My Name is Eva An absolutely gripping and emotional historical novel - Suzanne Goldring Page 0,81

come from a long-dead sheep or a deer carcass, but she took no chances and buried them deep beneath the beech hedge and continued watching the woods.

Sometimes she thought about the dark forests of pine and the drifts of winter around Wildflecken and wondered if they had ever revealed their secrets when the snows thawed in the spring. But at Kingsley Manor, as time passed, in the woods where the saplings grew denser year by year and the briars and brambles sent out long thorny arms that snared intruders, the woodland floor was thick with leaves, fallen twigs and branches and nothing untoward could be seen. And Evelyn kept watch, secure in the knowledge that more than one forest had helped her hide the evidence of her deeds.

57

Evelyn, 10 November 2012

One Small Slip

I always knew that one day it would become too much for me. How many other oldies in their nineties could make regular inspections of acres of land, the way I’ve done for years? Most of them are satisfied with pottering around a small suburban garden, watering a few pots of flowers, or can only manage to walk a short distance to a corner shop for a loaf of bread and a newspaper. Many old ladies – because I still can’t think of myself as old – give up walking anywhere at all and replace outdoor activities with day-long television programmes, gardening with knitting and games of tennis with magazines and a well-cushioned sofa. And very few can whizz through the daily crossword, which I do religiously, along with bridge and editing the parish magazine. My mind must stay agile as well as my body.

As Evelyn grew older, her rounds of the estate became a little less frequent but they were still regular and thorough. Once a week she toured the entire formal garden, which still boasted roses and flowering shrubs in their respective seasons. The herbaceous borders were not so spectacular now that the arthritis in her knees and elbows restricted kneeling and weeding, but the garden hadn’t become totally overgrown, as she had feared as she scraped at the soil with a long-handled hoe.

Once a week she toured a quarter of her acreage in rotation, walking the boundaries and the copses, including Marley’s End, that particularly special wood that had provided such a useful, safe hiding place. Since the sheep had gone, the fields had become dotted with birch and alder saplings and nettles, but there were still paths well trodden by deer, badgers and foxes that Evelyn followed as she toured her estate.

The wood where he lay had grown thick with briars and fallen branches over the years and although Evelyn was sure no sign of him could ever be seen, she still felt obliged to check that he remained well hidden. She reminded herself that it was what, twenty – no, nearly thirty years – since he’d fallen, so there would be little if anything to see; a fragment of fabric perhaps, or a scattering of disjointed bones. The hungry foxes had soon found him and others helped too, birds, beetles and their larvae. All of them came to her assistance in hiding her crime.

For it was a crime, she knew full well. A justified crime in her mind, but a crime nevertheless, and one for which she would pay, causing the family, the estate, the village, great distress, if it were ever discovered. But I cannot bear the thought, she told herself, that the crimes he committed would not be recognised as such if he was ever found. Yet again, his actions would be considered in the light of the duty he had performed for his country; he would be exonerated and probably honoured. So I must continue to be vigilant, despite my advancing years, for as long as I am able.

But finally, one day on her regular round, although she was sprightlier than most her age and even though she was familiar with every inch of her territory, a stray bramble ensnared her ankle and she fell into the undergrowth, injuring her wrist as she tried to save herself. It wasn’t a life-threatening accident, it wasn’t going to keep her out of action for very long, but she recognised that it was a warning of what was to come and realised she must be even more careful.

It’s lucky I’ve fallen here, on a thick floor of dry leaves. If I slipped in the courtyard on the granite flagstones, I’d break a leg