“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-center employees has come out to try and reason with them as a queue of horn-blaring cars forms. Eudora realizes 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 while 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 pastries and carrying them to the register 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 upend 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 corners 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 pastries. 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 a 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.
Eudora would never say it out loud of course but she found the war thrilling; the idea of their heroic soldiers fighting for freedom, and Mr. Churchill leading them to victory, was quite the most exciting thing that had ever happened. She had gone to stay with her mother’s uncle in Suffolk for a while soon after war broke out, but her parents decided that it was safe for her to come back to London. She was sure that it would all be over soon. Life could carry on as it had before the war with their happy family of three.
The waitress appeared moments later with their order, and as Eudora noticed the candle on the top of her cake, she decided that life was perfect.
“Happy birthday,” said the waitress, placing it in front of her.
“Thank you,” replied Eudora.
“Happy birthday, Dora,” said her father. “Make a wish.”
Eudora blew out the candle and closed her eyes. I wish. I wish. I wish this moment could last forever.
The air-raid siren screamed its response. Maybe Hitler’s in charge of wishes today, thought Eudora as her father took her hand and led her to the shelter. It was a squash and a squeeze, but Eudora didn’t mind because she was safe with him. Nothing bad ever happened when Albert Honeysett was around. In the half-light of the shelter, he pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head.