And she walks out and slams the door behind her.
*
This is awful. The farm. The farmhouse. Arthur. I can’t believe it’s all going so wrong. At least now Christine’s gone there’s some peace and quiet. Except for the tick-tock of the Grandfather clock that is. And a cow mooing outside. Poor old thing. It’s not going to be happy on the new estate.
I have no idea what I should do. Suddenly Tender is the Night and the French Riviera don’t seem so appealing. We can’t sell the farm. It’s just wrong. My mouth feels dry and claggy, so I get up and pour myself a glass of dandelion and burdock from the fridge. As I drink, I find myself staring at the bright patch of wallpaper uncovered when we got rid of the nice old (big) range oven and installed Christine’s (mercifully small) cooker. The wallpaper is made up of large colourful flowers, warm and inviting. I start tracing the shape of the flowers with my fingers, following the curves of every petal and stem. And then, mid-trace, I feel the sudden urge to sit on the floor and lean against all the brilliant colours, tucking my knees under my chin like I used to do when I was little.
I don’t think I’m ready to be an Adult.
It’s all far too complicated and messy. Not to mention unfair. And cruel. In fact being an adult is so far proving pretty unpropitious (adjective – disappointing, not very promising). It’s not at all what I thought it would be like.
They don’t tell you about this part of being an adult in Bunty or on the telly, about having your life torn asunder and being thrown into a world of enforced coiffured labour, wicked stepmothers and grisly water features. I’m actually beginning to feel that it would be much simpler to stop being an Adult and go back to being a little girl.
Arthur’s little girl.
And I close my eyes and push my back up against the bright flowery wallpaper, hoping it sucks me in and takes me far away.
*
After a while, when I’ve finished my drink and daydreamed my way to Paris and back, I go upstairs. I really need some good advice. Luckily, I have two of the finest minds in the village waiting for me.
Sophisticated Adam and Brooding Adam.
I lie on my bed and stare at them, a double knickerbocker glory of Adam loveliness.
Usually I only talk to one Adam at a time (they are the jealous type), but today is an emergency: I need them both.
‘You’re going to have to stop Christine,’ says Brooding Adam, smouldering.
‘You’re going to have to do something before it’s too late,’ says Sophisticated Adam, flashing his super-white shiny teeth.
I sit up, taking in their words and trying to think of a plan.
‘This calls for drastic action,’ says Brooding Adam.
‘This calls for belief in the power of old ladies and Yorkshire magic,’ says Sophisticated Adam.
They look at each other, then look back at me, and together they say:
‘This calls for buttons.’
INTERLUDE
7 November 1939
‘Come on, Lieutenant Epworth,’ said Diana, gesturing towards the door with her head. ‘If you don’t get me over the threshold soon, the war’ll be over and done with.’
‘Erm,’ said Arthur, balancing his new wife in his arms. ‘Slight problem there, I’m afraid. The keys are in my pocket. And I seem to have my hands pretty full at the moment.’
Diana laughed. ‘Let me help you,’ she said, pushing her hand into Arthur’s pocket. ‘Voila! Nos clés,’ she said, pulling out the keys and giving them a good jangle.
‘Oh, I love it when you speak French,’ said Arthur.
‘And I love it when you speak English,’ said Diana, swapping her expensive vowels for the blunt, flattened Yorkshire ones of her husband. ‘Now, allez, let’s get this door open.’ And she reached out with the key towards the door. Arthur bent his knees, lowering his precious cargo so that she could put the key into the lock. Diana snapped the key round to the right and the door swung open.
‘Here we go, then,’ shouted Arthur, holding Diana tightly. ‘One, two, three!’ and he strode over the threshold, hugging his wife close to him, his fingers pressing deep into the folds of her elegant tweed suit.
The wedding had been a quick one, in the registry office, with crowds of other couples waiting outside, like a market on market day. A mad, matrimonial rush caused by the war. Her father hadn’t come, of course. She’d done everything she could to get him there but he was implacably against the wedding. He’d tried to stop the relationship right from the start, invoking the spirit of Diana’s dead mother and, in the end, cutting her off from the estate. He bought them the farm, though, a small settlement he called it, something at least to confer some kind of respectability on his son-in-law.
‘It’s a little dark in here, isn’t it?’ said Arthur, looking around the room. He was sitting on a chair with Diana side-saddle on his lap, her arms draped over his shoulders. The chair was the only piece of furniture in the entire house. It looked very old and very rickety but neither of them cared. Today, now, together in their first home, even the rickety old chair was perfect.
‘Dark? Really? Do you think so?’ said Diana. ‘I think it’s snug. Cosy. I’ll be able to make it lovely, darling, don’t worry.’
Arthur smiled. Diana had wonderful taste. It was one of the many things he loved about her. She had an eye for things. A knack of making something look just right. It was the same with colours too, he thought, looking at what she was wearing. Taste. She understood it. It was another language she was fluent in, like French.
‘Look, that spot over there is just right for a range oven,’ said Diana, pointing to an alcove running along one wall. ‘And behind it, we’ll have some lovely wallpaper to brighten up the room. Something happy.’
‘Perfect,’ said Arthur. ‘I’ll leave it all to you.’
‘Yes, somehow I knew you were going to say that.’
‘Some of us’ll be busy fighting Hitler, you know.’
‘And some us will be busy doing everything else!’ replied Diana, kissing her new husband on the forehead.
‘Anyway,’ said Arthur. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’
‘Really?’ said Diana, curling the word around Arthur like a mink stole.
‘Yes, really. You’ve been here a whole twenty minutes with your wonderful new husband and you haven’t even offered to make him a cup of tea.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find, Mr Epworth, that the lorries haven’t arrived yet with your sugar.’
She always teased him about the number of sugars he took in his tea. The first time he’d been to call on Diana, she, Arthur and her father had been in the sitting room making polite conversation when Mrs Henton, the housekeeper, came in and asked if they would like some tea. Tea was ordered and a few minutes later she returned carrying a tray with a teapot, some crockery, and assorted cakes. When Mrs Henton asked Arthur if he took sugar, he replied, ‘Seven, please.’ There was a moment’s awkward silence and then Diana looked up at her and said, ‘Mrs Henton, I think we may need a bigger sugar bowl.’ Arthur’s sugar intake had been a running joke ever since.
Diana pushed her hand through Arthur’s hair. ‘You know there’s nothing I’d love to do more than make you some tea,’ she said. ‘But we’re waiting for the removal men, remember? Until they come, we’re stuck I’m afraid. No tea. Only me.’ And she flicked his fringe and then wrapped her arms around him.
*
The front door fell victim to a burst of loud knocks.
‘They’re here!’ shouted Diana. ‘Come on,’ and she ran through into the hallway, Arthur in quick pursuit.
When Diana opened the door she was surprised to see that, rather than a flat-capped removal man waiting outside, there was a small, middle-aged lady in a rather smart maroon tweed suit.
‘Oh, hullo,’ said the lady. ‘I live over there.’ She pointed in the direction of the chocolate-box Georgian house next door. ‘I’m your neighbour, Rosamund Scott-Pym. How do you do?’
/> Diana took the lady’s hand and shook it heartily. ‘How do you do? I’m Diana Epworth and this is my husband, Arthur.’
‘It’s so good to have someone living in the farmhouse again,’ said Rosamund. ‘It must have been empty for well over a year now.’
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a wreck inside,’ said Diana, thinking of the empty rooms and bleak decor. ‘But it’s such a lovely spot. We both fell in love with the place straight away. I’d love to invite you in but I’m afraid we’re waiting for our removal men to arrive. We haven’t a thing!’
‘Oh no, I quite understand. I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to say hullo and give you this.’ Rosamund held out a wicker basket full of little pots and bulging paper bags. ‘It’s just a few things to help you out in the first day or so. I know what it’s like moving in to a new home and now, what with the war, everything’s so much more difficult than before.’
‘Oh, that’s far too kind of you,’ said Diana. ‘Our things will be here soon. We couldn’t possibly.’
‘No, really. It’s nothing at all,’ said Rosamund. ‘Just a little something to welcome you to the village.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Diana. ‘It’s very kind of you, Mrs Scott-Pym. You must come round once we’re not quite so upside down.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Rosamund. ‘And, please, do call me Rosamund.’
‘Thank you, Rosamund,’ said Diana. ‘And you must call me Diana.’
*
‘Do you know, I have a feeling we’re going to be very happy here,’ Diana said to Arthur as she watched her neighbour walk back down the drive. ‘I think it’s going to be home for a long time.’
‘I hope so, love,’ said Arthur, pulling Diana close.
Diana let herself fall into the familiar warmth of Arthur’s arms. ‘I want us to grow old here,’ she went on. ‘Have parties here, play tennis here, have our grandchildren here, just be very happy here, living out our dotage under the warm summer sun.’
EIGHT
Saturday 14 July 1962
I am drowning in pink. Asphyxiated. Strangulated. Suffocated. Pink. Pink. Pink. Everything around me is pink. Pink bedspread, pink curtains, pink wallpaper, pink cushions. It’s like being stuck in the middle of a huge pink jelly.
I’m up in Christine’s bedroom in search of a button. I must be mad. How can a button stop Christine and her pneumatic boobs and grasping scarlet hands?
Her wardrobe is huge. Solid slabs of dark wood stand on fat wooden-doughnut feet, giving it the chunkiness of another age (Neolithic). On the doors, there’s some carved panelling that reminds me of the wardrobe in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, except that in Christine’s wardrobe instead of easing past fur coats and discovering the secret world of Narnia, I’m far more likely to squeeze through a wall of acrylic blouses and find myself in the Razzmatazz bingo hall in Scunthorpe.
Christine would be furious if she knew I was about to have a good rummage through her clothes. Her bedroom is strictly Off Limits. I am living very dangerously, like Marlon Brando.
Here goes, then.
The doors creak open to reveal an orgy of pastel. Christine’s taste is the colour palette of a box of fondant fancies. The wardrobe is stuffed full of clothes, all scrunched up against each other, fighting for air. Almost every hanger is different. Wire ones. Wooden ones. Plastic ones. Heavily upholstered ones with lacy frills and bows. All jutting out here and there at odd angles. It makes my head hurt.
I wonder what my mother’s wardrobe was like. If it was anything like her recipe book, it would have been very swish. I imagine a sleek line of clothes, all colour co-ordinated and elegantly spaced. She’d have beautifully shaped wooden hangers, all exactly the same, and the whole thing would smell as fresh as a spring day or as sophisticated as a Monte Carlo nightclub.
Christine’s wardrobe smells of mothballs and medicated toilet rolls. The mothballs are balanced on top of some of the clothes and at the bottom of the wardrobe, shoved under everything, there’s a big pack of Izal, Christine’s loo roll of choice. It all smells a bit like walking into a chemist. No wonder Christine douses herself in so much lavender water.
I grab a hanger at random. Out comes a yellow dress. Egg-custard yellow. Around the middle is a big bow, making the dress look like an enormous yellow present waiting to be unwrapped (not a pleasant thought). The material is shiny, hard and coarse: half polyester, half scouring pad.
This is quite good fun. I pull out another hanger. On it is a skirt the shape of a half moon and almost the size of one too. Its colour can best be described as fungal green. Now that it’s free from the scrum of clothes surrounding it in the wardrobe, the skirt springs out like a horizontal jack-in-the-box.
I can’t resist it.
I’m going to have to try it on.
Finding the right hole to put my legs through in the mass of petticoat and ballooning skirt is not easy but eventually I get everything lined up and ease the skirt over my pedal pushers. It seems to weigh a ton and I imagine there’s probably more material in this one skirt than in my entire wardrobe. I am very aware of my increased circumference and feel very bottom-heavy but manage to waddle cautiously over to the pink-framed mirror.
Staring at me in the mirror is a different Evie, one who looks like the fairy we put on top of the Christmas tree (minus the wings). It’s funny how different clothes can make us become different people. Am I going to be the type of Woman who wears sticky-out skirts? I wish choosing a Future could be a bit more like trying on clothes from a wardrobe. You could pop on a Future and give it a whirl. See how it fits. Jig it around a bit. Then try on another. Instead, choosing a Future all seems so final and definite. Once the choice is made, you’re stuck with what you’re wearing for the rest of your life, even if you look a right clown in it.
I ease my way out of the skirt, which involves a great deal of wriggling and contortion, and pull out another hanger. This time I hit the jackpot. It’s a pastel pink see-through baby-doll nightie, one of Christine’s favourite outfits. (She often wears it in the evening to watch telly, her legs sprawling across the sofa like rolls of fleshy pastry.) The nightie has little pink satin bows ranged over its flimsy surface and the bottom is trimmed with pink fur. It somehow manages to be both hilarious and horrifying at the same time. It looks quite petite for Christine (chest-wise); it must be like trying to get a couple of blancmanges in an envelope when she puts it on.
I pull it on over my top, preparing to be wowed by my new-found allure (noun – the quality of being attractive and enticing).
Unfortunately one of the little pink satin bows gets caught on the zip at the back of my top and I’m left stuck, half in, half out, flailing around with one arm free but the other one locked in a pink claw hold, bent back on itself awkwardly inside the nightie. The top of my head is sticking out of the neck hole but the rest of my head remains wedged inside, making the room look even pinker. I’m trapped, stuck inside a pink diaphanous hell. I try to struggle out of it but this just seems to make things worse. I’m terrified of tearing the paper-thin material but equally terrified of being stranded in the nightie until Christine gets back from York.
‘Ding-dong.’
Oh God. The doorbell. I manoeuvre carefully over to the window, my arms locked in place like a headless chiffon statue. Through the window, in a pink blur, I see Margaret waiting outside the front door.
‘Ding-dong. Ding-dong.’
She rings the doorbell again and then looks at her wristwatch (she has the brittle patience of all very organised people). She’d have me out of the baby doll in a jiffy (if not even quicker). I shout to her to come in but she obviously can’t hear a thing. I try to open the window but it’s not easy with only one free arm and restricted vision. I can see her looking around impatiently. I’ve got the window handle in my hand now but am struggling to lift it off the rusted latch. Margaret sighs, looks at her watch again then turns and begins to walk down the front path.
T
his is awful. I have one final desperate push at the handle and it flies off the latch, almost propelling me out of the now-open window.
‘Margaret,’ I cry. ‘Come back!’
She looks up. ‘Evie? Is that you? What are you doing?’ she shouts, sounding baffled (not something that happens very often). ‘What have you got over your head?’
‘Never mind that,’ I shout back. ‘I’m stuck. Can you come and help me?’
‘Hold on.’ And I hear the reassuring sound of the front door opening and closing and then the deep thud of Margaret’s sensible shoes on the stairs.
*
‘What’s going on?’ she asks, coming into the room. ‘What are you doing? Why are you wearing that pink thing like that? What’s happened to your head? And your arm?’
It’s always like this with Margaret. She is a leaking barrel of questions.
‘I was looking through Christine’s wardrobe for a button and I just ended up trying a few things on. I’m stuck.’
‘Looking for a button?’ says Margaret. ‘What were you looking for a button in Christine’s wardrobe for?’ Being with Margaret is like being stuck in a never-ending episode of What’s My Line? I can’t tell her the real reason I’m looking for a button – Margaret is hewn from pure logic and if I told her that the button was for a magic spell, she’d think I was mad (not unreasonably).
‘Never mind that now. Could you just help me out of this, please? I’m getting pins and needles in my arm and all this pink is making my head hurt.’
‘What were you doing putting a nightie on over your top?’ she asks, helping me out of my chiffon cage.
‘I just wanted to try it on. See what it was like.’ She might ask a lot of annoying questions but Margaret’s a dab hand with a zip and a satin bow. In a couple of ticks, I’m released. I decide to share my news with her. Maybe her supersonic brain can come up with a better solution than a magic button.
‘Christine’s got me a job shampooing at Maureen’s salon,’ I tell her. ‘She thinks I should get a trade.’
The Miseducation of Evie Epworth Page 9