My Name is Eva

by Suzanne Goldring

Genres: Historical Fiction; War & Military; Women's Fiction; Historical Romance; 20th Century Romance; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

You can pay a terrible price for keeping a promise… Evelyn Taylor-Clarke sits in her chair at Forest Lawns Care Home in the heart of the English countryside, surrounded by residents with minds not as sharp as hers. It would be easy to dismiss Evelyn as a muddled old woman, but her lipstick is applied perfectly, and her buttons done up correctly. Because Evelyn is a woman with secrets and Evelyn remembers everything. She can never forget the promise she made to the love of her life, to discover the truth about the mission that led to his death, no matter what it cost her… When Evelyn’s niece Pat opens an old biscuit tin to find a photo of a small girl with a red ball entitled ‘Liese, 1951’ and a passport in another name, she has some questions for her aunt. And Evelyn is transported back to a place in Germany known as ‘The Forbidden Village,’ where a woman who called herself Eva went where no one else dared, amongst shivering prisoners, to find the man who gambled with her husband’s life… A gripping, haunting and compelling read about love, courage and betrayal set in the war-battered landscape of Germany. Fans of The Letter, The Alice Network and The Nightingale will be hooked. Readers are hooked on My Name is Eva: ‘Could not put this book down, and heaven help anyone that tried to disturb my reading !!…I absolutely loved this book !…I laughed, I cried, I cheered , I sympathized all because of Evelyn…I could so picture the setting and as Evelyn sets out to fool everyone, I thought you go girl !!... I don't want to say anything else but what a fantastic read… I can't recommend this book enough !!’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars ‘What a magnificent read! Eva is amazing. One of the best characters in a book EVER! What a fantastic, beautiful, heart-wrenching tale, incredibly told. I absolutely loved every single page. I sat for the last 20% of the book in tears, sad but happy tears. An absolutely beautiful book.’ Kim the Bookworm, 5 stars ‘A poignant and evocative story of love, betrayal and bravery that kept me page turning and completely engrossed from start to finish. Loved it and would definitely recommend.’ NetGalley Reviewer, 5 stars ‘A phenomenal story of courage, love, murder and all the atrocities that go with war. Eva is an extraordinary character, strong, loyal, smart, funny, loving, and brave. A phenomenal read!!’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars ‘This may be my new favorite book!!!! I absolutely love the premise of the heroine faking dementia in her retirement home to cover up her knowledge of (and possible involvement in) questionable activities centering around WWII events. The tempo of this novel was perfect-- kept me wondering until the very last page! ’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars ‘Absolutely loved this book and its riveting plot!... The author has successfully penned a debut novel that I would highly recommend without any hesitation. An excellent debut novel from Suzanne Goldring and I look forward to reading more of her work.’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars ‘ This book was excellent! Totally kept my attention and I wanted to find out what would become of the main characters. Highly recommended.’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars ‘ Everything about this book is amazing. I love the main character Eva, the way the author integrates the past with the present, and the emotional plot that kept me hooked from the beginning to the end. I’ve read over 30 historical fiction novels in the past year and this one is definitely in my top 10.’ Netgalley Reviewer, 5 stars

Release date: September 11, 2019

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 324

Sample

We Never Have Fish

Mrs Evelyn Taylor-Clarke, Evie to loved ones long gone, Eva for a brief but special time and Hilda, during her temporary stay in the nursing home (where staff always used the first Christian name recorded on patient notes), is thinking. Danielle, catering manager at the Forest Lawns Care Home, will be back again soon with her clipboard of menus, asking her to decide what she would like for lunch.

‘What will you have today, Mrs T-C?’ she’ll say, tapping her board with her ready pen, impatient for a decision.

The care home caters very well for its residents, with three options of main course every day for lunch and two choices at teatime, which Evelyn still prefers to call supper.

Should she choose the chicken or the fish today? Fish or chicken? What should it be? Evelyn knows she had fish yesterday, cod mornay it was, with a lovely cheese sauce and mashed potatoes. The day before she chose smoked haddock with a soft-poached egg and spinach. Today, there is a choice of fish pie, vegetarian lasagne or roast chicken, but it might be helpful if she tells Danielle she wants fish again and complains that she hasn’t had any for a very long time.

Pat is coming again this afternoon and there might be more questions. She has been turning up with questions ever since she began preparing to put the estate on the market. She never had any questions while Evelyn still lived at Kingsley Manor – in fact, she hardly ever visited – but that was before she had power of attorney and thought she knew what was best.

The drawing room is quiet this morning; only a couple of other residents have settled themselves in the high-seated, winged armchairs after breakfast. Evelyn shakes her Daily Telegraph to straighten the pages and turns to the back. She always reads the obituaries first, although most of her acquaintances are long gone – she has outlived so many. Then she turns to the weather forecast and the crossword. She studies the clues, both those across and those down, turning the newly sharpened pencil in her fingers. She likes to keep her pencils dagger-sharp. Yesterday, she asked Sarah, the Forest Lawns activities organiser, for a supply of pencils with rubbers. That’s what she needs, sharp pencils with erasers attached to the end, just like they all had when she was training in the war. Doesn’t anyone use them any more? So much better when you want to correct a mistake. But it wasn’t a mistake, was it? Very little in Evelyn’s life has been a mistake, apart from the one she can never forget.

With a quick light hand, despite her arthritis, Evelyn fills in the clues with pencil. Really, Mr Thursday is hardly challenging; even the anagrams are easily solved. She will have to pretend again, so once she has completed the puzzle, she finds a pen in her patent leather handbag and then scribbles over the pencilled words in each white square of the grid with black ink, changing the letters so they no longer link up in a tidy and comprehensible pattern; they are no longer words, just nonsense.

On Monday, she noticed Fay, one of the regular nurses, glancing at the paper after she had finished rewriting the words in the puzzle. She looked at the crossword, frowned, then gave Evelyn a pitying smile and said, ‘Well done, Mrs T-C. You’re still keeping your hand in, I see.’ And Evelyn smiled back, but her smile was for herself, for her own amusement, at the thought that Fay would never realise she had sprinkled the squares with the odd letter from the Cyrillic alphabet, and nor did she notice when Evelyn occasionally popped in a word or two of German.

Last week, waking from a nap in the lounge, Evelyn had decided to have fun when Mary brought her a cup of afternoon tea. ‘Danke, liebling,’ she said. ‘Du bist sehr gut für mich.’ And she had enjoyed seeing the woman’s look of confusion and relished hearing the words she spoke to her colleague standing by the tea trolley, pouring more cups for other residents slumped in their armchairs. ‘Bless her,’ Mary had said. ‘She must be dreaming she’s back in the Old Country.’ And the two women cast fond looks at her as they poured and stirred the tea and placed mugs in the shaking hands of those who were unsteady with cups and saucers.

And now Evelyn hears the rattle of the morning trolley, bearing coffee, biscuits and the post. The Forest Lawns Care Home is very predictable and every hour of the day has a function. Wednesday morning it was chapel and every Thursday afternoon a young physiotherapist in Lycra leggings appears in the drawing room and encourages everyone to try some simple armchair exercises. ‘Stretch out, stretch up and flex those toes,’ she repeats, as they follow her instructions with trembling limbs. For those residents whose memories are unreliable, routine is comforting, reassuring. It helps them to feel safe in an increasingly uncertain world, which shrinks day by day until only the familiar surrounds them.

Evelyn’s neighbour, Phyllis, is awake in her armchair and is turning the pages of Good Housekeeping, the October edition, full of recipes for puddings and preserves made with autumn fruits. Phyllis is humming ‘We’ll Meet Again’ as she flicks over the pages with a dampened forefinger. She is quite happy, although Evelyn is tiring of that much-repeated tune and wishes she would hum something else or stop humming altogether. It might stop if she snatched the magazine away. Phyllis has been pawing that issue for two weeks now and can’t possibly remember reading any of the articles. As she says herself, quite cheerfully, ‘I can start reading it and forget what it’s all about by the time I get to the bottom of the page.’

But Evelyn doesn’t take the magazine away, much as she would like to. Instead, she observes Phyllis, just as she observes other residents whose minds are not as sharp as they once were. They come and go, these neighbours; some disappear in the night when an ambulance calls, never to return. But however short their period of residence at the home, she can remember all their names, though she doubts any of them could recall hers. Over there, across the room is Maureen Philips, a round rosy apple of a woman, who has an appetite for sweet things. She will immediately eat any treats brought by visitors, complaining that she hasn’t had anything to eat at all that day, and is always determined to win the chocolate bar prize in musical bingo. Near the fireplace sits Horace Wilson, in his dark blue blazer and flannels, telling anyone who will listen that he is going home in the morning; and Wilf Stevens dozes, then often looks up from his knees and asks if anyone has taken Molly out for her morning walk yet.

Evelyn watches them all, storing the signs of vagueness, their slack confusion, for future use. Take note, Evelyn, take note, she tells herself. See how Maureen pauses before she answers questions, look how Wilf is proudly showing his pocket watch to the nurse again, telling her it was awarded to him for a lifetime of service. Horace can’t choose what he will have for lunch and asks again and again if he had breakfast today. Repetition and indecision are your defence, Evelyn. But she thinks she won’t let herself decline completely. She will still have her hair set when the hairdresser calls round once a week, she will dress with care, as far as she is able, but maybe she will let a button or two miss their buttonholes, sometimes wear odd shoes or even misapply her lipstick. No, that would be going too far – as long as she is able, she will colour her lips and her Cupid’s bow, less defined than it once was when it was described as the ‘kiss of an angel’. No, lipstick will be the last thing to go.

14 October 1939

My dearest darling Hugh,

Mama has written to me again, asking me to give up my job here and go home. She is worried about the raids, I know, but I worry I will die of boredom while you are away being heroic if I have to abandon my at least gossip-filled office life and my evenings with the girls for the tediously safe hills of Surrey. I adore being back at Kingsley, you know I do, but I don’t know how Mama thinks I would fill my days when she and Mrs Glazier are totally in charge of providing for the household and probably the entire village too, knowing them.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I am not going to be one to sit around knitting socks (though I’d knit pair after pair of dreary khaki socks for you, my darling, if I thought it would help) but I do so want to ‘do my bit’. I wish you would change your mind and agree that I should join the Wrens or something. I don’t see how that could be an unsuitable occupation for your wife, and it certainly couldn’t be any more dangerous than staying here in London in the flat. I must say, I really rather like the Wrens uniform – well, their darling little hats, at least.

If things in London get much worse I may make the effort to spend more nights at Kingsley (though if I do, Mama will never leave off asking me to stay), but don’t ask me to abandon my London life completely, as it helps me to feel more like a proper grown-up married woman while you are away in France.

In your last letter you asked me to look after McNeil when he arrives in London, so I have alerted Grace and Audrey as they are not sweethearts with any fellows as yet and will be eager to take him under their ‘wings’ as it were. I hope he will be man enough to withstand their enthusiastic attentions!

Well, darling, I must sign off now as Miss Harper has been giving me stern looks for at least five minutes. She clearly thinks I should have finished my lunch break and returned to my work. What she would think if she realised I was using company paper as well, I dread to think.

Your ever-loving wife,

Evie xxxxxxx

Ps I love you

Everything In Its Place

Evelyn’s room at Forest Lawns has a view of the garden. She was determined that if she had to live in a care home then she would not be completely separated from her lifelong love of gardening. She might no longer be able to kneel to weed herbaceous borders, hack at overgrown honeysuckle or double-dig a vegetable plot, but she can still offer advice on the pruning code for different varieties of clematis, suggest the removal of old hellebore leaves to reveal the budding flowers or recommend a supplement to improve a sickly yellow camellia. But now she wonders, should this knowledge also still be within her grasp?

She stands by the window gazing at the small improvements, which have been made at her suggestion since her arrival early in the year, after that final critical fall. The hot late-summer border filled with blood-red crocosmia, orange heleniums and burgundy sunflowers was a great success after just one season. Under the oldest oak tree a newly planted carpet of pale narcissi will emerge in spring, but for now a sprinkling of deep-pink miniature cyclamen brings a shot of colour to that corner of the garden.

But do I really have to pretend I can’t remember the Latin name for wormwood or the right time to plant tulip bulbs? And am I going to have to act as if all that preciously grown knowledge is now lost to me?

A gardener is blowing the fallen leaves into heaps, then scooping them up with two boards between his hands into a barrow. She can see a thin stream of smoke spiralling from the farthest corner of the grounds. He should be composting those leaves, she thinks. Leaf mould is so good for the garden. Helped me establish lily-of-the-valley in several awkward spots.

But Pat is coming soon for her afternoon visit and Evelyn must be ready. She tidies a hair that has strayed from her weekly shampoo and set, looking at her reflection in the mirror of the dressing table that stood in her mother’s bedroom for as long as she can remember, oh, ninety years probably. It must be well over a hundred and fifty years old. The mirror is framed in a mahogany stand, and has three sections, with a little drawer in the middle for Evelyn’s hairpins and odd buttons. She opens it every day, after the cleaner has whisked around the room with her duster, to check that a particularly special button is still there, untouched in its little box.

On either side, on the polished surface, on linen mats embroidered by a long-dead relative, are silver brushes and a sturdy hatpin, which Evelyn tells everyone is an old letter opener. They’d never guess why it was issued to her and she laughs inside at comments about such an indelicate hatpin. On the middle mat lies a silver-backed mirror, engraved with the initials M.M.H., matching those on the brushes. ‘Mama’s initials,’ Evelyn murmurs, ‘Marjanna Maria Hutchinson,’ tracing the curling letters with the tip of her finger. She holds the hairbrush to her nose, and it seems to her that deep within the bristles there is still the faint scent of lavender water.

She thinks of Mama often when she sits here to brush her hair, powder her nose, apply some cold cream. ‘A lady always has a fresh handkerchief,’ her elegant mother would say, admonishing the child before her, with grass seed in her hair and grazed knees, as she brought a clean square of lace-edged linen from her pocket to wipe her daughter’s smeared and grimy face.

Evelyn still has some delicate hankies, but they are more for show than practical use; a wisp to tuck into a cuff, a message to drop into a handbag. Everyone uses tissues now. Much more practical, but so much less significant, Evelyn thinks. No one’s going to convey anything other than germs with a dropped tissue; people will shy away from it or throw it in the bin.

A last check reassures her that she is presentable. Her hair is tidy, her lipstick is red and she blots it to avoid smudging. So common leaving marks on cups. But she lets her collar crumple and slip inside her cardigan, so Pat can fuss and straighten it for herself.

Evelyn steadies herself with her walking frame as she rises from the dressing table stool, then checks that all the drawers in her room are closed. Such a blessing that she was able to bring her own furniture here and didn’t have to accept the light oak and beech furnishings used in most of the home’s other rooms. Not the bed, of course; they like residents to have beds that can be adjusted when there are problems and Evelyn now has a rippling wobbling water mattress to soothe her aches and pains. Sometimes she tells herself it is talking to her as she turns in the night and it automatically bubbles and readjusts to her position. But the other furniture, the dark mahogany that gleams and tells her if any hands other than hers have pried, that bears traces of white talcum powder (so much more convenient than a slip of paper), the chest of drawers, bedside cupboard, dressing table and mirror, are all old friends from home and glow with remembered firelight.

A final look reassures Evelyn that all will be the same when she returns. She bids goodbye to the silver-framed photograph of the handsome man on her bedside table and checks that the photo she always keeps hidden is safely stowed in the drawer beneath, then she shuffles into the corridor with her walking frame to meet her niece.

16 December 1939

My darling,

Thank you so, so much for the gift of the L’Opera perfume and for the beautiful little manicure set. How you are able to find such treasures at the present time, when you and all the boys are so short of essential clothing, I cannot imagine. All the girls here are madly knitting and I have sworn to join their ranks although I fear their efforts will far outstrip mine. But I cannot bear to think of my darling husband down to his last pair of decent socks and facing the prospect of being barefoot by Christmas. And if, as you say, the Company cobbler is now out of leather, you may be truly barefoot, all of you, before very long.

Now I don’t want to bore you with my own petty grievances when yours are so much greater than mine (I had my shoes mended and bought new stockings), but I have to say I am terribly fed up with this job and keep wishing I was doing something more worthwhile. You know how tired I am of office life and would like a change if I can, despite your objections.

I have been thinking I would like to join the A.T.S (they are paying £2 a week, 1/6 food allowance daily & all uniform & board provided) or the Women’s Land Army (you’ve always said you think I look attractive in jodhpurs) or the River Ambulance or something. So I have decided I will go up on Monday & have a look around. The British School of Motoring are offering special courses at reduced fees for women who will do National Service & the Motor Transport Training Corp said when I enquired that they would place me (where secretarial knowledge was useful) if I could get a driving licence, as they won’t take my word for it that I can already drive. They don’t seem to think that pootling around the estate counts if one is driving important officers around. But wouldn’t it be nice if I could get one of those secretary-cum-chauffeuse jobs to a sweet little general or something? Can’t you just see me in a smart uniform, cap at a jaunty angle and all, saluting as I drive past?

Darling, I suppose it is hard for you to understand why I feel I must ‘do my bit’, but it’s like this. Right now, there are opportunities for doing something different, which will never come again. At least I sincerely trust they won’t, but the fact remains that the opportunities are here now. I know you want me to stay where I am safe, waiting for your return, but this war is not like the last one. Women aren’t just sitting at home knitting, or dashing out with white feathers, they are making a real contribution, I know they are. And it feels as if times are changing for us and I want to be a part of that.

I promise I will let you know how I get on and won’t let them send me anywhere hazardous where I might risk not seeing my darling husband when he is finally home on leave and we can spend some precious hours dreaming of having our very own home in the country one day.

Much love, my darling one, with umpteen kisses,

Yours, Evie xxxxx

Ps I love you xxxxxxx

Keys and Puddings

‘You’ve got your collar all skew-whiff again,’ Pat complains, slipping her hands either side of her aunt’s neck, then turning the collar up and then down again, smoothing the material and pursing her lips. ‘Didn’t you look in the mirror before you left your room?’

‘’Course I did,’ Evelyn says, looking at her niece in her old checked golfing trousers covered in dog hair. ‘Don’t make such a fuss, dear. There’s plenty here worse off than me.’ She nods towards her fellow residents on the far side of the drawing room, asleep in their armchairs.

‘Oh, don’t I just know it! I saw quite a commotion as I was arriving this afternoon. I was standing outside waiting for someone to let me in and there was an old gentleman bashing away at the buttons on the keypad by the door, trying to get out. He was shouting and hollering something about being expected at home for lunch and how he was going to be late. Then one of the staff came along and persuaded him to go back to his room.’

Evelyn sniffs. ‘It’s lucky he didn’t get out then. They’d be in almighty trouble if someone actually escaped.’

‘They certainly would be. It’s their responsibility. I expect they have to change the security codes all the time, just to be on the safe side.’

Evelyn doesn’t correct Pat and tell her she knows the numbers are never changed. One, two, three, four. That’s been the entry code for months, ever since she first arrived at the Forest Lawns Care Home. It shows such a lack of imagination. If she were in charge, she would choose something with a bit of history: 1066, the Battle of Hastings, perhaps, or maybe the Great Fire of London, 1666. That would make it so much more interesting as well as being memorable.

She knows the code is unchanged, because she’s watched the staff tapping at the buttons often enough. If she sees anyone using the keypad as she shuffles through the entrance hall (taking her exercise, she calls it), she deliberately slows down so she can check the code is still the same. She doesn’t like to think that she might not be able to leave when she needs to.

But she can guess why the numbers never change. It’s because the staff think the residents wouldn’t remember the code, even if they were told, so what is the point? Otherwise they’d have to keep reminding each other of the new number and passing it on to approved visitors and volunteers, who are allowed to come and go freely. Too much trouble for them.

Evelyn knows the code, though, but keeps that knowledge to herself. She can’t let Pat suspect or she might wonder how well she remembers other details, so she just says, ‘Probably dear, probably,’ and waits for what might come next.

‘So, have you thought any more about what we were discussing the other day?’ Pat leans forward with an encouraging smile. ‘You know, about the keys?’

Evelyn knows perfectly well what Pat means, but can’t let her think that, so she tries to look mystified before she answers. ‘Keys… what keys are you talking about?’

The smile disappears and Pat frowns. ‘Honestly, it’s so hard trying to get anywhere with you. I asked you on Tuesday if you ever remembered having any keys to that lovely bird’s-eye maple breakfront bookcase. A couple of the drawers are locked and I really don’t want to force them open. It’s such an important and valuable piece of furniture.’

‘It was Mama’s,’ Evelyn murmurs. ‘She kept her letters there. And her diaries. Have you read them?’

‘How can I, if I can’t open the drawers?’

Evelyn’s reply is deliberately slow in coming. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else in there.’

‘You said that last time. But how can you be sure? You can’t remember what you had for lunch half the time. Anyway, you said you’d think about where the keys might be.’

‘Did I?’ Evelyn looks away towards the view of the gardens through the drawing room windows. Smoke is still drifting behind the trees. Anything could be burning there. A bonfire is a very good way of gradually disposing of papers that might prove inconvenient – and other evidence.

‘So, did you think about it? Where the keys might be?’

Evelyn is quiet for a moment, as if she is thinking hard, then says, ‘What about the kitchen drawer? Did you look there? We always threw all sorts of bits and pieces in the kitchen dresser drawer. It was full of junk. They might have slipped down the back.’

‘Of course I tried that drawer, then I tried every other darned drawer in the kitchen, the cellar, the workshop, the whole damn house. Honestly, Aunt Evelyn, the place is a total mess. Please remind me not to leave such a horrendous muddle to my kids when I go.’

‘Then maybe the children would like to have a look ar. . .