The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

  ‘You can’t do that. You’d be a rubbish hairdresser. You’re far too clumsy.’

  Harsh but true (she knows me well).

  ‘Who’d be mad enough to let you loose with a pair of scissors? They’d end up looking like Yul Brynner,’ she adds (unnecessarily I think).

  ‘It’s been a strange few days,’ I say.

  We sit on the bed and I tell her about everything that’s happened. The engagement. The wedding. The farmhouse. The farm.

  ‘What?’ says Margaret when I’ve finished. ‘But Christine can’t do that. You can’t let her get away with it. Horrible old cow. You have to stop her.’ And there, in that brilliant shining moment, is why Margaret is my best friend.

  ‘I need to do two things,’ I say, sounding far more in control than I feel. ‘One. Find some way of getting Christine out of our lives. She’s only interested in Arthur and the farm because she thinks they’ll keep her in handbags and foreign holidays.’ Margaret nods enthusiastically. ‘And two, find someone much nicer for him.’

  (Which could literally be anybody.)

  ‘Oh, I forgot. And three, find a Career and become an Independent Woman.’

  Margaret stares at me as if I’d just started speaking backwards.

  ‘Independent woman? A career? What about your A levels? What about university? Do you mean you’re going to work in Maureen’s salon instead? As a shampooist? Or is it a shampooer?’ she adds, ever the pedant.

  ‘No, I’m not going to work at Maureen’s salon,’ I say. ‘But I am having second thoughts about going to sixth form, yes.’ Margaret looks baffled. ‘I could get a job and wear a pencil skirt and buy a car and go to glamorous receptions. I could be a Modern Woman,’ I continue, trying to sound sophisticated, ‘like Natalie Wood or Jacqueline Kennedy.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ says Margaret. ‘What will you do?’

  I have no idea, of course, so I say the first thing that comes into my head.

  ‘I could move to London and do a secretarial course and then do something in fashion.’

  ‘What?’ says Margaret, almost falling off the bed. ‘Move to London? A secretarial course? Do something in fashion? What are you talking about? Don’t be daft. Anyway, real people don’t work in fashion.’

  ‘Caroline does,’ I say, enjoying saying the name.

  ‘Caroline?’ says Margaret. ‘Who’s Caroline?’

  Am I allowed to mention Caroline? I don’t think Mrs Scott-Pym said anything about it being a secret, even though it is. Well, was. Too late now. Margaret the interrogator is in full flight.

  ‘Caroline who? Do I know her? What does she do? Where does she live?’

  ‘She’s Mrs Scott-Pym’s daughter,’ I answer. ‘She lives in London and works in fashion.’

  ‘But Mrs Scott-Pym doesn’t have a daughter.’

  ‘Yes, she does.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t.’

  ‘Yes, she does.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t.’

  I sense this could go on a long time. Margaret is not very good at being wrong.

  ‘Caroline is Mrs Scott-Pym’s daughter. She was at boarding school and then went straight to London to do a secretarial course but now she works in fashion. I’ve no idea what she actually does and I’m not sure whether Mrs Scott-Pym knows either.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ says Margaret.

  (Evie 1: Margaret 0.)

  ‘How funny.’ She wrinkles her forehead. ‘What a turn up for the book!’

  (This has always struck me as a strange phrase. Where did it come from? It makes no sense at all. Other ‘book’ sayings are much more straightforward. To do something by the book is clear, ditto to be in someone’s good books. To be double booked is heaven [two books!], bettered only by being tripled booked [a good trilogy, like The Oresteia or Pippi Longstocking]. Balancing the books always brings to mind me on a bike. And every trick in the book makes a lot more sense now that Mrs Scott-Pym has told me about her book of Yorkshire magic.)

  ‘It’s the first I’ve heard about Caroline too,’ I say. ‘Mrs Scott-Pym told me about her this morning. I don’t know why she’s never spoken about her before. It’s all very strange.’

  Good strange, I mean. Not bad strange. She definitely doesn’t sound bad strange. More of a wonderful, beautiful strange, enigmatic and mysterious, full of life and colour like the big stained-glass windows in York Minster when the light comes streaming in.

  ‘Caroline Scott-Pym,’ I say, more to myself than to Margaret. ‘It’s the type of name that you’d find at glamorous parties, ones with actors and politicians.’

  ‘And foreign diplomats and aristocrats,’ says Margaret, joining in.

  ‘I bet she’d be wearing a fabulous dress with a really elegant hat,’ I say, twisting up Christine’s pink baby-doll nightie and plonking it on my head. ‘And she’d be drinking champagne.’

  ‘Or maybe smoking with a fancy cigarette holder,’ says Margaret, holding an invisible cigarette in her hand. ‘And making clever conversation with a handsome man.’

  ‘Yes! Or dancing with him,’ I say, grabbing Margaret’s hands and pulling her off the bed for a dance.

  ‘He’d be a French general,’ shouts Margaret as we fling each other around the room. ‘All dark and swarthy.’

  ‘Or maybe a racing driver,’ I shout back.

  ‘Or an artist.’

  ‘Or a singer.’

  ‘Or a pilot.’

  ‘Or a film star.’

  ‘Or a Lord.’

  ‘Or a farmer,’ I shout, and we both collapse on the bed laughing.

  ‘Hey,’ says Margaret. ‘Perhaps Caroline knows Cliff Richard. It sounds just like the kind of party he’d be at.’ Cliff Richard is Margaret’s big crush. She has every record, a Cliff Richard wall clock, and even a Cliff Richard eggcup. I think if Cliff Richard asked Margaret to marry him and not be a teacher, she would have an existential crisis. I don’t know what she sees in him. He is no Adam Faith.

  ‘Of course he’d be there,’ I say. ‘And Helen Shapiro. And Petula Clark. And Billy Fury. It’d be like Juke Box Jury or the Six-Five Special. They’d all be there.’

  ‘God, wouldn’t it be wonderful,’ says Margaret, yanking Christine’s nightie off my head.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and listen to some music in my room – we can stick the volume on full while everyone’s out.’ And we put Christine’s clothes back in the wardrobe, dancing around and singing ‘The Young Ones’.

  As we leave the room, I slide my hand into my pocket. There, tucked safely away in my pedal pushers, is a large round pink button that I pulled off the back of Christine’s baby-doll nightie.

  Success.

  I squeeze the button hard and have a sudden urge to pull it out and kiss it.

  NINE

  Saturday 14 July 1962

  It’s like a scene from one of those Dutch still-life paintings you see at the City Art Gallery in York.

  A strip of bark lies upturned on a table next to two fat blousy hydrangea flowers. Beside them, an egg, a crumpled bag of flour, and an opened bottle of Cointreau. To the right stands a silver salt cellar and a small cut-glass bowl filled with grated orange rind. Two hedgehog quills rest cryptically on a white china saucer and, sitting on a sheet of greaseproof paper, is a glossy block of golden butter. At the side of the table is a noble hound, her eyes locked on the golden butter. Out of her mouth, a glistening rod of shiny drool reaches down almost to the floor like an ancient stalactite. She is the embodiment of Dog. Magnificent. Proud. Hungry.

  And then a smell like rotting broccoli starts to drift around the room.

  ‘Oh, Sadie. For heaven’s sake,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, wafting her hand in front of her nose. ‘Not again.’

  Sadie, somehow immune to the smell, keeps staring at the butter while Mrs Scott-Pym opens a kitchen window.

  ‘There, that’s better,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, wafting the air with her tea towel before turning her attention back to me. ‘Now, how did you
get on, dear? Did you manage to get a button?’

  ‘Ta-da!’ I say, pulling the button out from my pocket. It’s been safely tucked away in there all afternoon, jigging along with me through countless bops and Adam Faith and Cliff Richard sing-alongs. If Margaret knew she’d spent a few hours dancing around with a soon-to-be-magical button, there’d have been a tornado of questions. Much easier to keep it a secret.

  ‘Well done, dear,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym. She takes the button and has a good look at it. ‘Hmm, it’s very big. And very pink. Wherever did you find it?’

  I’m not sure Mrs Scott-Pym is ready for the world of chiffon baby-doll nighties. She must sleep in something but it’s very difficult to picture her in anything other than a skirt and twinset. Maybe Caroline sends her silk pyjamas from London. Or, far more likely, she has a nice comfy winceyette from Browns in York.

  ‘I got it from one of Christine’s nighties,’ I tell her. ‘It was dangling on a loose thread so I expect she’ll just think it’s dropped off.’

  ‘Well done, dear,’ she says, passing the button back to me. ‘Although to tell you the truth, I was expecting something smaller. Something, perhaps, a little more delicate and dainty.’

  (Delicate and dainty? Mrs Scott-Pym clearly doesn’t know Christine or her wardrobe very well.)

  ‘Still, we can easily break it up,’ she goes on. ‘Nice and small, Evie, dear. We don’t want her choking!’

  No. That would be terrible, wouldn’t it.

  Mrs Scott-Pym busies herself at one end of the table with flour and butter and her huge cream mixing bowl and I’m sent down the other end with a dark-green pestle and mortar.

  I place the button at the bottom of the mortar’s slippery-smooth basin. It makes a satisfying little tinkle as it settles in place. I steady the mortar with my left hand and raise the pestle up in my right hand. I am Evie, Queen of the Kitchen. Destroyer of Buttons.

  Here goes.

  As soon as the pestle crashes into the button, it shoots up the side of the mortar and whizzes out across the kitchen, hurtling through the air until it hits the window (ping!), then bounces back on itself and flies straight at Sadie, hitting her on the back of the head.

  Sadie yelps, spins round and chases the button across the floor.

  ‘Don’t let Sadie get the button, dear!’ shouts Mrs Scott-Pym. ‘She’ll never let the bally thing go.’

  The button rolls under the table, closely followed by Sadie. I dart round the other end of the table so that I can grab the button before Sadie gets to it but I’m too late. Sadie stops it with her paw and wolfs it up into her mouth.

  ‘Sadie!’ shouts Mrs Scott-Pym as Sadie positions herself strategically under the kitchen table and begins chewing on Christine’s button. ‘Come here. Give that button to me.’ Sadie doesn’t move. She’s far too pleased with her new toy and sits there sampling its pink delights.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Scott-Pym,’ I say, crestfallen.

  ‘No, it’s quite all right, dear. Nothing to worry about. She won’t be able to eat the thing – it’s so big. I just don’t like the thought of putting it in Christine’s cake after it’s been in Sadie’s mouth. It’s not very hygienic.’

  No.

  It isn’t, is it.

  What A Shame.

  ‘We’ll need to give it a good wash,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym.

  Yes.

  Of course.

  A Good Wash.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I say, trying not to sound too keen. ‘It’s my fault Sadie got hold of the button.’

  Mrs Scott-Pym is trying to coax Sadie out from under the table and I get the impression that she’s not really listening to me.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Sadie,’ she says. ‘Come here.’ She grabs Sadie’s bum and drags her out across the floor. ‘Now, are you going to give me that button, then?’ she asks, tugging open Sadie’s mouth and yanking the thing from her drooling muzzle (Mrs Scott-Pym would make a terrifying dentist).

  ‘Here you are, dear,’ she says, passing me the button. ‘Would you mind giving it a good wash, please?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s nice and clean before it gets in Christine’s cake.’

  I walk over to the sink, turn on the tap and swoosh an empty hand around under the running water, keeping the drooly, slaver-covered button well out of the way in my other hand. I give the button a quick wipe on my pedal pushers and then hand it back to Mrs Scott-Pym.

  ‘Here you are. Squeaky clean.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. You’re such a help.’

  (I am an evil only child.)

  ‘But it still needs to be broken up,’ she goes on, handing me back the button. ‘It would be a bit of a giveaway if we put it in the cake like this, wouldn’t it?’

  Oh yes. I’d forgotten. Why is it that my brain skips along at high speed but never seems to get anything done? I wish I were one of those people who had focus. Like Margaret. Or President Kennedy.

  ‘You might as well do these at the same time, dear,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym as she passes me the saucer with the two hedgehog quills on. They look like tiny shrunken spears or a pair of very glamorous modern earrings (there’s not much call for either in our village).

  I look down into the mortar. A big pink button and two hedgehog quills. It’s hardly haute cuisine. What would my mother make of it? I imagine her mortar would be full of tasty things like fresh herbs and exotic oils. Or at least something edible. Something recognisable as actual food.

  ‘Are you all right, Evie, dear?’

  Mrs Scott-Pym is looking up from her mixing bowl, staring straight at me.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Scott-Pym. I was daydreaming again.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear, that’s fine. Daydreaming’s good for the soul I always think.’

  Really? My soul must be as strong as a lion, then. And I thrust the pestle into the mortar, feeling like I could roar.

  *

  After a few minutes grinding, prodding, roaring and daydreaming, the mortar’s contents are reduced to a little pile of grey-brown-pink grains.

  ‘Here you go,’ I say, passing it to Mrs Scott-Pym.

  ‘Well done, Evie. Your mother would be proud of you.’

  A shower of glittery stars rockets round the room.

  ‘Now, could you pass me that bowl, please?’ she continues, pointing to another cream mixing bowl standing on the kitchen worktop. ‘We need to divide this mixture up so that only Christine gets the magic ingredients in her cake. We don’t want your father eating Christine’s button, do we?’

  No, we certainly do not.

  I pass Mrs Scott-Pym the bowl and watch as she takes a dollop of the mixture and decants it into the new bowl.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she says, picking up the mortar. ‘Make a wish.’ And she upends the contents of the mortar into the bowl, coating the cake mixture with a dirty-pink snow. I cheat and make two wishes:

  1. To get rid of Christine from Arthur’s life (obviously).

  2. To go on a driving holiday with Adam Faith (preferably somewhere with mountains and a stream and lots of nice places to be serenaded).

  Mrs Scott-Pym is now pummelling away at the cake mixture with the vigour of a combine harvester. Within seconds, the button-quill dust has disappeared into the mixture. She is an alchemist, capable of turning base metal (a nasty pink button) into gold (a magic-button cake).

  ‘Now then,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, putting down the bowl and dabbing at her forehead with a tea towel, ‘nearly all done.’ She spoons the magic mixture into one bun tray and then spoons the non-magic mixture into another bun tray. ‘There we go. All over bar the shouting,’ she goes on, sliding the two trays into the big oven in her range. ‘Time for a sherry I think.’

  The whole Songs to Unshroud a Scarlet Woman thing has been much easier than I thought. Cooking is usually hard enough and baking even harder so I was expecting magical baking to involve labyrinthine complexity (not to mention the odd spell or two), but Mrs Scott-Pym’s m
agical buns seem to revolve mainly around very generous amounts of butter, sugar and Cointreau. There are the non-magical ingredients (normal):

  3 ounces plain flour

  1 ounce spelt flour (the Biblical flour, according to Mrs Scott-Pym)

  4 ounces butter (salted)

  4 ounces caster sugar

  2 eggs

  2 tablespoons Cointreau (plus several for the cook)

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  a good dollop of marmalade

  some orange zest

  a sprinkling of salt

  And then there are the magical ingredients (not normal):

  a button (pink, although any colour will do)

  2 hedgehog quills

  a sprinkling of ash tree bark (to be collected at dawn apparently, which would not go down well with some witches I know)

  1 ‘fairy sack’ hydrangea petals

  The flours, salt and baking powder are all put in a big bowl and mixed up. Then, in a separate bowl (baking seems to involve a lot of washing up), the butter and sugar are whipped and whisked and whizzed to an inch of their life. When it’s all looking light and fluffy (which takes forever), add the eggs (one at a time), then the marmalade and orange zest and finally some of the Cointreau (folding and beating all the time). Then (if you’re not totally exhausted at this point) add the dry bowl (flour etc.) to the gloopy bowl (butter etc.) and stir again. DO NOT EAT ANY OF THE CAKE MIXTURE (the hardest thing so far). Now comes the magical part. Grind up the button, the quills and the bark and cut the two petals into tiny pieces and then throw them all into the bowl. Give it a final good mix and – ta-da! – you have some magical bun mixture, ready and waiting to unshroud a scarlet woman (after it’s all been baked and drenched in more Cointreau, of course).

  *

  ‘And here’s what I suspect you’ve been waiting for,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, handing me the non-magic cream bowl. The bowl is lined with cake mixture, fold after lovely unctuous fold of it. ‘You really do remind me of your mother, you know,’ she goes on, as I get to work with my finger, scooping up all the yummy remnants. ‘She had a sweet tooth too.’

  ‘Really?’ Another piece of my mother’s jigsaw drops into place. Chic, French-speaking, kind, cow-loving, bright, and now sweet-toothed. She sounds wonderful.