My Name is Eva(83)
With all my love, Your Evie, xxx Ps I love you
77
Mrs T-C, 10 December 2016
Fire, Fire
Evelyn gazes at the tiny black and white photograph of the little girl. The surface is cracked and creased from handling, from the thousands of times she has held it and kissed it. The gloss of the print has worn away with a thousand or more kisses, but still she looks upon that smiling face, caught in a moment of happiness many years ago.
‘Goodbye, my darling,’ she whispers. ‘It is time. I have to let you go now. I’m sorry, but I’ll never forget you. I will always be able to see your face when I close my eyes.’ She traces the child’s features with the tip of her finger: the plaited blonde hair, the dimpled cheeks, the sweet mouth. ‘You are part of me, but I must let you go. I can’t bear the thought of Pat finding you once I’ve gone. She’d recognise you, match you to the photo in the biscuit tin, then she’d ask questions, think disturbing thoughts, reach worrying conclusions. No, it is better this way.’
And then she holds the picture over her metal waste bin and lights a match. She lets the flame lick the corner of the little snapshot and watches it catch and burn. Then, as it curls, she lets it fall to join crumpled envelopes, used tissues and cotton wool, which all burst into flames. And in among the debris lie the torn pieces of the insurance valuations Pat had found at Kingsley, with their incriminating notes in his handwriting. As the fire flickers and smoke rises, Evelyn stands back a bit, then lowers herself into her armchair. They’ll be here soon: the smoke alarm will rouse them. She laughs to herself. It reminds her of the madness of Mrs Rochester in the attic in Jane Eyre.
Bleeping escalates to ringing and in seconds all the home’s alarms are shrieking in terror. Within minutes she hears steps thundering along the corridor, confused shouts, frantic knocking on doors nearby, then finally Mary bursts into her room, turning on the light: ‘For the love of God, Mrs T-C, the fire alarm is going off! We must get you out of here right away.’ She takes Evelyn’s elbow and eases her out of the armchair, guiding her towards the walking frame.
‘It’s all right, dear. It’s not much of a fire, there’s no real danger.’
‘Of course there’s a fire. The alarm is screaming blue murder. And there’s smoke in here. Come on, I must get you out to safety.’
‘No, dear, it’s not a real fire. I was just burning a bit of rubbish.’
Mary looks in the metal waste bin. The flames have died down, but the ashes are still smouldering. ‘Oh, my goodness, you can’t go doing that in there! You’ll have us all burned to death in our beds.’ She grabs the bin and dashes into the bathroom, where Evelyn hears her running the tap, water gushing and splashing.
‘There’s no need to do that, dear. It’s out now.’
Mary pops her head round the door. ‘I’m making doubly sure. You could have burned the place down. Whatever next, Mrs T-C?’ She opens the bedroom window and fans the curtains till she is satisfied that the smoke has gone, then leaves the room. Evelyn can hear her calling down the passageway: ‘It’s all right, everybody. Mrs T-C has been having a little bonfire up here, but there’s no damage. Everyone back to bed now.’
She returns and helps Evelyn into bed, then shuts the window. ‘That wasn’t very clever now, was it? We’ll have to have a little talk about this in the morning.’ She looks around the room and sees the box of matches left in clear view on the dressing table, next to Mama’s silver-capped cut-glass cologne bottle. Putting the box in the pocket of her tunic, she says, ‘I’ll take these for now, if you don’t mind. We don’t want you playing with matches any more tonight now, do we?’
Evelyn closes her eyes as Mary turns out the light and shuts the door. She can hear rapid steps outside, more doors banging, staff uttering soothing assurances and the general sounds of everyone settling down again for the night. She knows what will happen in the morning. There will be a management meeting. The doctor will be called, the memory assessment team will gather, they will question Evelyn and they will give their verdict.
If her prediction is correct, they will decide that both her behaviour and her memory are unreliable and that this means she is showing distinct signs of dementia. Then they will consult Pat, who will confirm their diagnosis with her account of recent meetings and a report on Evelyn’s ‘ridiculous behaviour’. Then Pat will contact Inspector Williams, who will… what? Ask her more questions? Her, an unreliable witness? Arrest her? That would be amusing. She could tease him some more; pretend she’d forgotten she had already confessed to her crimes. She could tell him she is waiting for a reply to her letter from her husband and isn’t the post shocking these days, or she could say she is leaving this hotel and refuses to pay the bill because the service is not what it used to be. Oh, please fetch the handcuffs, Constable! I’ve been such a naughty girl today. And she chuckles to herself as she begins to fall asleep.
78
14 December 2016
My dearest darling,
I’ve definitely done it now. The fire was a masterstroke, as well as solving a little worry of mine. They haven’t told me officially of course, I’ve just overheard them talking, but I know that a memory assessment is going to take place very shortly. Pat has only been in once since the fire and she spent less than five minutes with me. She practically threw down the pencils and talcum I’d asked for, then spent the rest of her time in the manager’s office. I feel a little guilty as I know she must be very busy with her own preparations for Christmas, but really, I can’t help the timing of this. If that nice detective hadn’t been so persistent, I could have waited until after Christmas. It would have been much more convenient for everyone, I’m sure. But there we are. Needs must.