The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

by Matson Taylor

‘You go and skip around Leeds for the day with Lady Muck. Some of us have work to do.’

  She clicks the hairdryer on. Nothing. And again. Nothing. And again.

  ‘Oi, what’ve you done to my hairdryer?’ she shouts as I open the back door. ‘It’s not working.’

  I stop in the doorway and turn around.

  ‘Plugged in but not switched on,’ I say. ‘Just like you.’

  And with that I slide my sunglasses on top of my head and swish out the door, feeling like Dr Cathy Gale and whistling the theme tune to The Avengers.

  FOURTEEN

  Friday 20 July 1962

  Walking up Mrs Scott-Pym’s drive always makes me happy. Today, though, I’m extra excited (despite the wedding and Maureen’s salon and Christine). The blue summer sky seems extra blue and the crunchy gravel drive seems extra crunchy. It’s like that bit in The Wizard of Oz when everything goes from black and white to colour.

  As I get near to the house, I notice three things:

  1. The music – opera (again). Today it’s even louder than ever. A woman is shouting and somehow managing to sound both hysterical and very sad at the same time. Caroline must be an opera lover, just like Mrs Scott-Pym. Is that how it works? Can my love for Adam Faith be traced back to my Vermicelli Soufflé-cooking mother?

  2. The smell – something strange and alien. Not cooking or baking. More like a musky, malty, smoky, earthy kind of smell. Is this what London smells like?

  3. The car – a Mini! In our village! It’s bright red with a white roof and a smiley face and it looks even smaller than they do on the telly.

  When I go round the back of the house, I spot Caroline Scott-Pym through the open French windows. She’s sitting in the kitchen, rocking precariously on the back two legs of a chair, her feet pushed up against a table leg. She has her eyes closed and is swaying her head in time to the music. One hand’s on the table, tapping away next to a tiny cup and saucer, and the other, with a cigarette between two fingers, is flying around in mid-air, sending ash and smoke rhythmically around the room. Apart from the tiny cup, there are no other signs of breakfast.

  I take a deep breath and knock.

  ‘Evie, darling,’ she says, opening her eyes and waving the cigarette at me. ‘Come in! I’m almost ready, just finishing my fag.’

  She’s wearing black capri pants, a black turtleneck top, and ballet shoes.

  Amazing.

  She picks up the tiny cup and knocks it back. It’s the smallest cup I’ve ever seen. Not even big enough for a tea strainer.

  ‘God, that’s good,’ says Caroline, smacking her lips. ‘I’m hopeless in the morning before my coffee. Can’t do a thing.’

  ‘I’m the same with tea,’ I say, trying not to stare at Caroline’s doll-size crockery. ‘It takes a full pot to get me going.’

  ‘You’re just like Mummy. She drinks gallons of the stuff. I’m more of a coffee girl myself.’

  She stands up and takes the tiny cup and saucer over to the sink. I notice a silver pot on the hob with splodges of dark brown liquid splattered all around it. I’m pretty certain the pot and the mess are responsible for the lovely smell. I’ve never tried coffee and suddenly feel more than a little overwhelmed by Caroline’s sophisticated London ways.

  ‘Speaking of Mummy,’ says Caroline, ‘I called her this morning. She sends her love.’

  ‘Aw, thanks. I really miss not having her around. It’s funny without her.’

  ‘She’ll be back soon enough, don’t worry. Everyone says she’s doing marvellously. She’s as happy as Larry. Surrounded by books and magazines. And her room’s like a florist’s of course. I’ve even managed to sneak her in some sherry.’

  She winks a particularly naughty wink while taking another drag on her cigarette.

  ‘She nearly choked when I told her I was taking you to Leeds. I think she thinks I’m going to corrupt you.’

  She walks round to the other side of the kitchen and stubs out her cigarette on a saucer lying next to the sink.

  ‘I told her we’re only going to get a little bit of pasta. Honestly. It’s not as if we were going out for a bop or anything.’

  A bop! With Caroline! God, I’d love that.

  ‘Now, where’s Sadie? She went out in the garden for a pee just before you got here. You wouldn’t mind getting her, would you, darling, while I grab a few things before we head off?’

  And she slinks out through the door, heading for the sitting room and beyond.

  (Being with Caroline is like being in the presence of a very glamorous cat.)

  I go over to the open French windows and shout for Sadie.

  Nothing.

  I try again.

  Nothing.

  Where is she? I hope she hasn’t run off. Mrs Scott-Pym’s garden is massive and beyond it lies field after field of farmland. If Sadie has run off and we need to spend precious Leeds time looking for her, I won’t be happy.

  Just as I’m about to try again, Caroline re-appears. She’s carrying a straw beach bag and wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses. She’s like a creature from another world. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and blows a whistle so loud Mrs Scott-Pym can probably hear it in hospital.

  A big rhododendron bush half-way down the garden rustles and shakes and then Sadie suddenly dashes out, covered in leaves and petals, looking more like a scarecrow than a Setter. As she bounds over to Caroline, her tongue flops around and long spools of drool come shooting out of her mouth like gelatinous bolts of lightning.

  ‘Look at you, you messy old thing!’ says Caroline, bending down and giving her a kiss.

  Sadie stares up at Caroline, her eyes locked in hero worship. She’s sitting down at Caroline’s feet, bum wiggling, tail swishing, front paws dancing with excitement (I know the feeling).

  ‘Come on now, you need to tidy yourself up,’ Caroline goes on. ‘Don’t think I’m taking you to Leeds looking like that, young lady. Chop chop.’ And Caroline claps her hands twice.

  Sadie gives herself a massive shake, sending leaves and twigs flying, then spins round and sits down again, mouth open, staring back up at Caroline.

  ‘Is Sadie coming to Leeds with us?’ I ask, not quite managing to hide the surprise in my voice. ‘Aren’t we leaving her here?’

  ‘Darling, of course Sadie’s coming with us,’ says Caroline, tickling Sadie’s back. ‘She’ll love Leeds. Poor old thing. We can’t leave her here whilst the two of us skip around town.’

  I’m not sure what Mrs Scott-Pym would say about Sadie going off to Leeds and skipping around town. Sadie’s naughty enough in the confines of our village let alone the cosmopolitan hubbub of Leeds.

  ‘Right, time to make a start I think,’ says Caroline. ‘Come on, ladies, your carriage awaits.’ And she marches off round to the Mini, swinging her big straw bag ebulliently (adverb – full of life and high-spirits).

  When she gets to the car, she yanks opens the driver’s door.

  ‘In you go!’ she says, looking at Sadie and gesturing with her head.

  Sadie clambers up onto the back seat, a clumsy mess of limbs, fur and spittle.

  I open the door to the passenger seat. This is my first time in a Mini. I feel like I’m crossing the threshold into another world.

  Caroline gets in and immediately winds down her window.

  ‘Oh, this is fun, isn’t it!’ she says, throwing her bag onto the back seat, narrowly missing Sadie.

  I have come prepared and offer round fruit gums. Caroline takes two and Sadie manages to wolf down four before I wrestle back the pack.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ says Caroline, starting the engine and looking over at me. ‘Ready, then? Three, two, one. Off we go!’

  And we speed off down the driveway, scattering gravel everywhere.

  Sadie sticks her head out of Caroline’s open window. It’s hard to see whose hair is blowing most: Sadie’s or Caroline’s.

  ‘Next stop, Leeds!’ she shouts, her voice booming through the air (and hair).
>
  An enormous feeling of adventure comes over me.

  This is 1962. I’m in a Mini going to Leeds with someone who lives in London and does something in fashion, someone wearing black capri pants, a black turtleneck top and ballet shoes. And a dog.

  This is surely how it’s meant to be.

  This is life.

  *

  Forty minutes later, we’re in Leeds. Caroline’s driving is like Christine’s cooking: terrifying, in need of a health warning and almost certainly criminal. She clearly has no concept of road signage or the Highway Code and somehow manages to get the Mini going faster than Arthur’s MG.

  To park, Caroline ignores anything resembling a parking space and instead leaves the car semi-mounted on the pavement in front of the Corn Exchange.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says, grabbing her bag from the back seat before flinging open the driver’s door. As she gets out, Sadie shoots straight after her, dancing round Caroline’s ballet shoes, barking and staring up in adulation.

  ‘Good old Leeds,’ says Caroline as I get out of the car.

  She looks around, taking in the city.

  ‘Queen of the North. That’s what they call her, isn’t it?’

  Is it? I have no idea. But, then, even after just one car trip with Caroline I’ve got the feeling there are lots of things I have no idea about.

  ‘Hold on a mo.’ She rummages in her bag and pulls out a brush. The next thing I know, she’s flipped her head down between her knees and is busy brushing her hair upside down. A few seconds later and she’s back upright again, shaking her hair like the women do in shampoo adverts.

  ‘That’s better,’ she says, putting on her big round sunglasses. ‘Let’s get the food shopping done first, shall we? And then we can relax. Work before fun, at least that’s what Mummy always used to say.’

  ‘Aren’t we going to put Sadie on her lead?’ I ask, suddenly feeling a bit like Margaret.

  Caroline looks down at Sadie.

  ‘What do you think?’ she says. ‘Do you want your lead?’

  Sadie barks, sending a shower of spittle all over the pavement.

  Caroline reaches into her straw bag, pulls out the lead and fastens it to Sadie’s collar.

  ‘And the perfect finishing touch,’ she says, getting a fancy silk scarf out of the bag and tying it round Sadie’s neck. ‘There, you look beautiful, darling. Now, come on. We’ve got work to do.’

  And she throws her bag over her shoulder and sets off. I dash after them, feeling like an unfortunate country yokel on account of being out-dressed not only by Caroline (of course) but now by Sadie too.

  *

  My previous outings to Leeds have stuck pretty firmly to the holy trinity of Schofields, Lewis’s, and the clothes and record stores up on The Headrow. Caroline takes me off in a completely different direction, though, and I soon feel lost in a confusing jumble of back streets and funny little shops.

  ‘Almost there, darling,’ says Caroline, looping her arm into mine. ‘Well, at least, I think we’re almost there. Everywhere looks the same around here, doesn’t it?’

  She’s been telling me about what she does in London. I think she works for a magazine or possibly someone who makes clothes. It’s hard to tell as she doesn’t really seem to do much other than go for coffee with people and attend parties. Whatever it is she does, it sometimes requires going to meetings in swanky offices in Mayfair (the really expensive square on a Monopoly board), which I think sounds very exciting and grown-up but Caroline considers ‘a big snooze’.

  As we get close to a small, chaotic-looking shop, she stops.

  ‘A-ha,’ she says, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. ‘Here we are.’

  The shop is half-market stall, half-greengrocer’s. At first glance, it all looks a bit of a mess, but then you realise that everything – the baskets outside full of bright yellow lemons and the exotic-looking things piled in the window – is artfully arranged.

  I look at the shop front. Across the top is a large sign saying ‘di Pasquale’ in red letters painted on a green background. Dozens of red, green and white streamers and tiny flags are scattered around the displays, giving the window a feel of Christmas – a bit disconcerting on a boiling hot day in August.

  ‘Come on,’ says Caroline, opening the door. ‘You’re going to love this.’

  As we step in, the most amazing lemony, cheesy, salty smell hits me and I hear a machine gun of vowels coming from a group of small, moustachioed men deep in conversation, gesticulating like puppets.

  This is what being abroad must feel like.

  ‘Buongiorno, signorine!’ shouts a stocky, bald man, flashing a warm smile. ‘How I help you?’

  Caroline steps forward, tells Sadie to sit still, and then launches into the most lovely jangly foreign language I’ve ever heard. The moustachioed men are beaming manically, obviously amazed that anyone in Leeds can manage anything other than a badly garbled version of English. The arm waving goes up several gears. Everyone is shouting at once, including Caroline, and vowels swing around the room like thousands of tiny pendulums. Every now and then I hear a word I think I recognise: bella, grazie, Roma, Napoli. But these words are few and far between and on the whole I just stand there, hypnotised by the drama of it all.

  While Caroline and the moustachioed men are busy shouting and waving, I have a good look round the shop. The place is stuffed full of strange, alien objects. Sausages as big as an arm hang down from the ceiling. Plastic buckets full of shiny little green and black balls sit on a table. Funny architectural-looking vegetables are piled up in wicker baskets. I’m staring at a washing line that stretches across part of the shop and carries four dry slabs of meat, each as big as a guitar, when I realise everyone has stopped talking and is looking straight at me.

  ‘Evie,’ says Caroline, switching back to English. ‘They’re asking if you’d like to try an olive.’

  An olive?

  The stocky bald man is over at the buckets of green and black balls. He’s put a small green ball on a huge spoon and is offering it up to me.

  Ah, an olive.

  Everyone looks at me looking at the olive.

  ‘Is buonissima olive from Puglia, signorina,’ says the stocky bald man, smiling and moving the spoon closer to me.

  All the other moustachioed men smile and lean forward.

  ‘Darling,’ says Caroline. ‘Have you had an olive before?’

  I don’t know what to say. My natural instinct is to lie and say yes so that I don’t appear even more unsophisticated. If I were with anybody else, this is exactly what I’d do, but something tells me that it’s best not to try blagging with Caroline so I decide to tell the truth.

  ‘Oh, your first olive!’ she says, sounding as if I’d said it’s my first Spam fritter or Bourbon Cream. She swings a few vowels over to the Italians, triggering lots of hand gestures and shocked faces, and then turns back to me and says, ‘You’re in for a treat, darling. They’re delicious.’

  Delicious. That’s a good sign. Delicious means something like a fruit Spangle or Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

  I take the olive from the spoon and pop it into my mouth.

  Two things happen at the same time:

  1. The Italians all start clapping and shouting, as if I’d just scored a goal or passed my driving test.

  2. A really horrible salty taste hits my tongue and then very quickly makes its way round my mouth.

  It’s disgusting, like a mouthful of seawater. In self-defence, I screw my face up, hoping I don’t look too much like vinegar-faced Vera. I can feel my eyes watering and have a strong desire to spit the olive out but instead I soldier on, not wanting to disappoint Caroline. After what seems a lifetime, I swallow the olive and open my eyes.

  The first thing I see is Caroline pointing a camera at me.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, darling,’ she says. ‘Just taking a few snaps. Nothing to worry about.’

  She turns round and takes a photo of the Italian m
en, the stocky bald one now holding the spoon up in the air like a trophy. Then she swishes her hair and says something in Italian that makes them all laugh.

  ‘It’s for a photo diary. So much more fun than writing. And I like to show Digby what I’ve been up to.’

  Digby?

  Who’s Digby? Caroline’s boyfriend? Her boss? Her lover? Mrs Scott-Pym has never mentioned a Digby. Although, until very recently, she’d never mentioned a Caroline either.

  I don’t have time to ask (or think) about Digby, though, as the stocky bald man has reached up with a long stick for one of the guitar-sized slabs of meat, cut some off and is passing me a slice. It’s the thinnest piece of meat I’ve ever seen, so thin I can see my fingers through it. Vera would not be impressed.

  ‘Is delizioso prosciutto from Emilia-Romagna,’ the man says, smiling encouragingly and waving his hands.

  I look to Caroline for guidance but she’s in full swing talking to the men behind the counter and sending them after various packets, tins and bottles so I take a deep breath and stuff the slice in my mouth.

  It’s disgusting. Italian food is basically just salt.

  ‘Che bello, eh?’ says the stocky bald man, throwing his arms around me and kissing me on the cheek. ‘Is the best prosciutto in the all of York Shiiirrre.’

  ‘Darling,’ Caroline says, walking over to the stocky bald man. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s the only prosciutto in the all of York Shiiirrre!’ And she takes a slice of meat and pops it in her mouth.

  ‘Mmm, delicious,’ she says, taking two more slices: one for her, one for Sadie.

  The Italian men are shouting again. They all appear to be desperate for Caroline’s attention. Arms are thrown up in the air, hands waggle around, fingers open and close. It’s like watching human fireworks. One of them, a particularly short one with an Elvis quiff and big walrus moustache, has Caroline’s bag full of shopping but the others all seem desperate to take it so that they can pass it to her. Vowels are being flung around all over the place, which sets Sadie off barking. The man with the bag pushes towards Caroline and thrusts it at her. He seems tiny next to her, like a bucket passing a bag up to a broom.