be horrified of course. Human beings are only programmed to judge information based on their own experiences. Ruth spends her time ensuring that life is preserved and enhanced wherever possible. It’s a noble cause, but what happens when someone like Eudora doesn’t want her life to be preserved? It’s not long before the hand-wringing starts, swiftly followed by pained expressions.
But why would you want to die? You have so much to live for!
No. You have so much to live for. I don’t and I’m absolutely fine with that. If I can have the choice of how I live my own life, why can’t I choose how to die my own death?
Eudora despairs of a world that can’t at least have a sensible conversation about this.
She finishes making the tea and carries it into the living room. “Thank you very much,” says Ruth, accepting the bone-china mug.
“So,” says Eudora, sitting in her chair. “What is this all about?”
Ruth puts her mug on a coaster, a gesture that ingratiates her with Eudora. She pulls out a form. The dreaded forms. Eudora is touched by the NHS’s unrelenting attention but is a little tired of answering the same questions over and over again.
Name? (Honeysett. With two t’s.)
Date of birth? (Pause while person filling in form registers that you are rather old.)
Do you live alone? (Pause while form-filler adopts a sympathetic expression as you answer in the affirmative.)
How do you feel about living alone? (Eye roll.)
Would you benefit from extra help around the home? (Shudder.)
Eudora feels like a record on repeat as she tries to give each person the information they need, in the hope that they will leave her be. Their concern stems from kindness of course, but it also stems from that fundamental principle of preserving life at all cost.
Eudora is painfully aware that some healthcare professionals have no idea what to do when confronted with an old person. She recalls Mrs. Carter from three doors down who had a fall and was sent to A&E. For three years, she went back and forth between home and the germ-laced emergency department. Eventually, she died in the back of an ambulance, her final snapshot of life a flashing blue light and a kindly, overworked paramedic telling her she was going to be all right. Eudora is determined that this will not be the ending to her story.
“So, really,
I wanted to see how you’re getting on. I know you went to the falls clinic and they were very pleased with your progress.”
Gold star, Eudora. “I am quite well, thank you,” she says.
“That’s excellent. And you’re using the stick I gave you?”
“Yes. It’s a godsend. I use it when I go to the swimming pool and manage well enough without it around the house.”
“Wonderful. It’s great to hear you still go swimming. You’re an example to us all, Eudora.”
“Thank you.”
“And you’re managing at home? With washing and toilet needs?”
Eudora is appalled. “Yes. Yes, thank you.”
“How about getting up from your chair, and in and out of bed?”
“Everything is fine. Really.”
“Good. What about your mental health?”
Eudora frowns. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting there is. I’m just aware that you live alone.” Here we go, thinks Eudora. “And I have some activities I could suggest, which you might enjoy—various groups and the like.”
Good heavens above. A place where all the miserable old people can sit together and moan about their ailments. Eudora is reminded of the Groucho Marx quote: “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.”
“I’m not sure it’s for me. Thank you,” says Eudora firmly.
“Okay,” says Ruth. “I’ll leave you some leaflets to peruse at your leisure.”
“Mmm,” says Eudora vaguely.
Their conversation is interrupted by Ruth’s phone ringing. She glances at the screen and pulls a face. “Sorry, Eudora. I need to take this.” She carries the phone into the hall.
Eudora takes a sip of her tea, hearing every word of the conversation that follows.
“Mum? Is everything okay. How’s Max? Yes. Yes, he had some Calpol at eight. Is his temperature not coming down? Okay, try Nurofen and check it again in half an hour. Keep me posted. Thanks, Mum, love you. Give Max a kiss from me.”
Eudora hears the shakiness in Ruth’s voice. She doesn’t claim to have firsthand experience of motherhood but does understand about caring for another human being.
Ruth returns to the living room, her face pale and fretful. “Right,” she says, taking her seat again. “Where were we?”
“You should go,” says Eudora.
“Pardon?”
“You should go and be with your baby. It’s far more important than all this.” Ruth stares at her with shining eyes. Eudora fears she’s about to cry, so she speaks quickly. “I am an old woman and I am perfectly fine. I appreciate your efforts, but you do not need to worry about me. You do, however, need to worry about your little boy. So please leave now or I shall be forced to call your office and complain.”
It takes Ruth a moment to realize that Eudora is joking. She clutches her heart and gives a relieved laugh. “Are you sure? I think you might be right. I need to be with him, don’t I?”
Eudora realizes that only she can grant this young mother permission. “Of course. You young women are trying to do it all. You need to give yourselves a break sometimes.” She heard someone use this phrase on Woman’s Hour. It sounds faintly ridiculous on her lips, but she decides that it’s the correct thing to say.
Ruth nods rapidly. “Thank you, Eudora. You’re absolutely right. Max has to come first. I’ll go. Is it all right if I call you again, to finish our chat?”
“As you wish, but make sure your baby’s well first. Otherwise I shall hang up on you.”
Ruth smiles. “Thank you. You’re very kind. Take care of yourself, Eudora.”
“You too.”
Eudora hears the door shut and sinks back into her chair, tired but satisfied. For beauty lives with kindness, she thinks as she closes her eyes and lets sleep descend.
It’s around lunchtime when Rose knocks on the door. Eudora has just finished a very acceptable ham sandwich and is making good progress with the crossword. Usually, she would be irritated by the interruption. However, as she opens the front door, Eudora is unexpectedly cheered to see Rose, not least because today’s outfit is extraordinary, comprising buttercup yellow, ecclesiastical purple, and neon orange. There’s something surprisingly reassuring about Rose’s questionable sartorial experiments.
“Good afternoon, Rose. How are you?”
“Hello, Eudora. I’m fine but I’m worried about Stanley.”
“Oh?”
Rose’s face is serious. “He hasn’t been past with the dogs today and that never happens. And I remember he said he gets a bit down about Ada sometimes. Mum sent me ’round to ask if you know where he lives.”
“Actually, I do. Are you going to go and check on him?”
“I am, but Mum is really tired because of the bloody baby.”
“Rose!”
“Sorry. That’s what Mum said. If you give me the address, I’ll go and knock on his door.”
Visions of this eccentric little girl shinnying up Stanley’s drainpipe flood Eudora’s mind. She would rather not get involved but feels as if her hand is being forced somehow. Besides, she is also a little worried about Stanley Marcham. “I’ll come with you.”
“Are you sure? Mum said not to bother you when it’s this hot.”
“It’s perfectly fine. I think it’s going to rain soon anyway. We’ll go together.”
“Okay. I’ll tell Mum.”
The sky is the color of anger, with grumbling thunder threatening in the distance, as Eudora and Rose make the short walk to Stanley’s house. Rose is now accessorizing her outfit with an umbrella decorated with gold llamas as spots of rain start to fall. Eudora holds her stick in one hand and a functional burgundy umbrella in the other. A shiver of panic runs through her as she notices that the curtains to Stanley’s house are still drawn.
She shakes her head. It’s utter madness coming here alone with Rose. What if he’s lying on the floor unconscious? She’s too old for all this.
“Come on, Eudora,” says Rose, leading her by the arm to the front door. Eudora steels herself, reaching forward to press the doorbell. There’s a cacophony of barking from somewhere in the house but no sign of Stanley. She tries again. More barking but no other signs of life. Eudora glances down at Rose, who takes this as a cue.
The little girl pushes open the letterbox and leans in. “Stanley! It’s Rose and Eudora! Are you there? We’re worried about you!”
The barking begins afresh along with another sound, human this time. “All right. I’m coming.” It’s a small, reluctant version of Stanley’s voice. They stand back as he opens the door. Eudora is shocked by his appearance. He looks so different from the larger-than-life character she is used to. She can hardly believe that this shrunken man is the same one with whom she drank champagne on the weekend. He is also still in his pajamas and dressing gown, which, to Eudora’s mind, is an abhorrence, particularly given that it’s well after two in the afternoon.
“Oh. Are you having a pajama day, Stanley?” asks Rose.
Stanley stares down at his attire and then at Eudora. She sees shame in his eyes and something else: a plea for help. “Well, I . . .”
“Let’s all go inside,” says Eudora, glancing at the steadily falling rain. “Before we get washed away.”
“Oh yes, of course,” says Stanley, moving back to let them in.
As Rose steps over the threshold she wraps her arms around his waist. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
Eudora notices Stanley’s face crumple and, fearing the avalanche of emotion that may follow, she asks, “Do you have any cordial?”
“She means squash,” whispers Rose behind her hand. “It’s Eudora’s posh word for it.”
Stanley’s expression lifts to one of confusion. “Erm, yes, I think so.”
“Right. Rose, unhand Stanley and go into the kitchen and make us three of your best glasses of cordial, please. Stanley and I will be in the living room.”
Ros
e stands poker straight like a regimental soldier. “Aye, aye, captain,” she says. “Do you want me to check on Chas and Dave too?”
Stanley looks as if he’s remembered something important. “Oh yes. They’re in the back room. They’re probably hungry. The food and bowls are on the side.”
Rose puts a hand on her heart. “Leave it to me, Stanley. You go and have a nice chat with Eudora.”
Stanley stares at Eudora. “I didn’t feel like doing anything today. I couldn’t see the point.”
“Let’s go and sit down,” says Eudora.
Stanley Marcham’s living room is a shrine to a happy life. It’s bright and cheerful, with two upright but comfortable Ercol chairs set against one wall opposite the television. An Ercol sofa flanks the adjacent wall. The red velvet curtains and peacock-feather flocked wallpaper are not to Eudora’s taste, but she finds herself admiring them all the same. What is most eye-catching are the photographs lining each surface and wall, bordered by frames of every color and design. There are pictures of babies, elderly people, toddlers, teenagers, and lots of photographs of Stanley and Ada, smiling out at her. Pictures of love and happiness.
She hears the dogs yelp with excitement as Rose opens the door to the back room and delivers their food. Her voice is kind and reassuring and their barking immediately calms to an occasional yap.
Eudora takes a seat on the sofa as Stanley sinks into what she realizes is his usual chair. She notices his glasses case on the side table next to a framed photograph of a beaming woman who has to be Ada and a “Best Pops in the World” mug decorated with more pictures of Stanley with his grandchildren. Then she spots the empty chair to his right holding the large cushion decorated with a huge photograph of Chas and Dave, who stare out at her with optimistically eager eyes. Ada’s chair.
“So what’s this all about then?” asks Eudora.
Stanley adopts the expression of a small boy being questioned by his mother. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Did something happen?”
His eyes grow misty with the promise of tears. “I miss Ada.”
Eudora folds her hands in her lap. “I know you do.”