The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

by Matson Taylor

  The whole salon stops and stares at me.

  ‘It’s clearly a bad reaction,’ says Caroline, leaning over and having a good look at my arms. ‘She needs to go home immediately.’

  Maureen (ever the drama queen) rushes over and puts her arm round me. ‘Oh, Evie, love, you poor thing. Whatever’s wrong? Come and sit down.’ And she takes me over to the sofa at reception.

  Mrs Burrows (bad breath, stubby neck) is clearly not happy about having her fringe trim interrupted. She comes over and has a look at my arms, reaching out and trying to touch the purple marks.

  ‘No touching, please,’ Caroline says, sounding terrifyingly imperious. ‘We can’t risk any infection.’

  ‘Just looks like a funny bruise to me,’ says Mrs Burrows, screwing up her face into a frown. ‘She’ll be fine.’

  Caroline stares at Mrs Burrows.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ she says, mustering up far more dignity than anyone with a head full of shampoo should by rights be able to, ‘but I’m a doctor and I can assure you that it is a reaction. It looks like a bad case of . . .’

  She flicks her eyes around the room.

  ‘. . . prosciutto cruditis.’

  Everyone looks blank.

  ‘It’s quite a rare reaction,’ she goes on. ‘Chemicals. Particularly chemicals found in hair salons. It can be quite disfiguring.’

  Maureen gasps and puts her hand up to her mouth. Mrs Burrows is still frowning, our very own hairclip-wearing bulldog.

  Caroline reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out what appears to be a wooden lollypop stick (without the lollypop).

  ‘Could you put your tongue out, please?’ she says.

  I stick my tongue out and Caroline jabs the lollypop stick on it.

  ‘And now say ah.’

  ‘Aaaahhhhhhhh,’ I say, trying not laugh.

  ‘Definitely prosciutto cruditis,’ she confirms, flicking her vowels authoritatively. ‘This girl needs to go home immediately and sit in a bath of warm water for at least an hour.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ says Maureen, definitely enjoying the drama of it all. ‘Evie, you get going, love. Do whatever Dr Scott-Pym says.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Caroline, twinkling her eyes. ‘You go straight home, young lady. Bath and then bed. And think yourself very lucky to have such a wonderful boss.’ She turns to Maureen and smiles. ‘Although with such a bad case of prosciutto cruditis, I’m afraid her days of working in a salon are over. We can’t risk another reaction.’

  As she speaks, Caroline is ushering me out of the door.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Maureen,’ I shout. ‘It’s been lovely working here but it looks like I’m just not up to it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love,’ replies Maureen. ‘I understand. It’s not for everyone, the hairdressing game. You need to have skin as tough as tractor tyres.’

  *

  Outside, Caroline’s wet hair has flopped down (no more Mr Whippy) and she’s dripping water everywhere.

  ‘Off you go, darling,’ she says. ‘It’ll come off easy enough. Just give your arms a good rub with toothpaste – it gets rid of more or less anything. You’ll be fine again in no time.’

  She winks and heads back inside the salon.

  Brilliant. No more stinky salon to worry about.

  Now I just have to do something about Christine.

  SEVENTEEN

  Saturday 21 July 1962

  As I approach the farmhouse, I can tell straight away that Vera’s here because all the windows are wide open.

  Vera is obsessed with airing. It drives me and Arthur mad. At various times she’s said that fresh air kills germs, stops dust, reduces damp, controls rheumatism, slows wrinkles, improves the taste of food (helpful with Christine’s cooking), and significantly increases your chances of winning at bingo.

  With all its windows wide open, the farmhouse reminds me of an advent calendar just before Christmas day, each open window offering a festive object to surprise and delight. If you could peel back our little advent calendar windows, I wonder what you’d see? Christine’s hairdryer? Arthur’s Yorkshire Post? My mother’s recipe book? And what would my advent-calendar object be? An old Lacrosse stick? An Adam Faith LP? A written-off MG? Maybe that’s all we really are in the end. Just a collection of dusty objects lying behind a few glittery cardboard windows.

  (I’d better watch out, having depressing thoughts like this. I’ll be listening to opera next.)

  *

  Through the open windows, I hear another sure sign that Vera’s around: the all-too-familiar drone of the hoover. The hoover is Vera’s latest obsession (as well as bingo, airing and the hoover, she’s also obsessed with The Billy Cotton Band Show, Mint Imperials and clinically clean doorsteps). Arthur bought Christine the electric upright hoover last January. Christine didn’t appreciate the gesture quite as much as Arthur hoped, but Vera did and she’s had the hoover out most days ever since.

  Suddenly the hoovering stops, replaced by a high-pitched shriek.

  It’s Christine, not sounding happy.

  ‘For God’s sake, Mum, you’ve just hit me again. If you ladder my tights with that bloody thing, you can forget about coming to the wedding.’

  This is followed by a loud tut and then the hoover kicks in again.

  It sounds like the hoovering is coming from Arthur’s study. This is good as it means I can sneak in the back door and avoid both of them. I don’t want Christine to know yet that her plan to condemn me to a life of shampooing servitude has failed. Knowledge is power, as I’m sure Elizabeth Bennet would say.

  I tip-toe round the corner and enter the house through the back door, left wide open as part of Vera’s airing regime. Now that I’m inside I can hear Christine and Vera much more clearly. They’re definitely in Arthur’s study – I can hear various sounds (Christine’s tuts, Vera’s clatters, drawers being opened and closed) ricocheting down the corridor. I think it’s time to do some Miss Marple-ing so I position myself strategically at the door leading from the kitchen to the hallway and corridor beyond, a perfect spot to eavesdrop.

  *

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I hear Christine say, her voice jumping through a series of high-pitch hoops. ‘I can’t bloody believe it.’

  ‘What is it, love?’ says Vera. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s what I’ve found. Nothing. Well, practically nothing. Hardly enough for a new kitchen let alone an executive detached house and a trip to the Costa Brava.’

  Is Christine looking for money in Arthur’s desk? She can’t know him well if she thinks he keeps his money there. (He keeps his money in a shoebox in his wardrobe, next to his wedding photos and a navy cashmere scarf that belonged to my mother.)

  ‘What do you mean, love?’ says Vera. ‘He must have plenty of money. Are you sure you’re looking at the right account?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am. I’m not stupid, Mum. Look. A hundred and eighty one pounds sixpence in this account and just three bloody bob in this other one. Pass me a pen. I want to write all this down.’

  ‘Ay, don’t forget about this other stuff, love. There’s a Post Office savings book here, look. And some of those Premium Bonds.’

  ‘He’s not said anything about them. The sneaky sod. I only asked him last week. How much is there?’

  ‘Sixty quid in the Post Office and another fifteen in Premium Bonds. Ooh, look, there’s three books of Green Shield stamps here too. Must be at least five quid’s worth.’

  ‘Right, hold on, let me add it all up.’

  Christine’s brain slowly clicks round, tooth by clockwork tooth. It’s two hundred and forty one pounds, three shillings and sixpence, you moron.

  ‘About two hundred and fifty quid I think,’ says Christine, eventually. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I thought he’d have much more than that,’ says Vera, sounding surprised.

  ‘Me too. It’s unbelievable.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ />
  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I really can’t.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Shifty bugger.’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘What’s the point of getting married to someone who’s only got two hundred and fifty bloody quid to his name?’

  ‘But he’s got the farm, love, too, don’t forget that.’

  Christine lets out a sigh so big I’m surprised it doesn’t raise the ceiling a couple of inches.

  ‘Yes. But something’s not right, you know. He’s being funny about selling the farm. I’m trying to get to the bottom of it but you know what it’s like talking to Arthur. It’s easier getting information out of that bloody wall.’

  This is true. We Epworths are an inscrutable bunch.

  ‘He must have more stashed away somewhere, love,’ says Vera. ‘You know what farmers are like.’

  ‘He better have. He’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m going to put up with him and his bloody daughter for only two hundred and fifty quid.’

  Then there’s a noise that sounds like something being kicked, probably the hoover, although, knowing Christine, it could just as easily be Vera.

  ‘If he’s got any money stashed away, I want to know about it,’ Christine goes on. ‘I’m not sharing anything with that crackpot bloody girl of his. Come on. I’ll go through the bookshelf and you have a look round the rest of the room.’

  I can’t believe it. I knew Christine was a cow, but not this much of a cow.

  My thoughts are interrupted by some mooing coming from outside. Some of the non-Christine cows must have wandered into the courtyard again (a regular occurrence). There’s more mooing (inside and out) and then I hear Christine telling Vera to put everything away, someone’s coming.

  Bugger. I don’t want to get caught earwigging, so I dash into the only hiding place available: the pantry.

  *

  ‘Only me,’ shouts Mrs Swithenbank, coming in through the back door and putting down two bulging shopping bags.

  I’m perched on an old crate, surrounded by tins of corned beef, condensed milk and mulligatawny soup, peeping through a crack in the rickety old pantry door.

  ‘Oh, hello, Doris,’ says Christine, walking into the kitchen. ‘We’re up to our necks cleaning. We’ve been at it all morning. I’m exhausted.’

  There’s a clatter down the corridor and then Vera comes into the kitchen, carrying the hoover, a mop and a bucket full of cleaning things.

  ‘Hello there, Doris,’ says Vera, manoeuvring the hoover and mop up against the table. ‘Lovely day for it.’

  ‘Ay,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Although I wish this hot spell’d hurry up and end. I’m getting through a tin of talc a week. Anyway, I won’t stay for long,’ she goes on, sitting down. ‘I just wondered whether you’d heard about Clara Gilberdyke? I was in the butcher’s just now and I bumped into Edna Mayhew and she said . . .’

  And on and on they go. It’s wall-to-wall village gossip. Mrs Gilberdyke’s cystitis. Ada Johnson’s new windows. Tom Wilson’s affair with the lady in the mobile library.

  *

  A very long twenty minutes later, I hear Mrs Swithenbank getting up to leave. Hallelujah. There’s a good deal of chair scraping and table knocking (Mrs Swithenbank and her bags need a large berth) followed by lots of bye, love-ing and, as she gets outside, more mooing.

  ‘Right then,’ says Vera, walking over to the mop and hoover. ‘Back to the cleaning.’

  ‘You what?’ says Christine. ‘Bugger that. I’m not going to work my fingers to the bone just for Arthur and bloody Evie. No, come on. Let’s go to the Red Lion and get a ploughman’s lunch.’

  ‘Oooh, good idea, love.’

  ‘And maybe a nice sweet, too,’ says Christine, taking off her leopard-print pinny. ‘I love Janice’s treacle sponge.’

  Vera unbuttons her paisley pinny, all the while going on about the pros and cons of the Red Lion’s various sponges (treacle, jam, chocolate). She folds the pinny neatly and pops it on top of the bucket. Christine, meanwhile, has tossed hers over a chair and is busy with her mirror and compact.

  ‘Don’t forget your purse, Mum,’ she says, heading for the door.

  ‘Right, love,’ replies Vera, grabbing her handbag from the back of a chair.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ shouts Christine, now out in the courtyard. ‘As soon as I get that ring on my finger, I’ll take you out for a slap-up dinner.’

  ‘Aww, you’re a good girl,’ says Vera, going out the door and pulling it closed after her.

  Their voices rattle around the courtyard, accompanied by more mooing, and then slowly disappear as they head off onto the High Street towards the pub.

  *

  Coming out of the pantry, I’m met by whatever the collective noun is for a group of cleaning products. A mop and hoover are balanced against the kitchen table. A bucket and accompanying array of bottles and cloths are up on the draining board. Two rubber gloves are flopped over the cold tap like barren udders. There’s a duster lying on the floor. I pick it up, put it next to Vera’s neatly folded pinny, and pour myself a glass of dandelion and burdock. I sit at the table, take a long sip and start to think things through.

  Christine is clearly bad news. I’ve known this for a while but I thought bad news as in being bossy, annoying and a terrible cook, not bad news as in planning to get her scarlet hands on all of Arthur’s money.

  I wish it could just be me and Arthur again.

  Or, even better, me, Arthur and my mother. The three of us. The Three Bears. The Three Kings. The Three Musketeers. A glorious trio of which I have no memory at all, just a few faded photos, a ring on a necklace, and an old recipe book full of beautiful, looping writing.

  I’m trying to have a profound moment but it isn’t easy as Christine’s horrible leopard-print pinny is draped over the chair next to me, loudly sucking all taste out of the room. Peeping out from one of the pockets, I can see the list she made of Arthur’s money. Naturally, being an inquisitive Sagittarian, I pull it out and have a good look. The paper’s covered in her bubbly cartoon handwriting. Bank accounts. Savings accounts. Premium Bonds. Everything. She’s even noted down how much the Land Rover’s worth (£480).

  I turn the paper over in my hands. Should I hold on to it and show Arthur? What would he make of it? Would he be angry? Happy? Sad? It’s hard to tell with him. The note’s not that much on its own. It’s a bit like one of those pictures where you can see two things at the same time, like two faces and a wine glass. Arthur would very much only see one thing. The good thing. He’s too kind to see the bad thing.

  Unless, of course, someone (me) helps him see the bad thing (Christine’s evil plan).

  I slip the piece of paper back into the pinny pocket. While I’m at it, I might as well check the other pocket too, mightn’t I? That’s what Miss Marple would do.

  I push my hand inside. Right down at the bottom, amongst fluff balls and a safety pin, I find a crumpled piece of paper. I pull it out and put it on the table, flattening out the creases. It’s a receipt from Bettys.

  I knew it.

  INTERLUDE

  28 November 1945

  ‘Fat rascal?’

  Diana looked at Arthur from across the table, her hands propped on top of her heavily pregnant stomach.

  ‘I didn’t say you looked like one!’ said Arthur. ‘I was just asking if you wanted one.’ He smiled, arching his eyebrows mischievously. ‘They’re delicious, you know.’

  They were in the grand tea rooms at Bettys in York finishing off lunch. They’d come into town to buy Diana a new scarf, an excuse really to get out of the farmhouse and enjoy a day out before it got too close to the baby’s arrival.

  ‘Well, I can only just about squeeze through the streets as it is,’ said Diana, patting her bump. ‘Oh, I do hope the poor little thing will be on time.’

  ‘’Course he’ll be on time,’ said Arthur. ‘Like all good Yorkshiremen.’

  ‘Well she might be fashionably l
ate, darling,’ replied Diana, leaning forward and running a hand through his hair. ‘Just like her mother.’

  Arthur beamed and then had a slurp of tea, happy with all that life had given him.

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on, getting something out of the small Browns bag next to her chair. ‘What do you think?’ She was wrapping a navy blue cashmere scarf round her neck. ‘Do I pass muster?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Beautiful?’ repeated Diana.

  ‘Yes, beautiful. Like a beautiful big snowman.’

  Diana smiled, lifted her foot and kicked Arthur under the table.

  EIGHTEEN (PART 1)

  Saturday 21 July 1962

  Here I am again, walking down Mrs Scott-Pym’s drive. There’s the familiar crunch of gravel under my feet and the sweet, comforting smell of the border flowers. But something’s different.

  No one is shouting. No one is dying. No one is screaming at the top of their voice while an orchestra swirls dramatically around them. Instead, a strange alien sound is tugging at every bit of my body.

  Bum. Bum. Bum. Bu-bu-bum.

  Bum. Bum. Bum. Bu-bu-bum.

  Some men are singing but it’s not opera. It’s nothing like opera. It’s more like an atomic Adam Faith with booster rockets and a harmonica.

  It’s the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard.

  I go round the back of the house and the music gets even louder, blasting out through the open French windows and hitting me like a great waft of something new. The harmonica comes in again, sounding sad but at the same time irresistible. And then the voices, running together like melting ice cream.

  Love.

  Love.

  Me.

  Do.

  It’s amazing.

  There’s no sign of Caroline in the kitchen so I follow the music through into the sitting room, which is where I find her, tapping a cigaretted hand to the beat, curled up on the sofa with Sadie.

  ‘Darling!’ she says as I walk into the room. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? I’ve been playing it all afternoon.’