My Name is Eva(7)

And now the music is starting and a song sheet in large print is thrust into Evelyn’s lap. ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’ is engraved on her memory and she knows the lyrics to that and other popular songs off by heart, but she has to be seen to mumble and peer at the printed words as if she is struggling. Her wavering voice joins the other croaking, trembling chords, faint above the rhythm of the music and the pseudo-Lancastrian accent being used by the musician, but grows stronger with the famous chorus.

‘Shall I help you, Mrs T-C?’ asks a kind voice at her side and a hand extends to help her hold the song sheet, then places Evelyn’s crossword on the coffee table and picks up her pencil. Evelyn smiles and allows her helper to guide her through the words, pointing at each phrase with the newly sharpened tip of her pencil. Evelyn likes to keep her pencils sharp; she has found it so very useful in the past.





8





25 April 1943



My darling, darling man,

I am perfectly well aware that you are no longer here, I am not deluded, but I have no other way of venting my feelings and my fury, other than scribbling so hard on this notepaper that it is practically torn to ribbons. Yes, fury, anger, call it what you will, that you should survive so many missions and then perish. How could they have been so reckless with you, after all you had endured, how could they push their luck so carelessly? I want to scream and throw my maddened self at those responsible for being so careless with your life.

My grief is so bitter, so furious, I am sick with tears of rage. Firstly, I am livid with you for even joining that wretched unit and secondly, I’m absolutely incensed with them for not keeping you safe. I know you could never tell me exactly what you were doing out there (though I can jolly well guess) and that there are losses in all branches of the services, but you simply had to choose one of the riskiest, didn’t you? And how dare you say it was because it meant you could practise your French! You foolish, dear man. You were so proud of your linguistic skills, weren’t you? So delighted that all those long summer holidays on the C?te d’Azur and skiing in the Alps had helped you brush up your French.

I wish now that you had never learnt a single word of that wretched language, not even the words you whispered to me so sweetly on our honeymoon. All I can think is that your love of French took you away from me and into the most dreadful trouble and now you will never come back, never hold me again, never kiss me again. The country house we planned to have, with stables and gardens, will never happen, the children we longed for will never be born. The life we thought was promised to us for fighting this wretched war cannot be and now I cannot think what kind of a future I can have without you.

I know that you had near misses on previous missions and I cried buckets when I thought you were missing last year, but by a miracle you came back and I never thought I should cry so much ever again. But I was wrong, you foolish, reckless man. I’ve cried torrents, rivers, cloudbursts of tears since I received official confirmation of your death. Yes, I know you felt you had to go on doing your duty, but I always thought you would be more careful after such a lucky escape. But you loved tempting fate, didn’t you? Laughing at fate, relishing the risk. And now there is no one but my parents and our friends to restrain me. I can smoke cigarettes, drink gin to my heart’s content and do whatever I like. I can also carry on pouring my heart out to you on paper as it has become a habit I can’t break, even though you are no longer here to read my letters.



Your loving wife, Evie xxx Ps I love you





9





Mrs T-C, 3 November 2016





Smile for the Camera





Pat is here again. Really, she was here only a couple of days ago. Can’t she just get on with it, without coming back every five minutes, fussing and asking questions?

‘I’ve found a great stack of old photos,’ she says, rummaging in her grubby hessian shopping bag and holding out a biscuit tin decorated with a picture of a thatched country cottage, its garden full of lupins and hollyhocks. ‘I thought it would be fun for us to look through them together today. I haven’t the faintest idea who all these people are and they won’t mean anything to the rest of the family unless you help me write some names and dates on the back.’

‘Huntley and Palmers’ biscuits,’ Evelyn says, staring at the tin. ‘I always liked their ginger nuts best. And Mama did so love those pink wafers.’

‘Well, the tin’s full of old photos now,’ says Pat, settling into an armchair and shrugging off her jacket. ‘The biscuits were all eaten up long ago. So, let’s see if you can remember who’s here in these pictures.’

‘Oh, I’m really not sure I’ll be able to help,’ Evelyn says, ‘but I’ll have a go.’ She does remember, of course. She remembers very well, but she’s not sure whose picture Pat might come across among the higgledy-piggledy pile of tiny black and white snaps heaped in the tin. This is how it is to be, from now on: Pat unfettered, rummaging through the life of Kingsley and asking questions, rifling through the past, which has never been properly buried and laid to rest. Evelyn can but hope that her secrets will not make themselves known while she is still alive to hear the questions.

‘Let me borrow your pencil,’ Pat says, picking it up from the side table, next to the newspaper with its completed crossword. ‘Ooh, it’s lovely and sharp!’ She opens the tin and thrusts a clutch of pictures into Evelyn’s lap.