My Name is Eva An absolutely gripping and emotional historical novel - Suzanne Goldring Page 0,39
him ever having had wives, children or mistresses. He was neither a husband, father, grandfather nor a lover; he was just another lonely pensioner, whose achievements were all in the past, living on a reduced income. All he had now after his years of duty was a barren life, shrunk to an austere routine, taking advantage of London’s many free and inexpensive diversions, keeping trim by walking to his club to read their papers, then eating a meagre supper on his own in his sparse flat. He was not the sort to retire to thrifty solitude in the sticks, rearing bantams and growing dahlias, he was too dependent on his status-conscious London habits for that, so he might well be tempted by a rather more sumptuous country residence, befitting a man of his self-perceived stature.
‘Dear Colonel Robinson,’ she wrote, ‘I have checked my diary and find I am indeed going to be in London for the Bach next month. If you would still like to join me for lunch (we’ll go Dutch, I insist), that would be most agreeable.’
Of course it was the address on the headed notepaper that tempted him, even more than the offer of splitting the bill, as she knew it would. The title of Kingsley Manor looks so impressive printed in raised black script at the top of a sheet of watermarked cream Croxley Bond stationery. She guessed he would not be able to resist phoning her to confirm. ‘I’ll make a reservation for twelve noon,’ he said, in his brisk officer tones. ‘That suit you?’
It suited Evelyn very well. She could catch the ten o’clock train, then pause for coffee at Waterloo station, where the ladies’ cloakroom was perfectly respectable. She decided it was important she did not stir any memories he might have of her all those years ago, shamefaced in her khaki uniform. So after checking her hair and touching up her lipstick, she would not walk to the Tate nor browse the fabric remnants in Peter Jones; she would travel to the concert by taxi, arriving chic and elegant in her pale blue mock-Chanel suit, Mama’s largest diamond and sapphire brooch pinned in clear view to one side, her hair set in place, with a raincoat over her arm just in case the weather was unpredictable.
He was ready for her, waiting in the restaurant, gallant, waving her to the spare seat. As she shook his hand, she said, ‘This is quite delightful, Colonel.’
‘Stephen, please.’
She smiled at him. ‘Then you must call me Evelyn.’
‘You’re looking very spring-like,’ he said, casting an eye over her clothes and the brilliant, sparkling brooch.
‘It certainly feels like spring out in the country,’ she said, ‘but even the London parks have a lovely spread of daffodils.’
‘I know. I was walking through St James’s Park only the other day. Tons of daffs. What was it Wordsworth called them?’
‘A host. A host of golden daffodils. Actually, it was his sister who came up with the phrase, apparently.’
‘Really?’ He sniffed in a somewhat disapproving way. ‘Lot of other stuff out on the trees too, I see.’
‘It’s a bit early for cherry blossom. Might it have been magnolias? They’re earlier in London. I always pray mine will wait till the frosts are over.’
‘You certainly seem to be well up on your horticulture.’ He peered at her over his half-moon spectacles as he studied the menu.
‘Just a little. I suppose I grew up with it, having gardens and grounds to care for.’
They ordered and then he said, ‘Tell me about your place, Kingsley Manor. It sounds awfully grand.’
She laughed. ‘Not at all! Well, not to me, anyway. It’s where I grew up, so for me it’s just always been home. And since my parents went, I’ve been able to run it how I like. I’m a widow, so there’s no one to tell me what I can and can’t do.’
‘Sounds splendid. And here am I, a stuffy old bachelor, with nothing to do but cricket matches in summer and concerts the rest of the year.’
‘Well, that would seem lovely too, for a lot of people. But I like the contrast. I’ve got livestock and gardens at home, but the pleasures of London are only ever a short train journey away. Of course, there’s a lot of work involved in managing an old house. Bit like the Forth Bridge, I sometimes think. Tiles slip in storms, trees fall, gutters block and so on and so on.’