My Name is Eva(64)
After calling an ambulance to take her to the nearest A&E, where a great fuss was made because of her advanced age and X-rays were taken of arms, legs and hips to check there was no damage other than the wrist, Evelyn called Pat, her brother Charles’s only child. Pat rarely visited, citing work (part-time physiotherapist), family commitments (her adult sons worked in London) and domestic arrangements (she had a cleaner and a gardener once a week). Woking wasn’t even that far away, but she preferred to spend her spare time playing tennis or embroidering complicated needlework cushion covers. She didn’t like visiting Kingsley Manor, because she knew that she and her family would one day become the trustees of what in her eyes was a monstrous and uneconomical time warp and every visit she made confirmed in her mind that she was going to face an unwelcome task when her aunt finally died.
‘Pat, dear,’ Evelyn said. ‘So sorry to trouble you, but I’m afraid I’ve had a little fall and I had to get it seen to in the hospital. I’ve been X-rayed and they’ve put me in plaster, so I was wondering if you might be able to collect me from the hospital and give me a lift home now?’
‘Oh dear, no! How on earth did that happen?’
‘I just tripped in the garden earlier today.’ Just in the garden, so you think I’ve been pruning and weeding, not during one of my regular inspections of my victim’s grave.
‘What did the hospital say? Shouldn’t you stay there overnight, just to be sure?’
‘Oh no, dear. They’re saying it’s only my wrist, nothing very serious. But I won’t be able to drive myself for a bit, that’s all.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t come over right this minute. I’ve got to collect Humphrey from the station at seven. He’s on his way back from an important conference and has a lot of very heavy luggage with him.’
‘Then not to worry, dear. They can take me home in an ambulance, I’m sure.’ Yes, they could, but not right away, not until an ambulance was available, so in the end, after waiting for more than an hour, Evelyn called for a cab and paid ￡30 for the driver, a very kind man whose English was remarkably good, to take her right to the door of her home. She invited him in to carry her shopping bag as well, even though she knew Pat would think it most unwise, as they had called into the petrol station on the way home in the dark for supplies and one of those convenience meals so Evelyn could just press a button and ping, the microwave would prepare her supper. Tomorrow she would ring the village shop and arrange regular deliveries of her newspaper and groceries. Oh, how lovely to be waited on and just call for help.
And as she ate her burning-hot chicken tikka masala and pilau rice with a fork straight out of its black plastic container, as washing up was to be avoided when one was one-handed, Evelyn thought that she wouldn’t call for more help from Pat for a while. Instead, she would use the time to prepare. There were letters to be burned, jewels to sell and gifts of money and silver to distribute to needy friends and worthy causes. Pat and her family would eventually inherit, but if she could not be bothered to take a close interest and if she thought the house was full of rubbish anyway, there might not be as much as she imagined. I’ll make it easy for her, thought Evelyn, but not too easy.
58
Kingsley Manor
15 March 2013
My dearest darling,
This will be the last letter I shall write to you with pen and paper. From now on, you will still receive my letters, the letters I have written to you ever since you first left these shores to serve your country, but they will exist only in my head. I shall still compose them, sharing my thoughts, my anxieties and my misdeeds with you. I shall still sign them with love and many kisses, but they will be letters from my soul and my dreams.
Please do not be disappointed that there will be no more actual letters, scribbled in ink. I will still love you for ever and ever, but I feel the time has come for me to be more careful. This winter I had a fall, after making my regular tour of the grounds and the woods. I tripped in the undergrowth near the stile. I only fractured my wrist, but it could have been much worse so I have decided that I must prepare for a time when I can no longer be active and vigilant.
Tomorrow I shall take all the letters I have written to you over the years, all the letters in which I have confessed all my foolishness and all my actions, and I will burn them. What a pity I didn’t write them in ‘secret inks’ as we were taught when we trained. Then they could have remained a mystery for ever! What do you think I should have used, the lemon or onion juice, egg white or (your favourite, I think) good old wee!
I shall, of course, keep every one of your loving letters, the ones you wrote to me so many years ago, but my letters of pen and ink will no longer exist. It is better that way and from now on my missives to you will come directly from my heart.
Your loving Evie, xxx Ps I love you
59
Evelyn, 16 March 2013
No More
Evelyn remembered how thrilled she had been to find the shoes: black velvet, with a sturdy heel, a bow over the toes and a strap round the ankle. She had thought herself so lucky to have such fashionable shoes when leather was so scarce in 1943. And she remembered exactly when she bought them: April of that year, in anticipation of Hugh’s safe return from France.