The Brilliant Life of Eudora Honeysett Read online

  And yet, there were moments when she saw a sweetness and eagerness to please in Stella. This was one of the main reasons she’d bought the seeds.

  “I’ve got a surprise,” she told her one afternoon. Their mother was working late at school so Eudora thought it would be a good time to start her secret mission.

  “What surprise, Dora?” asked Stella, eyes glinting with expectation. It was a look that made Eudora’s heart swell with love, particularly as the little girl bore an uncanny resemblance to their father.

  “I’ve bought some sweet-pea seeds. I thought we could plant them together as a surprise for Mummy.”

  Stella folded her arms. “I don’t want to.”

  Eudora realized she’d taken the wrong tack. “Oh please, Stella. I think you’ll love the flowers once they’ve grown. They smell wonderful. You could use them to make some of your perfume.” Much to her mother’s annoyance, the little girl had a habit of pulling petals from roses and storing them in jam jars filled to the brim with water. It made Eudora smile when she presented her with yet another sticky jar of stagnant water, declaring it to be Chanel No. 5. She could imagine her father erupting into laughter at such a scene.

  Stella chewed a fingernail before giving her decision. “O-kay, Dora. Show me how.”

  Eudora and Stella spent a happy hour carefully filling trays with compost and sowing the tiny seeds.

  “We’ll keep them on the windowsill in the back bedroom until they germinate, and then we can plant them in the garden. We need to keep an eye on them, mind, and make sure they don’t dry out.”

  Stella gave an earnest nod. “I’ll check them every day.”

  “Good girl. And let’s keep it a secret between us for now, all right?”

  “Shh,” replied Stella, drawing a finger to her smirking lips.

  It didn’t take long for the seedlings to develop. “When can we plant them in the garden?” asked Stella on the day they were delighted to find sturdy green shoots pushing through the compost.

  “Tomorrow after school,” said Eudora, remembering that her mother was working late again.

  “I can’t wait to smell the flowers,” said Stella. Eudora rejoiced in a thrill of victory. She was making progress with her sister. All would be well.

  Eudora found the homemade obelisk of bound canes that her father had used when he grew sweet peas tucked in the back of the cobweb-laced shed. She carried it to a bare patch of soil and pushed the spikes into the earth. “Now we must dig little holes all around the outside and carefully transplant the sweet peas so that they can climb up the canes.”

  “Okay, Dora,” said Stella, waving her trowel in the air.

  Eudora was impressed with the care her sister showed as she dug, planted, and patted the soil around their precious seedlings. When they were finished, they stood back to admire their handiwork.

  “Well done, Stella. It won’t be long until we’ve got flowers—provided we keep them watered.”

  “And then I can make my perfume?”

  “And then you can make your perfume.”

  Stella wrapped her arms around Eudora’s middle. “I love you, Dora.”

  Eudora planted a kiss on the top of her head like her father used to do to her. “I love you too.”

  One Saturday morning a few weeks later, Stella came running into the kitchen. “Dora, Dora, there are flowers! Come see! Come see!”

  Eudora followed her sister into the garden and sure enough, the sweet peas bore an array of beautiful, fragrant flowers.

  “Let’s pick some!” cried Stella.

  Eudora fetched some scissors and snipped a dozen stems. “Here’s some for you,” she said. “And I’m going to put the rest in a vase for Mummy.”

  “Thank you,” said Stella, accepting the blooms with the tenderness of a new mother cradling her baby.

  Eudora was changing beds later that day when the shouting began.

  “Where did you get them, you wicked girl?”

  “Dora and I planted them. They’re mine!”

  “Liar! You’re a liar. You must have stolen them from someone’s garden.”

  “I DIDN’T! THEY’RE MINE!”

  “HOW DARE YOU SHOUT AT ME?”

  “YOU’RE SHOUTING AND I DON’T CARE. I’M NOT LYING! I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!”

  Eudora rushed down to the kitchen in time to see her mother deliver a stinging slap, which sent Stella flying. “Mummy, stop! Please stop!”

  Her mother turned, face contorted with ugly rage. “Did you hear how she spoke to me, Eudora? Her own mother. She wishes her own mother dead.”

  Stella’s face was a mask of anger but there were no tears. Later in life, Eudora would muse on the fact that she never saw her sister cry. “It’s true,” said Stella quietly. “I do.”

  “DEVIL!” shrieked Beatrice, lurching toward her. Stella darted out of the way as her mother stumbled to the floor.

  “I HATE YOU!” screamed the little girl, disappearing out through the kitchen door.

  Eudora knelt next to her sobbing mother and tried to console her. “She doesn’t mean it, Mummy. She was upset because you wouldn’t listen to her. We did plant the sweet peas together. It was meant to be a surprise. For you.”

  Beatrice gazed up at her daughter with such sorrow. As the years progressed, this look became as familiar to Eudora as the reflection of her own face. “For me?”

  Eudora nodded. “We thought you might like them. Would you like to come and see?”

  Beatrice gave a brief nod, allowing her daughter to help her to her feet. They made their way into the garden together but stopped in their tracks at the sight of Stella. She had pulled the entire tangle of sweet peas, canes and all, from the ground and thrown them onto the grass. She was now ripping them apart like a wolf setting upon its prey. She glanced up but didn’t stop. She kept her gaze fixed on Beatrice as she pulled apart every stem and petal with a cold determination that chilled Eudora to her core.

  Chapter 5

  Despite the oppressively sticky summer night, Eudora wakes the next day feeling unusually refreshed. She recalls a bizarre dream in which Stanley was weeping over a wilting posy of sweet peas, while the young Stella begged Eudora to save her from some unspecified threat.

  “Please, Dora. You’re the only one who can help me now.”

  Eudora longed to look away but was transfixed as Stella’s face distorted and twisted into that of Rose, who continued to plead. “Help me, Eudora. I need you to help me. Please. I’ll share my Haribo Cherries with you.”

  She hauls herself to a sitting position in a bid to shake the remnants of this foolish dream from her brain. The sun beams through a gap in the curtain like a demanding toddler, urging her to be up and on. Montgomery seems to reinforce this point by issuing an insistent meow as he pushes his way in through the bedroom door, which is ajar. He leaps up onto the bed and fixes Eudora with a look of astonishment, as if to say, For heaven’s sake, woman, what on earth are you still doing in bed? Don’t you know you have a cat to feed?

  Reaching out a hand to scratch his bony head, Eudora is rewarded with a thin purr of satisfaction.

  “This is quite a transformation. I can’t ever remember you making that sound before.”

  It doesn’t take long for Montgomery to tire of his new game, however, as the purrs give way to nips of impatience.

  “That was short-lived,” says Eudora, pulling her hand away. “Come along then.” She makes slow progress, but for once the cat doesn’t try to trip her up on the stairs. Instead, he nuzzles her ankles appreciatively as she prepares his food. Eudora sets about making her own breakfast and carries it into the living room, where she switches on the radio, settling into her usual routine of tea, toast, and berating any Today program contributors who have the misfortune to annoy her. The subject of Eudora’s wrath this morning is a seventy-five-year-old American woman who is promoting a book about how great it is to be old.

  “Age really is just a number,” she tells the interviewer
in a cheerful southern drawl, which makes Eudora mistrust her from the off. “If you live your life with positivity and love, surround yourself with beautiful things, eat well, and exercise often, you can literally live forever.”

  “Literally live forever?” scoffs Eudora, ignoring the fact that she agrees with her points on food and exercise. “What on earth is this imbecile talking about?”

  The interviewer picks up her point. “But no one can live forever, can they?”

  The woman laughs. Eudora scowls at the sound. “Not necessarily in this life, but I believe that on passing from this world we are merely transitioning to another. And we therefore can and will live forever.”

  Eudora almost chokes on her toast. “Passing? Transitioning? What in heaven’s name are you blathering on about? It’s called death—D-E-A-T-H. For goodness’ sake, stop talking in euphemisms, you foolish woman!”

  “Some people might say that you are failing to face the reality of life and death by using this kind of language,” says the interviewer.

  “And some people would be right,” says Eudora, nodding at the radio with approval.

  But the interviewee is undeterred. “I understand. We are all entitled to our own views and must respect those of others. I can only tell you how I live my life and that it is a full and happy one. I wanted to share my knowledge because I thought it might help others.”

  “You really needn’t have bothered,” Eudora tells her.

  “I truly believe that you are meant to enjoy your life for as long as possible. This is merely my philosophy. If people want to mock or tear down my beliefs, that is up to them. They have my sympathy because, probably, deep down, they’re not happy themselves.”

  Eudora is furious. “You have no idea whether I’m happy or not, you sanctimonious harlot! How dare you pollute my morning’s listening with your half-baked theories?” She turns off the radio with a flourish. “I’ll show you who’s happy or not.” She hauls herself to a standing position, ready to gather her belongings and head out for a morning swim.

  For Eudora, the biggest frustration of getting older is the speed at which she now moves. Everything from making a cup of tea to going upstairs to the lavatory takes a level of effort she finds maddening. Eudora understands entirely why people get frustrated with the elderly. There is nothing agreeable about some doddery old fool getting in your way, but what dismays her most of all is the fact that she is now one of them.

  She watched her own mother’s decline with a mixture of sadness and indignant anger. How could the woman who had given her life be reduced to a shriveled husk of a human, staring out at the world through frightened eyes? How could old age be so cruel?

  Eudora is determined that it will not happen to her. The more her body winds down like a neglected antique clock, the more determined she is that she will leave this world on her own terms. My death. My way. It’s becoming something of a mantra now.

  She knows it’s unorthodox. People don’t talk about death. Not really. People fear it. Ignore it. Deny it. They’re happy to blow one another’s heads off in those infernal video games or devour horrific films where people are murdered in the most gruesome of ways, while refusing to face the reality of what death is or to have a grown-up discussion about what it means. Eudora adopts the opposite approach. Perhaps it’s her background growing up during the war or the fact that death was like a series of punctuation marks in her life. Whatever the reason, she neither fears it, ignores it, nor denies it. In fact, as old age creeps through her veins, she welcomes its approach like a treasured friend.

  It takes Eudora a good half hour to get herself ready. She tries to lessen the frustration with the notion that the swim will be a reward for her patience. She is on the point of leaving the house when the telephone rings. Eudora hesitates. It will probably be one of those nuisance callers—a bored nineteen-year-old trying to sell her pet insurance or, worse still, one of those idiotic recorded messages telling her that she’s been in a recent accident at work and can claim compensation. Yet another thing she won’t miss about this noisy, moronic world.

  She pauses to listen. Eudora has an ancient answering machine—a vestige of when she tried to modernize the existence she shared with her mother, possibly purchased around the same time as those infuriating duvet covers.

  “Hallo. This is Petra calling from Klinik Lebenswahl. I wanted to speak with Ms. Honeysett about her recent application.”

  Eudora almost stumbles in a bid to get to the phone. “Blasted knees. Why can’t you move properly!” she scolds.

  Thankfully, Petra is still talking by the time Eudora reaches the telephone. She snatches it from its cradle. “Hello? This is Eudora Honeysett.”

  “Ah, hallo, Ms. Honeysett. You are there. This is Petra from Klinik Lebenswahl. I have received your application and wanted to have a conversation with you. Is this a good time?”

  Eudora experiences a thrill as all thoughts of her morning swim are replaced with an altogether more pressing matter. She sits down in her chair. “Yes, yes, of course. What would you like to know?”

  “So. Do you remember we spoke before and I said that there were certain protocols we had to follow?”

  “Yes. That’s why I filled out the form. To make my wishes clear.”

  “I understand. Actually, let’s do this properly. My name is Petra Konrad. Would you mind if I called you Eudora?”

  She does mind but doesn’t want to appear unhelpful. This woman is the person who stands between Eudora and the thing she wants most. “As you wish.”

  “Okay. So, Eudora, you are eighty-five years old.”

  “Correct.”

  “And you have no husband or children?”

  “No. On both counts.”

  “You live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you say that you are unhappy?”

  Eudora knows where she is headed with this question and is ready. “I am not depressed or lonely or sad in any way. I am simply old and increasingly affected by this. I have no family or friends.” Rose’s cheery face pops unexpectedly into her mind. Eudora blinks it away. “As I’ve said to you before, I do not want to end up dependent and decrepit in some terrible nursing home. I want to take control of my life by choosing my own ending. It is my own will. I am in complete possession of the facts and all my faculties, and I am fully prepared to sign whichever declaration is required. I will even administer the necessary drugs myself if that is possible.”

  “Eudora. I understand, really, I do. I am on your side. This conversation won’t determine what happens, but it is our duty to talk to you properly, to discuss all options so that you and we are sure this is the right path for you.”

  “I am sure.”

  “Can I ask if you have discussed this with anyone else?”

  Eudora is horrified. “No, I haven’t and I don’t need to. I know you’re only doing your job and you have various boxes to tick, but there really is no need with me. I’ve made up my mind. This is what I want.”

  Petra clears her throat. “I understand, but in life there is always doubt,” she says. “We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t question our decisions, particularly one as important as this. My own grandmother—I think we spoke of her before—she had many doubts before she decided that voluntary assisted death was the right path for her.”

  “Was she ill?”

  “Yes. Her quality of life was such that it became too much for her, but she didn’t take the decision easily.”

  “Are you suggesting that I have?”

  “No, Eudora, but I am offering myself as someone to talk to, as I did for my grandmother. You can share anything with me. It will go no further.”

  Eudora would rather walk along the street in her underwear than indulge the world’s penchant for baring its soul. She decides to adopt a middle path: cooperative yet firm. “That is very kind of you, and I am happy to answer your questions. But I have thought about it for a long time and I’m not going to change my mind
now.”

  “Can you remember when you first thought about it?”

  Eudora considers the question. There are so many possible answers. In many ways, it’s as if she’s been contemplating this for as long as she can remember. “I suppose I started to think about it in earnest when I saw my own mother’s decline.”

  “Did you care for her?”

  “I did.”

  “For a long time?”

  “I lived with my mother in this house all my life and looked after her until she died in 2005. She was ninety-five.” Usually, when Eudora told people this, they would exclaim how Beatrice had had a good innings, but for Eudora, there’d been nothing “good” about the final years of her mother’s life.

  “This was hard for you,” says Petra with an insight that impresses Eudora.

  “At times. But she was my mother. We had no one else.”

  “You did your best.”

  An unexpected scratch of emotion catches at the back of her throat. “I hope so.”

  “Eudora, I must be honest with you.”

  “Please do.”

  “If I pass your application on to Doctor Liebermann, I suspect she will reject it.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she and her colleagues will think you are depressed.”

  “I am not depressed.” Eudora’s voice is sharp with anger.

  “Perhaps not, but given your circumstances, the fact that you are alone . . .”

  “I am not lonely. I eat well, exercise, complete a daily crossword, listen to the radio. I am just old and I don’t want to get any older!” Eudora immediately regrets the shrill edge to her tone.

  “I understand. Really, I do. But we have regulations. Voluntary assisted death is usually only for those who are sick and whose quality of life is too poor for them to continue happily.”

  “But surely it’s my choice! Surely I should be able to decide if I live or die! We treat animals better than we treat humans. Why can’t I be put down if it’s my choice?”