‘Does Caroline have a sweet tooth?’ I ask. Mrs Scott-Pym definitely has one. Her house is cake heaven. If Mrs Scott-Pym has a sweet tooth does that mean Caroline has one too? Is that how it works with mothers and daughters?
‘Caroline? Oh, well, yes. At least I think so. I used to get Bettys to send her a tuck box every term when she was at school. And she seems to be no better now.’ Mrs Scott-Pym folds her tea towel and sits down on a kitchen chair. ‘From what I gather, she spends most of her time in London at Italian coffee shops and bakeries.’
Caroline must be great. A good heap of Audrey Hepburn mixed with a splash of Jane Fonda and a sprinkling of George from The Famous Five thrown in too.
‘Is Caroline like you, Mrs Scott-Pym?’ I ask, sitting down next to her.
‘Like me? No. Not really. She looks far more like Edward, I’d say. It’s the red hair. And the brown eyes. Oh, and she’s tall like Edward too.’
‘Tall? How tall is she?’ I ask. (As tall as a tree? As tall as me?)
‘Oh, she must be almost six foot,’ Mrs Scott-Pym replies. ‘I used to think she was never going to stop growing.’
A red-haired Amazon warrior who eats cake.
‘I bet she’s lovely, Mrs Scott-Pym,’ I say. ‘What kind of person is she? Does she take after you?’
‘No, dear. She certainly does not take after me. Actually, I really have no idea who she does take after. She’s very much her own woman,’ she adds, looking down at the tea towel in her hand.
Very much her own woman. That sounds great. I wish I could be very much my own woman.
‘What do you mean, Mrs Scott-Pym?’ I ask. (I know I sound like Margaret now but I can’t stop myself.) ‘How is she her own woman? She must take after you in something.’
Mrs Scott-Pym’s bright eyes dim a little. ‘No. We’re very different.’ She shakes her head and sighs a deep sigh (which seems to be a pretty important part of being an adult). ‘Very different indeed.’
‘She must be super glamorous,’ I say. ‘Do you think I could be like Caroline, Mrs Scott-Pym?’
She takes another step towards the door and then stops and turns her head, looking back at me over her shoulder. ‘No, dear. I don’t think you want to be like Caroline.’ She is staring straight at me but it feels like she’s talking to someone else, and there’s a sadness in her voice that I haven’t heard before. She takes a wisp of grey hair and tucks it behind her ear. ‘No,’ she sighs again and covers her eyes with her outstretched fingers. When she moves her hand, I notice her eyes are pink and wet. She rubs her hands with the tea towel and then starts walking again. ‘Now, how about we all sit outside whilst the cakes are in the oven?’ she goes on, back to her usual non-sad voice. ‘They’ll be another quarter of an hour or so yet and it’s such a lovely evening, it’d be a shame to waste it.’
This is true. Even though it’s now well gone six, the summer sun is still bright in the beautiful rectangle of sky caught in the kitchen window. I love summer. I love feeling its warmth on my skin and seeing the clear blue sky stretch out over the fields. I love hearing the birds sing and the constant background buzz of bees and heat. I love that the air feels so alive – a balmy, joyous fizzy drink to be gulped down.
And ice cream is everywhere. I love that too.
What could possibly go wrong in summer?
INTERLUDE
16 July 1952
Rosamund Scott-Pym looked out through the French windows onto the terrace outside. The two girls were relaxing on deckchairs, chatting and laughing and listening to some terrible American music on the wireless.
It was the start of the summer holidays and Rosamund’s daughter, Caroline, had a school friend staying for a couple of days. Flora. A nice girl whose father owned an engineering works in York. Rosamund hoped that Flora might be a steadying influence on Caroline (if, indeed, Caroline could be steadied). For the past two terms Rosamund had been getting letters from school about Caroline and her unruly behaviour. ‘Undisciplined’, one had said, ‘fractious and disruptive’. ‘Improper’. ‘Rebellious’. She’d tried talking to her but it was no good. Caroline was impossible. A feisty, intractable sixteen-year-old whom Rosamund was unable to control.
A yelp from the floor called Rosamund’s attention back to the kitchen.
‘Gladstone! Sorry, my best boy, have I been neglecting you?’
She bent down and stroked his neck, catching his soft curls in her fingers.
‘What will we do with her, eh?’ she asked, looking into Gladstone’s gentle eyes and tickling him under his chin. ‘What a mess. Fourteen teas and coffee, that’s what Edward would have said about her, isn’t it?’ She paused, lost in the past, the only trace of 1952 being the girls’ voices and their tinny music coming from outside.
‘I’ve just come to get some lemonade, Mummy,’ said Caroline, walking into the kitchen.
Rosamund looked up.
Caroline was wearing her swimsuit. In the kitchen. How absurd. It wouldn’t have been allowed in Rosamund’s day, of course, not at home. Whatever would people think?
‘Of course, dear,’ she said, deciding it was easier not to say anything about the swimsuit. ‘There’s some ice cream too if you like.’
‘That’d be lovely, Mummy. Thank you.’ She was standing next to the refrigerator pouring out two glasses of lemonade. ‘Mummy?’ she went on, in a tone that immediately made Rosamund aware she was after something. ‘You know we were talking about me staying in York and doing that secretarial course?’
‘Yes, dear,’ replied Rosamund. It was Caroline’s latest idea. She was desperate to leave school and get on with real life (whatever that is, thought Rosamund), and now, the summer after her O levels, she seemed to be trying out an endless array of possibilities.
‘Well, Flora says I can board at hers. Their house is enormous, eight bedrooms apparently, up on The Mount. She’ll be there for the next two years whilst she does her A levels. It’d be perfect.’
Rosamund looked at her daughter. How had she grown up so quickly?
‘And what do Flora’s parents say about this? Are you sure they’re quite ready for a tearaway like you?’
Caroline stuck out her tongue.
‘I’m sure you’ll warn them all about me,’ she said, taking the two glasses and making her way back outside. ‘Oh, and by the way, I thought Flora and I could clean Daddy’s car later on, if you like? It’ll make a nice change from sitting out in the sun.’
And with that she strode off out of the kitchen, heading back to the terrace and the joyous summer sun.
TEN
Saturday 14 July 1962
‘Oooh, it’s lovely. Really lovely. Aye, you don’t get many of them to the pound, do you?’
That’s Mrs Swithenbank, admiring Christine’s new engagement ring.
I’ve just got back from Mrs Scott-Pym’s. It’s eight in the evening and Christine is sitting at our kitchen table showing off the ring to Mrs Swithenbank. Vera and Arthur are also gathered around the table. Vera looks ridiculously excited. Arthur less so.
‘It’s a princess diamond,’ says Christine. ‘Like Petula Clark’s.’
‘Mr Brice, the nice young man from the jeweller’s, recommended it,’ says Vera. ‘He was so helpful. So nice,’ she goes on, making Mr Brice sound like he had just donated a spare kidney rather than sold Arthur an engagement ring. ‘Such a lovely manner. And he had lovely nails too.’
‘Well, what do you expect, Mum?’ says Christine. ‘It’s York’s finest jeweller’s. She leans over towards Arthur, smiling triumphantly, and adds, ‘The Jewel in Yorkshire’s Crown.’
She is speaking like an advert again. I expect it’s all the time she spends reading the local papers and watching Granada Television (Mrs Scott-Pym says that commercial television shrinks the brain).
‘Oooh it was lovely,’ coos Vera. ‘You should have seen it, Doris. There were diamonds everywhere. And rings. And fancy watches. It was like something from the telly.’
‘They
took us off to our own little room, Doris,’ says Christine, still extending her hand to show the ring with maximum effect. ‘It was proper posh.’
‘We had mahogany chairs, Doris,’ says Vera. ‘Ma-hog-any. I thought I was in Castle Howard.’
‘Very nice,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.
‘They brought out all these rings and put them on little black velvet cushions,’ continues Vera. ‘Everything was so elegant. Mr Brice was very particular. He had such a nice delicate manner.’
‘Aye, it’s a different world, York, isn’t it?’ says Mrs Swithenbank.
‘And Mr Brice got me a black velvet cushion too, Doris. To rest my hand on,’ says Christine. ‘Like this.’ She reaches over for the tea cosy, folds it up and rests her hand on it.
‘Well,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘I can see it might be tiring holding your hand up all the time.’
‘Oh, it was wonderful,’ says Vera. ‘I felt like royalty.’
‘I know,’ says Christine. ‘I bet Princess Margaret gets treated like that all the time.’
‘Aye, I bet she does, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Well, I think the ring looks smashing.’
‘Aww, thanks, Doris,’ says Christine, her fingers still extended. ‘I’m glad you like it. Are you putting the kettle on, then, Mum?’ she adds, flicking her head round to Vera. ‘I think we’re all ready for a brew.’
Vera gets up from the table, takes off her jacket and pulls on a flowery wrap-around apron. She now looks identical to millions of other Yorkshire women, like Chairman Mao’s floral army (but possibly even more dangerous). Up until now, Vera has been in her ‘York best’, an outfit saved for special occasions: a boxy jacket, pleated skirt and blocky shoes. She is the walking embodiment of 1949. Christine is also in her ‘York best’, an understated combination of tight pencil skirt (pink), tight bolero jacket (pink) and terrifyingly pointy shoes (pink). She looks like a well-inflated flamingo.
‘Evie, love, stop skulking over there and come and sit down next to me,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, patting the empty chair next to her.
‘I wasn’t skulking,’ I say. Just observing. And staying out of Trouble.
‘Here, Evie, come and have a look at my ring,’ says Christine, wiggling her fingers like a crawling caterpillar.
I lean forward and stare at the ring. The only other engagement rings I have ever seen are Elizabeth Taylor’s and Zsa Zsa Gabor’s. It’s not a good comparison.
‘It’s lovely,’ I lie. ‘Really lovely.’
‘Yes, it’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’ says Christine. ‘Mr Brice says that when you lift it up to the light, you can see 128 colours in it.’ She does some more caterpillar wiggling. ‘How many can you see?’ she asks, shoving the ring under my nose.
I stare at the ring.
‘Loads,’ I lie (again). ‘I can see loads of colours. All sparkling. It looks lovely.’ I am playing a tactical war and the shimmering multicoloured diamond ring is a battle that I’m happy to let Christine win. It will soon be my turn to let loose the power of the magic-button cake (what am I saying?).
‘Watch yourself,’ says Vera, pushing past me and putting the large brown teapot on the table. A little splurt of weak tea comes out of the spout and falls onto the lacy table mat. ‘We’ll just let it brew for a few minutes. Have you finished with the tea cosy, love?’
‘Mmmm,’ replies Christine, still busy looking at her ring.
Vera reaches over and grabs the cosy, pulling it over the glossy brown teapot. ‘Oooh,’ she sighs, sitting down. ‘That’s nice. There’s nothing like putting your feet up at the end of a busy day, is there?’
‘You relax, Vera, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘It’s hard work getting around York. All those bloody cobbles play havoc with my corns.’
‘Oh I know. I’m shattered,’ says Vera, leaning over and rubbing her shins.
‘A bit of cake would be nice, Mum,’ says Christine, finally taking her eyes off the ring. ‘We’re meant to be celebrating my new piece of elegant engagement jewellery remember.’
(I wonder which advert that was from.)
‘Christine, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Your mother’s just sat down. Let her have five minutes while the tea brews.’
‘Doris, we can’t celebrate my new ring with just a cup of tea,’ says Christine. ‘Mum doesn’t mind getting the cake, do you, Mum? She likes to keep herself busy. It keeps her trim,’ she adds, looking Mrs Swithenbank up and down.
‘I’ve got some cakes,’ I say.
‘What?’ says Christine.
‘Cakes. I’ve got some cakes.’ I hold up Mrs Scott-Pym’s bag. Inside is a tin box filled with twelve fairy cakes; one of them is my secret weapon, the V2 rocket of buns.
‘What are you doing with some cakes?’ asks Christine.
‘Mrs Scott-Pym made them. To celebrate the good news. I helped her. We’ve been baking all afternoon,’ I explain, taking out the tin box and putting it on the table.
‘Well, that’s right nice of her,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, smiling and rubbing her hands.
Christine and Vera stare suspiciously at the tin box.
‘That’s very nice of Rosamund,’ says Arthur, who seems to have perked up at the mention of cakes.
‘Let’s have a look, then,’ says Christine, grabbing the tin box and taking the lid off.
Inside are ten fairy cakes, each finished off with a large swirl of buttercream and a dollop of marmalade. There are two other buns. One is blue and the other is pink. Arthur and Christine. In cake form. Mrs Scott-Pym is a genius.
‘Ooooh, aren’t they lovely,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘What a nice thought.’
‘Well,’ says Christine, ‘you’d have thought that she’d have bought a cake rather than making her own. She’s got more money than she knows what to do with. She could have got something right nice from Bettys. Something big.’
‘That’s right, love,’ says Vera. ‘She thinks she’s so much better than the rest of us. So La Di Da, with her sash windows and lined curtains.’
‘Eee, have you two heard yourselves,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, looking at Christine and Vera. ‘I think it’s right neighbourly. Evie, love, can you get us some plates?’
I get Mrs Swithenbank some side plates and she passes round the buns while Vera pours the tea.
‘I’ve never had a blue cake before,’ says Arthur, picking up his bun and having a good look at it. ‘You don’t see much blue food, do you?’
‘There’s a good reason for that, mister,’ says Christine, smiling coyly at Arthur and tapping the end of his nose with her finger. (Yuck.) ‘Oh, honestly, I don’t know what she was thinking. I mean, who eats blue food? It looks horrible.’ She looks down at her pink bun. I do too. It is sitting in front of her like a ticking bomb. Tick. Tock. She looks over at Arthur. ‘Do you want to swap?’ she asks, doing something strange with her eyes.
Swap? No! How can someone so obsessed with pink want to swap a pink bun for a blue one?
I look at the pink bun.
And then the blue bun.
And then the pink bun again.
‘Oi, what are you looking at?’ says Christine. ‘Don’t get any ideas about having these; they’re for us. You get the rammy old fairy cakes and we get the special cakes, don’t we, Arthur? His and hers.’
‘Or hers and his,’ says Arthur, swapping the plates round so that the ticking pink bomb is in front of him.
I love him dearly but sometimes it’s not easy having Arthur for a dad.
‘Oi, you. You’re as bad as your daughter. You don’t think I was serious about swapping, do you?’ she says, her hand now rubbing Arthur’s leg. ‘Pink’s my colour.’
(Yes, we’ve noticed.)
‘So the pink cake’s mine,’ she continues, switching the plates and fluttering her eyelashes and trying, I think, to look seductive. ‘I’m a beautiful pink English rose, remember.’
(More like a bossy pink English pig.)
‘Now then, are we all ready to toast the happy co
uple?’ says Mrs Swithenbank.
‘Woo hoo!’ shouts Vera. ‘My little girl is getting married.’
‘And she’s got a lovely ring to show for it,’ sings Christine, waving her hand in the air and showing off the ring again.
‘Well, here’s to Arthur and Christine,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, raising her cup of tea. And we all raise our cups of tea and say, ‘To Arthur and Christine.’
Right. Eat the cake, then. Tick. Tock.
Christine picks up her plate with one hand and holds the pink cake with the other, moving it slowly up to her mouth.
Just as she’s about to bite into the cake she looks at me and then puts the cake back down on the table, untouched.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ she says. ‘Shush. There’s something I want to say.’
Everyone goes quiet, even Vera.
‘We’re not just having one celebration today,’ says Christine. ‘We’re having two.’
Vera and Mrs Swithenbank exchange glances.
Arthur suddenly looks very anxious.
‘It’s a double celebration because as well as celebrating my ring and the engagement we’re also celebrating Evie’s new job.’
What?!?
Everyone cheers (except me).
‘Oh, congratulations, Evie, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, patting me on the thighs. ‘That’s smashing news. What’s your job, then?’
‘She’s got a job at Maureen’s salon,’ says Christine, helpfully answering for me. ‘Shampooing and helping out. Maureen’s going to train her up.’ Christine sits across the table smiling at me. I have a strong urge to stuff my butterfly bun in her face but I don’t. I focus on the pink cake. (Tick. Tock.)
‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘Maybe.’
The cake. I just need Christine to eat the cake.
‘I thought I’d give it a go,’ I add, desperate to stop the talking and get everyone eating. ‘You know, just to try it out. See what happens.’ And I bite into my fairy cake, hoping to lead by example.
The Miseducation of Evie Epworth Page 11