The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

  Christine goes on and on and on. Poor Arthur. He must be desperate for a Yorkshire Post. We both look down at the bowls in front of us.

  Strawberries and cream.

  Arthur’s favourite.

  Christine is obviously trying to bring him round to the joys of automatic-washing-machine ownership.

  Ignoring Christine (still going on and on), Arthur picks up a spoon and lifts a strawberry and a good measure of cream up to his mouth. He sighs again and a smile slowly inches across his face. I know that look. As soon as the strawberry and cream are in his mouth, he’ll be purring like a cat.

  In it goes . . .

  ‘Aarghh!’ he shouts, dropping the spoon and shooting both hands up to his mouth, clearly in pain. ‘My teeth!’

  Christine, with possibly the least sympathetic face ever, starts jabbing her finger at him.

  ‘Don’t you go trying to show me up in front of Evie, Arthur Epworth. There’s nothing wrong with them strawberries. They’re fresh out the freezer.’

  ‘Fresh out the freezer?!’ shouts Arthur. ‘Are you mad? They almost broke my bloody jaw.’

  He pushes back his chair and stands up. This is high drama indeed for a Yorkshireman.

  ‘I’ve had just about enough today. I’m up to here, I really am. Sod the washing machine. And sod the strawberries too. Sorry, Evie.’ And he walks out of the room, muttering about frozen bloody strawberries.

  ‘Well,’ says Christine, turning to me. ‘What a cheek. Here I am, grafting my fingers to the bone and what thanks do I get? None. And he says he’s just about had enough – what about me?’ She shoves back her chair, making a nasty scraping noise on the tiles. ‘I’m off to my room for some peace and quiet. You can get all this tidied up.’

  She flicks her hand round the kitchen.

  ‘I’m not doing any more today,’ she goes on. ‘I deserve a good rest. I’m just give, give, give, me, that’s my problem. It’s all wasted on you lot, mind.’

  She gets up and is about to walk out the room when I strike.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  She stops and turns.

  ‘Where’s my Adam Faith clock?’

  The clock, featuring a smiling Adam and guitar clock hands, was a present from Arthur (after much hinting) and it normally hangs in the kitchen just next to the back door. When I got back from Leeds today I noticed that it had been replaced by a chicken-in-a-bonnet clock, with an egg where each hour should be. It’s truly horrible and could only have been bought by a moron (noun – a person notably stupid or lacking in good judgement).

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ says Christine, pointing at the chicken. ‘Mum got it. We needed something nice and kitchen-y in here, didn’t we?’

  ‘So where’s my Adam Faith clock, then?’ I ask again.

  ‘Here,’ she says, opening a drawer next to the sink. ‘With all the other tat we’ve got hanging around.’

  ‘It’s not tat,’ I say. ‘It’s official Adam Faith Fan Club merchandise. There’s a sticker on the back.’

  ‘You can go and stick him upstairs on your wall, if you like,’ she says. ‘But I don’t want him in my kitchen.’

  ‘Your kitchen?

  ‘Yes, my kitchen,’ she repeats, banging the clock down on the kitchen table. She stomps towards the door. ‘And mind you’re up early tomorrow for Maureen. Your dad’s proper made up about you getting that job. You wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would you? Not after all that . . . Ow. Bloody hell,’ she shouts, stubbing her toe again on the big ceramic bear (he’s definitely growing on me). ‘For God’s sake, this bloody bear.’

  And she slams the door and hobbles off upstairs.

  When I hear her bedroom door bang shut, I take down the horrible chicken clock and replace it with lovely Adam and his time-telling guitars. Then I get a hammer and nail and spend the next few minutes putting up Christine’s chicken and its twelve eggs in the downstairs loo.

  If only it were as easy to shunt Christine out of our lives. Mrs Scott-Pym’s magic doesn’t appear to have done anything at all.

  Everything’s a big mess.

  It’s at times like this that I wish I had a Mum. A real Mum. One who makes you smile and tells you about life and helps you make sense of everything and puts her arm around you and says that everything will be all right. One who can speak French and make Asparagus Ice and Vermicelli Soufflé. One with a monogrammed nutcracker and a polished black range oven. One who’s beautiful and patient and kind.

  Looking over at the bright patch of wallpaper around Christine’s new cooker, I reach inside my top and clench the wedding ring looped onto my necklace, feeling its curve in the folds of my palm. What I’d love more than anything right now is to crawl into the paper, deep inside its happy colours, and let all its hidden memories wrap around me.

  *

  After a bit I realise it’s getting dark so I go upstairs, passing the gruesome strains of Mantovani’s ‘Greensleeves’ outside Christine’s room and then, just a little further along, the reassuring voice of John Arlott and Test Match Special coming from Arthur’s room.

  As soon as I get in my room, I switch on my Dansette and play ‘Who Am I’, my favourite Adam Faith song. Sophisticated Adam and Brooding Adam look down from the wall, singing along with Dansette Adam. I join in with them, a quartet of angelic voices.

  ‘I never meant to aim so high,

  Who am I, who am I?

  Well, now I ask you what am I to do?’

  After the song, I switch off my Dansette (g’night, Adam) and go and sit by the window. The sky is even darker now, a hazy smudge of grey, but the warm buzz of summer still lingers in the air. I’m suddenly reminded of Caroline’s Lady of Shallot, looking out from her castle window. Is that me? Trapped. Stalled. Hemmed in by a huge pile of tapestries, with horrible pink threads knotted around my legs?

  Outside, the flat open landscape stretches out across the fields. What’s out there? Waiting beyond the trees and the cows and the stream? Maybe it’s just more of the same. Maybe it’s nothing. But I hope somewhere, over the fields, over the horizon (over the rainbow), there’s something different. Something magical. Something forming. Bit by bit. Unseen and unheard.

  I reach over and take my mother’s recipe book from the bedside table and then, clutching its dappled cover, stare up into the colossal sky.

  SIXTEEN

  Saturday 21 July 1962

  It’s nine in the morning. I’ve been standing outside Maureen’s salon for the past twenty minutes. There’s been no sign of Maureen or Mrs Thwaite and her perm or even Mr Teasy-Weasy for that matter. In fact the only sign of life is the chemical stink that permanently hangs around the shopfront like a pair of foetid curtains.

  I’m not very happy about starting work at Maureen’s. I’d far rather be outside on the farm or doing something Exciting with Caroline or something Not Exciting with Margaret. I’m not in the least bit interested in hair and I’m sure I’m not safe to be let loose with all the peroxide, scissors and hot tongs waiting for me inside. Plus Christine is behind it, which means it can’t be good. On the other hand, it’ll make Arthur happy (he seems obsessed about me ‘getting a trade’), give me a little extra spending money, and keep me out of Christine’s way. And they have hairdressers in London, don’t they?

  So here I am, waiting to give it a go.

  ‘Coooo-eeeeee.’

  That’s Maureen, the only person in the village who makes Christine look like a quiet dresser. Today she has come as a heavily accessorised coral reef.

  ‘Evie, love,’ she shouts, marching towards me. ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve had a terrible time.’

  She stops and leans against the brick wall, dabbing her nose with a lacy hanky.

  ‘It’s my piles. They’ve been playing up all night. You youngsters don’t know you’re born.’

  I smile, unsure of the correct way to respond. Being with Maureen is an etiquette minefield.

  She puts her key in the door and opens up shop. ‘I’m meant to
have Mrs Thwaite coming first thing. I don’t know where she’s got to. I hope she’s not stuck in her bloody bath again. It took three of us to get her out last time.’

  *

  It’s really strange being inside the salon and not being a customer. I’ve been here loads of times to have my hair cut but, like all Maureen’s customers, I usually stick to the permitted spaces of the small sofa at reception, the basins, and one of the big hairdressing chairs. Today, though, I’m let loose, free to go wherever I want. Or, to be more accurate, wherever Maureen wants. As soon as we walk in, she starts giving me a list of things to do. Wipe the mirrors. Rinse the brushes. Sweep the floor. It’s worse than Girl Guides.

  ‘But first,’ she says, walking over to the coat rail, ‘you’ll need to put on one of these.’

  She’s holding up a bright pink apron. It has a kangaroo-style pocket (complete with hundreds of attached hair grips) and a huge pair of cartoon scissors embroidered across the front. It’s the type of thing that Christine would design. I hate it.

  ‘Er, do I have to wear it, Maureen?’

  ‘Of course you do. It’s like a uniform. I’ve got one too. Hey, we’ll look like twins.’

  Yes, Pinky and Perky.

  I put the apron on and immediately feel thirty years older.

  ‘You look lovely,’ says Maureen. ‘Now, before you do anything, could you put the kettle on, please, love? I’m dying for a brew. Get one for yourself too.’ And she starts checking her make-up in the huge mirror in front of her.

  Now that I’m wearing the apron, I notice that it really stinks. Mainly of bleach and other chemicals, but there’s also a faint undercurrent of cigarettes and Liquorice Allsorts. Why is it that everything in a hairdresser’s is so smelly? I walk into the staff room and that stinks too. It’s like being in the school chemistry lab, with bottles of nasty-looking liquids everywhere. I put the kettle on and have a look around. There’s a couple of stacks of well-worn towels in one corner and, next to the loo, a shelf full of small boxes, all with strange names: Sunshine Blonde, Burnt Copper, Chestnut Flickers, Bolshoi Blue.

  As I’m brewing, a bell pings. It’s the salon door.

  ‘Evie, love,’ shouts Maureen. ‘Mrs Thwaite’s just arrived. Can you come and look after her, please?’

  I pop my head round the door. Maureen is still on the chair in front of the mirror doing something to her fringe. I shout and tell her that I’m just brewing up but she smiles and shouts back that I can do that after I’ve taken Mrs Thwaite’s coat. I bet Leonard of Mayfair doesn’t have to do all this.

  After I’ve de-coated Mrs Thwaite (eighty-two, tomato grower, moustache) and sat her down on the sofa next to reception, I go back to the staff room to finish the teas (three now, not two). I’m busy looking for the sugar when I hear Maureen shout my name again so I pop my head back round the door.

  ‘Can you get Mrs Thwaite ready for her perm, please, love?’

  ‘I’m just making the tea,’ I tell her. ‘I’m almost done.’

  ‘Yes, you can finish that after, Evie,’ replies Maureen, still sitting and fiddling with her hair. ‘I need my lady shampooing.’

  *

  I spend the rest of the morning shampooing, sweeping, making drinks and wiping mirrors. I also spend a lot of time standing next to Maureen and passing her things. Rollers. Perm rods. Brushes. Cups of tea. There’s a lot of standing up in hairdressing. You need legs like Roger Bannister’s.

  I’ve discovered four things working in Maureen’s salon:

  1. Quite a lot of the stuff that gets squirted on people’s hair smells like cat pee.

  2. When old ladies sit under a hood dryer, they fall asleep almost instantly.

  3. Hair gets everywhere.

  4. Hairdressing is definitely not for me.

  My two highlights of the morning were when Miss Cherry (exnurse, spinster, croquet enthusiast) fell asleep under the hood dryer and produced a huge stalactite of dribble worthy of Sadie and when Mrs Gadsby (Quaker, menopausal, Welsh) came out of the loo with the back of her gown tucked into her knickers.

  I’m in the staff room mixing up a hair colour (Bruised Brisket) for Maureen’s 11.30 lady when I hear the bell go again and Maureen’s now familiar voice shouts, ‘Evie, can you see to my lady, please?’

  When I step out of the staff room I can’t believe who’s standing there.

  Caroline Scott-Pym.

  Maureen is talking to Caroline at the reception desk. She’s looking up at Caroline in the same way Sadie does, clearly starstruck. Every head in the salon is craning over to reception and gawping at her.

  She looks amazing.

  She’s wearing a beautiful navy blue tailored jacket and skirt, some silk stockings, a pair of very smart high-heel shoes, and a huge lampshade-style hat. Under the hat, her hair is a mass of red curls and wavy flicks. The combination of heels, hat and hair makes her seem about eight feet tall. She looks magnificent, like a Vogue model or a be-suited Good Queen Bess about to see off the Armada.

  ‘Evie, can you take Dr Scott-Pym’s coat, please?’ says Maureen, using a voice that is much more mindful of her Ps and Qs than usual.

  Dr Scott-Pym?

  I just stand there. My brain is struggling to deal not only with this new piece of information about Caroline but also with the shame of her seeing me in a horrible stinky pink apron.

  ‘Evie? Could you take Dr Scott-Pym’s coat, please?’ repeats Maureen, smiling at Caroline. I’m sure there’s even a hint of a curtsey too.

  Caroline passes me her hat and coat without saying a word, smiles, and then strides over to the basin.

  *

  ‘I didn’t know you were a doctor,’ I say as I put a towel round Caroline’s shoulders.

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ she whispers, leaning forwards and sending a waft of her lovely perfume up my nose. ‘Of course I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘Oh, but what was all that Dr Scott-Pym business, then?’

  ‘It’s groundwork. All warfare is based on deception. Honestly, don’t they teach you anything at school these days?’

  What?

  Our conversation is cut short by the arrival of Maureen.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says, sotto-voce, holding up a fancy-looking glass bottle. ‘I’ve got some lovely shampoo for you, Dr Scott-Pym. Something for our special ladies,’ she adds, over-annunciating every syllable. ‘It’s French.’

  ‘Ah, merci. Très gentil,’ replies Caroline, reaching out and touching Maureen’s arm.

  Maureen looks like she’s just been given a Guinea tip.

  ‘Well, I have some very refined clientele, Dr Scott-Pym,’ says Maureen, almost purring. ‘And I like to keep a few products to one side for them. Special-like.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ says Caroline, smiling a smile last seen in Hollywood. ‘Do you know, this gorgeous salon of yours is just like the one I go to in London. I love it.’

  Maureen looks like she might explode.

  ‘Now,’ continues Caroline, ‘let’s give this lovely French shampoo a try, shall we?’

  And she swings her chair round and puts her head forward into the basin.

  Maureen leans over and whispers in my ear, ‘Mind you give her a good wash, Evie. Two shampoos and a cream rinse,’ and then walks off.

  I switch on the water, give the pipes under the basin a good kick, and then start to wet Caroline’s sumptuous red hair.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I say, dolloping a good measure of French shampoo on her head.

  ‘I’ve got a plan.’

  ‘A plan for what?’

  ‘A plan to get you out of here,’ she says (although it’s not easy to hear what she’s saying because she’s got her head bent over the basin). ‘You do want to get out of here, don’t you?’

  Do I? Is a summer spent shampooing old ladies worth it if it makes Arthur happy? Can I put up with the horrible smells, the relentless standing and the underwear full of other people’s hair if it brings a smile to Arthur’s fa
ce?

  Bugger that. This isn’t for me. If I’m happy, Arthur’s happy. That’s how it works with fathers and daughters, isn’t it?

  ‘Yes, of course I want to get out of here,’ I tell Caroline. ‘But I’m stuck with it until school starts.’

  ‘Rubbish. Mummy would be furious with me if she knew I’d abandoned you here. And to be honest,’ she says, turning her head slightly and looking at me out of the corner of her eye, ‘you’re really not cut out to be a hairdresser. You’re shampooing me as if I were a bull in a field, darling. Now, don’t worry. I’m going to rescue you.’

  Suddenly, I feel like Wendy Darling being rescued from Captain Hook. I have never been rescued from anything before and am expecting an elaborate plan involving lots of derring-do and clever intrigue.

  ‘Here, take these,’ she says, passing me two small bottles.

  I look at the bottles. A pink food dye and a blue food dye. It’s hardly the stuff of The Thirty-Nine Steps.

  ‘I found them in a cupboard in Mummy’s kitchen,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, we used them to make a cake for Arthur and Christine,’ I whisper. ‘What are we meant to do with them?’

  ‘Well, you’re going to pour them all over your arms and then you’re going to sit back and let me do the rest,’ whispers Caroline. ‘Come on, hurry up whilst no one’s looking.’

  I take the pink food dye first and splash it over both my arms in the basin. My arms immediately look like two long strips of angry Red Windsor cheese. Then I do the same with the blue food dye and my arms go from an angry pink to a grotesque blotchy purple. Horrible.

  Caroline pulls out a black towel from her bag and starts dabbing at my arms. When she’s finished, she stuffs the towel back in her bag and stands up dramatically, her hair still covered in shampoo so that she looks like a Mr Whippy ice cream.

  ‘Good Lord,’ she shouts, immediately getting the attention of everyone in the salon. ‘Maureen, this girl is ill.’