Eudora Honeysett is Quite Well, Thank You

Eudora Honeysett is Quite Well, Thank You

ANNIE LYONS

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Annie Lyons 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Annie Lyons asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008405380

Ebook Edition © 2020 ISBN: 9780008405373

Version: 2020-07-03

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Annie Lyons

About the Publisher

For Peg

I want death to find me planting my cabbages.

Michel de Montaigne

Chapter 1

When Eudora Honeysett hears the flip-clunk of the letterbox on this particular Tuesday morning, her heart skips before she pulls it back down to earth like a rapidly descending hot-air balloon. It will be junk mail as usual. Unsolicited junk. As she struggles to a standing position, retrieves her stick and anchors herself to gravity, Eudora marvels, not for the first time, at humanity’s ability to fill the world with unwanted junk. The oceans are stuffed with plastic, the landfills with broken three-year-old fridges, and her doormat with an endless littering of pizza leaflets, advertisements for retirement homes, and flyers from individuals offering to re-pave a driveway she doesn’t have. Occasionally, she casts a critical eye over the expensively produced retirement home brochures filled with photographs of smiling elderly couples toasting their successful move to the old person’s equivalent of a Premier Inn. Eudora can’t imagine anything worse. She was born in this house and intends to die in this house, hopefully sooner rather than later.

Death is an inevitable preoccupation for a woman of Eudora’s years but she can’t recall a time when it wasn’t lurking in the background. It’s partly due to growing up during a world war, she supposes. She doesn’t fear it though. She is wryly amused by the world’s innate ability to deny death but wholly unsurprised too. People are too busy staring at their telephones, endlessly searching for some truth that will never come, idly sniggering at infantile video clips of goodness knows what, never stopping to notice the universe around them or the people in it. They certainly never notice her. Eudora Honeysett is invisible and she doesn’t care one jot. She has lived her life as best she can. She is ready for the next step, the final destination, or whatever half-baked euphemism people insist on using these days.

Death. The end. She’s rather looking forward to it. It may be a black hole or, if she’s lucky, she’ll be reunited with all the people she’s ever loved. This is a short list but then why do people insist on having hundreds of friends? She heard a discussion on the radio the other day about ‘toxic friendships’ and how you need to rid yourself of these kinds of people. Eudora’s advice would be to avoid them in the first place. Keep yourself to yourself. Mind your own beeswax, as her mother was fond of saying.

She retrieves the post from the mat with a certain amount of difficulty and is pleasantly surprised to find an A4-sized envelope with a Swiss postmark addressed to her in amongst the rubbish. Eudora experiences that skip of anticipation again, this time well-founded. She’s been expecting this, looking forward to it even. She carries the envelope with the other items balanced on top to the kitchen, holding it out like a holy artefact, worthy of respect and awe. She sifts through the other post. There’s another letter addressed to her – one more wholly unnecessary hospital appointment. Eudora understands that it’s the NHS’s duty to preserve life but sometimes she wishes they’d leave her alone. Sometimes she wishes there was an opt-out clause, a way of making it all stop. Eudora throws the letter to one side and grasps the A4 envelope in her faltering grip. Glancing at the clock, she reluctantly places the precious item on the side. She will save it for later so that she can give it her full attention.

Eudora gathers her belongings in preparation for leaving the house. She welcomes this daily routine. She may be world-weary but she refuses to stay indoors all day, slumped in a chair like many of her peers. Her body is winding down like an old clock but she is damned if she’s going to accelerate the process. Eudora gets up every morning at eight and leaves the house by ten. There are far too many slovens in the world. Eudora does not intend to join their ranks.

She picks up the bag containing her swimming things and leaves the house. The bright sunlight is rather dazzling and it takes a few moments for her glasses to adjust, bringing shade and comfort. Eudora notices that the estate agent’s ‘for sale’ sign in front of the house next door has been changed to ‘sold’. She shivers with dread at the prospect of new neighbours. Hopefully they will keep themselves to themselves like the last lot. She notices the postman to-ing and fro-ing from house to house and avoids his gaze. They’ve been on bad terms since she scolded him for taking a short cut in front of her house, tramping a path through her day lilies so that they failed to bloom last year. He used to stop and chat occasionally but now he looks the other way. She doesn’t care. He was being inconsiderate and needed to be told.

Eudora makes slow progress but remains doggedly determined. She soon falls into a steady tap, step, step, tap, step, step rhythm using her walking stick or ‘third leg’ as the smiling social worker called it. Her name was Ruth and she was enthusiastically positive. Eudora didn’t share her cheer but didn’t mind it either. Ruth was kind and in Eudora’s world, this commodity was in short supply. It was wise to embrace it whenever possible.

Ruth had appeared as if by magic one day last year after Eudora’s fall. One minute Eudora was walking along the pavement and the next, she was kissing it. Unfortunately, a man with two irritatingly yappy dogs witnessed the incident and insisted on calling an ambulance. Eudora had tried to assert that she would be fine if he could simply direct her back to her house. She was then overwhelmed with sudden panic as she tried and failed to recall her address. In a flash it came to her.

‘Quay Cottage, Cliff Road, Waldringfield, Suffolk.’

The man frowned. ‘Suffolk?’

‘Yes,’ insisted Eudora.

His expression was kindly. ‘I don’t think so, my love. This is south-east London. Not Suffolk. I’ll call that ambulance. You might have concussion.’

And so the process began with a hair-raising ambulance trip leading to a lengthy wait in the Accident and Emergency department. It was during this time that Eudora experienced something of an epiphany. She’d never considered the terrifyingly closed atmosphere of a packed A&E waiting room to be a conduit for enlightenment but Eudora had lived long enough to know that life never ceases to surprise.

It was the woman with barely any teeth and the hairy mole on her cheek who set the fires of Eudora’s mind ablaze. She looked like a witch from a children’s fairy tale, except there was kindness that shone from her rheumy eyes as she talked, which she did incessantly as soon as Eudora made the questionable decision to sit beside her.

‘Not long now for you and me,’ she wheezed, glancing up at Eudora.

‘One can only hope,’ replied Eudora with a polite smile. ‘Although it’s very crowded. I fear we may be here some time.’

The woman shook her head. ‘Not in here, you silly goose. I mean we’ve not got long to live.’

Normally Eudora would have been offended but could see that this strange little woman was something of a kindred spirit. ‘Well, that too,’ she admitted. ‘But unfortunately we don’t have much control over these things.’

‘I thought about killing myself,’ said the woman as if she were discussing what she might have for lunch.

‘Good heavens above!’

The woman eyed her with amusement. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t. Everyone our age thinks about it.’

A horror from the past elbowed its way into Eudora’s memory. ‘Certainly not,’ she said, sitting up straighter in her chair.

‘Mind your backs!’ shouted a paramedic as she and a colleague burst through the door with an elderly man on a trolley. A host of medical professionals appeared from nowhere, checking the man’s vital signs as they hurried him through. ‘He’s going into arrest!’

The waiting room seemed to hold its breath as they disappeared down a corridor. ‘Don’t want to end up like that poor old bugger, do you?’ said the woman, tapping Eudora’s arm. ‘Being poked and prodded when you’re on your way out. May as well take control of your destiny if you can.’

‘But how?’ asked Eudora, curiosity getting the better of her fear.

The woman tapped the side of her nose and winked before reaching into the bag which she wore slung across her front like a lifebelt. She held out a dog-eared leaflet, which Eudora accepted as if it were a dirty sock. ‘Give them a call.’

‘Elsie Howlett?’ called a nurse.

The woman rose steadily to her feet. ‘Take care, Eudora,’ she said without a backward glance.

It wasn’t until much later, after Eudora had undergone rounds of tests and consultations with overworked, red-eyed doctors and breezily efficient nurses, that she realised she’d never told Elsie her name. Eudora supposed she must have overheard her conversation with the paramedic. Against her better judgement and for want of something else to do, Eudora had read Elsie’s leaflet from cover to cover. It had set her brain into overdrive as a frenzy of thoughts rushed through it like a series of fireworks igniting one after another. As the doctor addressed her with hand-wringing sympathy, presumably in response to the fact that she was extremely old and he couldn’t offer a cure, a switch flicked in her mind and a decision was made. When she was finally given permission to leave, she clutched Elsie’s leaflet to her chest and approached one of the nurses.

‘Excuse me, I was wondering if I might be able to see Elsie Howlett, please?’

The nurse’s face fell. ‘Are you a relative?’

‘No. I’m a …’ Eudora searched for the appropriate word, ‘… friend.’

The nurse glanced behind her as she spoke. ‘I’m not really supposed to give information to non-relatives.’

‘Oh right. Well I’m her sister then.’

The weary nurse managed a half-smile. ‘I’m sorry, my love. Elsie passed away about half an hour ago.’

‘Oh,’ said Eudora, squeezing the leaflet into a ball. ‘She died.’

The nurse touched her lightly on the sleeve. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

Eudora looked into her eyes. ‘Don’t be. She was ready to go.’

The nurse nodded uncertainly. ‘You take care.’

As Eudora travelled back from the hospital, blinking into the autumn sunshine from the questionable comfort of the patient transport vehicle, she felt as if she’d been reborn. The NHS now had her in their well-meaning grasp, but Eudora had Elsie’s wisdom and bloody-minded determination on her side. She couldn’t imagine a more potent force.

* * *

Ruth had been another one in the long list of people determined to preserve Eudora’s existence at all costs. She arrived on a drizzly day in October. Eudora had been housebound for nearly a week and was frustrated to the point of fury with her uncooperative joints. When Ruth presented her with the walking stick, Eudora experienced an unexpected wave of fondness for this woman. It was a gift in the truest sense of the word. Her freedom was restored, the outside world hers for the taking. She could start to put her plan into action.

This fondness rapidly dissolved as Ruth produced a folder and a pen from her bag and pulled out the inevitable form.

‘Eu-dora Honey-sett,’ she said as she wrote.

‘With two t’s,’ said Eudora. The misspelling of her name was a lifelong bugbear.

‘And you live alone, Eudora?’

Eudora would have preferred ‘Miss Honeysett’ but managed to stifle her disappointment. ‘Yes.’

‘Any relatives at all?’

‘No.’

Ruth’s expression folded into one of sympathy. ‘Friends?’

‘I have a cat.’

Ruth glanced over at Eudora’s fat, lazy excuse of a feline, who was asleep on the back of the sofa. She smiled. ‘I’m guessing he’s not much help when it comes to shopping or cleaning the house.’

It was meant as a joke but only served to provoke defensiveness in Eudora. ‘I manage,’ she said firmly.

‘I’m sure you do but I want you to know that we offer all kinds of support. I can put you in touch with agencies who offer cleaning and laundry services, or even organise a carer to come in every day.’

Eudora stared at the woman as if she’d suggested a Bacchic orgy. ‘I don’t need any help. Thank you.’

Ruth nodded. It was a knowing nod – a nod that had heard this response many times before from all manner of elderly people like Eudora. ‘Please be assured that the help is there if you need it. I’ll leave one of my cards in case you change your mind.’

Eudora had thrown it straight in the bin as soon as Ruth left. Montgomery the cat curled around her feet, almost tripping her up, as he demanded food by issuing forth a series of loud miaows.

‘We don’t need anyone do we, Montgomery?’ said Eudora, filling his bowl with biscuits. She placed it on the floor and attempted to scratch the cat behind his ears before receiving a sharp nip in response.

* * *

Eudora reaches the leisure centre and is grateful for the anonymity that her swim membership brings. She has a card which enables her to sweep past reception. The only issue is with the card-activated barrier. Eudora loathes and detests all technology and very nearly rescinded her membership when they installed these monstrosities. However, she has become well-practised at the skill of swiping and manages to sail through to the changing rooms with little effort now. She goes to the same changing cubicle, puts her belongings in the same locker and makes her way to the pool, nodding to the swimmers she sees every week whilst blessedly avoiding verbal communication. Once in the pool, she ignores the initial chill, disregards the cheerful young woman who remarks on the temperature of the water and launches herself into aquatic bliss. This is the only place where Eudora feels something akin to joy. For a moment in time, she is weightless and pain-free. She has always been a strong swimmer and glides through the water now with a similar ease to when she swam as a teenager. The aches are still there but they melt into the background as she stretches and reaches her way along the pool.

Eudora doesn’t swim for long – half an hour or so – but it’s enough to bring her what she needs: a sense of purpose and sufficient impetus to face another day. She climbs out of the pool feeling the inevitable weight of reality again as she retrieves her stick and traipses back to the changing room.

As she leaves the leisure centre a while later, she notices two women arguing over a parking space. The air is filled with vibrant expletives. Eudora stares open-mouthed, unable to mask her horror. When did the world get so loud and angry? One of the women notices her.

‘What the fuck are you staring at, Grandma?’ she snarls.

In her younger days, Eudora might have replied, scolded her to stop being rude and respect her elders. But those days are long gone. Eudora can see that this woman is unpredictable and beyond reasoning. You were vulnerable when you were old. Everything is fragile and in danger of breaking.

‘Excuse me,’ mutters Eudora, ducking her head and shrinking away. She hurries as best she can. One of the most frustrating aspects of growing old is the slowing of life’s pace. Up until the age of seventy, Eudora had been able to nip here or pop there, but her nipping and popping days are over. In this age of rush, rush, rush, she is redundant.

She casts a furtive glance over her shoulder. The women are still arguing. One of the leisure centre employees has come out to try and reason with them as a queue of horn-blaring cars forms. Eudora realises her hands are shaking and decides to stop off at the shop, which marks her halfway point to home. Although she dislikes most aspects of modern life, Eudora has nothing but praise for these scaled-down supermarkets, which have appeared on almost every main street in recent times. Not only are they convenient, well-placed and large enough for her to remain anonymous whilst she shops, they also carry the reassuring presence of a security guard.

She nods to this particular gigantic bear of a man standing with arms folded by the front door and breathes in the sacred cool of refrigerated goods. She walks steadily around the store, retrieving a pint of milk before finding herself in front of the bakery display.

Her mother never entertained the idea of shop-bought cakes when Eudora was a child. There was always a homemade sponge or fruitcake in the tin and often half a dozen lemon curd tarts made with leftover pastry. Eudora’s eyes alight on a plastic carton containing what promises to be apple turnovers. A memory flickers in her thoughts bringing with it an unexpected wave of comfort.

She finds herself reaching for the cakes and carrying them to the till before she has time to change her mind.

Eudora continues her journey home with a renewed sense of calm and a secret thrill at her unexpected purchase. On rounding the corner of her street, she is startled by a cacophony of barking as two small dogs encircle Eudora with their leads in a flagrant attempt to up-end her.

‘Chas! Dave! Come here right now!’ The dogs dance back the other way, releasing Eudora, who scowls into the face of their owner. ‘I am so sorry, Miss Honeysett,’ says the man. ‘Pardon my French but these two are little buggers. Are you all right?’

Eudora experiences a conflict of emotions. Her annoyance is abated by his use of her proper name but heightened by his cursing and south-east London accent. Added to which, Eudora has no idea who this man is. She guesses him to be a few years younger than her but probably no more than five. His white hair is thin, his appearance relatively smart – a blue checked shirt with pressed navy trousers. He has laughter lines at the corner of his eyes. She’s never trusted people with laughter lines. ‘I’m quite fine, thank you. Do I know you?’

The man holds out his hand with a smile. ‘Stanley Marcham. I scraped you up off the pavement when you’d had a few too many last year.’ Eudora stares at him in horror. He laughs. ‘I’m joking. But I was there when you had that fall. How are you feeling now?’

Eudora hears the sympathetic concern and wants to be away. ‘Never better. Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me …’

Stanley nods. ‘Of course. Places to go, people to see.’

Eudora sniffs. ‘Quite. Good day.’

‘Mind how you go.’

Exhaustion overwhelms Eudora like a wave as she closes the front door on the world. She manages to make some tea and a sandwich and carry them into the lounge before sinking into her chair with relief.

She wakes hours later, tea cold, sandwich untouched, limbs heavy with weariness. Sleep never seems to refresh her these days. It merely keeps her going until the next rest. As her mind returns to full consciousness, she remembers the envelope and the pastry. This is sufficient motivation for her to leave her chair and fetch the items along with a fresh cup of tea. As Eudora moves around the kitchen, she is struck by a thought. Rummaging in the back of a drawer, she finds what she’s looking for. Returning to the living room, she pushes the candle into the turnover and sparks a match. Its flame illuminates the framed photograph behind of her mother and father with five-year-old Eudora sandwiched between them.

‘Happy birthday, Eudora,’ she whispers before blowing out the light and making a silent wish for the future. She removes the candle and picks up the turnover for a bite. It’s syrupy sweet but she’s hungry and devours half of it before drinking a mouthful of tea to dilute the taste. Eudora wipes her hands and mouth on a handkerchief and picks up the envelope. This is what she’s been waiting for. This is her real birthday treat.

She retrieves the letter opener, which had been her father’s. It’s shaped like a small silver sword. Eudora can remember being fascinated by it as a child but never allowed to touch it. She slices through the envelope and pulls out a stapled sheaf of pages. Her heart quickens as she reads the heading:

Klinik Lebenswahl – offering choice and dignity in death as in life.

She takes a bite from the half-eaten pastry, turns the page and begins to read.

* * *

1940, Lyons Tea Shop, Piccadilly

‘Choose anything you like. Anything at all.’ Albert Honeysett’s eyes glittered with possibility.

‘Are you sure, Daddy? Don’t we need to eat in moderation?’ Eudora had read this on a poster. She wasn’t sure what it meant but it sounded important.

Her father laughed. The laugh was huge and warm and always felt to Eudora like an embrace. ‘Dearest Dora,’ he said. ‘Always so good and kind. Don’t worry. I put in a call to Mr Churchill only this morning and he said that as it’s your birthday, you’re allowed a special treat.’

Eudora giggled. ‘In that case, please may I have one of the fancy pastries and a glass of lemon cordial?’

‘An excellent choice,’ declared Albert, nodding to the waitress that they were ready.

Eudora sat up straighter in her chair with her hands in her lap and peered around at their fellow diners. Apart from a scattering of men in uniform, you would hardly have known there was a war on. She admired the women with their smart hair and neat appearance. She smoothed down her own wrinkled dress – a baggy gingham affair with misshapen collars, which her mother had made from an old tablecloth.