The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

by Matson Taylor

  ‘Evie, that’s great, love,’ says Arthur. ‘It’s wonderful news. Why didn’t you say anything? I’m really pleased for you.’ He is smiling more than I have seen him smile in a long time. ‘You’ll be set up for life. People will always want their hair doing, won’t they?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘You’ll be all right now, Evie, love. Someone like you, with a bit of brains and all those books, well, you’ll be running your own salon before you know it. Come here.’ And she gives me a big hug, pressing my face into her monumental chest. ‘In fact never mind one salon, love, you’ll have a whole chain of them. I can see it now. Evie’s Top Crops.’

  ‘Evie Mends Ends,’ shouts Arthur.

  ‘Evie’s Lavish Locks,’ shouts Vera.

  ‘Evie Cuts Loose,’ says Christine, looking down at her ring again.

  ‘Well done, love,’ says Arthur, lifting up his blue cake as if he were toasting me with a glass of champagne. He gives the cake one more quizzical look and then bites into it.

  Tick.

  Mrs Swithenbank, meanwhile, is attacking her butterfly bun with gusto, sending buttercream up the sides of her mouth and Vera is nibbling away at her cake with little ratty licks.

  Tock.

  Christine lifts her pink cake up. Yes! She opens her mouth. Yes! And—

  ‘Oh, silly me. I almost forgot. It’s actually a triple celebration.’

  ‘Triple celebration, love?’ asks Vera.

  Arthur looks anxious again.

  Mrs Swithenbank looks befuddled, although it’s hard to tell whether this is because of Christine’s triple-celebration announcement or because there’s a blob of buttercream on the end of her nose.

  ‘Yes, triple celebration,’ says Christine. ‘Good things come in threes. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’

  (No, when you’re an only child, good things come in ones.)

  ‘Come on then, love, let’s be having it,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, still with the buttercream on her nose. ‘What are we celebrating?’

  ‘Well,’ says Christine. ‘It’s to do with the farm.’

  Arthur now looks even more anxious.

  ‘We’ve sold it,’ Christine blurts out. ‘To a developer.’ And she waves her arms up in the air, obviously waiting to be showered in bank notes.

  ‘Ooooh, love, that’s fantastic,’ shouts Vera, putting her cake down on the table and throwing her arms round Christine.

  ‘Hold on,’ says Arthur. ‘You know we agreed not to say anything, love.’ Shiny droplets of sweat have started to appear on his forehead.

  ‘Sold the farm to a developer?’ asks Mrs Swithenbank. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, nothing’s finalised yet, Doris. We’re still talking about it,’ says Arthur, looking simultaneously extremely uncomfortable and (for Arthur) pretty angry. ‘I need to talk to Evie about it,’ he goes on, turning to me. ‘I was going to tell you about it over the next couple of days, love. They’re offering a lot of money. It’d set us up. You could get your own car. Get your own hair salon even. You’d be sorted for life.’

  Christine is leaning across the table, listening to every word (she has the hearing of a field of radar antennae).

  ‘Oh, it’s fantastic news. It’s like winning the pools,’ shouts Vera. ‘Well done, Arthur.’

  ‘Well, Vera, like I said, nothing’s been decided yet,’ says Arthur, giving Christine one of her own Looks.

  ‘What do you think about it, Evie, love?’ Mrs Swithenbank asks, turning to me.

  Everyone stops talking and looks at me.

  What do I think about it?

  I look down at the cake in front of Christine. I think of Mrs Scott-Pym’s little book of Yorkshire magic. I think of Songs to Unshroud a Scarlet Woman. I think of Mrs Scott-Pym getting pregnant. And I think of Caroline, as tall as a tree, living in London and doing something in fashion.

  Now is not the right time to talk about selling the farm. I need to focus.

  ‘It sounds great!’ I lie (yet again – I am turning into a mythomaniac: noun – someone with a compulsive propensity to dissemble). ‘Come on, let’s celebrate!’ And I throw myself back into my fairy cake.

  Arthur beams an ecstatic smile, leans over and kisses me (‘brilliant, love’). Then he pushes his hand through my hair, gives me a hug, and has another bite of his cake. Christine, meanwhile, has had a big slurp of tea and is picking up her cake. She looks as smug as a pug in a rug. As she lifts the cake up, she glances over at me, narrowing her eyes. (Tick.) She leans forwards slightly and opens her mouth. (Tock.) She moves the cake up to her lips, holding it there for a second before lifting it up to her nose and giving it a big sniff.

  ‘Mmmm, smells quite nice,’ she says. ‘Orangey.’

  Just.

  Eat.

  The.

  Bloody.

  Cake.

  She moves the cake away from her nose and – finally, wonderfully, horribly – puts it into her mouth.

  Bingo. I experience a rush of excitement. This is what being at an Adam Faith concert must feel like.

  I stare at Christine, watching for something magical to happen, but the only sign of any magic is her ability to make the cake very quickly disappear.

  ‘Mmmm. This isn’t bad,’ she says, licking her lips in between mouthfuls. ‘Nice and orangey.’

  Is that it? No lightning bolt or thunder crash?

  Yorkshire magic is certainly very untheatrical, not like magic on the telly.

  ‘Argh!’ shouts Christine, making everyone jump.

  ‘What is it, Christine, love?’ asks Vera. ‘What’s happened?’

  (Hurrah. It’s the magic!)

  ‘It’s the bloody cake,’ says Christine, spitting a dollop of mangled sponge out of her mouth and onto the plate. ‘There’s something rock hard in it.’

  (Oh. Not the magic then.)

  Christine puts the plate with the spat-out cake down on the table. We all stare at the moist grubby mound of sponge, orange zest and pink icing.

  ‘Are you all right, love? says Arthur, looking unsure.

  ‘It’s probably just a nut,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Won’t do you any harm.’

  ‘It wasn’t a bloody nut, Doris,’ says Christine, starting to investigate the spat-out cake. ‘I know a nut when I taste one.’ She has a good prod around with her finger. ‘Look!’ she says, holding up a small pink thing. ‘I told you there was something.’

  I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this.

  ‘What is it, love?’ says Vera. ‘Give it here. Let me have a look.’ Vera takes it and holds it up to the light. ‘It feels smooth. And I think I can feel a ridge.’ She puts it close to her eye and then holds it out at arm’s distance. ‘Do you know what . . . I think it’s part of a button.’

  ‘What?’ says Christine. ‘Part of a button? How the bloody hell did that get there?’ She snatches the pink object and has a good look at it. ‘I think you’re right, Mum. It’s part of a bloody button. What on earth does she think she’s playing at, putting a button in my cake?’

  ‘A button?’ says Arthur. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure,’ snaps Christine.

  ‘Well, these things happen, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘It’s all part of having something homemade.’

  ‘Homemade? Doris. The old cow put part of a button in my cake.’

  ‘Come on, love,’ says Arthur, smiling his best saintly smile. ‘It’s just an accident.’

  ‘Accident? A button? In a cake?’

  ‘Aye, no need for a face like thunder, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘It must have just dropped in. Let’s see,’ and she reaches over for the button.

  ‘Get off,’ says Christine, pulling the button away. ‘I want to have a good look at it.’ She stands up and walks over to the kitchen sink. ‘I’ll give it a quick rinse.’

  Right. I need some Yorkshire magic now.

  Please.

  Christine turns on the tap and shoves her hands an
d the button under the running water. She looks to be giving it a good rub.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ she shouts.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Vera.

  ‘I dropped the bloody thing,’ Christine replies. ‘It almost went down the plughole.’ She turns her head round to look at Arthur, leaving her hand and the button under the running water. ‘Arthur. How many times have I asked you to get this plughole covered? Mum dropped a teaspoon down there yesterday.’ She tuts and rolls her eyes.

  ‘Sorry, love. I’ll —’

  ‘Aaaaaargh!!!’

  Christine lets out another scream, this time one that could break solid rock.

  ‘My ring!’ she yells. ‘It’s just gone down the bloody plughole.’

  She’s screaming like a whole troupe of opera singers (but using some very un-operatic language). Vera and Arthur run around trying to calm Christine down while Mrs Swithenbank sits at the table finishing her cake, muttering something about U-bends. At least one cup and saucer lies smashed on the kitchen floor and I wouldn’t be surprised if more crockery ended up there very soon.

  Obviously I do what any self-respecting only child would do and sneak out the door. As I walk upstairs, I hear Christine shouting, ‘It’s all the fault of that bloody woman and her bloody cake,’ and I have a nasty twinge of guilt.

  Up in my room, I go and lie on top of the bed. Sophisticated Adam and Brooding Adam look down on me from the wall but neither of them offers much help to be honest. It’s horrible. I never thought there’d be a problem that one of the two Adams couldn’t ease. I don’t even feel like putting on my Dansette. It’s all too much for me, so I close my eyes for a moment, hoping for some peace and quiet. Floating in the dark void, I see my mother’s recipe book and her elegant looping writing and then I realise that what I want more than anything else in the world right now is to be lost in the flow of her beautiful blue words.

  Rolling, rolling, rolling.

  Eh?

  La La La La La La

  I can hear a strange non-musical music. Am I dreaming?

  Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum

  Actually, it sounds more like a nightmare.

  Rawhiiiiiiiiiiide.

  This is not a good way to wake up. It’s Christine and Vera singing, a combination of all the worst sounds in the world rolled into one.

  I have a muzzy head, partly caused, no doubt, by falling asleep fully dressed on top of my bed but also partly caused, I’m sure, by the horrible wailing coming from downstairs. I look at my watch. It’s ten o’clock. What on earth are Christine and Vera doing making all this noise at ten o’clock at night?

  Perhaps the singing is part of the spell? It is called Songs to Unshroud a Scarlet Woman after all. Maybe it’s some kind of hideous compelling magical infliction, like in that film The Red Shoes, but instead of dynamic thrusting ballet we get Christine’s flat notes and tone-deaf wailing.

  I need to investigate.

  *

  When I walk into the kitchen, the singing is replaced by shrieks of laughter. Four bottles of Babycham and a half-eaten pork pie are sitting on the kitchen table.

  ‘Oh, Evie,’ says Christine, looking up from her glass. Vera is wiping the kitchen table and giggling away to herself. ‘Did we wake you up?’

  ‘No, I just came down for a drink,’ I reply, scrutinising her for any signs of magical intervention. She looks exactly the same. It’s very disappointing.

  ‘Your dad’s at the pub,’ Christine goes on, gesturing with her glass towards the door. She’s sitting on one of the kitchen chairs with her legs stretched out and her feet up on another chair. She looks like a jump in a junior gymkhana.

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’ I ask, hoping at least for some magical aches and pains.

  ‘Okay? Oh, yes. Everything’s fine now. We got the ring back. Look,’ she says, holding out her ring hand and wiggling her fingers again. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’

  ‘Mmmm. Lovely. So you’re not feeling any different at all, then?’

  ‘Different? No. What do you mean?’

  ‘She means now that you’ve got the ring, love,’ says Vera, looking up from her wiping and being helpful for once. ‘Now that you’re engaged.’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I meant. Now that you’re engaged. Do you feel any different?’ I ask. ‘Older perhaps?’

  Christine gives me a Nasty Look.

  ‘Older and wiser,’ she replies. ‘Wise enough to know that there was something funny about that cake today. I haven’t forgotten about the button, you know.’

  Oh God. The button.

  ‘I don’t know how it happened,’ I say. ‘Mrs Scott-Pym had been doing some sewing in the kitchen before we started baking. A broken button must have found its way into the cake mixture somehow.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ says Christine, not looking at all convinced. ‘Well, to show Mrs Scott-Pym that there are no hard feelings and that we’re all very grateful for her cakes, Mum and me have been doing some baking too, haven’t we, Mum?’

  ‘We certainly have, love,’ says Vera, looking over from wiping the sink and giving us a glowing smile (it must be the Babycham). ‘Yes, we wanted to thank her for such a kind, neighbourly gesture and so we thought she deserves a nice bit of cake too. Sitting around all day in that big house of hers on her own. It can’t be easy for her, can it?’

  Christine has a slurp of her drink while Vera nods enthusiastically.

  ‘And do you know what,’ Christine continues, ‘we’ve really enjoyed making the cake, haven’t we, Mum?’

  Cue more nodding from Vera.

  ‘Mother and daughter together. In the kitchen. Baking. It’s been lovely. It reminded me of when I was little and we used to make butterfly buns together. Mum’d always let me make the wings and then lick out the bowl, wouldn’t you, Mum?’

  ‘Oh yes, love,’ sniffs Vera, now busy wiping the table. ‘You used to love it.’

  ‘And it got me thinking about you, Evie. You know, we’re not so different after all, you and me.’

  What? Christine and me are as different as night and day. Cake and ale. The BBC and ITV.

  ‘We’re both young women trying to do our best, two only children setting out on life’s big adventure,’ she says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. It’s not a pleasant feeling (partly because her ring digs into my bone), but it is, admittedly, a nice gesture.

  She pulls a sad face and flutters her eyes a bit.

  ‘Two daughters who’ve lost a parent.’

  Oh. I’ve never thought of Christine as a bowl-licking, parent-losing, only child before. I’m beginning to feel a bit bad about her almost losing her ring down the kitchen sink . . .

  ‘Now, I know you’re such good friends with Mrs Scott-Pym,’ she goes on. ‘So I thought it’d be nice if you took the cake round to her tomorrow. Mum and me just want to finish it off. Make it look fancy. Something grand like she deserves.’

  This is a new Christine. Still pink (and scarlet) but with a strange veneer of something alien. Something unnatural. Something hitherto unknown to her.

  She’s being nice.

  Of course, I’ve seen her being nice before – smiling (occasionally), laughing at Arthur’s bad jokes, not kicking Mr Carr’s goat when it chewed her hem – but they’re all things that required no effort. I’ve never seen her actually do anything or put herself out in any way to be nice (unless she’s after a new LP or a pair of boots or something).

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say to Christine. Maybe part of being an Adult is knowing when to change your mind about someone. Learn to accept them. Embrace Forgiveness (noun – a conscious decision to release feelings of vengeance towards someone who has harmed you). ‘It’s really nice of you,’ I go on. ‘I’m sure Mrs Scott-Pym will love the cake.’

  ‘Awe, thanks, love,’ Christine replies, giving my hand another little squeeze and then sitting back and crossing her legs. ‘I’m sure she’ll love it, too.’

  ELEVEN

  Sunday 15 July 1962

  It�
��s quarter past nine the next morning and the bright blue sky is hanging above our village like a wonderful huge sheet pegged out along an infinite washing line. There’s not a cloud in sight. It’s already warm and you can tell it’s going to get much hotter.

  I’m outside Mrs Scott-Pym’s back door. My arm is killing me because I’m carrying Christine’s and Vera’s cake for Mrs Scott-Pym and it weighs a ton.

  I give the door a quick knock and then step inside. There’s a lovely bready smell in the air and a faint whiff of oranges but no sign of life. I put the cake down on the kitchen table (accompanied by a solid thud) and then pop my head round the sitting-room door and shout ‘hello’. There’s no reply. Not even a howl from Sadie. I hover in the doorway, unsure what to do next. I was looking forward to seeing Mrs Scott-Pym and telling her about Christine and the button, hoping that she’d somehow be able to find some traces of magic.

  As I stand holding the sitting-room door open, I notice that there’s a new photo on Mrs Scott-Pym’s sideboard. It’s the photo that Mrs Scott-Pym showed me yesterday, the one that was on her bedside table. Caroline. She looks amazing. She has her head cocked back and it looks like she’s laughing. She’s standing in the middle of a narrow street; lines of washing stretch from one side to the other and all the shops seem to be called things like lavanderia or pasticceria. It’s definitely not Yorkshire. The street is full of life and lots of people are milling around but it’s Caroline who draws your attention. She’s staring straight at the camera. Daring you to look back.

  I try calling Mrs Scott-Pym one more time. Nothing. She must be out. I expect she’s taken Sadie for a good walk somewhere (as she often does). I could sit and wait for them to get back but sometimes they’re gone for hours so probably best to leave the cake on the kitchen table and go and see Margaret instead.

  *

  It’s actually late afternoon before I get back to Mrs Scott-Pym’s.

  I’ve spent most of the day with Margaret. We took a picnic and went for a long bike ride out through the lanes and over the fields and ended up going all the way up to the river. We are both good on bikes. My long giraffe legs make light work of pedalling and Margaret has thighs as thick as tree trunks, stuffed full of muscle, and capable of producing more power than most steam engines.