When I walk in, I find Mrs Scott-Pym on her knees scrubbing the floor. She looks very pale and a bit grey around the eyes.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Scott-Pym?’ I ask. ‘What’s happened?’
She puts down her scrubbing brush and wipes her brow with the edge of the flowery apron (primus inter pares of flowery aprons) that she wears over her cashmere and tweeds when cleaning.
‘Oh, it’s Sadie,’ she says. ‘She’s not well, poor old thing. She’s embarrassed herself on the kitchen floor. Several times.’
‘Oh no,’ I say, bending down so that Mrs Scott-Pym doesn’t have to keep looking up. ‘Poor Sadie. Where is she?’
‘She’s in her basket,’ she replies, gesturing towards the sitting room. ‘She must be exhausted. The poor old dear looks rotten.’
Mrs Scott-Pym looks rotten too. Her skin is damp and her eyes look red and watery. ‘Here, let me do that for you,’ I say, taking the brush. ‘Are you sure you feel all right, Mrs Scott-Pym?’
‘Well, not really, dear,’ she says. ‘I’ve had a nasty stomach cramp all afternoon.’
‘Oh no,’ I say, again (I really must work on my vocabulary). ‘Look, why don’t I make us some tea? I brought a cake round earlier; we could have a slice.’
The remaining colour drains from Mrs Scott-Pym’s face.
‘Thank you, dear, but I’m not really feeling up to any food. I had some of your cake this morning and then again after lunch. I’m afraid I don’t really think it’s agreeing with me.’ She holds her stomach and takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘Whatever did you put in it? It’s very . . . rich.’
Oh. The cake.
‘Christine and Vera made it,’ I say. ‘They did it to say thank you for the cakes you sent round yesterday.’
‘Oh, I thought it was strange, you making a cake,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym. ‘I must say I was quite surprised when I walked in and saw it. Anyway, it was very nice of Christine and Vera to go to all the bother. Very nice indeed.’
Very. Nice. Indeed. Three words not usually associated with Christine and her crab-apple mum.
‘Did you give any of the cake to Sadie, Mrs Scott-Pym?’ I ask.
‘Well, yes, you know what Sadie’s like with cake. She’s such a greedy old thing. She’s had two big pieces. Wolfed them down.’
I see.
*
‘Thank you, dear,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym as I help her onto the sofa. ‘You’re such a help. I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know.’
‘And I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mrs Scott-Pym,’ I reply. It’s true. I really don’t know what I’d do without her. Not only is she lovely and sweet and generous and kind but she’s also the only sane person around for miles.
‘Here,’ I say, putting a blanket over her legs and belly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to get you anything? Some water, maybe?’
‘No, dear, thank you. I’m fine.’ (She doesn’t look at all fine.) ‘Now, tell me, how did you get on last night with the cake? Did Christine eat it?’
‘Oh yes. Eventually. It took her a while to get it down because she kept making announcements.’
‘Announcements?’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, making the word sound very common. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
I tell her about Christine announcing to everyone about the job she’s got me and the plan to sell the farm. As Mrs Scott-Pym listens, her face gets redder and redder.
‘Ridiculous girl,’ she says. ‘Wait till I’m feeling better. I’m going to go and talk to your father. It’s obvious what’s happening. That young woman is taking advantage of his big heart.’ She takes my hand and gives it a little squeeze.
As we sit holding hands, I look over at the sideboard.
‘Mrs Scott-Pym?’ I say.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Why did you move the photo of Caroline downstairs?’ Everything holds its breath for a moment. The air. The room. Mrs Scott-Pym.
‘Well, dear, I just thought that maybe it had been shut up in my bedroom for too long. I think perhaps it looks much better down here on the sideboard, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes, I think it’s perfect down here. It’s a lovely photograph.’
‘I’m glad you like it, dear. I like it too. Very much, in fact. I think I may have been very silly hiding it away upstairs.’
‘Caroline definitely belongs downstairs,’ I say. ‘She’s so glamorous and beautiful. If she were my daughter, I’d have photos of her everywhere.’
Mrs Scott-Pym doesn’t say anything; she just nods and smiles a little smile.
‘Mrs Scott-Pym?’ I ask, readying myself for another Caroline question.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Did Caroline always want to do something in fashion?’
‘Caroline? Well, no, not really, dear,’ she says, looking very pale again. ‘She just drifted into it, I think. I’m not really sure. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. She was never one to plan things.’
Just drifted into it. Never one to plan things. I like her even more now. I want to be like Caroline, drifting and not planning. I think about my A levels. Doing them doesn’t feel very drifty. And I think of Margaret, planning everything with the precision of the D-Day landings. And then I think about Caroline, living in London and doing something in fashion.
‘Owwww,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, suddenly clutching her stomach and bending forward.
‘Are you okay, Mrs Scott-Pym? You really don’t look at all well. Should we phone the doctor?’
‘No, it’s only a bit of stomach pain, dear. I’ll be all right in a moment.’
Her forehead is covered with sweat and her face is almost translucent. She is bent right over, her body just about touching her legs, a compass that doesn’t quite close.
‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask.
A loud gurgling noise comes from under the blanket.
‘I think I might just go upstairs for a moment, dear,’ she replies, obviously in pain. ‘Excuse me.’ And she shuffles off the sofa and across the room to the hallway and beyond.
I hear her going up the stairs and then the loud slam of the bathroom door being thrown quickly closed. After a few seconds, I hear the unmistakeable sound of someone being sick. Poor Mrs Scott-Pym.
I look over at Sadie, slouched in her basket. She really doesn’t look very well either. Her eyes are bloodshot and she’s covered in drool. Her tail, usually erect and bobbing, is curled around her, lifeless and sad.
Upstairs Mrs Scott-Pym is being sick again. The horrible wrenching noise comes and goes and in between I can hear her taking big deep breaths. I wonder whether I should go and help her but then I’m sure she just wants to get on with it on her own. Better out than in, as they say.
I pick up Mrs Scott-Pym’s Country Life and start flicking through, looking mainly for photos of dogs. Just as I find a particularly handsome terrier, I hear a loud bang and then a horrible scream coming from upstairs.
I rush into the hallway and look up. Mrs Scott-Pym is at the top of the stairs. She looks like she’s slipped. She’s got one foot hovering backwards over the top stair, the other one precariously balanced two steps down; her arms are flailing around desperately grasping at nothing.
Her entire centre of gravity looks wrong.
She suddenly doubles over, grabbing her stomach. And then everything happens in slow motion. As she bends, she hits her head on the banister. Crack. She loses her footing and topples forward, crashing her shoulders down onto the stairs. She screams. Her legs flick up behind her, arching over her shoulders before slamming down on the stairs and crumpling underneath her. And then, like a deadweight sack of coal, her flaccid body crashes down each step.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
When she lands on the final step, she just lays there, staring at the floor, limp and still.
; INTERLUDE
12 May 1945
The crunching of the gravel under her feet reminded Diana of the driveway of her childhood home, bringing back memories of bicycles and nannies and grand cars and Rex, her basset hound. She smiled. Another life, one far removed from Arthur, the farmhouse, and the war.
She bent down to inspect some almost-opened peonies, their thick, heavy petals bunched together tightly, like a mass of brightly coloured artichokes on sticks. When she stood up, she was aware of a slight twinge in her back and an ache in her knees. A good soak in the bath. That’s what she needed. Best not to overdo things. She’d been with the cows all morning, milking and then checking the calves, something she found oddly relaxing.
She carried on walking down the gravel drive, a small black book in her hand. She walked up to the house and then took the path round to the back. The days when they’d used each other’s front door had long gone.
*
‘Rosamund!’ exclaimed Diana as she turned a corner and saw Rosamund Scott-Pym on all fours on the grass. Rosamund’s backside was facing straight up at Diana so that all Diana could see of her friend were her rear-end, legs and feet. All very veterinarian, thought Diana.
Rosamund cocked her head round. ‘Diana! What a dreadful welcome. I’m so sorry.’ The two women laughed. There were twenty years between them and yet, over the war, they’d become good friends. ‘Here,’ she said, manoeuvring round on all fours, ‘I want you to meet Gladstone.’
An English Setter puppy lolloped into view.
‘Oh, he’s adorable,’ said Diana, running over to the puppy. ‘But you can’t call such a lovely little thing Gladstone!’
‘Whyevernot?’ said Rosamund. ‘Helookslikea Gladstoneto me.’
‘Gladstone?’ said Diana, bending down and stroking the puppy. ‘Well, it’s so Victorian, Rosamund. I just think of declamatory old men with long beards.’
‘And that’s exactly what he’ll be one day, dear,’ said Rosamund. ‘An old man with a beard.’
The puppy busied himself licking Diana’s wedding ring.
‘Well, he’s certainly adorable, whatever you call him,’ said Diana, curling her hands around the puppy’s head. ‘I thought you said you were going to get a girl this time?’
‘Well, yes, I wanted a girl but then this little one insisted I pick him. You should have seen him showing off. He was like Gary Cooper. I couldn’t resist.’ Rosamund leant down and blew on the puppy’s belly. ‘I’ll get a girl next time. For my dotage. She and I can become the two mad old dears of the village.’
Diana laughed, finding the thought of them all growing old together in the village very comforting. ‘Well, every village needs its share of mad old dears, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘Oh, by the way, I brought you this,’ she went on, passing Rosamund the little black book. ‘It’s the recipe book I told you about.’
‘Oh, thank you, dear,’ said Rosamund, taking the book. ‘I must say, I love the sound of all those grand French recipes. It’ll be like reading a beautiful work of fiction. I’m sick to the back teeth of hearing about Woolten pies and the national loaf.’ She began flicking through the book. ‘Onions! Oysters! Mmm, how lovely. Although, if I’m honest, I’d settle for just being able to get my hands on some decent flour again.’
Diana craned her head back and stared up into the vivid, blue sky. ‘Oh, it feels good, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘After all these years, we must be near the end of the war now, surely?
‘Let’s hope so.’ Rosamund was playing with the new puppy, letting him chew her finger. ‘I think we’ve all had enough, haven’t we? What those poor boys must have been through. Speaking of which, how’s Arthur today, dear?’
‘Oh, bearing up,’ said Diana. ‘The crutches are driving him mad, I think.’
It had been almost six months now since Arthur had been injured near Reims and sent back to a military hospital in Leeds. His legs had been trussed up for a couple of months and at one point the surgeons had worried that there’d be permanent damage. But they let him come home at Christmas and he’d made good progress ever since. His left leg was still badly splintered and he had to go everywhere on crutches, but it all seemed a small price to pay really compared to what others were going through.
‘He worries about what will happen to him now, after the war,’ said Diana, plucking a daisy from the grass. ‘With his legs, he says he won’t be able to go back to playing football.’
‘You’ve got the farm, dear. That’s work enough, surely?’
‘Yes, that’s what I tell him. But I’m not sure it’s enough, Rosamund. I’m not sure his heart’s in it.’
Rosamund stopped playing with Gladstone and looked directly at Diana.
‘His heart, Diana, is wherever yours is. Anyone can see that.’
Diana smiled at her friend and then peered up into the swimming-pool sky, the summer sun lapping around them.
‘How’s Caroline by the way? she asked after a few moments. ‘When is she next home?’
Caroline had spent the last year boarding at a school in York. It was her first year away; she was eight. It was Rosamund’s old school, a grand Edwardian affair that turned well-bred little girls into women of the Empire. Caroline had taken to the school immediately, as a cat takes to a new home, making it her own.
‘Early July,’ said Rosamund. ‘She’s loving school. I knew she would. She’s such an independent little thing. I just hope they manage to drip-feed some sense into her somehow.’
‘Well,’ said Diana, breaking into a huge smile. ‘By next summer, we might just have a little playmate for her.’
‘Darling!’ exclaimed Rosamund. ‘A baby!’
Diana beamed, her eyes bright and alive. ‘You’re the first person I’ve told, Rosamund.’
‘A little war baby. How wonderful! Well, we have to celebrate,’ she said, embracing Diana. ‘Keep Gladstone company, would you? I’ll just be a moment.’ And she stood up and then cantered off into the house.
Diana looked down at the little puppy on her lap. Soon it would be a little baby sat there. A bundle of wool and lace. A little boy or a little girl. Either would be wonderful, of course. When Arthur and she had spoken about it, they’d both said they had no preference. But secretly, deep down, Diana wanted a little girl, an ally, an accomplice. A beautiful mischievous partner in crime.
‘Here we are dear,’ shouted Rosamund, coming out of the house carrying a large tray. ‘A celebration fit for the King.’
‘Rosamund!’ exclaimed Diana. ‘Whatever have you got there?’
‘Champagne, dear.’
‘Champagne! Where did you get that?’
‘I’ve had it since before the war. I’ve been saving it for the right time and I think this is very much the right time, don’t you?
‘Oh, you’re an angel,’ said Diana, still stroking Gladstone. ‘Champagne reminds me of before the war, all those parties and balls. I haven’t had a glass for years, you know.’
‘Well, I can think of no other way to celebrate such good news,’ said Rosamund, untwisting the little golden cage that held the cork in place.
There was a loud pop, triggering a round of high-pitched barks from Gladstone, and then a gush of champagne came bubbling out. ‘Congratulations, dear,’ said Rosamund, catching the champagne expertly in a tall, fluted glass. She passed the fizzing glass to Diana and poured another for herself. ‘Here’s to baby Epworth,’ she said, sitting down on the floor and raising her glass.
‘Baby Epworth,’ said Diana, chinking Rosamund’s glass.
The two women took a sip. And then another. The sips turned into gulps.
‘God, that’s good isn’t it?’ said Diana.
‘Nectar, dear,’ replied Rosamund.
‘You really are such a good friend,’ said Diana, reaching out and taking her hand. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know.’
‘And I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ said Rosamund, putting her free hand on Diana’s. ‘Now,
come on, drink up. It’s medicinal, you know. Good for baby.’
Diana licked her lips. ‘Mmmm, baby loves it.’
‘Naughty baby!’ said Rosamund, wagging her finger.
Diana laughed and put a hand on her belly. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll be the naughtiest little beast in the entire county.’
‘I like naughty,’ said Rosamund. ‘It shows character. Have you had any thoughts yet on what you’d like to call your naughty little beast?’
‘Well,’ said Diana, hesitating slightly. ‘Arthur wants Reginald if it’s a boy.’
‘Reginald?’ said Rosamund.
The two women exchanged a blank look.
‘It was Arthur’s father’s name,’ explained Diana.
‘I see,’ said Rosamund, arching her eyebrows. ‘And what if it’s a girl?’
Diana paused, suddenly aware of the sound of a wood pigeon cooing.
‘Evie,’ she said, unfurling the word as if she were shaking out a freshly laundered sheet. ‘After my mother, Evelyn.’
She leant back, tasting the name in her mouth and feeling the sun warm her face.
‘Well, let’s just hope it’s a girl, then, dear!’ said Rosamund, holding up her glass. ‘To Evie. The naughtiest little girl in Yorkshire.’
TWELVE
Thursday 19 July 1962
‘Eeeeeeeeeebbbieeeeeeeee.’
What does Margaret want? Can’t she see I’m busy?
‘Eeeeeeeeeebbbieeeeeeeee.’
I feel a tug on the back of my top.
‘The bat maraid zuboutta tart.’
What?
I can hardly hear a word she’s saying because my face and ears are submerged in a barrel of water. Dozens of apples are bobbing around my head. I’m thrashing around like a run of salmon but I just can’t get an apple to stay in my mouth.
Margaret and I are at our village fete. Every year I try the ‘apple bobbing’ stall and every year I fail to get an apple. This year will be different. This year I am a sophisticated young woman, like Maria in West Side Story. I will not be beaten by a piece of fruit.
The Miseducation of Evie Epworth Page 13