My Name is Eva(79)

‘But that was then, Mama. Women are much more independent now. They don’t want to go back to just being stay-at-home spinsters and housewives, you must realise that. And in this last war, women did jobs that would have been unthinkable for them in the years before. Look at what they’ve been able to do. They’ve driven ambulances, they’ve worked on farms as land girls – why, they’ve even become bargemen, delivering coal and timber, and lumberjacks as well.’

‘Yes, darling, I’ve heard all about that. Quite unsuitable occupations. And really, the clothes they wore. We saw some of those lumber girls in the village, a group of them giggling in their most unladylike breeches. They made quite an exhibition of themselves. Everyone noticed them and thought it was quite shocking.’

‘Oh, Mama, you shouldn’t be shocked. They were dressed to do an important job. Everyone has had to adapt, you know. And I can’t go back to living here quietly for the rest of my life. Maybe eventually I will, but for now I need challenges and I need purpose.’

‘So what does that mean, dear?’

‘I’m joining the Civil Service.’ Eva saw her mother’s thin pencilled eyebrows suddenly arch. ‘No, don’t worry. It’s nothing to make you ashamed of me.’ You’ll never know what would make you feel ashamed. I’ve made sure of that. ‘I’ll be working in an office in London. It will be safe, steady work, with a good salary, and I won’t have a problem finding a flat somewhere.’

‘But what will you be doing in the… Civil Service?’ She emphasised the last two words as if they had an unpleasant taste.

‘Oh, just typing and filing, I expect. That’s pretty much all I’ve been doing for the last few years, so I’m quite used to it. But I’ll come home at weekends, I promise.’ She knelt down in front of her mother and held her hands. ‘If I’m living in London, I’ll be able to pop into Peter Jones for you, as often as you want. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Darling, that would be marvellous. Then I wouldn’t have to send off for my silks and wools. I can’t go into town as much as I’d like now that your father isn’t as well as he used to be.’ She pulled a delicate handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

‘Mama, I’ll do whatever I can for you. After all, what are daughters for?’





73





Kingsley



14 December 1967



My dearest darling,

I should be sad, but somehow, strangely, I’m not at all. I cried a little when Mama died and I managed to look sombre enough during the funeral, but now that it is all over, I am feeling quite content. Kingsley is now mine, all mine, and I can enjoy it properly.

Mama and I tolerated each other well enough, but she never let me forget that in her eyes, I was just a sad widow, a woman who had to work for her living. And her constant references to you, my darling, such as ‘if only Hugh had lived’ and ‘it would have been wonderful to have had more grandchildren’, were all said with a dab of the eye and were so irritating.

As far as she was aware, she only had one grandchild, Charles’s daughter, Pat, and she didn’t make an enormous effort with her, so I don’t see how she would have enjoyed having more. I know she assumed I would remarry one day, but how could I ever replace you, when you were the only man I could ever really love?

And now Kingsley is mine. Now no one can tell me how to enjoy its delights. I had always imagined that we would live here together, but in a few years I shall be able to retire with a full pension, plus whatever the state deems to give me, and I shall indulge myself. I don’t want to have an extravagant retirement; I shan’t make a fool of myself as an elderly woman on world cruises, dancing with the entertainment staff paid to pay compliments to the lonely. I shan’t force my views on good solid volunteers in charities, the church or parish council, like many other retirees, I shall just continue to sing in the church choir, contribute preserves for the WI monthly market and join the village garden club. My indulgence will be Kingsley and its gardens. There will be more snowdrops, more hellebores, delphiniums and phlox; I shall become a horticultural addict.

But I have also not forgotten my promise. He is still alive, I know that. He received an honour at the beginning of the year, a small one, but an honour he does not deserve nevertheless. I shall watch and wait and one day I will have a chance to fulfil my promise, I’m sure.



So all my love, my darling, for now.



Your ever-loving Evie, Xxx

Ps I love you





Part X





Staring you in the face! (4,2,3)





74





Mrs T-C, 30 November 2016





Bathtime





She tries not to think about being naked in front of the care home nurses. Her once-athletic body is wizened, reduced to slack skin and bone, mottled with purple blotches and the brown stamps of age. No silvery stretchmarks are visible on her abdomen though; those faded long ago.

She slips off her lambswool cardigan and white silk blouse, then tries to undo the buttons on the side of her tweed skirt. No, that is too difficult with her stiff arthritic fingers. She will need help with that too now.