The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

  ‘He doesn’t really talk about it much, to be honest.’

  (Unlike Christine and Vera.)

  ‘Aye, well, he’s busy with the farm, isn’t he. He’s got a lot to keep him occupied. Although I bet a herd of cows and a hundred acres are far less trouble than young Christine!’

  I smile and pick up my tea, giving it a good stir, while Mrs Swithenbank taps her knee gently with her hand.

  ‘And what about you, love? she asks. ‘How do you feel about the wedding?’

  I stop stirring and put the teaspoon down. It tinkles slightly as it comes to rest on the china saucer.

  ‘I wish it weren’t happening, to be honest,’ I say. ‘I wish she’d just go away. We don’t really get on, Christine and me. And the funny thing is I’m not even sure Christine and Dad get on that much either.’

  ‘I see,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, still tapping her knee.

  ‘I think Dad would be quite happy to forget about the whole thing,’ I go on. ‘But, knowing him, he just doesn’t want to cause a fuss or feel like he’s letting her down.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. She puts her cup and saucer on the table and reaches out. ‘Now look. There are some things that can’t be changed and we just have to accept them,’ she goes on, holding my hand and looking me straight in the eye. ‘Things like gout and tax and your monthly visitation. But then there are other things that can be changed. They might not be easy to change, mind, and we might have to fight like billy-o to change ’em, and it might even bring a few tears along the way, love, but it’s not a reason just to leave ’em be and do nothing.’ She gives my hand a big squeeze. ‘You’re not daft, love. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You know what you need to do.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, suddenly feeling brim-full of Yorkshire magic. ‘I know exactly what I need to do.’

  And we both nod conspiratorially then have a good slurp of tea.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Friday 27 July 1962

  It’s a very special day.

  The day Mrs Scott-Pym comes home.

  Caroline has gone to pick Mrs Scott-Pym up from hospital and I’m here with Élise helping to get things ready for their return.

  We’re going to have a garden party, like the Queen. We’ve moved the kitchen table out onto the terrace and covered it with a beautiful red gingham cloth (perfect for a dress) and I’ve put out some stripy deckchairs.

  The table is weighed down with food from another world. Lots of brightly coloured vegetables, roasted and slathered with a rich, greeny oil. Golden things called quiche, which are hot and fill the air with a wonderful cheesy smell. A big bowl of salad made with lentils (lentils! cold! in a salad!). Tomatoes as big as a cricket ball. Great slabs of herby, buttery chicken breasts. Warm, flaky, crispy, crunchy towers of cheese pastry. And lots, lots more. Élise has done most of the work, kitchen-wise, but I’ve helped out here and there, cheese grating, bowl filling and vegetable washing.

  It’s been great.

  The only downside has been the reel-to-reel, perched on a small table on the terrace. Élise has been using it to play opera, which is very annoying as I’ve been desperate to put the four young men from Liverpool on all morning.

  (I’ve actually been trying to force myself to like opera ever since I found out Caroline listens to it, but it isn’t easy. I just can’t get on with it at all. It must be something that comes with age, like gardening or drinking sherry.)

  Élise is wonderful (despite the opera). She’s charming, funny, and very kind. She’s extremely glamorous too, but it’s a different kind of glamour to Caroline’s. Older. More sophisticated. She’s basically Katherine Hepburn to Caroline’s Audrey. I found out this morning that she’s forty, which was a big surprise. Every forty-year-old woman I know wears a flowery apron and hairnet (not to mention rollers) when cooking; Élise has been wearing a stylish bottle-green skirt and top, diamond earrings and a colourful silk scarf tied elegantly round her head. Amazing.

  As I’m putting out a large bowl of grapes, I hear the familiar clod-hop of Christine and her kitten heels.

  ‘What’s all that nonsense round the front?’ she says, crunching her way across the gravelled terrace, Vera in tow. ‘Buy-en-ve-noo. Ay, I knew your spelling was bad but not that bad.’

  ‘It’s French,’ I say, referring to the banner that we’d hung across the front of the house this morning. ‘Bienvenue à la maison. It means welcome home.’

  ‘French?’ asks Vera. ‘French! What on earth have you written it in French for? What’s wrong with English?’

  ‘I know,’ says Christine, shaking her head and tutting. ‘It was good enough for Shakespeare and Robin Hood. And anyway, what a waste of time doing anything in bloody French. The French’d all be writing in German if it weren’t for us.’

  ‘Bonjour,’ says Élise, coming out onto the terrace and carrying a large dish of food. She’s doing her room-filling smile but I’m sure she must just want to crack Christine with the dish.

  I introduce Christine and Vera to Élise (enchanté) and then Élise to Christine and Vera (ow do). The atmosphere has all the Anglo-Gallic cordiality of Agincourt.

  Each side is holding its weapon of choice. For the French, Élise has a dish filled with beautifully arranged cold meats and cheeses, garnished with some elaborately cut tomatoes and a few sprigs of parsley. For the English, Vera is holding two potatoes wrapped in foil, each with a salvo of cocktail sticks holding an assortment of cheese squares and burnt mini sausages.

  Christine takes the foil-wrapped potatoes from Vera, weighs them in her hands like grenades, and offers them to Élise, who, after looking at them quizzically for a second, takes them.

  ‘Ah, thank you,’ she says, putting the potatoes down on the table with a slight thud. ‘That is very kind of you. You really didn’t have to bring anything.’

  ‘Well, we wanted to help out,’ says Christine. ‘Can’t be easy for a foreigner to make proper garden-party food.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ replies Élise (still smiling). ‘But, as I said, you really shouldn’t have.’

  Christine and Vera survey the table.

  ‘Well, it all looks very . . . interesting,’ says Christine. ‘Shame you’ve got no sausage rolls.’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ says Vera, looking like she’s got a mouthful of sour milk. ‘I could have got some out of the freezer. Never mind.’

  ‘And I can’t see any pickled onions either,’ Christine goes on, scowling at the bacchanalian feast laid out on the table.

  ‘That’s because they’re not there,’ I say.

  ‘Hmm. Like your naked rugby players,’ counters Christine, giving me yet another Nasty Look (she has the memory of an elephant). ‘Is it French?’ she asks, turning back to Élise and making being French sound like an embarrassing ailment.

  ‘Oui, all French. You English are not the only ones who have le pique-nique, you know.’

  Christine bristles.

  ‘Hmmmm. Well, we know all about French food, don’t we, Mum? We went to the Royal Hotel Beverley a few weeks ago. The food was all French. Very oily, mind.’

  ‘Aye, and everything swimming in sauce,’ adds Vera. ‘Garlic everywhere too. Stank like a sewer.’

  This is not going well (Christine and Vera have the diplomacy skills of Attila the Hun).

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I say, hoping to distract Christine and Vera from their general intolerance of all things French.

  Christine rolls her eyes.

  ‘With the bloody cows. Like he always is.’

  ‘He won’t be long,’ adds Vera, scowling. ‘We just thought we’d come round early. Show a friendly face, like.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Although actually,’ says Élise, putting her hand on my shoulder, ‘I’ve had a wonderful friendly face here with me all morning.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Who was that, then?’ asks Christine.

  ‘Me,’ I say. Honestly, some people.

  ‘You? A friendly face?’ Christ
ine turns to Élise. ‘What, did you give her a family-size pack of Custard Creams or something?’

  ‘Evie’s been helping me get everything ready,’ says Élise.

  ‘Oh, lucky you,’ says Christine. ‘I can’t get her to do a thing at home. She’s always got her head in a bloody book.’

  ‘Well. She is a girl of great intelligence.’

  ‘More like great laziness,’ replies Christine. ‘Now, would you mind changing this music, please? It sounds like someone’s died.’

  ‘You don’t like Norma?’ says Élise.

  ‘Who? What about a nice bit of Mantovani? Something bright and jaunty instead of all this doom and gloom. It’s like being at church.’

  ‘Monteverdi?’ asks Élise, cocking her head.

  ‘Yes, have you got any?’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so. Something Baroque perhaps?’

  ‘What? Look, how about a musical? Anything with a tune.’

  ‘Ah, a musical,’ says Élise. ‘Yes, Caroline has the West Side Story. Hold on a moment.’ And she heads back into the house to get it.

  ‘Oooh good,’ says Christine, turning to me and Vera. ‘I like West Side Story. Do you know, loads of people say I remind them of Natalie Wood.’

  ‘Oh, yes, love,’ says Vera. ‘I can see what they mean.’

  ‘Does she have big feet too, then?’ I ask.

  Christine gives me a Look and then grabs the hem of her skirt and, waving it around like a can-can dancer, starts jumping around and singing.

  ‘La la la la la America,

  La la la la la America,

  La la la la la America,

  La la la la la America.’

  (Possibly the worst advert for musical theatre ever.)

  ‘What’s all this?’ says Mrs Swithenbank, all in black and waddling round the corner of the house like a giant monochrome penguin. ‘Was that meant to be the Lambeth Walk?’

  ‘Doris?’ says Vera. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Young Evie invited me,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, berthing herself onto a deckchair. ‘I’ve been as rough as a badger’s backside. Not that either of you’d know, mind.’

  ‘We’ve been busy, Doris,’ says Christine. ‘We’ve been sorting out my wedding, remember. There’s a lot of work involved with matrimonials, you know.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, clearly unimpressed by Christine’s matrimonials. ‘Well, thank God for young Evie popping round, that’s all I can say. You’ve been brilliant, love,’ she continues, turning to me. ‘Very good company. You and the BBC. I haven’t heard a dickybird’s chuff out of some people,’ she adds, crossing her arms and staring pointedly at Christine and Vera.

  There’s an awkward silence. I wonder if the Queen has this problem at her garden parties?

  ‘Voila,’ says Élise, thankfully stepping back outside and waving a reel in the air. ‘We have the West Side Story.’

  ‘Élise,’ I say. ‘This is Mrs Swithenbank.’

  ‘Call me Doris, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, getting up from her deckchair. ‘Everyone else does – except Evie, that is.’

  ‘Ah, Doris. I am so glad you could come,’ says Élise, holding Mrs Swithenbank’s hands in hers. ‘Evie has told me all about you. You have the Paris style, no?’ she goes on. ‘The sophisticated lady in black.’

  ‘Oh, do you think so, love?’ She beams a large smile. ‘Well, I like to look my best.’

  Christine looks livid. Élise, understandably, has not commented on either her gaudy pink bouffant dress or Vera’s nondescript cloud of brown.

  ‘Sophisticated? She’s been wearing the same black dress since 1916,’ says Christine. ‘It was war-issue, wasn’t it, Doris?’

  ‘Better than whore-issue,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, under her breath but still loud enough for us all to hear.

  ‘Ladies, can I get you all a drink?’ asks Élise, proving to be a far better diplomat than either Christine or Vera.

  The Byzantine complexity of getting a group of Yorkshire women a brew defuses the tension; the never-ending permutations of which tea, how much milk, how many sugars, and how long to leave the tea brewing seem to go on forever. In the middle of it all, Arthur finally arrives.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, skimming along the gravel.

  He’s wearing an open-neck shirt under his best tweed sports jacket and his blonde hair glistens with Brylcreem. I feel a thump of pride.

  He nods at Christine and Vera, says hello to Mrs Swithenbank, and then turns to Élise.

  ‘This is Élise, Dad, Caroline’s friend from London. And this is my dad, Arthur,’ I say to Élise. They smile at each other and shake hands.

  ‘What’s that?’ says Christine, pointing at a bottle in Arthur’s other hand.

  ‘Some champagne. I thought it’d be nice for Rosamund, you know, to welcome her home properly.’

  He passes the bottle to Élise.

  ‘Champagne! Oh, look at Mr Rockefeller.’ Christine rolls her eyes. ‘Last of the big spenders.’

  Élise has been looking at the label.

  ‘Mais non!’ she exclaims. ‘This is from my home town!’

  ‘Really?’ says Arthur. ‘You’re from Beaumont-sur-Vesle? I was there in the war for a few months. That’s why I picked it!’

  ‘Oui, Beaumont-sur-Vesle!’ says Élise, throwing her arms up in the air.

  ‘C’est un très beau village,’ says Arthur.

  ‘Merci, vous êtes trop gentil.’

  ‘Mon plaisir,’ replies Arthur, now blushing slightly.

  ‘C’est merveilleux. Very kind. Si jolie.’

  Christine doesn’t look happy. She swings past Vera and barges in between Arthur and Élise.

  ‘All right, all right. Stop showing off,’ she says, glaring at Arthur and grabbing his arm.

  Arthur winces.

  ‘I think you’d better learn how to speak English proper, Arthur, before you start beggaring around in French. Honestly,’ she goes on, turning to Élise and shaking her head, ‘you can’t get a word out of him most of the time but look at him now. Rabbiting away.’

  ‘I was just saying what a lovely place Beaumont-sur-Vesle is,’ says Arthur, not really looking at Christine. ‘Very beautiful. And very nice food too if I remember rightly.’

  Élise smiles at Arthur and does something French with her eyes.

  Christine (our very own Jodrell Bank) spots this and weaponises her chest.

  Arthur, meanwhile, looks like he’s subtly trying to pull his arm away from Christine but she’s got a grip like a bench clamp. I think it’s time I helped out.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Would you mind helping me move the garden bench? Caroline said we should bring it over near the table.’

  ‘Of course, love.’ He tugs his arm away from Christine. ‘Happy to help. Excusez-moi,’ he adds as he passes Élise.

  As we walk off down the garden to get the bench, he puts his arm round my shoulders and whispers, ‘Thanks for that, love. Do you know what, sometimes you’re almost as useful as a Yorkshire Post.’

  *

  Five minutes later and we hear the sound of a very fast car coming tearing down the drive followed by a manic burst of car horn.

  They’re back!

  We dash round to the front of the house and find the Mini parked haphazardly near the front door.

  ‘Hullo,’ shouts Caroline, getting out of the car. She’s wearing a really (really) short black dress and has her hair piled up on top of her head. All this finished off with some ballet pumps and a huge pair of sunglasses.

  ‘Here she is,’ she goes on, running round and opening the passenger door. ‘The star of the day!’

  And Mrs Scott-Pym, helped by Caroline, steps out of the car.

  ‘Oh, what a fuss!’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, steadying her feet on the gravel. ‘You really shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Welcome home,’ we all shout.

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym. ‘It’s lovely to be home again. And thank you all for
keeping an eye on my disorderly daughter.’

  ‘Mummy, charming!’ says Caroline, giving Mrs Scott-Pym another kiss.

  Mrs Scott-Pym turns to me and holds out her arms.

  ‘Evie, my dear. Come here!’

  I go and put my arms around her and she hugs me tight and I hug her tight. She’s lovely and warm and I can feel her heart beating through her jacket.

  ‘I have to say an enormous thank you for your wonderful recording,’ she whispers, her arms wrapped around me. ‘You are a marvellous, clever child. As wise as time.’ She kisses me on the forehead.

  I squeeze her. And then squeeze her even more.

  ‘It’s so good to have you back, Mrs Scott-Pym,’ I say.

  She puts her hand on my head and gently strokes my hair.

  ‘Well, I’m home now, dear. And we’ve got a lot of cake-eating and book-reading to catch up on. Oh!’ she says, looking up at the banner and laughing. ‘However did you manage to get that up there? Bienvenue à la maison indeed!’

  *

  Back round on the terrace, Mrs Scott-Pym has two things waiting for her.

  The first is all the food laid out on the table (‘Oh, look at this! It’s marvellous! You really shouldn’t have!’).

  And the second is Sadie. Up until now Sadie has remained firmly within dribbling distance of the food, staring at it as if it had magical hypnotic powers. But as soon as she hears Mrs Scott-Pym’s voice, Sadie goes berserk. She yelps and then darts over to Mrs Scott-Pym, running round and round and jumping up in a big messy ungainly display of acrobatics, showering spittle and gravel everywhere. The yelping turns into howling and she suddenly bolts off down the garden and races back again before shooting into the borders and peeing on Mrs Scott-Pym’s hollyhocks.

  ‘Sadie!’ shouts Mrs Scott-Pym, giving Sadie a big kiss and a very vigorous rub.

  ‘Darling, calm down,’ says Caroline (I think to Sadie but with Caroline you can never be sure).

  ‘She’s missed you,’ I say to Mrs Scott-Pym.

  ‘Oh, she’s had you and Caroline, dear, running around after her. She doesn’t need me.’ Mrs Scott-Pym bends down and takes Sadie’s head in her hands. ‘She’s only interested in me because she wants to know when the baking’s going to start again, aren’t you, dear?’