The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

by Matson Taylor

  ‘Evie, love,’ she says, uncrossing her arms and tapping the tin teapot. ‘Have you come for a brew?’

  ‘Oooh, please, Mrs Swithenbank. I’ve been over at the hat parade. Vera won.’

  ‘Did she now,’ she replies, pouring my tea into a robust-looking cup. ‘Well, she always puts on a good show. And, by, she certainly puts in the effort. She’s been buggering around with that hat for months.’

  She passes me the cup, resting it on a saucer as thick as a roof slate.

  ‘Between you and me, I can’t see the point of it, love. I’ve got better things to do than sticking buttons and old loo rolls or whatever on my head.’

  She glances round at the next-door stall.

  ‘Hey, have you had a go on the tombola yet? There are some lovely prizes this year.’

  I look over at the tombola stall. It’s full of exactly the same stuff you can buy in the village shop. Mint Imperials. A bottle of Compton’s gravy browning. Some Lily of the Valley talcum powder. A tin of marrowfat peas. Three bars of Lux soap sello-taped together.

  ‘I’ve got my eye on the washing powder,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘It’s family size. It’d keep me going all year.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I say, trying to muster as much enthusiasm as possible over a giant box of Oxydol.

  ‘And what about the cake stall, love?’ she carries on. ‘I know what you’re like with your sweet tooth. Although it won’t be the same this year without poor Rosamund. The things that woman can do with an egg and some flour.’ Mrs Swithenbank sucks on her lips. ‘How’s she doing by the way?’

  I give her a full update of Mrs Scott-Pym’s health, dwelling on the herniated disc and a particularly nasty bruise that looks like Ireland.

  ‘Oh, poor Rosamund. I was in such a state when they told me. I didn’t know whether it was Pancake Tuesday or Sheffield Wednesday. You’re a good one going to see her,’ she says, resting her hand on top of the huge teapot. ‘I bet she loves having you around.’

  ‘I love having her around,’ I say. ‘I miss not having her next door. It seems strange without her.’

  ‘She’ll be home soon enough, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Just then, our always chirpy village butcher, Mr Jackson, sidles up to the refreshment table with his wife (cat lover, thick set, serial abuser of the church flower rota). ‘All right, Doris, love?’ he says, winking at Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Two teas, please. Three sugars in each. Don’t be holding back, now.’

  Mrs Swithenbank turns to greet Mr Jackson and his wife. Soon they’re all deep in conversation (weather, Scotch eggs, hovercrafts) and so I decide it’s time for cake and wander off.

  The cake stalls look amazing (unlike the tombola). There’s the ‘buy a cake’ stall, populated by a variety of mouth-watering cakes and buns, and the ‘cake competition’ stall, basically lots of similar-looking fruit cakes topped with great swirls of almonds and glacé cherries. I know Christine has entered the fruitcake competition this year but I don’t know why. Her basic cooking is bad enough so I can’t see how she can hope to master the advanced technical skills needed to bake a fruitcake.

  ‘Would you like a cake, dear?’ says an old lady with a blue rinse. She must be part of the W.I. They have a monopoly on cakes at the fete. They’re like the Sicilian Mafia. The W.I. run all cake stalls here and woe betide anyone who comes near the fete with a cake if they’re not on W.I. business.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say, eyeing a Battenberg cake (the Adam Faith of cakes). I ask for a slice and, while the old lady is cutting me a piece, I glance round at the non-cake W.I. stall next-door. It’s significantly less interesting than the cake W.I. stalls. There are a few books for sale, some bossy leaflets (Keep Britain Tidy, Eat Your Greens), but mainly the stall is loaded with lots of ‘how to’ booklets. How to Make Jam. How to Clean Lace Curtains. How to Protect Your Family from Atomic Attack. The W.I. seem to think they know everything, or at least know how to do everything. They are like an institutional version of Christine.

  ‘There you are, dear,’ says the old lady, handing me a slice of Battenberg cake. ‘That’ll be thruppence, please.’

  I give her the money and head back to the show ring.

  *

  Back at the show ring, there’s a lot of excitement. The fruitcake competition winners are being announced. I can see that second and third place are already up on the podium: an unknown lady with big hair is standing in third place and Mrs Barton, primary school teacher and W.I. bigwig, is standing in second place. Reverend Wroot is making another long speech so I nudge my way through the crowd and join Margaret. Luckily she’s managed to save an upturned bucket for me.

  ‘Where have you been?’ whispers Margaret, looking cross. ‘I thought you were just nipping to the loo.’

  ‘I got waylaid,’ I tell her. ‘I was ambushed by a Battenberg cake.’

  She gives me an unimpressed look.

  Somebody shushes us and I hear Reverend Wroot say: ‘So I’m very pleased to announce that the winner of the 1962 fruitcake competition is . . .’

  Cue overly dramatic pause.

  ‘. . . Christine Bradshaw.’

  What?

  Christine?

  Everybody is clapping and some people are even cheering. Christine makes her way over to Reverend Wroot and the podium, smiling and waving to the crowd. Vera, giddy with excitement, is bouncing up and down, the huge Telstar rocking precariously on her head. Christine steps up onto the top of the podium, still waving, and shakes Reverend Wroot’s hand. Then she takes the prize, a bouquet of white roses and a large bottle of Cherry B wine, and curtseys to the crowd, as if she’d just been awarded an OBE or the Nobel Peace Prize.

  ‘I thought you said Christine can’t cook,’ says Margaret.

  ‘She can’t,’ I reply, shaking my head. ‘I don’t understand. She could even manage to burn a tin of soup. There’s no way could she manage a fruitcake.’

  Christine has now put the wine down and grabbed the megaphone from Reverend Wroot. She’s still holding the bouquet in her other hand, swinging it down by her knees like a big wooden club.

  Oh God. She’s going to make a speech.

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’ she starts, her voice booming through the megaphone. ‘Thank you. I just want to say a few words. I’m so glad that all the judges enjoyed my cake. I’m sure all the cakes were delicious but some just happen to be more delicious than others.’

  What?

  ‘I want to thank all the lovely ladies of the W.I. for organising everything today. I think, given their age, they’ve all done a wonderful job.’

  Polite applause from the crowd (with the exception of one or two W.I. ladies).

  ‘I also want to thank my wonderful mum, Vera, who taught me everything I know about cooking and baking.’

  More polite applause. Everyone turns to look at Vera, who is busy waving and bowing, putting Telstar through some very demanding manoeuvres.

  ‘Today’s a special day for me. A very special day. And not just because I’ve won this wonderful competition.’

  She waves the bouquet in the air.

  ‘Today’s a special day,’ she continues, the huge pink bow in her hair flapping against her eye in the breeze, ‘because as well as winning this, I’ve got a very special announcement to . . .’

  She pauses, clearly searching for the right word.

  ‘. . . announce. Is Arthur there? Can someone get Arthur Epworth? Arthur!’

  Christine shouts for Arthur, setting off a clamour of Arthur shouts that spread through the crowd. After a few seconds’ waiting, Christine looks bored (and annoyed – I know the signs).

  ‘Well, we were going to tell you together but I’ve started now, haven’t I? I might as well go on.’

  She coughs, clearing her throat for dramatic effect.

  ‘A few days ago Arthur and me went to Bawden’s, York’s finest jeweller . . .’

  Suddenly there’s a noise around the show ring. A hushed murmur. People have
turned away from Christine and are looking at someone very tall who’s walking through the crowd. Christine, looking distracted and straining to see who it is, carries on.

  ‘The reason . . . we went to Bawden’s . . . was, er, to . . .’

  The crowd opens to let the person through. It’s like the parting of the Red Sea, but with a lot more tweed.

  Christine lifts the megaphone away from her mouth, using it to shield her eyes from the sun so that she can see who it is.

  ‘Arthur?’ she shouts. ‘Is that you?’

  Is it Arthur? I hope it’s not Arthur. Please don’t let it be Arthur.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asks Margaret, squinting at the person walking out from the parted crowd.

  I stare at the magnificent figure now standing bang smack in the middle of the show ring.

  Everyone is staring.

  ‘It’s Caroline,’ I say, my eyes as big as dinner plates. ‘Caroline Scott-Pym.’

  A flame-haired bullet of exotica fresh from London and the future.

  THIRTEEN

  Friday 20 July 1962

  Battenburg cake slices eaten yesterday at the village fete: 3

  Dances with Margaret to the South Pacific soundtrack: 5

  Tombola prizes won: 1 (a family-size pack of Atora shredded suet)

  Best in show for our cows: 0

  Best in show for Christine and Vera: 2 (incredible)

  Amazing new neighbours magically arrived to make the world a better place: 1

  I’m in the kitchen, getting breakfast but also getting very excited. Today’s going to be brilliant. I’m off to Leeds. With Caroline Scott-Pym. In a Mini. I can’t believe it. I’m feeling slightly hysterical and think I might explode. It’s like birthday, Christmas and a new Adam Faith LP all rolled into one.

  We arranged the trip at the village fete yesterday. Caroline walked straight up to me, through the crowd, right across the parade ring, and said, in a deep luxuriant purr, ‘Hullo, Mummy’s told me all about you. I think we’re going to be very good friends.’

  She’s amazing.

  Apparently she needs to go to Leeds to get some food (food! from Leeds!) and has asked me to go along with her to keep her company. I’d be pretty excited about a trip to Leeds at the best of times but a trip to Leeds with someone who wears huge black sunglasses and lives in London and does something in fashion has taken my excitement to a whole new level.

  So I’m sat having a very quick brew and a couple of slices of toast, desperate for it to get to 9.30 so that I can go next door.

  As I’m draining my mug, mid slurp, the creature from the pink lagoon walks into the kitchen. It’s Christine. Carrying a hairdryer. Her head is full of rollers and she’s wearing her pink baby-doll nightie complete with, inexplicably, a pink feather boa. One end of the feather boa is looped round her neck and the other hangs down her back, making her look like a frilly pink Godzilla.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’re still here, then. I thought you were meant to be going out?’

  ‘I am,’ I reply, hoping (as usual) that she doesn’t sit down. ‘I was just about to leave. I’m going to Leeds with Caroline.’

  Christine walks over to the cooker and plugs the hairdryer into a wall socket. Why is she doing her hair in the kitchen? Why can’t she just stick to her room? She’s spreading all over the house, squirting for territory.

  ‘Caroline? Ah, yes. Caroline Scott-bloody-Pym. Arriving like she owns the place, with her bloody London ways. Spoiling my announcement like that. I had the crowd eating out of my hand and then she turns up and everyone’s talking about her and not about me.’

  (This is true. Caroline’s arrival sucked up all attention in the parade ring, forcing Christine to postpone her engagement announcement and slink off the podium unnoticed. It was like watching the Moon trying to outshine the Sun.)

  ‘She’s a stuck-up cow, you can tell,’ she goes on. ‘Just like her mum. I don’t like her.’

  And she shakes her head, as if that’s the last word to be said on the subject.

  ‘I think she’s lovely,’ I say.

  ‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you,’ she replies, stroking the feather boa. ‘I suppose you odd-bods need to stick together. And what on earth was she wearing? A funny little striped school dress and bright blue stockings. She looked like a clown.’

  ‘A clown? What are you talking about? She looked stylish and hip.’

  ‘Stylish and hip? Yes, if you think Andy Pandy looks stylish and hip. Anyway, enough of Miss Fancy Pants,’ says Christine, giving her feather boa a dismissive flick. ‘Let’s talk about something far more important. How does it feel to come from a family of winners, then? Best hat and best fruitcake. We got the double. Just like Tottingham Hotspurs.’ She waves her hands in the air as if she’s lifting an imaginary trophy. ‘Maybe you might be a winner too someday, Evie. Or then again maybe not,’ she adds, looking down at her nails. ‘Everyone said how good Mum looked. She was the best by miles. She looked incredible, like something from a film.’

  I’m not sure which film Christine means. The Mummy? The Bride of Frankenstein? It Came From Outer Space?

  ‘And did you see Edna Gaythorne’s face when they announced she’d only come second. Oh, it was a picture. The jealous old cow looked furious. I loved it.’

  Christine is in full rant now, going on about how much better than everyone else’s Vera’s hat was. I have to admit Vera’s hat was quite good by the (admittedly strange) standards of our village fete, but the way Christine’s talking about it makes it sound like Vera’s Telstar hat is up there with the great artistic achievements of the Italian Renaissance.

  ‘And then, of course, I won too. Best cake in the village. Better than all those silly old biddies. Oh, it’s good to be a winner. Another Bradshaw victory. Like mother, like daughter.’

  She laughs but then suddenly pulls an exaggeratedly sad face, like one of those annoying French mime people.

  ‘Oh, Evie, I’m so sorry. You wouldn’t know about that, would you? Mother and daughter, I mean. Me and my big mouth.’

  I fight the urge to crack her with the teapot.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I smile. A proper smile (sort of). ‘It’s fine. Well done. I can definitely see why you won best fruitcake.’

  Christine smiles. A proper smile (sort of).

  We look at each other, smile to smile.

  Battle lines drawn.

  ‘Hmm. Yes, best baker,’ Christine corrects. ‘You should give it a go sometime. It’d be good for you to try baking a cake rather than just stuffing your face with them.’

  She puckers her lips.

  ‘The cake must have been difficult to make,’ I say. ‘A lot of skill involved I bet. Very technical.’

  Christine’s lips are still puckered. She looks like a pink rubber duck.

  ‘It was dead easy, actually.’ She crosses her legs. ‘It turns out I’m a natural. Well, you’ve either got it or you haven’t. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Funny how I didn’t see you baking it though,’ I say.

  Silence blows into the room. The grandfather clock in the hall ticks then tocks then ticks then tocks.

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you,’ she replies. ‘I baked it round at Mum’s. I didn’t want to use this old place, with its dirt and germs. No, of course not. Everyone knows you can’t bake a prize-winning fruitcake on tatty wooden worktops like these. You need proper Formica surfaces.’

  She stares at me with the welcoming presence of anthrax.

  ‘Ah, okay,’ I say, trying not to sound too much like Dixon of Dock Green. ‘You made the cake for Mrs Scott-Pym round here though, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did,’ she snaps. ‘That didn’t need to be prize-winning. Any old cake’s good enough for the batty old crow next door.’

  I feel my nails digging into the palms of my hands.

  ‘You know the cake made Mrs Scott-Pym really ill, don’t you?’ I say. ‘And that’s why she fell down the stairs. She w
as being sick. Sadie too, and she had some of your cake.’

  ‘What’s she doing giving my cake to a bloody dog?’ Christine’s voice shoots so high they can probably hear it in space. ‘Me and mum sweated hours over making that. Cheeky cow. She deserves to come a cropper.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Mrs Scott-Pym deserves a nice quiet life with a sherry, a good book, and Sadie. She doesn’t deserve to go flying down the stairs and end up in hospital with a herniated disc and lots of nasty bruises. What, exactly,’ I ask, clanging every syllable with the strength of a big hammer, ‘did you put in the cake to make them both so sick?’

  We stare at each other across the table. (This is what trench warfare must feel like.)

  ‘Nothing. She’s just a silly old woman who’s fallen down some stairs. Nothing to do with me. Just like the missing button on this nightie is nothing to do with you,’ she adds, holding out the nightie.

  Oh god, the button. Trust Christine to remember.

  ‘It was a big pink button,’ she goes on. ‘Just like the bits of button in that cake Mrs Scott-Pym made for me. Funny, that, isn’t it? So many coincidences. But, then, that’s life, I suppose. At least we all know where we are now.’

  She sits back and crosses her arms.

  ‘Anyway, pass me my hairdryer, will you.’

  I grab the hairdryer and point it at Christine as if it were a Martian laser gun. Perhaps I could just evaporate her?

  ‘You’d better get used to handling one of those,’ says Christine smirking. ‘You’re starting at Maureen’s salon tomorrow.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make sure you’re there for nine o’clock sharp. Maureen says Mrs Thwaite’s booked in for a curly perm; she’ll need shampooing.’

  Christine is unstoppable, like smelly feet or the Black Death.

  ‘I can’t start tomorrow,’ I say, dumping the hairdryer on the table.

  ‘Rubbish. You can and you are. It’s all sorted. Your dad’s over the moon about it. You wouldn’t want to disappoint him even more than you already have, would you? Now, go on. Get out.’

  She gestures towards the door with the hairdryer.