The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

by Matson Taylor

  ‘I will go back to London immediately,’ laughs Élise.

  ‘No, darling, you’re staying. Evie doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s only got eyes for Adam.’ Caroline winks at me again and then passes Élise a tiny cup of black coffee. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asks, turning back to me.

  ‘Er, I’m not sure. How do you take yours?’ I say, turning to Élise.

  ‘The French way. Black, two sugars.’

  ‘I’ll have mine like that then,’ I say. ‘Black, two sugars.’

  ‘Bien sûr,’ replies Caroline, taking the spoon from the sugar bowl and adding two heaped teaspoons of sugar to the dark brown liquid. Then she takes another teaspoon and stirs it all up before passing me the tiny cup and saucer.

  It smells delicious.

  Caroline and Élise are busy talking about Yorkshire but I focus on the coffee. There’s hardly anything there, just a thimble-full. I give it another stir and then lift the cup up to my lips and have a little sip. The coffee is somehow smoky, bitter and sweet at the same time. Very nice. I have a bigger slurp. Then another. And another. Then it’s gone.

  ‘Darling,’ says Caroline, watching me put the empty cup and saucer back on the tray. ‘That was practically down in one. And here’s me thinking you were a tea-totaller.’

  Élise laughs. ‘You see, Caroline, I think Evie is actually French. She could be une Parisienne. She is very direct. And is très chic with her beautiful dark hair and French pantalon.’

  I glance down at my pedal pushers.

  ‘And now we know she likes the French café also. Evie is clearly a femme française. A fleur-de-lis planted in the heart of Yorkshire.’

  I like Élise a lot.

  *

  The conversation swirls round. We talk about loads of things. Bettys cakes. English summers. The Brontë Parsonage. Lipstick. Someone called Bob Dylan. Scottish castles. Spanish painters. The A1. Marilyn Monroe. Billy Liar. Hyde Park (London). Central Park (New York). Dry hair.

  I keep managing to chip in even though most of the time I’ve no idea what to say. It’s very exciting. When it comes to adult conversations, I’m usually happy to take the Wimbledon approach: quietly watching from the side lines and turning my head from side to side to keep up with all the action. But today I’m down on court, chasing after the ball and even managing a few good rallies. Amazing. I feel like a left-bank intellectual (or is it right-bank?).

  After a while, Sadie lets out a big yawn. She’s lying down, legs akimbo, on the sofa, her head slouched across Caroline’s thighs.

  ‘Darling,’ says Caroline, looking down at Sadie. ‘Are you bored?’

  Sadie yelps.

  ‘Well, that told us, didn’t it!’

  Sadie yelps again.

  ‘Actually, I think she’s telling us it’s time for you to start your homework, darling,’ says Caroline to me, doing her best schoolmarm-ish look (which isn’t very good).

  ‘Homework?’ I ask. ‘What homework?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got four hours of tape to work some magic with.

  Sounds like homework to me.’

  Oh, the tape! Why am I so easily distracted?

  ‘Come on,’ Caroline goes on, standing up and sending Sadie’s head flopping back onto the sofa. ‘Let’s get you started. This is going to take a long time.’

  She’s over by the sideboard, getting the reel-to-reel. As I go and join her, I turn to Élise and say how much I’ve enjoyed meeting her.

  ‘Moi aussi,’ she replies. ‘Un plaisir. Now, enjoy your cows!’

  *

  Caroline takes me to Mrs Scott-Pym’s study, a wonderful room stuffed full of books. It’s one of my favourite rooms in Mrs Scott-Pym’s house but I don’t really come very often as we mainly stick to the kitchen or sitting room. The room has a particular smell, old books mixed with good breeding and house plants.

  Caroline puts the reel-to-reel down on the desk in front of the large sash window.

  ‘You sit yourself down and get comfortable. I’ll be right back.’ And she leaves the room.

  I sit down at the desk and look at the reel-to-reel. What secrets are waiting inside? Am I wasting my time? Would I be better off just listening to the four young men from Liverpool for four hours?

  ‘Here, put these on,’ says Caroline, coming back in. She’s carrying a big pair of headphones. ‘You’ll be able to hear everything so much better, darling. The recording probably won’t be great – it’s not easy to record from inside an oven. We need to use every resource we have. And these are a very good resource. The best EMI has.’

  She puts them on over my ears. Everything suddenly sounds like I’m underwater.

  ‘There. How do they feel?’ shouts Caroline, pointing at her ears.

  My ears are squashed and I’m sure I look ridiculous.

  ‘Great,’ I lie.

  ‘Wonderful, darling. You look fabulous,’ she lies back.

  I sit and roll my neck, weighing up the headphones; all the weight has shifted to the outside of my head, making it feel like my head is hollow (this must be how Christine feels).

  ‘Now, can you remember everything I showed you?’ she says.

  I nod.

  ‘Good. You know where I am if you need me.’ And she bends down and kisses me on the cheek and then leaves the room, shouting bonne chance and waving two sets of crossed fingers.

  I listen to the fuzzy echoey silence for a few seconds and then pick up a pen, take a deep breath and press play.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Wednesday 25 July 1962

  It’s all go here today.

  As well as Christine, the wedding, my future, Mr Baxter and the new housing estate, my O level results, Mrs Scott-Pym’s herniated disc, global thermonuclear war and my Brilliant Plan Number 2 to worry about, I’m having to deal with an Aesculapian emergency (adjective – medical; from Aesculapius, the Roman god of medicine).

  I’ve had to temporarily interrupt my reel-to-reel editing for a humanitarian trip to see Mrs Swithenbank. Last night, I found out from Margaret (who found out from Julie Turner’s mum, who found out from Mrs Nyburg, font of all village gossip) that Mrs Swithenbank has been in bed for three days with a bad flu. I want to go and see how she is and try and cheer her up. And with Mrs Swithenbank the best way to do this is with food.

  So I spent a very enjoyable couple of hours going through my mother’s recipe book trying to find:

  1. Something that Mrs Swithenbank will like (I’m not sure she’s quite ready for Matelote d’Anguille).

  2. Something that I can cook.

  This wasn’t easy. Most of the recipes in the book seem very complicated and require culinary skills way beyond my usual range of cheese on toast or a poached egg. I also need the recipe to be relatively quick and mess-free as I don’t want Christine to know about it (we only children are instinctively secretive and, as far as sharing knowledge of anything with Christine is concerned, less is definitely more). I know that Christine is out this morning (in Scunthorpe seeing a chiropodist on account of her hammer toe), so that gives me a couple of hours to make something for Mrs Swithenbank and clean up afterwards.

  After rejecting a lot of unsuitable recipes (Lièvre à la royale – too complicated; stuffed quail – too anatomical; Chorley cakes – too Lancastrian), I eventually found the perfect thing: gougères. They sound delicious. Substantial and comforting (just like Mrs Swithenbank). The ingredients list, for once, is remarkably short (most of the recipes in the book have an ingredients list that stretches on and on forever, like a Robert Browning poem):

  Half a pint of milk

  Quarter of a pound of plain flour

  2 oz unsalted butter

  A pinch of salt

  4 eggs

  3 oz Gruyere cheese

  (I’ve no idea what Gruyere cheese is so I’m using a bit of everything I can find in the fridge: Cheddar, Wensleydale, Red Leicester, and a small block of Caerphilly that had fallen into the veg drawer.)

  It sound
s really easy to do, but then again so did nipping out to deliver a few bottles of milk in Arthur’s MG, and look what a mess that got me into. Anyway, here goes.

  *

  First, the recipe says to heat the milk in a pan (where else?). I’m a dab hand at this as I often make Arthur and me an Ovaltine at bedtime. While the milk’s heating, I cut the butter into smallish cubes and then drop them in, giving it all a good stir. Very soon the butter starts to melt, creating a lovely oily yellowy layer on the top of the milk (more mixing at this point). The recipe then tells me to sift the flour into the milk while stirring, not an easy thing to do (people were obviously much more agile kitchen-wise back in my mother’s day). Apparently I have to stir until everything sticks together to make one big doughy blob. So I stir

  and stir

  and stir,

  all the time wondering if it wouldn’t just be easier to buy Mrs Swithenbank a piece of Parkin and a small pot plant.

  My mother’s recipe is quite firm with the next instruction – it’s time for the eggs, but they must be added one at a time (underlined) and only when the previous egg has been blended in (who knew recipes could be so bossy?). I take the pan off the heat, crack an egg in the mixture and stir. It immediately all goes a bit claggy but the recipe (now reassuring) tells me not to worry if it appears to have curdled – I just need to keep on stirring. So I stir.

  And stir

  A n d s t i r.

  Andstir.

  Andstir.

  Andstir.

  Andstir.

  The egg finally blends into the mixture. It feels such a shame to have to mess it all up again by adding another one, let alone another three. I’m not sure I’ve got the energy for it to be honest. By the time I’m done, I’ll have arms like Popeye.

  But there’s no turning back now so I put in the second egg.

  (stirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstir)

  And the third egg.

  (stirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstir)

  And the fourth.

  (stirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstirstir)

  After the fourth egg has unclagged and disappeared into the gooey mixture (phew), I give my forehead a quick wipe and then add a pinch of salt (so much easier than adding the eggs). Now it’s time for the cheese, so I grate some of each type onto the kitchen scales (almost losing a bit of nail on the big metal grater when I do the Caerphilly) and add it to the mixture.

  More stirring.

  (I honestly can’t believe that such a short recipe can require so much hard work.)

  Then, using a teaspoon, I deposit little blobs of the mixture onto greaseproof paper, grate a bit more cheese on top (improvising – you can never have too much cheese), and put the baking tray in Christine’s oven. The recipe now gets very bossy again. The gougères need to cook for twenty minutes AND THE OVEN DOOR SHOULD NOT BE OPENED IN THE MEANTIME. Not even for a quick peek.

  Twenty minutes is easily long enough to tidy everything up, so I check the time on my Adam Faith wall clock and set to with a dishcloth and some Ajax.

  After about ten minutes the most amazing cheesy smell starts to fill the kitchen. This is good because it means that the gougères will hopefully taste nice but also bad because the smell is a dead giveaway that I’ve been cooking, so I take a page out of Vera’s book (a very thin book, probably with pictures) and throw open the door and all the windows to let the room air.

  Ten minutes later and I’m hovering by the oven watching Adam’s guitar-clock hands tick round. I can’t wait. The smell is incredible – I wish Mrs Scott-Pym were here to see it (or rather smell it).

  And then it’s time.

  I open the oven door and, very gingerly, pull out the baking tray.

  It is baking perfection.

  I stare, goggle-eyed, at the thing of beauty in my hands.

  Thirty golden balls of sweet dreams and health. I can’t believe it. I put the tray down and take one (just to try – cook’s prerogative). It’s really hot and burns my fingers a bit but it’s worth it just for the smell (a heady waft of cheesy balm). I stand smelling the gougère for a while longer, then I put it in my mouth, biting into the hot, squishy pastry.

  It’s Fromage Heaven.

  I have another bite. Bliss. They are little parcels of pure joy. I could easily wolf them all down right now. But I won’t. They are for Mrs Swithenbank in her hour of need. So I load them up into an old biscuit tin and head off.

  *

  From the street, Mrs Swithenbank’s cottage has a short path, flanked by foxgloves and lupins, leading to her front door (an explosion of climbing roses). I hesitate slightly outside the door and then knock loudly three times.

  ‘Come in, whoever it is,’ I hear Mrs Swithenbank shout.

  I push open the door and walk inside.

  The door leads directly into Mrs Swithenbank’s sitting room and it’s there that I find her, perched on a high-back armchair, in a full-length purple nightie, a frilly lilac hairnet, and a pair of thick woolly socks.

  ‘Evie, love,’ she says, beaming from ear to ear. ‘It’s grand to see you. Come in. Take a seat.’ And she gestures over at the empty sofa.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Swithenbank?’ I ask, sitting down and making myself comfy.

  ‘Hold on, love. Let me turn the wireless off,’ she replies, leaning over and turning off the big, old Bakelite set.

  ‘Don’t turn it off for me, Mrs Swithenbank.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, love. I’d had enough of it anyway. It was only Val Doonican and his bloody guitar. I wasn’t really listening. I only had it on ready for Jimmy Young. Now, what were you saying?’

  ‘I heard you’d been ill,’ I say, ‘so I wanted to come round and see how you were.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right nice of you, Evie, love. Well,’ she goes on, untucking a lacy hanky out from her sleeve and dabbing at her forehead. ‘Fair t’middlin’ now, thanks. But I’ve been proper jiggered. I was burning up like a chip-pan a few days ago. I had a dizzy turn and nearly went all my length on t’kitchen floor.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m on the mend now, though. I’ll be back in fine fettle soon enough, don’t worry.’

  (I suspect if Mrs Swithenbank were ever to go to London, she’d need to take an interpreter.)

  ‘I’ve brought you these,’ I say, passing the biscuit tin to her. ‘I made them for you just now.’

  Mrs Swithenbank takes the tin and prises off the lid.

  ‘Oh, they smell lovely,’ she says, having a big sniff. ‘What are they?’

  ‘Gougères.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gougères. They’re French.’

  ‘Oh, look at you, cooking French food. By, you’re a clever lass.’

  ‘I found the recipe in Mum’s book,’ I say, blushing a bit. ‘It was easy, really. I thought they might make you feel better.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure they will, love. Ey, I tell you what, how about having a couple now with a nice brew. I’m parched.’

  ‘I’ll make it, Mrs Swithenbank,’ I say, getting up. ‘Milk, three sugars?’

  ‘Oh, you’re a good girl, Evie. Aye, milk, three sugars. It’s all in the cupboard over the kettle,’ she goes on, pointing towards the kitchen. ‘And help yourself to biscuits while you’re in there.’

  ‘Thanks!’ I shout, walking through into the small kitchen at the back of the cottage.

  ‘Sorry it’s a bit of mess in there, love,’ shouts Mrs Swithenbank as I’m filling the kettle. ‘I’ve not been able to do any cleaning for days, what with being so off colour.’

  The kitchen is spotless, like it’s just been cleaned and polished by a troop of squaddies.

  ‘It’s lovely, Mrs Swithenbank,’ I reply. ‘You’ve got a great view from your kitchen.’ The k
itchen window looks onto Mrs Swithenbank’s joyfully blooming back garden and then out across the ancient graveyard to the church.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ she shouts back. ‘Aye, it’s not bad. How are you getting on in there? Cups and saucers are in the cupboard next to the fridge. Can you find everything?’

  ‘Yes,’ I shout, getting the tea and sugar out of the cupboard. ‘Got them.’

  ‘Ey, love, these things you’ve brought me really do smell lovely, you know. What did you say they were called again?

  ‘Gougères.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s it. And how do you make them, then?’

  ‘Well, it’s flour, eggs, milk and butter,’ I shout, getting all the tea things ready on a tray. ‘And lots of cheese. Then you just dollop it all up on a baking tray and pop it in the oven. It’s really easy.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Swithenbank says as I walk back into her sitting room with the tray. ‘Like cheese puffs you mean?’

  ‘Cheese puffs?’

  ‘Aye, the recipe sounds exactly like the one I use to make cheese puffs.’

  I slump down on the sofa, feeling slightly defeated by the cheese puffs. (Surely all that endless stirring deserves a fancy French name?) ‘Anyway, thanks for making the tea, love. You’re an angel. It’s really good of you to come round, you know.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ I say. ‘I know how boring being ill is, so I thought a bit of company might be just what you need.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right there, love,’ she says, leaning over and pouring the tea. ‘I had Sheila here from next door earlier, and Mrs Wellburn from number 19 popped round yesterday.’

  ‘What about Christine and Vera?’ I ask. ‘Have they not been round?’

  ‘No, they haven’t, love,’ she replies, having a slurp of tea. ‘Happen they’ve been too busy with the wedding plans. It’s all they blether on about these days.’

  We look at each other and exchange eye-rolls.

  ‘Speaking of which, how’s your dad? Full t’brim with wedding joy?’

  I take in the assorted plates, pictures and ceramic ducks ranged across the sitting room wall and wonder how diplomatic I need to be.