The Brilliant Life of Eudora Honeysett Read online

  He folds his arms. “Very well.”

  “Is your mother proud of you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your mother. I was wondering if she would be proud of the way you conduct yourself. I mean, you’ve clearly achieved a great deal in your professional life and yet you appear unable to behave in a civilized fashion.” Mr. Simons opens his mouth to protest. Eudora holds up a hand to silence him. “I am an eighty-five-year-old woman with no time for bullies. I suggest you rethink your career, because to my mind you shouldn’t be dealing with other people. You are rude, undignified, and unkind. You owe this young woman and me an apology.”

  Mr. Simons glares at her for a moment before clamping his mouth shut and storming out of the room without another word.

  The young doctor and old woman stare at each other as a flicker of recognition passes between them. It’s the look of two women who are united in support of each other, regardless of age. For Eudora, it is as if she’s found her voice again and discovered, to her surprise, that she has something to say.

  “I hope I haven’t caused trouble for you by speaking my mind,” she says.

  “Not at all, Miss Honeysett,” says the doctor, shaking her head. “I’m very sorry for what happened. Mr. Simons is . . .”

  “A despicable human being who needed to be told,” says Eudora, rising to her feet. She fixes the doctor with a steady gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for. I can’t abide bullies, and I urge you to stand up to this one. You are a kind young woman and an excellent doctor. You deserve better.”

  “Thank you,” says Doctor Jarvis. “Sometimes I feel as if I should find another career.”

  “Don’t you dare,” says Eudora. “You need to be strong and fearless, because you are more than capable. And besides, who will I visit when I come here for my next appointment? You have an important role to play.”

  The doctor studies her face. “I think we both do.”

  Eudora is momentarily caught off guard before she regains her composure. “So are we finished here?”

  “Yes. I’ll write to your GP, and if these tremors get worse, please get in touch.” She holds out her hand. Eudora accepts it. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Honeysett.”

  “And you, Doctor Jarvis.”

  Eudora’s conversation with Doctor Jarvis sifts through her mind as she returns to the waiting room. The older she gets, the more redundant she feels. It’s as if her life is a long corridor lined with different doors leading to activities past and present. In her youth, she could enter through any number of these doors. Going out to work, socializing with friends, trips to the seaside. Everything was possible. Now, most of the doors are marked with strict “no entry” signs. She is limited to hospital appointments, daily crosswords, and preparing easy-to-chew food. It’s not the end of the world but it’s a shrunken world, which makes her feel a lot less useful.

  As she reaches the waiting room, she is pleasantly unsurprised to find Stanley waiting for her.

  “I thought you might appreciate a lift home,” he says.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “How did you get on?” he asks. “Everything all right?”

  Eudora decides not to mention the shaking or the bullying doctor. She hasn’t quite worked it out in her own head yet. “Everything is fine. How about you?”

  Stanley shrugs. “They want to keep an eye on me, but they always do at our age, don’t they?”

  “They’ve got us in an iron grip,” says Eudora.

  Stanley laughs. “True, but it all comes from a good place.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  He opens the passenger door for her as they reach his car. She climbs inside, relieved at not having to catch the bus home.

  “You know, I’m always happy to give you a lift if you have an appointment,” he says, settling behind the wheel and switching on the ignition, bringing a welcome breath of cold air from the air-conditioning.

  “Thank you, but I don’t mind public transport,” says Eudora.

  “You’re not a very good liar,” says Stanley. “Seriously. It’s no bother. It helps get me out of the house. I’ll give you my telephone number when we get back to yours.”

  “Thank you,” says Eudora. She knows she’ll never use it but is grateful for the gesture.

  Stanley switches on the radio. Eudora winces as “Hound Dog” blares through the speakers. Instead of turning it down, Stanley joins in, howling and jigging about in his seat like a man possessed. He glances over at her. “Not a fan of the King?”

  “He was a little after my time,” says Eudora.

  “Fair enough. But you used to go dancing, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.” Eudora’s eyes glitter at the memory. “Every Saturday night.”

  “Magical times,” says Stanley.

  “A long time ago now,” says Eudora.

  “Well. You’re only as young as you feel.”

  “In which case, I feel about two hundred years old.”

  “Now then, Miss Honeysett. We can’t be having that. So, I’ve got a proposal for you.”

  “Oh yes,” says Eudora, wishing she’d caught the bus after all.

  “It’s my Paul’s fiftieth birthday this weekend and I was wondering if you might like to come to the party with me? It’s at the old dance hall ’round the corner. I don’t really want to go on my own and it might be fun.”

  Eudora glances at him. Of course she doesn’t want to go but how can she refuse? And besides, what harm is there in indulging him for one evening?

  Might as well make myself useful while I’m waiting to die.

  “Very well,” she says. “But I’ll need to be home by ten.”

  Stanley pretends to doff a cap. “Your wish is my command, Cinderella.”

  1952

  Sidney Avenue, South-East London

  It was a missing button that started the argument. A fat brown button as shiny as a freshly uncased conker. There had been three of them on Stella’s blazer when she left for her first day at the local secondary modern, a picture of nervous excitement in her new uniform.

  “Smart as a new pin,” said Eudora, eyes brimming as she held her sister at arm’s length. “And ready for adventure.” She glanced over her shoulder at her mother, who watched them both without emotion. “Doesn’t she look smart, Mum?” prompted Eudora, ever the appeaser.

  Beatrice took a step forward. “You have a speck of fluff on your collar,” she said, brushing it away with a scratch of her fingernail. “But otherwise you’ll pass muster.”

  Stella glanced at her sister, who gave her a nod of encouragement. “See you later then,” she said, picking up her satchel and heading for the door.

  “Have a good day, precious girl,” called Eudora. Stella flashed a brave smile before disappearing along the street. “I hope she’ll be all right.”

  “She’ll be fine,” said Beatrice dismissively. “Don’t be late for work, will you?”

  Since she left school, Eudora had worked as a secretary in a bank in London. She enjoyed the job, but more than this, she loved commuting into the city every day. It made her feel important and necessary. She was providing for her family, looking after them just as her father had asked her to. She missed him every day and often wished he was there to provide respite from her mother’s and sister’s stormier episodes. She could imagine her and her father rolling their eyes at each other, diffusing the situation with a shared smile.

  Eudora had hoped that Beatrice would soften toward Stella as the child became older and less demanding. Unfortunately, the brooding seed of resentment, which had been firmly planted the day her father died, had taken root, growing into something more permanent. Ridiculous as it sounded, it was almost as if Beatrice held Stella responsible for her husband’s death. Her life had been settled before he was killed—Albert, Beatrice, and Eudora had been a happy band of three. And then the war came and stole her father away just as Stella made her dramatic, nois
y entrance into the world. Unfortunate as it was for Stella, she was synonymous with tragedy in Beatrice’s mind, and the child’s sometimes cruel and demanding nature solidified her position as someone to be endured rather than adored.

  Eudora took it upon herself to compensate for her mother’s negative attitude toward her youngest child. It was a burdensome and often thankless task.

  Work was a welcome refuge. Eudora’s colleagues were friendly enough, and a couple of the older secretaries had taken her under their wing. Mr. Wells, her boss, was a kindly older man, who reminded her a little of her father when he called her “dear.”

  Eudora’s mother still worked at the primary school that she and Stella had attended and was now in charge of the school office. Last year, a male teacher called Mr. Harrison had asked her mother to the theater. Beatrice had been deeply offended by the suggestion, which Eudora secretly decided was a shame. She understood that her mother missed their father, but she couldn’t understand why this meant avoiding all male company for the rest of her life. She was certain her father would want her mother to be happy, but for some reason her mother seemed unable to free herself from the weight of grief.

  As Eudora let herself in through the front door that evening, she was looking forward to seeing Stella and hearing about her first day.

  “Hello! Mum? Stella?” There was a heavy silence followed by a gasping sob from the kitchen. “Mum?” Eudora knew something bad had happened as soon as she spotted her mother’s anguished face and the unpeeled carrots and potatoes on the counter.

  “That child is a devil!” cried Beatrice.

  “What has she done now?” asked Eudora, trying to mask her impatience.

  “She slapped me! Her own mother!” Beatrice leaned toward Eudora and, as soon as her daughter embraced her, began to sob like a child.

  “What happened?” asked Eudora softly, stroking her mother’s hair.

  “Well. When she came home from school, I noticed her blazer was missing a button, and when I asked her what had happened, she shrugged as if she didn’t care. It made me so cross, Eudora. I told her that she was to sit down and sew it back on immediately, but she refused. Can you believe it? And when I shouted at her to do as she was told, she shouted back at me and told me to go to hell! My mother would have shut me in the coal shed if I’d spoken to her like that.”

  Eudora sighed inwardly.

  “She was about to leave the kitchen, so I grabbed her arm and that was when she slapped me. Here.” Beatrice jutted her cheek upward to show Eudora the angry pink mark.

  “Oh dear,” said Eudora, a suffocating weariness descending.

  “What are we to do about her?” said Beatrice. “She’s out of control, Eudora. This would never have happened if your father was still alive. I’m sure of that.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” said Eudora.

  “Oh, would you? Thank you. You’re such a kind girl. Where would I be without you? Stella listens to you. I think she hates me! What I’ve done to deserve that, I’ll never know.”

  Eudora climbed the stairs and tapped lightly on Stella’s door. “Go away!” came a muffled, angry voice.

  “Stella, it’s me. Please can I come in?” She heard movement from within the room before the door opened a fraction. Eudora took this as a cue and stepped inside. Stella was sitting on the bed still in her uniform, scowling at the world. Eudora sat down beside her.

  “I suppose she told you what happened,” said Stella after a pause.

  “If by ‘she’ you mean Mum, then yes.” Eudora stole a glance at her sister. Where Beatrice’s reaction had been tearful, Stella’s was brimming with fury. “You know you shouldn’t have slapped her, don’t you?”

  Stella shrugged.

  “Stella,” warned Eudora. “You can’t go around hitting people.”

  “She grabbed my arm really hard!”

  Eudora swallowed. She knew their mother could be heavy-handed. “You still shouldn’t have slapped her.”

  “Why do you always take her side? Every time. She hates me and you always stick up for her. It’s not fair, Dora.”

  Eudora knew she was right, but then it wasn’t fair that she came home night after night having to referee her mother and sister. “She doesn’t hate you.”

  “She does,” said Stella, folding her arms. “But it doesn’t matter because I hate her too. She’s a bitch.”

  “Don’t say that, Stella. It’s rude and disrespectful. She’s your mother.”

  “So what?” said Stella, jumping to her feet, tearing open the bedroom door. She leaned over the banister. “You’re a bitch, do you hear me, Mother? A B-I-T-C-H. Bitch.”

  “Eudora!” cried her mother from the kitchen doorway. “How can you let her talk to me like that?”

  Eudora’s shoulders sagged with fatigue as she let herself fall back onto Stella’s bed. She tried to blot out the creeping realization that whatever she did, however hard she tried, she would never be able to make her mother and sister happy. As she turned her head, she spied the framed photograph of their father in full uniform, smiling his encouragement, from Stella’s bedside table. Eudora sighed, hauling herself to her feet, ready to face her mother and sister and try, yet again, to broker peace in their bitter, endless battle.

  Chapter 7

  As Eudora pulls open the doors to her ancient mahogany wardrobe, she is hit with the scent of mothballs and lavender. She sifts through her limited selection of clothes with a resigned sigh. It’s been a long time since she’s been invited anywhere, and Eudora isn’t convinced she owns the appropriate outfit for a fiftieth birthday party. Alongside her funeral suit, the rod is loaded with garments in every shade of gray, brown, and blue, all leaning toward the darker end of this palette.

  “When did I get so drab?” she asks Montgomery, who is curled neatly on top of the bed. Eudora reaches over to scratch the top of his head. The cat stretches out and yawns, revealing sharp teeth, a warning that her actions are not currently welcome. “Well, you’re not much use,” she tells him, turning back to her disastrous excuse for a wardrobe.

  Eudora has always been smart—she prides herself on her appearance—but she has never been adventurous when it comes to clothes. She is wondering if she regrets this. She is also wondering why she cares so much. It’s only a birthday party with Stanley and a group of strangers. And it’s not as if she knows him that well anyway. Or cares what he thinks. No. She definitely doesn’t give two hoots what Stanley Marcham thinks.

  However, she would like to make an effort for herself. Eudora always used to take pride in her appearance when she went dancing as a young woman. She can still recall the effervescent joy of getting spruced up on a Saturday night, of wearing a beautiful dress with newly curled hair and makeup—not too much, mind—before skipping off to dance the night away. It seems like a different lifetime now.

  Eudora reaches disconsolately into the wardrobe, wishing for a large pumpkin and a fairy godmother. She pulls out a navy blue skirt, which she used to wear for gardening, and a blouse the color of over-steeped tea. Holding both items up for inspection, she tries to convince herself they might do. Perhaps a brooch would lift the whole effect? Or her mother’s pearls? And should she dare to wear a pair of smart court shoes, or stick to her boring but comfortable slip-ons with the cushioned soles?

  Eudora is so lost in thought that she jumps as the silence is broken by someone pressing the doorbell for a little longer than is strictly necessary. “Let go of the bell, Rose,” calls Eudora over the banister.

  “How did you know it was me?” asks the little girl, as Eudora eventually reaches the front door.

  “Who else would it be?”

  “I am very reliable,” admits Rose. “Mum always says that I am the best and most loyal friend you can have.”

  “That makes you sound like a dog.”

  Rose giggles. “I like that.”

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure? Because I’m not going swimming today if that’s what you’re t
hinking.”

  “Oh, I know. You went this morning. I saw you come back.”

  Eudora isn’t sure whether to be touched or terrified by Rose’s commitment to keeping her under KGB-level surveillance.

  “I just popped ’round with this.” She holds out a red-and-white-polka-dot cake tin. “To say sorry. It’s lemon drizzle. I made it with Mum. She told me to drop it off and come straight home.”

  Eudora accepts the tin. “Oh. Well, thank you, Rose.” The little girl stares up at her hopefully. “You’re not doing a very good job of going straight home, are you?”

  “Well, no,” admits Rose. “But I thought it would be polite of me to offer to share the cake with you so you don’t feel too piggy.”

  “How selfless of you.”

  “Thank you,” says Rose, nodding proudly.

  Eudora realizes she’s not going to leave and can’t think of a way of banishing her without appearing rude. “Would you like to come in for a slice of cake, Rose?”

  Rose’s face erupts with delight. “Yes please! Thank you, Eudora. Shall I make us some squash, or cor-dial, as you like to call it?”

  Recalling the tooth-dissolving concoction she prepared last time, Eudora shakes her head. “Not for me. I shall make some tea, but you can have cordial if you prefer.”

  “I do prefer,” says Rose, following her to the kitchen.

  Eudora fetches a glass and the cordial bottle, then sets about making her tea. Rose pours out a good half glass, topping it up with the merest splash of water.

  “You’ll rot your teeth,” warns Eudora.

  “That’s what Mum says. But I’m a really good brusher, so I think it’ll be okay.” She looks around the room. “Your kitchen is very bare. You don’t have any magnets on your fridge or pictures on the cupboards like we do.”

  “True.”

  “I’ll make you some pictures,” says Rose.

  “There’s really no need.”

  “I don’t mind. I love drawing.”

  Eudora sips her tea and thinks about the pictures she saw on the walls of the hospital and knows there’s no sense in arguing. Besides, they might brighten up the place a little. What with her ill-stocked wardrobe and empty walls, life has steadily become a little less colorful.