My Name is Eva An absolutely gripping and emotional historical novel - Suzanne Goldring Page 0,61

nice, but it’s not like home.’ She decides it is time for a little drama and grasps her niece’s wrist. ‘I want to go home, Pat. Are you taking me home today?’

‘No, Aunt. Not today. You’re staying here, it’s much better for you. And safer.’

‘But I don’t want to stay here, I want to go home, I want to go back to Kingsley. If you won’t take me there, I’ll call for a taxi. I’d drive myself, but I can’t seem to remember where I parked the car.’

‘Auntie, you haven’t driven in ages. You sold the car years ago. Don’t you remember?’ Pat is looking round for a member of staff. When Evelyn behaves like this, she usually makes a swift departure.

‘I didn’t say you could sell my car. How could you?’

‘You sold it yourself, Auntie. You decided it wasn’t safe for you to be driving any more. I think you did it straight after one of your accidents. You drove through a red light, remember?’

‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. I want my car back again now. I’d find it very useful for getting to the shops.’

‘You don’t need to get to the shops, Aunt. Everything you need is here.’

‘How do you know what I need? I shall go to Waitrose and get my shopping myself.’

‘That happens on Thursdays, doesn’t it? A group of you go shopping? And if you need anything urgently, you know I can get it for you or one of the staff will pick it up for you when they go out.’

Evelyn adopts a calmer tone of voice. ‘Talcum powder. I need talcum powder.’

‘Again, already? I’m sure I brought some in for you only a couple of weeks ago.’

Yes, you did, but you don’t know how useful that powder is and how much I use every day. ‘For my feet,’ she says. ‘The nurses say I have to have it for my feet.’

‘Oh, very well then. I’m going into Sainsbury’s on my way home. I’ll get some there and bring it in next time for you.’

‘Thank you, dear. Make sure it’s Coty, won’t you? I do like powder with a nice scent.’

‘Yes, all right, I’ll get you Coty. Anything else while I’m at it?’

‘Sherry,’ says Evelyn, looking bright and mischievous. ‘I’d like a bottle of sherry to keep in my room. Then when I have a visitor sometimes, I can offer them a nice glass of sherry.’

Pat sighs as she gets up from her chair. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting more sherry glasses next.’

‘That’s a very good idea. I wasn’t going to mention it, but now I think of it, we had some very nice ones at Kingsley. I think there was a set with twisted stems.’ She makes a spiralling gesture with her index finger. ‘Could you bring those in with you as well next time, dear?’

‘Whatever happened to the ruby ones we picked up on your last visit to Kingsley? Have they gone? Oh well, I suppose I can get you some more. Given that I’m sorting out all the contents anyway. It won’t scratch the surface, mind, there’s so much junk there.’

Junk indeed. Beloved possessions of mine, you mean. Now it’s time for the final stroke of genius. ‘And why don’t you leave those old valuations with me, dear? I’d like to take a look through to remind me of all the lovely things we had at home. You don’t need them any more, do you?’

‘Oh, all right then. I’ve got to get up-to-date valuations organised anyway. There you go.’ She drops the pile of reports on the little side table.

‘Thank you, dear. And do make sure it’s dry sherry, by the way. Mama always liked a cream sherry, but I’ve always been partial to a manzanilla. I’m sure you’ll find it easily in Waitrose.’

‘I’m sure I will. Now if that really is all for one day, I simply must be going.’

Pat leans down and kisses her aunt’s cheek, then leaves, while Evelyn recites, ‘Amontillado, oloroso, fino, manzanilla… any of those will do.’ And then she drops her voice because she can hear Pat talking just outside the door to Mary, saying, ‘She seems a bit more with it today. I almost had a proper conversation with her.’ And Mary replies, ‘Oh, they’re like that. One day on and one day off. Like an out-of-tune radio some days. Still, if today’s a good day, we must count our blessings.’

And Evelyn turns the pages of the reports on her lap, counts the figures written