My Name is Eva(2)
But Evelyn doesn’t take the magazine away, much as she would like to. Instead, she observes Phyllis, just as she observes other residents whose minds are not as sharp as they once were. They come and go, these neighbours; some disappear in the night when an ambulance calls, never to return. But however short their period of residence at the home, she can remember all their names, though she doubts any of them could recall hers. Over there, across the room is Maureen Philips, a round rosy apple of a woman, who has an appetite for sweet things. She will immediately eat any treats brought by visitors, complaining that she hasn’t had anything to eat at all that day, and is always determined to win the chocolate bar prize in musical bingo. Near the fireplace sits Horace Wilson, in his dark blue blazer and flannels, telling anyone who will listen that he is going home in the morning; and Wilf Stevens dozes, then often looks up from his knees and asks if anyone has taken Molly out for her morning walk yet.
Evelyn watches them all, storing the signs of vagueness, their slack confusion, for future use. Take note, Evelyn, take note, she tells herself. See how Maureen pauses before she answers questions, look how Wilf is proudly showing his pocket watch to the nurse again, telling her it was awarded to him for a lifetime of service. Horace can’t choose what he will have for lunch and asks again and again if he had breakfast today. Repetition and indecision are your defence, Evelyn. But she thinks she won’t let herself decline completely. She will still have her hair set when the hairdresser calls round once a week, she will dress with care, as far as she is able, but maybe she will let a button or two miss their buttonholes, sometimes wear odd shoes or even misapply her lipstick. No, that would be going too far – as long as she is able, she will colour her lips and her Cupid’s bow, less defined than it once was when it was described as the ‘kiss of an angel’. No, lipstick will be the last thing to go.
2
14 October 1939
My dearest darling Hugh,
Mama has written to me again, asking me to give up my job here and go home. She is worried about the raids, I know, but I worry I will die of boredom while you are away being heroic if I have to abandon my at least gossip-filled office life and my evenings with the girls for the tediously safe hills of Surrey. I adore being back at Kingsley, you know I do, but I don’t know how Mama thinks I would fill my days when she and Mrs Glazier are totally in charge of providing for the household and probably the entire village too, knowing them.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I am not going to be one to sit around knitting socks (though I’d knit pair after pair of dreary khaki socks for you, my darling, if I thought it would help) but I do so want to ‘do my bit’. I wish you would change your mind and agree that I should join the Wrens or something. I don’t see how that could be an unsuitable occupation for your wife, and it certainly couldn’t be any more dangerous than staying here in London in the flat. I must say, I really rather like the Wrens uniform – well, their darling little hats, at least.
If things in London get much worse I may make the effort to spend more nights at Kingsley (though if I do, Mama will never leave off asking me to stay), but don’t ask me to abandon my London life completely, as it helps me to feel more like a proper grown-up married woman while you are away in France.
In your last letter you asked me to look after McNeil when he arrives in London, so I have alerted Grace and Audrey as they are not sweethearts with any fellows as yet and will be eager to take him under their ‘wings’ as it were. I hope he will be man enough to withstand their enthusiastic attentions!
Well, darling, I must sign off now as Miss Harper has been giving me stern looks for at least five minutes. She clearly thinks I should have finished my lunch break and returned to my work. What she would think if she realised I was using company paper as well, I dread to think.
Your ever-loving wife, Evie xxxxxxx Ps I love you
3
Mrs T-C, 6 October 2016
Everything In Its Place
Evelyn’s room at Forest Lawns has a view of the garden. She was determined that if she had to live in a care home then she would not be completely separated from her lifelong love of gardening. She might no longer be able to kneel to weed herbaceous borders, hack at overgrown honeysuckle or double-dig a vegetable plot, but she can still offer advice on the pruning code for different varieties of clematis, suggest the removal of old hellebore leaves to reveal the budding flowers or recommend a supplement to improve a sickly yellow camellia. But now she wonders, should this knowledge also still be within her grasp?
She stands by the window gazing at the small improvements, which have been made at her suggestion since her arrival early in the year, after that final critical fall. The hot late-summer border filled with blood-red crocosmia, orange heleniums and burgundy sunflowers was a great success after just one season. Under the oldest oak tree a newly planted carpet of pale narcissi will emerge in spring, but for now a sprinkling of deep-pink miniature cyclamen brings a shot of colour to that corner of the garden.
But do I really have to pretend I can’t remember the Latin name for wormwood or the right time to plant tulip bulbs? And am I going to have to act as if all that preciously grown knowledge is now lost to me?
A gardener is blowing the fallen leaves into heaps, then scooping them up with two boards between his hands into a barrow. She can see a thin stream of smoke spiralling from the farthest corner of the grounds. He should be composting those leaves, she thinks. Leaf mould is so good for the garden. Helped me establish lily-of-the-valley in several awkward spots.