The Brilliant Life of Eudora Honeysett Page 2

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 corners 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 pastries. 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 a 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 savored 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 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 realized that, rather than comforting her, Albert Honeysett had been clinging 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 c
ourse, 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 recognized this as the moment her childhood ended. If she’d known the dark times that 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: 7:27 a.m. She frowns at the intrusion, but as her brain slides into consciousness, Eudora realizes 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 galvanizes 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 remaking 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 meow. 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, offhand, 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 curb 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 practiced 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 practiced 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 realizing 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 firsthand.

  “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 vigor. 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 forward with a leering smirk.

  “All right, missus. ’Ow are you today?” he says in that voice 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 plows 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 ground.

  “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 good night.

  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. 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 lo
ud 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 organization.” 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 realizes 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?”