The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

by Matson Taylor

‘But what about the newts?’ I ask. ‘Loads live in the stream. Where will they all go?’

  Mr Baxter’s smile flickers.

  ‘Well, they’ll go and find a new stream, won’t they, love? Yorkshire’s hardly short of streams, is it? It’s a good fast bowler we’re lacking, eh, Arthur?’ he adds, slapping Arthur on the back.

  ‘And what about the copse?’ I say, pointing to a small wood which has a carpet of bluebells every spring. ‘Is that going too?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Mr Baxter will be keeping as many trees as possible, love,’ says Arthur. ‘Won’t you, Bill?’ he adds, looking at Mr Baxter.

  ‘Aye, we’ll keep a few. Of course. People like a bit of greenery around. We can’t go crazy, mind. Land is money, eh, Arthur?’ And Mr Baxter, half winking, half gurning, bursts out laughing even though he hasn’t said anything remotely funny.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say, unconvinced by Mr Baxter’s bonhomie and roast-ham smile. ‘It all sounds such a shame. Knocking the farmhouse down and building over the land, I mean.’

  Mr Baxter looks at me as if I’m a problem (I recognise the look – it’s the same one I get from Christine).

  ‘Arthur,’ says Mr Baxter, turning around and gesturing to Arthur. ‘Can I have a quiet word?’

  They walk a few yards and stand with their backs to me, with Mr Baxter’s arm looped over Arthur’s shoulder. They’re talking but I can’t hear a thing. At times like this, I’m jealous of Christine and her radar hearing.

  After a bit Arthur turns round and glances back at me. I pretend to be busy with a stick and clod of grass and he turns back round and carries on talking to Mr Baxter. There’s a flurry of head shaking (Arthur) and back slapping (Mr Baxter) and then they both finally turn and face me.

  ‘Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight,’ says Mr Baxter, unnecessarily spreading the word out. ‘Look, I don’t want to keep you both, so do you have any more questions, young lady, before I get going?’

  ‘Yes, what about the cows?’ I ask. ‘What’ll happen to them when you build all the houses everywhere? Will they still have a home?’

  ‘The cows?’ repeats Mr Baxter, shooting his voice high into the air (just like Christine). He turns and raises his eyebrows at Arthur. ‘The cows? Eh, she wants to know about the bleedin’ cows?’ He turns back to me, staring at me with his beady, gammony eyes. ‘Look, love, let’s just say it’ll be steak and ale pie all round!’

  I stare at him, fighting the urge to push him into the stream and then concrete it over.

  Arthur looks across at me. The sun’s beaming down onto his lovely blond hair and his butterfly-blue eyes flash. He suddenly seems taller. And broader. A tweedified Yorkshire Viking.

  ‘I think it’s best if you go now, Bill,’ he says, cocking his head back slightly. ‘We’ll talk business later. I want to spend some time with Evie first.’

  ‘Right you are, Arthur,’ says Mr Baxter, shaking his head and putting his fat stubby hands into his pockets. ‘Let’s talk later. Just you and me, eh?’ He starts walking off. ‘I’ll bring the contract. And, ey, just think of all that money and the new house for you and your dolly bird.’

  Arthur winces.

  ‘You’d be a fool to miss an opportunity like this,’ shouts Mr Baxter, heading back towards the farm.

  Horrible sausage roll of a man.

  Arthur and I go and sit on a big tree that blew down last winter and watch Mr Baxter walk off. Our telepathic antennae are twitching and I can tell he wants to speak to me about Something Important.

  ‘Well, I’ve known nicer,’ he says, in a textbook example of Yorkshire understatement. ‘But his money’s good. What he’s offering could really help us out, love. You know the farm’s barely keeping afloat, don’t you?’

  I want to mention all the money Arthur spends on Christine but I don’t.

  ‘It’d set you up too, love,’ he adds. ‘I know the hairdressing didn’t work out but if we sold the farm, you’d have enough to get yourself a nice little florists or a dress shop. Or you could train up for something. Typing. Shorthand.’

  He does his best encouraging smile. I try to respond but I just can’t.

  ‘And the farmhouse is old, love,’ he goes on, pushing his fingers through his hair. ‘Having one of Bill’s new houses makes sense. There’d be no leaks or drafts, no low ceilings or broken floorboards. You’d have a nice big bedroom, really light, with a desk and walk-in wardrobe. You’d have your own bathroom too. Everything’d be new.’

  ‘But I don’t want everything new,’ I say, calmly and clearly. I’m looking down at my feet, tracing shapes in the dirt with the tips of my shoes. What I really want is for everything to go back to How It Was Before. Pre-Christine and her man-made fabrics and Tupperware vases. Pre-bingo, burnt teas and wall-to-wall commercial television. Pre endless talk of weddings and Olympicscale nagging.

  Just pre.

  I sigh. A big, fat, shoulder-shaking, belly-emptying sigh.

  ‘But if you think we need to sell the farm,’ I go on, ‘that’s what we’ll have to do. We don’t really have any choice, do we? I just want you to be happy, Dad.’

  Up until now, Arthur had been staring down at his feet too, but when I say this he closes his eyes tight shut and looks like he’s in pain.

  After what seems like ages Arthur opens his eyes, looks at me and smiles. His eyes are pink and a bit puffy and I suspect he might be coming down with a summer cold.

  ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about, Evie, love,’ he says, reaching out and holding my hand. ‘Something important. It’s about your mother.’

  This is really strange as:

  1. Arthur never holds my hand.

  2. Arthur never talks about my mother.

  He fidgets around a bit, looking even more awkward than usual, and squeezes my hand.

  ‘Is this about the recipe book?’ I ask, trying to help out.

  ‘What recipe book?’ says Arthur, clearly caught off guard.

  ‘Mum’s recipe book, the one with all the amazing recipes in it. Mrs Scott-Pym gave it to me.’

  Arthur stops staring at his feet and turns to look directly at me.

  ‘Diana’s recipe book?’

  For a second, the air shimmers and glows.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ he goes on. ‘How did Mrs Scott-Pym get hold of it?’

  ‘Mum lent it to her apparently and it’s been sitting on one of Mrs Scott-Pym’s bookcases ever since. It’s incredible, full of recipes for things like Lemon Syllabub and Asparagus Ice.’

  ‘Diana’s recipe book,’ repeats Arthur, staring at the sky and clearly not really listening to me.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I explain. ‘Full of beautiful writing, looping and curling. I wish I could write like that.’

  Arthur doesn’t say anything. I think he’s back somewhere in the Olden Times.

  ‘And she stuck in some recipes from old newspapers too,’ I go on. ‘But they’ve all gone a bit yellow and brittle. There’s even one from a French paper.’

  Arthur closes his eyes and laughs. When he opens them, I see that they’ve progressed from pink to red.

  ‘Yes, that’d be your mother,’ he says, his eyes fixed on a patch of inconsequential sky. ‘She could speak French better than a Frenchman, you know. Cook better than one too. She was a wonderful cook, your mother. In fact, she was wonderful at most things.’

  ‘That’s what Mrs Scott-Pym said when she gave me the recipe book. She said Mum was a real gem,’ I tell him, even though I still don’t think he’s really listening to me. ‘I was going to tell you about the recipe book before but I just wanted to keep it to myself for a bit because I was worried Christine might take it away.’

  ‘What’s that, love?’ he says, time-travelling back to 1962.

  ‘I said I was going to tell you about the recipe book, but I haven’t got round to it yet. I was worried Christine would take it away, like she did with all the other things.’

  Arthur lets go of my hand, puts his head down, c
loses his eyes (again) and lifts both hands to cover his face. His shoulders bob up and down slightly and he makes heavy breathing noises through his palms.

  I’m not really sure what to do.

  ‘Sorry for mentioning the recipe book, Dad,’ I say. ‘Was that what you wanted to talk to me about? Or was it something else?’

  Arthur doesn’t reply. His face is still covered, his shoulders still bobbing, and his breathing still heavy.

  ‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘But it doesn’t matter, love. Not now. Let’s talk later. You stay here and keep the cows company.’

  And he gets up and walks off, looking over at the house not at me.

  INTERLUDE

  14 May 1946

  Diana carefully placed the wicker basket down on the grass and sat down next to it, folding her long legs by her side. She leant over the basket and peered in. A tiny beaming face, swaddled in a great whorl of cashmere, peered back at her.

  She was meant to be in mourning.

  The news of her father’s death had come out of the blue. A noisy crack breaking years of silence. Mourning wasn’t easy, though. Not after being shut out of his life for all these years. And how could anyone mourn when there was Evie? Diana looked down at her baby daughter and smiled. What was it Keats said? Something about a shape of beauty moving away the pall from our dark spirits. Evie was her shape of beauty. Her balm.

  ‘Oi! Are you day-dreaming again?’

  It was Arthur, bringing supplies.

  ‘Oh, I think I must have been. Sorry!’ said Diana, looking up to see her husband walking towards her.

  ‘You were staring at Evie,’ said Arthur. ‘She must have hypnotised you.’

  ‘Yes, I think we might have an enchantress for a daughter,’ said Diana.

  ‘Well, she gets it all from her mother,’ replied Arthur, sitting down next to Diana and kissing her. He leaned over the basket, looking at Evie. ‘And how is my lovely little fairy?’ he said, bending in and kissing her on the forehead.

  ‘She’ll be turning frogs into princes before we know it,’ said Diana.

  ‘Really? Well, she’s not the only one around here who can do magic. Close your eyes.’

  Diana smiled and did as she was told.

  ‘No peeping,’ said Arthur, starting to unpack the bag.

  She drummed her fingers on her summer-honeyed arms, listening to assorted rustles and chinks, happy to play along.

  ‘Can I open them yet?’ she said after a while.

  ‘No! Hold on, nearly there,’ he replied, taking out the last few items. ‘Okay, you can open them now.’

  Diana opened her eyes to see two Scotch eggs, two ham sandwiches, two packets of crisps and two bottles of beer all laid out on one of her best gingham tea towels.

  ‘A feast! Wonderful!’

  Arthur smiled broadly.

  ‘It’s nothing fancy,’ he said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Diana. ‘It’s perfect. Just what I wanted.’

  ‘Really? You sure you wouldn’t rather have some of your fancy French food?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Diana. She reached for a Scotch egg and took a big bite. ‘Mmmm, this is good,’ she said, smacking her lips noisily.

  ‘Hey, did nobody ever tell you it’s not polite to speak with your mouth full?’ said Arthur. ‘I thought you were meant to have been brought up a lady?’

  ‘I was, darling,’ she replied, taking another bite. ‘And now look at me,’ she went on, chewing and speaking. ‘Lady and the tramp.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger!’ laughed Arthur.

  Diana swallowed, took another bite, and then threw the rest of her Scotch egg at Arthur.

  ‘Oi!’ he said, ducking out of the way. ‘I’ll tell Mr Jackson what you’re doing with his Scotch eggs! Wasting them like that. Just because you’ve got money to throw around now. It’s all right for some.’

  Diana craned her neck back and looked up at the sun.

  ‘Oh, you’re not going to nag me again, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Arthur. ‘That’s my job.’

  When Diana’s father died, she found that she’d been left a considerable bequest. He hadn’t left her everything (his old school and college had got the lion’s share plus he’d left other odd bits to various staff and local charities), but she’d still ended up with a large pot of money and countless shares. It had all come as a big surprise to Diana. There’d been no contact with her father for years and so she hadn’t expected anything else at all. But then, suddenly, there she was. Rich.

  ‘You can’t just leave it all sitting in the bank, love,’ said Arthur. ‘Money’s like a man. It needs to work.’

  ‘I know,’ said Diana, drawing out the word and rolling her eyes.

  ‘It needs looking after.’

  ‘Like the cows, you mean?’

  ‘Very funny. But it’s not really something we should joke about, love,’ said Arthur, reaching over and holding her hand.

  ‘Yes. I know. You’re right, of course.’ She sighed. She really didn’t feel like another conversation about the money. ‘I’ll go and see old Mr Anderson about it next week.’

  Mr Anderson was Diana’s father’s accountant. He’d been with the family for years, overseeing her father’s investments and advising on all matters financial.

  ‘Mr Anderson?’ said Arthur. ‘But he’s older than the Dales, love. Things have changed since before the war. It’s a different country now. There are new ways to make money. I’ve told you, you should talk to Bob.’

  Diana winced. Bob was from Arthur’s football days. The club accountant, officially, but he had his fingers deep in many pies, helping the players at the club build up tidy little nest eggs. He seemed to have a knack with money and the whole team trusted him. But Diana wasn’t so sure.

  ‘But Mr Anderson is so nice, darling. And reliable. He’s practically Victorian. It’s like having Disraeli look after the money.’

  ‘But that’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re not Victorians any more. It’s a new world out there.’

  ‘O brave new world that has such people in it,’ said Diana, having a swig of beer.

  ‘What?’ said Arthur.

  ‘Shakespeare,’ said Diana, suddenly feeling tired. She sighed. ‘I’m using my expensive education. Just like Mr Anderson does.’

  Arthur looked at Diana. It was different for her. She was used to money. It came and went but then always came back again. She’d never really wanted for anything. How could she understand?

  ‘I really think you should speak to Bob, you know. He’s the right man for this.’

  ‘But I just don’t like him,’ said Diana sharply.

  ‘You should give him a chance. All the boys at the club use him,’ said Arthur. ‘Mr Barrett and the chairman too. And they both know what they’re doing. Bob’s got his head screwed on good and proper, you’ll see.’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ said Arthur. ‘I’d feel terrible if we didn’t get in touch with him. It’s not how things are done. You know what it’s like at the club. He looks after everyone and he’ll look after us too. Bob’s our man.’

  ‘Can’t you just let me get on with it in my own way?’ snapped Diana. ‘I managed perfectly well doing everything by myself all the way through the bloody war.’

  ‘I’m just trying to help,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That’s all. For God’s sake, Diana.’

  ‘What?’ Diana felt her head throb. ‘Look, I don’t trust Bob. Not with all that money.’

  ‘You’re wrong about him. He might be a bit of a rough diamond but he’s a bloody good man and sharp as knife when it comes to money.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Diana, raising her voice.

  ‘Yes, he’d be a damn sight better with the money than old Mr Anderson,’ shouted Arthur. ‘Remember, it’s not just your money,’ he went on, pointing at the sleeping baby. ‘It’s hers too.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Diana shouted
back. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t trust Bob. And I don’t like him either. There’s something of the spiv about him.’

  ‘Don’t be such a snob, Diana.’

  ‘You of all people should know I’m no snob,’ she snapped back.

  Silence crackled around them.

  ‘Look,’ said Arthur, ‘if you don’t call Bob, I will.’ And he threw his sandwich on the floor and walked off across the field.

  Diana watched him go, her cheeks flushed and her eyes red.

  TWENTY

  Monday 23 July 1962

  ‘Darling, thank you.’

  That’s Caroline, lounging across the sofa, cigarette in one hand, tiny cup of coffee in the other.

  ‘You’re such a clever old thing. I don’t know how you thought of it.’

  It’s 9.30 in the morning and I’ve come next door to see Caroline and pick up her reel-to-reel. She collected it from Mrs Scott-Pym’s hospital yesterday and has it primed ready for today’s action (Brilliant Plan Number 2). But first I’m being told all about the recording we made for Mrs Scott-Pym (Brilliant Plan Number 1).

  ‘It was wonderful, darling. Mummy listened to the tape as soon as she woke up, over and over again apparently, and there were lots of tears, lots of happy tears.’

  ‘Aww,’ I say, feeling that there may well be some happy tears here soon too.

  ‘Anyway, she called me straight away. We spoke for hours. Oh,’ she says, wiping her eyes with the little finger of her cigarette hand, ‘we went over everything, absolutely everything. We must have said sorry a hundred times. A thousand maybe! It really was marvellous. And it’s all because of you, darling.’

  She reaches over and gives me a big kiss on the forehead, putting her tiny cup down on the coffee table while she’s at it.

  ‘Well, of course,’ she goes on, ‘after all that we just had to see each other so I jumped straight in the car and drove over to the hospital. Mummy was waiting for me in her room and I just threw myself into her arms. And there we were, holding each other, hugging and blubbing.’

  She wipes her eyes again (with her non-cigarette hand this time). I take the opportunity to have a good eye-wipe too, using the sleeve of my top.