The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

  ‘Grazie, darlings,’ says Caroline, surrounded by the men. ‘Grazie mille.’

  She glides through the scrum, taking Sadie and the bag full of shopping with her.

  ‘Grazie. Grazie. Siete molto carini,’ she sings, her vowels swinging so hard that they could probably knock down a wall. The men scurry around opening doors and stroking Sadie. There’s lots of shouting, waving, hand holding and even some hand kissing too. You don’t get all this with Mr Mullins, our village greengrocer. Shopping on the continent must be exhausting.

  As we step outside the shop, there’s a chorus of ciao belle, accompanied by lots of hanky waving.

  ‘Come on,’ says Caroline, linking her arm through mine and striding off down the street. ‘Let’s find a caff. I’m gagging for a coffee.’

  *

  Five minutes later and I’m sat in another alien space. No swinging vowels or funny-shaped veg this time, but there are lots of beards and polo necks. Caroline has brought me to a milk bar. The men are nearly all wearing glasses and seasonally inappropriate knitwear. The women are all kohl eyes and neckerchiefs. There’s not a sticky-out dress in site. Thank god I’m in my pedal pushers.

  It’s even noisier here than in the Italian grocer’s. Everyone is speaking at the same time and, unlike when Arthur takes us anywhere to eat, nobody seems bothered about keeping their voices down. There’s a jukebox in the corner (unfortunately full of jazz) and louder than everything else are the hissing pipes and squirty taps of the huge stainless steel coffee machine on the counter.

  I ignore the coffee machine and stick to tea (the olive and ham experience have been enough food adventure for the day). Sadie gets a bowl of water (and some fruit gums) and Caroline (the coffee queen) is having something strong and dark in another tiny cup and saucer.

  ‘Well,’ she says, sitting down and sighing. ‘Good to get all that shopping out of the way. Thanks for coming with me, darling. It’s years since I was last in Leeds so it’s nice to have someone to run around with.’

  She bends down and strokes Sadie.

  ‘How’s your tea by the way?’ she asks, gesturing at my cup.

  ‘Nice,’ I say, looking down at the familiar milky-brown. ‘I needed a tea after all that funny Italian food.’

  ‘Darling, don’t be so hard on the poor old olive!’ says Caroline. ‘We should have started you off with something sweet, like some panforte or maybe a nice crostata.’

  When she says panforte and crostata, her swinging vowels come back. It’s lovely, like a quick burst of church bells.

  ‘I love it when you speak Italian,’ I say. ‘It’s like listening to music. How come your Italian’s so good?’

  ‘Well, there’s school, of course. And then Mummy always had opera blaring out at home so I must have picked up something there. But I suppose it’s only when I ran away that I really learnt it.’

  Ran away? I can’t keep up with Caroline. She makes Mata Hari look dull.

  ‘You ran away?’ I say. ‘What, to London you mean?’

  ‘No, darling,’ she replies, laughing. ‘To Italy. I was almost seventeen. It was great fun. I lived there for quite a while.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘Why did you run away?’

  Caroline stops for a moment and runs her tongue across her teeth, all the way from one side to the other and back again.

  ‘Well,’ she says, slowly unfolding the word like a napkin. ‘Mummy and I had a disagreement, I suppose you could say.’ She stops again, tapping her finger on the side of her tiny coffee cup. ‘There was a bit of a flare-up one day. It all got quite nasty. You see, she tried to change me – well, change part of me, and I’m far too much of a stubborn old donkey to be changed. It was very hard at the time. Very hard for her too of course. Still is, I think. Poor old thing.’

  She takes another swig of coffee then sighs and smiles a little sad smile.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘Enough of naughty old me. Tell me more about you. Mummy says you sometimes practise your French with her.’

  This is true. Mrs Scott-Pym helped me get ready for my O level oral exam. She was trying to improve my accent but I have a feeling my French is still very much of the Yorkshire-farmer variety.

  ‘Yes, we sometimes switch into French for a bit; we seem to talk mainly about cakes to be honest,’ I say, thinking about Mrs Scott-Pym’s almost infinite vocabulary of French patisserie. ‘But my French isn’t a patch on hers. It’s not even as good as Dad’s.’

  ‘Your dad speaks French?’ says Caroline, looking genuinely surprised.

  ‘Yes, and my mother too apparently. Mrs Scott-Pym told me.’

  ‘It’s in your genes, then, darling,’ says Caroline, reaching over and grabbing my hand. ‘Anyway, revenons à nos mouton, as the French say. Come on, tell me something else about you. Anything. Everything!’ she adds, rolling her eyes mischievously.

  My mind goes blank.

  ‘Erm, well. I’m sixteen and half.’

  ‘Yes. And?’

  Caroline’s looking at me expectantly. Oh God. What else is there to say?

  ‘I’ve just finished my O levels. I’m quite good at lacrosse. I like reading. Swimming. Driving.’

  She laughs. In a good way, I think.

  ‘And I like dancing too. I’m the tallest girl at our school. I have two enormous Adam Faith posters on my bedroom wall, Sophisticated Adam and Brooding Adam, and a signed autograph of him on my bedside table.’

  ‘Oh, I think that’s quite enough Adam in the bedroom!’ says Caroline, laughing even more.

  ‘I can play the piano, badly. My best friend’s called Margaret. My favourite colour is blue. Navy blue. I’m Sagittarian. I love Juke Box Jury. I once ate four of your mum’s scones for breakfast.’

  ‘Four! Good God – I’m surprised you’re not the size of a bull.’

  ‘My favourite place in York is Clifford’s Tower, closely followed by Bettys. I’d like to fly a plane. And walk on a hot Mediterranean beach. And learn how to water ski. And normal ski. And skate. I’m really ticklish. I’ve got freckles on my shoulders. I’m going to do A level History, English and French.’

  ‘Clever clogs,’ says Caroline, pulling a funny face.

  ‘I like Marmite. And raspberries. And custard tarts. And fish finger sandwiches. My favourite word is skulduggery. Or splendiferous. Or leatherette. I’ve got one wisdom tooth already. I wear my mum’s wedding ring on my necklace as a lucky charm.’ (I give her a quick flash of the ring.) ‘I love dogs. And cakes. I know how to change a tyre and milk a cow. I’ve been to Manchester twice. I don’t like bananas, except when they’re a bit green. I can tie three types of Butcher’s Knot. I’m allergic to penicillin. And tomorrow I’m starting work at Maureen’s stinky salon.’

  Caroline raises her eyebrows.

  ‘What? Maureen’s? Why are you working there, darling?’

  I tell her about Christine. Everything. From the new turquoise oven and all the missing things to the engagement announcement at the Royal Hotel, Beverly and the horrible prospect of Christine’s and Arthur’s wedding.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Caroline, lighting up a cigarette. ‘This Christine sounds a nasty piece of work.’

  She sucks on the cigarette and blows out a ring of smoke. Amazing.

  ‘Now, from what I understand, you don’t want to work at Maureen’s stinky salon, do you?’

  I screw up my face.

  ‘Then why are you doing it, darling? Why do something you don’t want to do?’

  ‘Because Christine says it’ll make Arthur happy,’ I tell her.

  Caroline looks straight at me with her enormous brown eyes, tapping her fingers on an ashtray.

  ‘Hmmm. I see.’

  She takes a puff of her cigarette and blows another smoke ring.

  ‘Look, when I was little, probably just a bit younger than you, I used to come to Leeds a lot,’ she says. ‘For the shops, of course, and for the life and the people. I felt that I belonged here much more than I did back home in the v
illage or at school in dusty old York. But I also used to come here for the art gallery too. I used to love going round looking at all the paintings. It was like another world. Something magical. And there was one particular painting that I liked more than any of the others. The Lady of Shallot. Do you know it?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘She’s beautiful, darling. A gorgeous, ravishing dark-haired vision with alabaster skin and rich red lips. You need to see her. Anyway, she’s there, trapped in a castle, poor thing, destined to do nothing but weave a bloody tapestry for the rest of her life.’

  She jabs her cigarette in my direction.

  ‘No wonder she looks so hacked off. Anyway, one day she sees Sir Lancelot, a handsome knight with coal-black curls, and she falls in love. She escapes the castle, gets in a boat and sets off down the river to Camelot.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ I say.

  ‘Well, not entirely, darling. You see, she’s cursed.’

  She stubs out the cigarette and leans forward, so close I can smell the flowery, lemony, soapy scent of her perfume. And then she lowers her voice and says:

  ‘She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

  Till her blood was frozen slowly,

  And her eyes were darkened wholly,

  Turned to towered Camelot.

  For ere she reached upon the tide

  The first house by the water-side,

  Singing in her song she died,

  The Lady of Shallot.’

  Caroline recites the poem with lots of rhythm and dramatic pauses and when she says ‘she died’ she closes her eyes and flings her head down, so that her hair falls forward and covers most of the table. She should be on television.

  After a few seconds, she throws her head back up and shakes her hair. Sadie is watching her and copies the shaking, sending wisps of fur into my tea.

  ‘So she died, then,’ I say. ‘The Lady. She escaped from the castle and then died. What a shame. It’s not much of a happy ending, is it?’

  ‘But we don’t all die before getting to Camelot, darling. Some of us escape from whichever castle we happen to be locked in and find happiness and love and all sorts of things.’

  Love?

  ‘Look, the important thing is the escaping. Not being stuck weaving tapestry after tapestry all your life for other people. You should do whatever you think’s right for you. No matter what. Come on,’ she says, getting up and putting on her sunglasses. ‘I want to show you the painting. You’ll love her, darling. Just don’t tell Mummy.’

  And Caroline throws her bag over her shoulder and strolls out the door, closely followed by Sadie.

  Bugger. I thought she was going to tell me about Digby.

  INTERLUDE

  18 August 1952

  Rosamund Scott-Pym looked at the postcard on her coffee table. The picture on the front showed a glorious blue bay, gilded with brilliant sunlight.

  Saluti da Napoli

  It had all happened so suddenly, getting out of hand before she knew it. They’d both said terrible things. There’d been shouting and tears, broken crockery and Edward’s poor car, and then suddenly, just like that, she was gone.

  Rosamund leant back and took a large gulp of sherry.

  What had she done wrong? How had all this happened? Would things have worked out differently if Edward had still been alive? She looked round the room, taking in the sage-green walls and the clock on the mantelpiece, her gaze finally coming to rest on the family photographs on the sideboard behind her. Caroline as a baby, at school, in her Brownies uniform, on a horse at the local gymkhana. Relics of another age. Then she picked up the postcard and read Caroline’s message again.

  Rosamund wanted forgiveness, of course, but how could she ask for it? How could things ever go back to how they were before? Her eyes filled with tears, welling up from somewhere deep, and then she let it all out, emptying herself of everything.

  FIFTEEN

  Friday 20 July 1962

  Phew.

  What a day.

  I spent the whole day in Leeds, eating salty Italian food and looking at strange ladies in art galleries (painted ones, not real ones). I’m back at home now with Arthur and Christine having fish and chips, our tea of choice every Thursday. I’m busy polishing off a cod the size of a battered cricket bat whilst Christine tells us about her shopping trip to York. We’re currently being shown the fruits of her labour.

  ‘What do you think of this one?’ she says, holding up a pink-and-blue striped blouse.

  It looks awful.

  ‘Lovely,’ I tell her.

  ‘And then I got these,’ she continues, holding up a turquoise-and-green striped skirt and a pair of red-and-white striped gloves.

  ‘Really lovely,’ I say, thinking that if she’s not careful she’s going to end up looking like a collection of deckchairs.

  Arthur looks up from his fish and chips. I can tell from his face that he’s as unimpressed with Christine’s purchases as I am. He shuffles on his chair, looking uncomfortable, and stares at the new skirt and gloves.

  ‘Aren’t they a bit, well, you know, loud?’ he says to Christine.

  ‘Loud?’

  ‘Well, yes, maybe just a bit, love. I just thought it might be nice to get something a bit more . . .’ He trails off, clearly searching for a word that is as non-incendiary as possible. ‘Subtle.’

  ‘Subtle?’ repeats Christine. ‘Subtle?’

  (It’s like living with a colour-blind echo.)

  ‘What are you going on about?’ she says, waving the stripy gloves at Arthur. ‘They’re lovely. The woman in the shop said they could have been made for me. She said I reminded her of Diana Dors. When I’m in need of your fashion advice, Mr Dior, I’ll ask you for it. Ooh, I nearly forgot . . .’ She goes on, rummaging around in various bags. ‘. . . while I was there I got something for you too.’

  She’s pulling out various clothes and putting them on the kitchen table.

  A pig-pink girdle.

  A blue-and-white spotted swimsuit.

  A pair of yellow knitted shorts.

  ‘Here,’ she says, triumphantly lifting up something with a print so loud it hurts my eyes.

  Arthur puts down his knife and fork and looks at what Christine’s holding.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks, clearly in shock.

  ‘It’s a cabana set,’ says Christine, the foreign-sounding word rolling off her tongue with all the ease of setting concrete.

  Arthur blinks.

  ‘A what set?’

  ‘A cabana set. They’re all the rage. Like pyjamas for the beach. Elvis wears them. And Kenneth Williams.’

  She holds up the cabana set so that we can have a good look at it. It’s a chaotic mess of palm trees, beach balls and exotic-looking cocktails. It looks truly awful, with all the sun-kissed sophistication of a pair of inflatable armbands.

  ‘You’ll look lovely in it. Very handsome, like President Kennedy.’

  Arthur wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s really me, though, love.’

  ‘Oh, stop being such an old fuddy-duddy,’ says Christine, prodding him in the belly. ‘You’ve got to move with the times, you know.’

  Arthur is staring at the cabana set. He has the blank look of a horse doing a pee.

  ‘I thought it’d be perfect for the honeymoon,’ Christine goes on, doing her best come-hither smile and resting her hand on Arthur’s shoulder. ‘You need something beachy. We can’t be skipping around with the jet set on the Costa Brava with you in your corduroys and a V-neck sweater, can we?’

  What?

  ‘The Costa Brava?’ I say, glancing over at Arthur. ‘I didn’t know you were going to the Costa Brava.’

  Christine shoots me a look that could swat flies.

  ‘Yes, the Costa Brava. Sorry, Evie, I didn’t realise we had to ask your permission.’

  Arthur looks over at Christine. On his face, I’m sure I can see the beginnings of a frown.

&nbs
p; ‘Christine, love, I thought we’d agreed to go to Torquay. You know we’re having to be a bit careful with money at the moment.’

  ‘Torquay?’ says Christine, back in echo mode. ‘You promised me a foreign holiday, Arthur Epworth. I’m not bloody going to Torquay. And what do you mean having to be a bit careful? We’ll be rolling in it when we sell this place. I’ve told you, the sooner we sign, the better.’

  My mouth opens and I’m just about to say something when Arthur turns to me and, squeezing my hand, quietly says, ‘Not now, Evie.’

  ‘Well, it’s not quite as simple as that,’ he goes on, turning back to Christine. ‘There are . . . complications. I want to make sure everything’s done the right way.’

  He sighs and takes a chip.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll all work out in the end,’ he adds, smiling unconvincingly.

  ‘Well, it better had,’ says Christine, getting up from the table. ‘I’m not living in this old dump when we’re married.’

  She’s busy clattering bowls and opening and closing various appliance doors.

  ‘Oh, by the way, I had a look at one of those automatic washing machines at the electricity board today,’ she goes on, mid-clatter. ‘It’s 1962. It’s not right me doing everything by hand.’

  (I think she must mean it’s not right Vera doing everything by hand.)

  Arthur pushes his plate to one side.

  ‘Yes, of course, love,’ he says. ‘In a couple of months. I just want to make sure everything’s all tied up first. We can’t be spending money we haven’t got yet, can we?’

  ‘One’s coming a week on Tuesday,’ Christine says, banging two pudding bowls down on the table. (She has the waitressing skills of Genghis Khan.) ‘I got it on the never ever.’

  Christine has never had it so good. She’s like our very own Viv Nicholson (pools-win queen), except as well as spend spend spend she also borrows borrows borrows. Along with the freezer and now apparently the washing machine, she’s bought a food processor, a porcelain shepherdess and a leather pouffe, all on the ‘never ever’. Mr Macmillan must be very happy.

  ‘Well,’ says Christine, sitting back down at the table and crossing her arms. ‘What am I meant to do? Just go around not buying things until you pull your finger out? Do you want to see me running around like a pauper? Ruining my lovely hands doing your bloody washing? Maybe I should just take to wearing a sack?’