The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

by Matson Taylor

  We are taken to a round table next to the French windows. So far we have maintained a dignified silence, but as soon as the staff have us seated and furnished with menus, Vera starts.

  ‘Well, I don’t know who Mrs Fancy Pants on reception thinks she is. Did you see that look she gave us?’

  ‘Snooty old cow,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.

  ‘Doris!’ says Christine. ‘It’s just how people are in places like this. It’s called being refined.’ She smooths the napkin on her knee. ‘It’s a very upper-class establishment, remember.’

  Upper-class establishment? Why is Christine speaking like a holiday tour guide?

  ‘Well, I didn’t like her attitude,’ says Vera. ‘You’d think she’d never been to a privy the way she looked Doris up and down.’

  ‘Aye, I shot through that reception shouting for the lav – she had a face like thunder. Just stood there. No help at all,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, rolling her eyes. ‘Thank God for a little foreign chappie who pointed me in the right direction. I thought I was going to follow through.’

  Christine tuts and gives Mrs Swithenbank a Look.

  ‘Well, we’re all here now,’ says Arthur at his jauntiest. ‘We can just relax and enjoy ourselves, can’t we?’ He smiles at Christine. ‘It’s lovely having you all together.’

  He picks up his menu. ‘Now what would you like? Don’t hold back, this is a celebration after all.’ He glances around the table. ‘Have all three courses if you want.’

  A celebration? All three courses? What’s happened to the financially cautious Yorkshireman that was my father? I notice Christine looking smugly at Vera and feel a sudden urge to whack her with the flower arrangement. I pick up my menu instead.

  Rather than the shiny plastic-coated menus of the Berni Inn, the Royal Hotel’s menus are handwritten on real paper, very thick paper, too, not like the stuff we have at school. And most of the menu appears to be in French. This will not go down well with some on the table.

  I scan the menu, doing my usual trick of going straight to the puddings, and enjoy a moment’s precious silence.

  It’s a very short moment.

  ‘What’s all this?’ says Vera. ‘I think they’ve given me the wrong menu. It’s all foreign. I can’t understand a word.’

  ‘It’s French, Vera,’ says Arthur. ‘A lot of the food here is French.’

  ‘French?’ says Vera. ‘What are they doing with French food? We’re in Beverley.’

  Christine looks up from her menu. I can spot traces of a frown gathering on her face (I know the signs well). ‘It’s a fancy restaurant, Mum. I told you,’ she says. ‘Arthur’s brought us somewhere really nice.’ She turns and does and her best Jayne Mansfield smile at Arthur then turns back to Vera. ‘The French just makes it even fancier. It’s that kind of establishment.’

  I can’t believe she just said ‘establishment’ again. She will be clutching her imaginary pearls next.

  Mrs Swithenbank, meanwhile, has bypassed the French and gone straight for the prices. ‘’Ow much?’ she exclaims, loudly. ‘Three and a tanner for a starter! Ay, Arthur, you’re going to need a mortgage to pay for all this. Have you banged your head?’

  ‘It’s a special occasion, Doris,’ says Christine, curtly. ‘We wanted to push the boat out.’

  I can’t imagine Christine doing much boat-pushing. She’s definitely the type who’d get someone else to push the boat. In fact she’d probably sit in the boat as it was being pushed.

  Arthur is beginning to look as though he is pushing a very heavy boat indeed. I don’t know whether it’s the stress of being surrounded by women or the stress of seeing the astronomical prices. Either way, he’s looking decidedly uncomfortable. I give him a reassuring smile and return to the menu.

  The menu is like a summarised version of my mother’s recipe book. I imagine her in Paris testing out the various exotic-sounding delights in between sipping wine and chatting with her sophisticated friends. Mousse de saumon avec pain grillé, soufflé au fromage, canard à l’orange. I’m sure there’d be a hint of an accordion playing outside on the street. And probably a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower through the window.

  ‘’Ere, Arthur. What on earth’s Bo-we-yuf Bour-gwig-non?’ asks Mrs Swithenbank.

  (The city of light dissolves and I’m back in Beverley.)

  ‘Boeuf Bourguignon, Doris. It’s delicious,’ replies Arthur. ‘Diana used to make it.’ (My mother’s name! For a second, the room is shot through with colour.) ‘It’s quite rich. I’m not sure it’s a good idea if you’ve got a funny tum. Probably best to stick to something light.’

  ‘Yes, you have to be careful with foreign food,’ says Vera. ‘It’s all oil and garlic. We don’t want any problems on the way home, Doris.’

  ‘No, we bloody don’t!’ says Mrs Swithenbank, grabbing her stomach with both hands. She turns to Arthur. ‘So what exactly is Bo-we-yuf Bour-gwig-non, then, Arthur?’

  Arthur leans back in his chair. I think he’s enjoying his moment in the linguistic limelight. ‘Well, the best way to explain it is sort of like a beef stew.’

  ‘Beef stew?’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Well why don’t they just put that?’

  ‘It’s French, Doris,’ says Christine, putting her menu down on the table and crossing her arms. ‘It’s a French beef stew. We’re in a French restaurant. We’re not in a Lyons’ cafeteria now, you know.’

  Mrs Swithenbank ignores Christine. ‘And what about coke-ow-vin?’ she asks Arthur.

  ‘Coq au vin,’ replies Arthur. ‘Chicken stew.’

  I’m beginning to feel that the English language sucks the romance out of food. No wonder you pay so much extra for food with a French name.

  ‘Chicken stew?’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Ee, it all sounds right tasty to me. Happen that foreign food isn’t so bad after all, Vera.’

  Vera doesn’t look convinced. If pie and chips were on the menu, I know what Vera would be having.

  ‘So cock is chicken, then, Arthur?’ asks Mrs Swithenbank.

  ‘That’s right, Doris,’ says Arthur, ‘well done. We’ll have you dining with de Gaulle before you know it,’ and he does a jokey wink. I love it when he’s like this.

  ‘Well, it’s not so hard after all, is it, this French business?’ says Mrs Swithenbank, looking very pleased with herself. ‘A lot of it’s just an English word with a funny accent. A bit like Brummy, really.’

  *

  Arthur spends the next five minutes going through every item on the menu and explaining it all to us. I had no idea about his extensive knowledge of fine dining and I can’t help feeling some filial pride. Vera and Mrs Swithenbank are also obviously impressed with Arthur’s ability to make sense of the menu and they listen to him as if he were deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls. Christine just sits there smiling proprietorially.

  An elderly waiter with a moustache comes to take our order. He is wearing a bow tie and looks very smart, apart from what seems to be a large white tablecloth wrapped around his waist like a skirt (this must be another French thing, like kilts and the Scots).

  ‘Are you ready to order now, mesdames, monsieur?’ says the waiter, looking around the table. His French accent has the note of authenticity that a Yorkshire farmer will never attain. There’s a general nodding of heads and then the waiter turns to Mrs Swithenbank, pen poised above pad, and says, ‘Madame?’ Both Christine and Vera look miffed about not being asked first but Mrs Swithenbank beams a huge smile and dives in.

  ‘Oh, right. I’ll have the asparagus to start, please,’ she says, using what must be her best telephone voice, ‘and then I’ll have the Coq au Vin.’ She pronounces Coq au Vin very carefully and makes it sound like a dish that, if not quite from France, does at least have a passing acquaintance with the continent. I’m impressed.

  ‘Bien, madame. Merci,’ says the waiter with a little bow of his head. ‘And you, madame?’ He turns to Vera.

  ‘Well, I’d like to start with the asparagus too, please,’ says Vera, seeing M
rs Swithenbank’s telephone voice and raising it with the Yorkshire version of a BBC continuity announcer. ‘And then I’d like a Kiev cock.’

  The waiter looks up from his pad. ‘Madame?’

  ‘A Kiev cock, please,’ confirms Vera.

  The waiter looks flummoxed.

  ‘Chicken Kiev,’ intervenes Arthur, smiling at the waiter.

  ‘Ah, chicken Kiev,’ repeats the waiter, visibly relieved. ‘Bien, madame.’ Vera gets a little bow. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I thought cock was meant to be chicken,’ snaps Vera to no one in particular.

  ‘It is, Vera,’ replies Arthur. ‘But only some of the time.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t keep up with this bloody language,’ says Vera, clearly vexed. ‘It’s no wonder the Germans walked all over France in the war.’

  The waiter’s pen hovers over his pad for a second or so longer than is strictly necessary and then he looks up, smiles, and proceeds to make his way round the rest of us.

  *

  ‘Well,’ says Arthur when the waiter leaves the table, ‘it’s really lovely to have you all here today.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Christine, looking at Vera and Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Arthur and me have been wanting to do this for a while but we had to wait for Evie to get out of hospital and feel a bit better.’

  I get the feeling that my being in hospital has been a cause of great personal annoyance to Christine.

  ‘You’ve certainly brought us somewhere grand, Arthur,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.

  Arthur beams.

  ‘Must be costing a pretty penny,’ she goes on.

  ‘Well, you can’t take it with you, Doris, can you?’ replies Arthur while Christine gives Mrs Swithenbank yet another Look.

  ‘The Royal Hotel Beverley is a very special establishment,’ Christine says, sounding like an advert in the local paper, ‘and we wanted to bring you all here to share some good news.’ She glances over at Arthur, who is somehow managing to combine smiling with looking quite uncomfortable. She reaches over and holds his hand. ‘Are you going to say a few words, Arthur?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Arthur. ‘Yes, of course.’ He coughs (I think mainly just to free his hands from Christine’s iron grip). ‘Well,’ he continues, looking like he’s in need of a big French hole to swallow him up. ‘Like I said, we’re very happy to be here with you today. It’s smashing. Really smashing.’

  Christine and Vera look at each other and do a smile so smug it should be in the Guinness Book of Records.

  ‘You might be wondering why we’ve brought you all the way out here. Well, it’s because there’s some news we’d like to share with you.’ He looks over at me and I can see little beads of sweat starting to gather on his forehead. ‘Some really good news.’

  Christine, now doing her best mafia-boss smile, reaches out and holds his hand again.

  ‘We’ve been thinking about this for a while now,’ continues Arthur, ‘and we both feel that it’s the right thing to do.’ He blinks. ‘Absolutely the right thing to do.’ I can see the skin on Christine’s knuckles whiten as she tightens her grip on Arthur’s hand. ‘Christine’s been with us for a while now and I hope Evie will agree that it’s been a very happy time.’

  Everyone turns to look at me. I can see that I’m expected to make some acknowledgement of our very happy time so I marshal my mouth into a smile but it isn’t easy (I think I may have lost control of my facial muscles). As a diversionary tactic, I nod frantically and raise an empty glass to Christine. This seems to have done the trick as everyone swivels back round to look at Arthur.

  ‘Anyway, I’m not one for speeches,’ says Arthur,

  ‘. . . but I’m very happy to say,’ (my mouth feels dry)

  ‘. . . that Christine and I,’ (my hands feel clammy)

  ‘are getting engaged.’

  What????????

  *

  Suddenly I am high in the air looking down. I see myself sitting at the table, shocked and shaking and trying not to cry. I look confused. Broken. Sitting opposite me, Christine is being hugged by Vera, giant cocky gloats crackling across their faces. Next to Vera, Mrs Swithenbank smiles nervously over at Arthur but Arthur doesn’t notice because he’s staring at me, straight at me, his eyes full of hope and fear.

  Poor Arthur.

  Christine is a bossy, gold-digging trollop who will rule over him with the clemency of a renaissance pope.

  I’m going to have to save him.

  It’s going to be a busy summer.

  INTERLUDE

  2 May 1936

  ‘What a Bobby Dazzler!’ Arthur Epworth thought as he looked at himself in the mirror. He was wearing his York City FC blazer and couldn’t decide whether he looked like a matinée idol or a shop dummy.

  ‘You look very dapper, lad,’ said Mr Barrett, coming up and standing next to him. ‘We might just make a gentleman out of you yet.’

  ‘Not much chance of that,’ replied Arthur, quickly turning away from the mirror and facing the club manager. ‘I feel a bit of a chump in all this to be honest.’

  ‘As long as you don’t start playing like one, lad.’

  They both smiled.

  ‘Now, come on. Let’s be having you. We’ve got the team bus waiting outside. We can’t keep the great and the good of York waiting all night at the Mansion House just for a young rascal like you.’

  SIX

  Saturday 14 July 1962

  The world’s strange, isn’t it? Take wind. (Not the Mrs Swithenbank kind of wind. The other kind.) Where does it come from? Is there a giant fan somewhere making new wind every day or does the same wind just keep going round and round and round forever? And stiletto heels. Are they really a Moral Danger? That’s what a man said on the telly last week. Would they be less of a Moral Danger if men wore them? Helen Shapiro wears stilettos and she doesn’t really strike me as being very immoral. Or dangerous. And cows. You put grass in one end and you get milk out the other end (well, not exactly the other end). How does that work? And how come the white milk comes from a brown cow that eats green grass?

  I often get lost in philosophical musings. My brain skips around like a young rabbit: bouncy, full of energy, but without ever actually getting anywhere.

  Today my musings revolve mainly around the events of yesterday.

  The engagement.

  Christine celebrated the announcement with all the grace and subtly of a Roman triumphal arch. It was engagement this and wedding that every course. Relentless and unstoppable. Like toenail fungus.

  And so here are I am, walking up Mrs Scott-Pym’s drive at nine in the morning. I know a cup of tea and a slice of something nice will be waiting for me. And a friendly ear. Well, two friendly ears actually. Four if you count Sadie.

  The drive is gravelled and each footstep triggers a satisfying crunch. When I breathe in, it’s not the aromatic balm of her cooking I smell but the perfumed assault of countless flowers coming from the garden’s densely packed borders. The smell of summer.

  And then suddenly I hear a lady scream.

  And a man shout.

  And then lots of people screaming and shouting.

  I’m momentarily alarmed but then I hear what sounds like a hundred violins doing something very dramatic and I know it’ll just be opera. Mrs Scott-Pym loves it. She often has it on in the morning and says it gets her going and ready to start the day. I’m not so sure. Opera’s just a lot of orchestra and shouting to me. If I were a character in an opera, I’d be very worried as I think your chances of being thrown off a tower or stabbed to death in a bullring are pretty high. I’m going to stick with Adam Faith.

  As I get nearer the house, the shouting, screaming and orchestra get louder and louder. Mrs Scott-Pym’s gramophone is the size of a cow. I am madly jealous. I have a pastel-blue portable Dansette turntable in my room and it just can’t compete. Opera singers seem pretty loud anyway and the huge gramophone cabinet just makes them even louder. I would love to give some of my records a spin on Mrs Scott-Pym’s gram
ophone. It would be good to use it to play some proper singers, people who can hold a tune without yelling or dying.

  I let myself into the house and find Mrs Scott-Pym sat in her sitting room (why aren’t all rooms named after what we do in them? I’d love a daydreaming room and Christine could have her very own nagging room). Mrs Scott-Pym’s sitting room has the same kind of refined elegance as Mrs Scott-Pym. Stately. Lithe. Comfortably grand. A big fireplace topped with a slightly clouding mirror takes up most of one wall and in front of it a sofa and two very upright armchairs surround a small table covered in magazines. Mrs Scott-Pym is sitting on the sofa, a copy of the Radio Times on her lap and drinking what looks like a glass of sherry. Sadie is at the other end of the sofa, clearly unimpressed by all the noise.

  Mrs Scott-Pym looks up, smiles, and mouths something. I think she said hullo, dear but it’s hard to tell because the music is so loud.

  I shout hello and ask her how she is. Three times. Mrs Scott-Pym, gesticulating gracefully, mouths something else then gets up and turns off the music, mid-scream. The room is suddenly quiet, except for the muffled thump-thump-thump of Sadie’s tail wagging on the sofa. ‘There,’ she says. ‘That’s better. Now, how are you? How was the meal yesterday?’

  As we both sit down, I tell her about the hotel, and the food, and the extremely well-tailored lady with grey hair. I tell her about Mrs Swithenbank’s tummy troubles and Vera’s Kiev Cock. I tell her how handsome Arthur looked and how I looked like a Christmas tree. And I tell her about the engagement announcement and about Christine behaving as if she were the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces.