My Name is Eva(71)

She stood at the bottom of the staircase, turned round and then, with a bump, sat down on the third or fourth stair. She tried heaving herself up with her arms onto the next step, but it was no good. Her arms were weak and her legs weren’t strong enough to push herself up, even though she was much lighter than she used to be. And then she found she couldn’t stand up again, even though her walking frame was within reach. Oh dear, Pat was going to be awfully cross with her. It wouldn’t be wise to push her any further. So Evelyn stayed where she was, waiting for Pat to finish her interminable call, in which she could hear the words, ‘being impossible’ and ‘bloody sherry’ and ‘when I get her back’.

From her seat on the stairs, Evelyn could see the large open hallway with its piano, polished mule chest and carved hall chairs. Beams of sunlight were filtering through the dusty windows, revealing great traceries of cobwebs adorning the lamps and cornices. Really, if Pat could fetch a feather duster she’d have those cleared away in no time. And as she gazed at the spiders’ delicate decorations and the dust motes dancing in the shafts of sun, she suddenly saw Mama arranging a huge vase of white and purple lilac on the piano, where she always liked to place her flowers, their perfume filling the room. And then Papa was there too, pouring champagne as guests arrived for the many parties her parents held, which filled Kingsley with laughter, gossip and music. Evelyn sighed with the memories; Kingsley was so alive then and so happy.

‘What on earth are you doing there?’ Pat burst through the doorway. ‘I hope you weren’t thinking of going upstairs.’

‘No, dear,’ Evelyn said, as Pat hauled her to her feet. ‘I just felt like sitting down for a moment.’ She pointed to the cobwebs. ‘We ought to sweep those away while we’re here. It would only take a minute.’

‘Oh, I haven’t got time for that now. We need to find you those glasses and get going.’

‘But I want to tell you what else I need,’ Evelyn said as Pat guided her back towards the kitchen.

‘We can do all that in the car. You can make a little list for me. I’ve got to get back right away. Humphrey’s just phoned to say he has to bring a client back for early-evening drinks, so I need to rush home and straighten up. I didn’t have time this morning, because of coming to see you.’

‘Are you giving them sherry?’

‘Probably not. I expect Humphrey will want a beer after a hard day – he usually does.’ Pat waited till Evelyn was settled at the table once more, then disappeared into the dining room again and returned with a couple of little glasses with red stems. ‘Are these the ones you wanted? There isn’t a full set, but I think I can find four.’

‘Yes, those will do for now. I’m hardly going to be giving parties at the care home, am I, so I’m sure I’ll manage with four. And we can always come back for more.’

Pat shook her head, then found newspaper to wrap the glasses and bundled them into a carrier bag. ‘Leave the coffee,’ she said. ‘I’ll clear it up next time I’m over here.’

But you won’t, will you, thought Evelyn as she stood up again and began the shuffle back towards the front door. I noticed the other dirty cups in the sink, the rings on the table, the sugar-encrusted spoon in the bowl. You don’t love Kingsley the way we did. Hugh and I planned to live here. We had such grand plans.

Outside, Pat was anxious to steer Evelyn straight into the car, but while she was unlocking the doors and fetching walking sticks to replace the aluminium frame so Evelyn could cross the short stretch of gravel to reach the car, she tottered into the courtyard garden. In its sheltered embrace, the iris were emerging with strong green spears, tiny violets clustered in shaded corners and the magnolia blooms, in their full pinky-pearl glory, crowded their gnarled branches.

And as pigeons cooed and a pheasant cried across the woods, in response to these familiar sounds, Evelyn whispered, ‘Goodbye, Kingsley.’





Part VIII





What a small bird needs (4,5)





64





Eva, 15 May 1947





When It’s Time





It was Brigitte who finally said something one evening as they prepared for bed. Her nursing training, her experience perhaps, intuitively told her why Eva had been so off colour in recent months. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said, ‘please don’t think I’m prying, I am just concerned for your health, but you have not seemed well for some time. You were sick for some weeks a while ago, but you’ve not got thinner. In fact, you look as if you have been eating a lot of potatoes.’

Eva had known for a while that she would not be able to hide it much longer. In the early stages, when she was nauseous and tired, she could easily claim it was an infection picked up from the latest trainload of arrivals in the camp or something she’d eaten, but she knew it would eventually become obvious. Her uniform was growing tighter, but she felt well and her cheeks were blooming.

‘Has anyone else said anything?’ Tears began to spill and Eva wiped her eyes on the cuff of her pyjamas.

‘Only Sally. We’ve both noticed.’ Brigitte came over to Eva’s bed and sat beside her, putting an arm round her shoulders, her starchy carbolic scent reassuring Eva of her practicality and good sense. ‘In this little room, with all of us dressing and undressing together, it’s hard to hide anything from each other. How far gone are you, do you think?’