The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

by Matson Taylor

  Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat.

  The back door is beaten with the ferocity of the guns of The Guns of Navarone.

  (Our house is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that give a fright but hurt not.)

  ‘Yoo hoo. Only us,’ says Vera, Christine’s mum, coming in and immediately parking her handbag on the kitchen table. Mrs Swithenbank, her friend, is just behind, obviously struggling, her ample frame wrapped – despite the balmy weather – in several layers of black clothing.

  (The two of them together look like a seaside variety act: Mrs Swithenbank, a tall, wide-berthed battlecruiser whose limbs have a heft that defy gravity; and Vera, small and angular, as thin as a thistle and just as spiky.)

  ‘Oooh, Evie, love, could you get me some water? I’m parched,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, balancing on a small kitchen chair that seems inadequate to the task. ‘It’s this weather. I’m not built for it. It’s like the bloomin’ tropics.’ She wipes her forehead with a little hanky. ‘Look at me,’ she says, dabbing at her cheeks. ‘I’ve had enough of this heat. I’m sweating like a fat lass in a chippy.’

  Mrs Swithenbank has a way with words. She could be a poet.

  ‘Vera, Doris, lovely to see you,’ says Arthur. ‘Have a seat, Vera.’

  ‘I’ll stand thanks, Arthur,’ says Vera. ‘Better for my varicose veins.’

  We hear a lot about Vera’s varicose veins. They are a bottomless font of conversation for her, coming in just behind the weather, the good old days, foreigners and, well out in front, ‘our Christine’. (‘Our Christine’, another only child, could well be singlehandedly to blame for the terrible reputation of the rest of us.)

  Vera’s varicose veins, we are repeatedly told, give her a lot of gyp. She is a martyr to them. She doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve them but we’re all pretty sure the war and the Germans have something to do with it because, according to Vera, the war and the Germans seem to be to blame for almost everything.

  Where will the conversation go from here?

  ‘Nice out,’ says Arthur, falling back on a classic.

  ‘Aye, nice out,’ replies Vera. ‘They say tomorrow’ll be even hotter.’

  This is not good news for Mrs Swithenbank and her hanky. ‘Even hotter?’ she exclaims. ‘Oooh, I’m sweltering already. If I’d wanted to live in a hot country, I’d have married Mussolini.’ (This would have changed the course of world history considerably. There’s no way Mrs Swithenbank would have let Mussolini get mixed up with Hitler. She says you can never trust a vegetarian.)

  While all this has been going on, I’ve been getting Mrs Swithenbank a glass of cold water.

  ‘Here you are, Mrs Swithenbank,’ I say, putting it down on the table in front of her.

  ‘I do wish you’d call me Doris, love,’ she replies.

  I will never be able to do this. Mrs Swithenbank has the stately presence, not to mention volume, of a Spanish galleon – possibly even a whole armada. She is no Doris. She will forever be Mrs Swithenbank to me. Calling her Doris would be like calling the Queen ‘Liz’.

  Every time I see Vera and Mrs Swithenbank together, I’m struck by how very different women are. The two of them are like chalk and cheese – a scrawny little piece of chalk and a tremendously oversized round of stilton. How many different versions of Woman can there be?

  (And, even more importantly, which version will I be?)

  Arthur, clearly uncomfortable with the number of women in the room, is trying to make polite chit-chat with Vera and Mrs Swithenbank, but he’s struggling. He’s very much a man’s man. The female sex remains pretty much a mystery to him. The constant stream of village gossip provided by the two women might as well be in Swahili for all the sense it must be making to Arthur. He valiantly attempts to keep up, feigning interest in Mrs Swithenbank’s neighbour’s pools win (£38 4s 2d) and the ‘goings on’ at number 28, but I can tell that he’s actually just straining to hear the cricket. When it’s his turn to contribute to the conversation he is gossip-free and flounders quite badly but recovers by telling a number of outright lies about the quality of Christine’s cooking.

  As soon as he’s spent a polite-enough amount of time with Vera and Mrs Swithenbank, Arthur makes his excuses and disappears off to his study, leaving me with the Yorkshire Inquisition. ‘So then, Evie, love, tell me . . . are you courting yet?’ asks Mrs

  Swithenbank, getting straight down to business.

  Courting is very important for a girl around here. We’re not allowed to court (that would make you a hussy) but we are expected either to be courted (like in the olden days) or be courting (v. modern, like Princess Margaret). The only women who do not have to worry about being courted are:

  1. Married women

  2. Old women

  3. Ugly women

  To be honest, the last thing I want is to be courted by a boy from the village. Most of the boys around here are a waste of time, not to mention brutish and feckless (adjective – lacking initiative or strength of character). I will wait for Adam Faith or, if I can’t have him, at least someone who comes from more sophisticated climes, like Leeds. Anyway, I’m not sure where Mrs Swithenbank expects me to have conjured up a boyfriend from since I last saw her as I’ve been in hospital for the past four weeks (which I remind her).

  ‘Aye, love, I know that, but what about all those nice doctors in the hospital? There must have been some young ’uns? You could do a lot worse than getting yourself a doctor, you know.’

  ‘Like Dr Dawson in Emergency – Ward 10,’ pipes up Vera. ‘He’s very nice. Lovely eyes. Mind you, Evie, I’m sorry, love, but I don’t think you’ve got much chance of getting a doctor. They usually go for the petite, bubbly type.’

  Charming. (I am as tall as a tree, remember.)

  ‘Don’t be so daft, Vera. They’d be lucky to have her!’ says Mrs Swithenbank.

  Vera, never one for tact, presses on. ‘I just meant, Doris, that Evie’s a bit tall. Men don’t like that. They like to feel in charge. She needs to wear something a bit more, well, shortening.’

  Shortening? What clothes are shortening? Maybe she’s seen a pair of magic Alice-in-Wonderland pedal pushers – wear me and shrink.

  ‘And she should smile more. She’ll be up against all those nurses. It’s like a bear pit in some hospitals. They’re all after a doctor, you know. It’s the only reason they go into nursing.’

  ‘What about Florence Nightingale?’ I ask.

  Vera gives me a Funny Look, then carries on.

  ‘Yes, I can see you as a nurse. Much better than all this daft talk about going back to school. What’s the point of more bloody exams? I mean, what have exams ever done to help anyone?’

  ‘But, Vera,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, ‘Evie’s a clever young lass. Happen she’s going to be one of these modern women needing qualifications.’

  ‘Modern women! I’m a modern woman,’ says Vera, adjusting her hairnet, ‘and I get by quite happily with absolutely no qualifications. It’s high time Evie stopped beggaring around at school and got a job. Our Christine was working before she even left school and look how well she’s done for herself.’

  Oh.

  What does Vera mean Christine’s done well for herself? Does she mean by invading our home and bewitching Arthur? Surely Christine will just be a temporary aberration in our otherwise calm and pastel-free lives?

  With perfect timing, Christine walks into the room.

  A sickly fug of lavender accompanies her. Is it possible to suffocate on Yardley? Mrs Swithenbank gets her hanky back out of her handbag and begins wafting it in front of her nose.

  ‘We were just asking Evie if she’s started thinking about a job yet, love,’ says Vera.

  Christine, narrowing her eyes, takes a step forward and surveys the battlefield.

  ‘Of course she wants a job. Who doesn’t?’

  (Well, Christine for a start.)

  ‘She’d have her own money and be able to get her own place. It can’t be nice being cram
ped up in that tiny little room all day and night,’ she says, half-heartedly waving her hand around in the vague direction of my bedroom upstairs.

  ‘Who says I’m cramped up?’ I ask. I’ve got the run of the whole house, not to mention nearly a hundred acres of fields, three barns and a stream full of Great Crested newts. I certainly don’t feel cramped up.

  Annoyed, yes. But not cramped.

  Christine pulls a face.

  ‘Oh, I just thought you might be a bit squashed up there,’ she replies, walking across the kitchen. ‘Well, we’re all living on top of each other, aren’t we? Three sardines in a battered old tin. All these pokey little rooms. I thought you’d like to . . . Owwww. That bloody bear.’

  Christine starts hopping around on one foot, red faced and sweary. She’s stubbed her toe (again) on a large ceramic bear that stands next to the bin.

  ‘For God’s sake. How many times have I said to get rid of it?’

  Lots.

  The bear is awful but ever since I found out Christine hates it, I’ve become very attached to it. It’s meant to be a dancing bear, standing on its hind legs (as tall as a chair). I don’t know what dance it’s meant to be doing but it isn’t the Twist or the Shimmy; it doesn’t even look like it could manage the Hokey Cokey to be honest. My mother inherited it from her father and, apparently, she hated it too (that’s why he’s in the corner next to the bin).

  ‘I’m going to throw this bloody thing out once and for all,’ Christine says.

  She tries to pick it up but fails to budge it.

  ‘Leave it,’ I say. ‘I really like it.’

  ‘Really like it?’ says Christine, screwing up her face like a cabbage.

  ‘Yeah, it’s lovely,’ I lie.

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s horrible.’

  Christine’s right. It is horrible. But not as horrible as Christine.

  ‘He’s really handsome. Look at his distinguished face.’

  (To be honest, the bear looks a bit simple and he’s got funny eyes.)

  ‘What? Are you crackers?’

  ‘And he’s very useful.’

  ‘Useful?’ says Christine, crossing her arms. ‘How?’

  I have a quick look round the kitchen, taking in the various rural-scened plates on the walls, the rusty tin of Vim next to the sink and the unused brass cooking utensils dangling in the alcove.

  ‘Cap holder,’ I say, spotting one of Arthur’s flat caps on the back of a chair. I take the cap and pop it on the bear, making him look a bit like Lenin. ‘There, you see. Very useful.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft,’ she says. ‘I want it out of here. Now.’

  ‘And I want it in here,’ I reply. ‘Now.’

  We stare at each other, locked in mortal combat like two noble warriors. Well, one noble warrior and one horrible old lavender-breathing dragon.

  Christine looks round the room for help but Vera and Mrs Swithenbank are sat at the other end of the table deep in conversation about the price of faggots. She tuts, gives me a Look, and then stomps out the room, knocking the cap off the bear as she walks past.

  I pick the cap up, put it back on the bear and smile, happy in our little victory.

  *

  By the time Christine comes back in, Vera and Mrs Swithenbank are in the final stages of their pre-Bingo routine. You can feel the air of anticipation. Vera, busy fiddling with her hairnet and glancing at her watch, is clearly the most excited. For Vera, Wednesday evening bingo offers all the glamour of the Monte Carlo Casino for the price of two halves of stout and a bag of pork scratchings. Mrs Swithenbank, managing to keep her excitement much more under control, is hoisting up the prodigious (but sagging) gusset of her thick tights (‘just getting everything ready for t’car journey’).

  I, meanwhile, have started washing up and am trying to fish out some nasty-looking chunks of ham gristle from the washing up bowl.

  ‘Oh, Cinderella,’ says Christine, coming over to the sink. ‘Don’t worry, one day you shall go to the ball!’ She laughs, clearly very pleased with her joke. ‘But not tonight. You’d love bingo, though. Number three, cup of tea,’ she shouts, going all theatrical. ‘Sweet sixteen, never been kissed. Forty four, droopy drawers. See, it’s made for you.’ She crosses her arms, smirking. ‘It’s all part of growing up and becoming a woman, you know.’

  Not to me it isn’t. I can’t think of anything worse than sitting in a room for two hours and competitively listening to numbers. Is this what lies ahead of me? There must be more to being a Woman than Wednesday night bingo.

  And, anyway, if I’m Cinderella, who does that make Christine?

  Arthur pops his head round the kitchen door and tells us ‘ladies’ that he’s going to get the Land Rover started.

  Vera looks extremely relieved. She has checked her watch an unnatural number of times in the past few minutes and has been looking even more manic than usual. I think bingo might be addictive, like cigarettes and jelly babies. (If bingo were ever wiped off the face of the earth, I’m sure Vera would miss it far more than she misses her husband, Derek, who was also wiped off the face of the earth when his ship hit a German mine in the middle of the Atlantic in 1940.)

  Christine looks up from her compact. ‘Ay, come here,’ she says to Arthur, gesturing with her head and doing her best sultry smile (thinking she looks like Jane Russell but actually looking about as sultry as Bertrand or Jack). ‘Your tie’s not straight. Let me sort it out for you.’

  She puts her hands up to Arthur’s tie and wiggles it around a bit. Arthur tenses up then glances down at Christine and visibly relaxes. She sorts out his tie, puts her hand up to his cheek and strokes it gently. ‘There, that’s better,’ she says, simpering up at him. ‘Much smarter. You look like Cary Grant now.’ And she brushes some imaginary crumbs off his shoulders.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ says Arthur, squeezing her hand.

  ‘You’re welcome. I’m glad I have my uses. And it’s nice to see you looking so handsome. I must be the luckiest girl in Yorkshire.’ She winks at Arthur. ‘And thanks again for taking us tonight. You’re my knight in shining armour.’ And she taps him on the bum. (I feel physically sick.)

  ‘Now, go and get the car started,’ she goes on, taking her compact back out and checking her lipstick. ‘We’ll be with you in a sec.’

  *

  ‘Are we all ready, then?’ says Mrs Swithenbank, giving her tights one last tug. ‘Time for off. It’s my lucky night tonight. I can feel it in my waters.’

  ‘Think you’re going to get the big one tonight then, Doris?’ says Christine. ‘Twenty quid’d come in very handy. What would you do with it?’

  ‘Oh, I’d be straight into Hull for a better telly. One of those new big ones. And I’d get a nice new cabinet for it too. And a wireless for the bedroom.’

  ‘Your house’ll be like a Rediffusion showroom, Doris,’ says Vera. ‘It can’t be good for you, all those tubes and knobs and invisible rays. I’d have the house done up. New everything. Fancy new settee and armchair. And some nice china knick-knacks.’

  ‘Ooooh yes,’ says Christine, clearly invigorated by the prospect of new china knick-knacks. ‘We could go up to York and get some proper posh ones.’

  ‘What about you, Evie, love?’ asks Mrs Swithenbank. ‘What would you get with twenty pounds?’

  What would I get? Would twenty pounds be enough to fly somewhere in a plane? Somewhere hot and exotic. Spain, perhaps, or Italy. I could walk barefoot on a warm beach and feel the sand in my toes and wear a big straw hat and stripy top. Or maybe go to London and stop in a really nice hotel and eat oysters and go to parties with Nancy Sinatra and Sofia Loren. Would twenty pounds be enough for that? I’m too embarrassed to say either of these things though and so just end up saying I’d get a tartan skirt and some books, and then save the rest.

  ‘Lovely,’ says Christine, flatly.

  ‘And what about you then, Christine, love?’ asks Vera in an uncharacteristically sparkly voice. ‘What would you get?’r />
  ‘Well . . . what would I get? I think I’d get a few little things for my bottom drawer. A nice tablecloth, perhaps, and some fancy serviettes. Maybe some underwear too, something a bit slinky. And a new dress. A lovely one with lots of ruches and bows.’ She waves her hands extravagantly around her waist and thighs. ‘Something beautiful and big and . . .’

  Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

  She is cut off by the sound of the Land Rover’s horn, signalling the chauffeur’s impatience to get going. The three of them grab their handbags and bustle out of the kitchen whooping and laughing. Mrs Swithenbank comes over to me on her way out and gives my wet hands a little squeeze.

  ‘Enjoy your book,’ shouts Christine as she leaves. ‘Laxatives bloody Saga!’

  And the door closes.

  Phew. A bit of peace and quiet at last.

  FOUR

  Thursday 12 July 1962

  It’s the morning after bingo night. Mrs Swithenbank’s dreams of bingo glory came to nothing (the £20 jackpot went to a well-upholstered lady from Goole), but Vera won a new chip pan and apparently spent all night clinging on to it as if it were the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

  I spent all night thinking about Christine. She’s always buying new Things. Or, rather, getting Arthur to buy her new Things. The problem is, the more Things Christine buys, the harder it’s going to be to get rid of her. Her clothes, the Tupperware and china knick-knacks, her Mantovani LPs, the horrible electric cooker – they’re all mini anchors, weighing her down and making her immovable. Like a septic tank.

  ‘Mini anchors?’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, our wonderful old neighbour. I’ve popped round to cheer myself up (as I often do). She’s currently busy folding buttercream in a huge caramel-coloured mixing bowl and, even though I’ve now officially Grown Up, I’m hoping she’ll still let me give the bowl and wooden spoon a good finger-clean.

  Mrs Scott-Pym is a balm to life. She has the magical ability to make time stand still (in a good way) and cheer me up if I’m feeling stretched or out of sorts. I have no idea how she manages to be so comforting but I think it might be a combination of: