The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

  ‘Mummy!’ says Caroline, clicking her fingers. ‘You’ve just reminded me about something. Hold on a sec. Back in two tics.’ And she disappears off round the front of the house.

  Mrs Scott-Pym watches her go.

  ‘Oh, it’s good to be back,’ she says, looking around at everyone and smiling. By now, we’re all sat round the table. Mrs Scott-Pym’s at the head, with me next to her. The others are split into two groups: Mrs Swithenbank and Élise on one side of the table and Christine and Vera on the other. Arthur, I think, has spotted the obvious danger of the seating arrangement and is busy inspecting the flowerbeds.

  Mrs Scott-Pym leans over to me.

  ‘You’ve made a big impression on Caroline, dear,’ she says. ‘She’s wonderful.’ I reply. ‘I love having her here. It’s like having a little piece of London in the village. Everything seems more exciting. Do you think she’ll be coming up more often now?’

  Mrs Scott-Pym pauses and looks down the garden.

  ‘Do you know what, dear, I think she probably will.’

  And we both sit back for a moment, smiling and taking in the warm summer scene.

  *

  ‘Here we are,’ says Caroline, coming back from wherever she disappeared to.

  She’s carrying a big box with Bettys written on the side (the very best kind of big box).

  ‘I left it in the car,’ she says, putting the box down on the table. ‘How could I forget!’

  ‘Oooh, Bettys, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Very nice.’

  Élise leans over and looks at the box.

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘It is the famous Yorkshire baker, non?’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ replies Caroline. ‘Home of the deluxe vintage port and ale fruit cake.’ She looks at Christine. ‘Prize-winning, I gather.’

  Christine stares back at Caroline. Neither blinks.

  ‘Caroline, dear. You’re spoiling me,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, reaching out and holding Caroline’s hand.

  ‘Well, you haven’t seen what’s inside yet. It might only be a scone.’

  ‘It’d be a bloody big scone, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.

  ‘Aye,’ says Arthur. ‘Looks like we’ll be needing more jam and clotted cream, Rosamund.’

  Everyone laughs (except Christine).

  ‘Evie, I think you should open it,’ says Caroline, pushing the box across the table towards me.

  ‘Oh yes, dear,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym. ‘Go on.’

  I unfold the tabs and then gently slide the lid upwards.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ I say, pushing back the lid and revealing a huge cake with the words Welcome Home iced across the top.

  ‘Oooof,’ says Christine, our very own deflating balloon. ‘What a funny colour for a cake. What would you call it? Ruby?’

  Caroline looks at Christine and smiles.

  ‘No, scarlet.’

  *

  The next hour is a delicious blur of food and bonhomie. Highlights include Vera going at a plate of French ham with the speed and destructive efficiency of lightning. Sadie jumping up and running off with all the cheese straws. Arthur expertly popping the champagne cork. Caroline toasting Mrs Scott-Pym and Mrs Scott-Pym almost crying. Mrs Swithenbank laying waste to three slices of the scarlet cake plus some extra icing.

  And, throughout it all, Christine sits glowering like a monkfish.

  ‘Right, everyone,’ I say, standing up. ‘I think it’s time for some different music, don’t you?’

  A wave of nods surges round the table. (There’s only so much West Side Story you can take on a sunny afternoon in the East Ridings.)

  ‘I hope you’re putting on something cheerful,’ shouts Christine, frowning.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, walking over to the reel-to-reel machine. ‘Very cheerful.’

  I get a tape-reel out of my pocket, loop it onto the machine and press play.

  There’s a few seconds of silence, then a bit of crackle and fuzz, then the harmonica comes in and then the drum and then the four young men from Liverpool start singing. It’s glorious. Caroline is swaying her head and Élise taps her hand on the table in time to the beat. Everyone (even Christine) looks happy.

  ‘Oh, what’s this, love?’ shouts Mrs Swithenbank. ‘It’s smashing.’

  ‘They’re new,’ says Caroline. ‘From Liverpool.’

  ‘Liverpool?’ replies Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Well, they’re not bad for a bunch of scousers.’

  We all sit listening to the song. Even after hearing it hundreds of times, it still sounds bright and exciting, like the start of something new.

  Then, all of a sudden, the harmonies of the four young men from Liverpool are replaced by the appalling wails of Christine singing ‘Kiss me, Honey, Honey, Kiss me’. It’s the aural equivalent of going from a slice of Élise’s golden quiche to one of Vera’s burnt cocktail sausages.

  ‘Ey, that’s me,’ shouts Christine. ‘Don’t I sound good? Like Shirley Bassey.’

  (Perhaps the noise Shirley Bassey might make if someone were gauging her eyes out.)

  Thankfully we only get the first verse before a new voice steps in.

  It’s Vera.

  ‘Ere, love. Do you know you’re nearly out of loo rolls?’

  ‘It’s you, Mum! Listen to you,’ says Christine, pointing at Vera. ‘Hey, you sound really funny.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ shouts Vera. ‘How the bleeding hell did that get on there?’

  I know exactly how that got on there. I spent much of the weekend editing the four hours of Christine and Vera talking in the kitchen into a five-minute bouncing bomb. This is going to be fun.

  The tape goes on.

  ‘’Course Iknow who’s prime minister, Mum,’ says Christine. ‘Do you think I’m stupid? What do you think I’ve got between my ears?’

  ‘Loo rolls,’ answers Vera. ‘Loo rolls, loo rolls, loo rolls.’

  ‘Wait, I didn’t say that,’ says Vera.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asks Christine, turning to me. ‘What’s happening?’

  I give her my best Cinderella smile.

  ‘It’s called splicing.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘To splice,’ I explain. ‘Verb. To unite two lengths of magnetic tape by overlapping and securing together.’

  She scrunches up her face and looks, not for the first time, completely clueless.

  On the tape, Vera and Christine are talking.

  ‘I’m a . . . loo roll,’ says Christine.

  ‘You’re a big . . . loo roll,’ says Vera.

  Then the tape crackles a bit and we hear Christine interspersed with Vera:

  ‘She’s got a life of Riley . . .

  Our Christine

  Sitting around on her backside all day . . .

  Our Christine

  It’s all right for some . . .

  Our Christine

  Are you putting the kettle on, Mum?’

  Around the table, everyone’s beginning to chuckle. Well, everyone except Christine and Vera.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ snaps Christine, growing more scarlet by the second. ‘That was a private conversation I’ll have you all know.’

  ‘Hey love, I wonder what Doris is up to? We haven’t seen her for a while.’

  ‘Oi, stop the bloody tape,’ shouts Vera.

  ‘Leave it be, Vera,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘I want to hear this.’

  ‘Doris!’ exclaims Christine on the tape. ‘Don’t talk to me about Doris. She can be a right nightmare.’

  ‘Oh, I know, love. She’s always been a bit of a handful.’

  ‘I don’t want her coming to the wedding, Mum. Her and her bloody bowel. She’s embarrassing. Size of an ostrich and the brains of one too. And she’s dead common.’

  ‘Turn. It. Off,’ says Christine, getting up. She looks like she’s wants to throttle me.

  ‘You sit right back down, young lady,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, standing in front of Christine and pushing her back onto her chair. ‘Dead common, am I? Happen
we might all learn something here.’

  The tape goes on. We’re all listening to every word. It’s like the Queen’s Christmas speech.

  ‘Where do you want your Custard Creams, love?’ says Vera.

  ‘Same place as usual, Mum, where do you think? I’ve told you, if you stick ’em in the biscuit cupboard, Evie’ll have the lot.’

  ‘Right, they’re in the bottom drawer, love.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want that annoying little madam getting her hands on them.’

  Around the table, there’s a sharp communal intake of breath.

  ‘Well it’s true,’ Christine says, pulling a face that reminds me of the gargoyles at York Minster. ‘She’s like a bloody gannet.’

  Arthur turns and looks at Christine but says nothing.

  Back on the tape, Christine’s voice is looping around.

  ‘Annoying little madam. Annoying little madam. Annoying little madam . . . Do you know what, Evie’s really getting on my nerves.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ says Vera. ‘You need to show her who’s boss, love.’

  ‘Just wait till after the wedding. Things’ll be very different. I’m not having her moping around my lovely new house. I want her and all her bloody stupid books gone, out from under my feet. She can sling her bloody hook.’

  Christine looks like she’d like to slip off but Mrs Swithenbank is standing guard behind her, a one-woman mountain range.

  The tape continues. There’s a couple of seconds of static buzz and then we’re back to Christine.

  ‘No, of course I don’t love him. Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Not even a bit, love?’ asks Vera.

  ‘Well he’s harmless enough I suppose. I’ll tell you what I do love, though. The chocolates, and the new dresses, and all the trips out to the races. And I love my new cooker. And new freezer. And I’ll tell you what I’ll REALLY love. My lovely new house and its lovely big garden.’

  ‘And don’t forget about the lovely big bank account, love!’ adds Vera, cackling.

  ‘Oh yes, don’t worry. I’ll find out where he’s stashed all his cash if it kills me.’

  ‘You’ve a right to know, love. It’s your money too.’

  ‘I know. Exactly. It’s my money. I bloody deserve it with all him and his idiot daughter put me through. Once I’ve got that ring on my finger, things’ll change. Now, are you going to make me another brew?’

  There’s another crackle and then we hear Christine singing one last time.

  ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-dee-a

  Arthur’s money’s coming my way.

  Ta-ra-ra-boom-dee-a

  Arthur’s money’s coming my way.

  Ta-ra-ra-boom-dee-a

  Arthur’s money’s coming my way.’

  The tape comes to an end and the empty spool flicks round and round, again and again. Flick, flick, flick, flick, flick.

  Everyone is looking at Christine.

  There’s a stunned silence, like when snow sucks away all the sound.

  Arthur’s face is a collage of emotions (all of them bad).

  ‘I think you should see these too,’ I say, passing two pieces of tatty paper to him.

  ‘What are they?’ says Christine, her face so red that her forehead looks like an angry slice of corned beef.

  ‘Well, one of them looks like a list of my bank accounts,’ says Arthur. ‘And my Post Office savings. Pension. Premium Bonds. Green Shield stamps. Everything.’ He shakes his head. ‘Everything. All in the same handwriting.’

  He holds the paper in his hand and looks over at Christine (who’s busy looking down at the floor).

  ‘And then the other one,’ he goes on, scrutinising the second piece of paper, ‘is a receipt for a deluxe vintage port and ale fruitcake from Bettys.’ He flicks the paper with his fingers. ‘The day before the village fete.’

  There’s another sharp intake of communal breath.

  Arthur stares at Christine.

  Christine looks up from the floor and stares back at Arthur.

  The only sound is Sadie’s tail wagging against Mrs Scott-Pym’s leg.

  Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

  ‘I think you’d better leave,’ says Arthur, crossing his arms.

  ‘Leave?’ says Christine, bristling herself up to her full height (5ft 7). ‘Of course I’m leaving. Who’d want to stay all afternoon with you old fuddy-duddies? The food’s bloody awful anyway.’

  ‘No, I don’t just mean leave here,’ replies Arthur. ‘I want you to leave the farmhouse.’

  ‘What?’ says Christine.

  ‘I want you to leave the farmhouse. As soon as possible. I don’t want you under the same roof as Evie.’

  Christine glares at Arthur.

  ‘Ey, you can’t do that, Arthur,’ says Vera. ‘It’s Christine’s home.’

  ‘Actually, Vera,’ says Arthur, ‘it’s Evie’s home. She owns the farm. It was Diana’s and now it’s Evie’s. It was all left to her.’

  What?

  ‘Evie’s?’ says Christine. ‘It was all left to Evie? It’s Evie’s farm? Not yours?’

  She looks even more confused than normal.

  (Although to be fair, I’m pretty confused too.)

  ‘But what about the wedding?’ she goes on, turning back to Arthur.

  ‘It’s off,’ he says, shaking his head again. ‘There won’t be any wedding. I’ve been a bloody fool.’

  ‘Off!’ shouts Christine. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘He just has, darling,’ says Caroline, flatly.

  Christine stands up, grating her chair across the gravel.

  ‘Come on, Mum, we’re off. We’re not hanging around here with this lot. And you needn’t worry about calling off the wedding, Arthur,’ she says, jabbing a scarlet finger at him. ‘No farm. No wedding.’

  Vera stands up. She’s obviously trying to muster as much dignity as possible but it’s difficult when you’re the mother of someone who’s just been exposed as a horrible, gold-digging old cow.

  ‘Are you coming, Doris?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m bloody not,’ replies Mrs Swithenbank, picking up a tea towel and mopping her forehead. ‘I’m staying right here. And you can stuff your bingo nights. Rosamund’s going to teach me bridge.’

  Mrs Scott-Pym looks at Christine and Vera and smiles a devilishly sweet old-lady smile.

  ‘Well, you stay here with Mrs Fancy-Pants and her bloody foreign friends, then,’ shouts Christine. And she storms off across the terrace, with Vera close behind her.

  After three steps, she turns round and yells,

  ‘You can send my cooker round to Mum’s.’

  Then another step.

  ‘And the freezer.’

  Then another step.

  ‘And the leather pouffe and cut-crystal Perry wine glasses.’

  Then they disappear round the corner of the house.

  Gone.

  ‘And all the bloody Tupperware too,’ we hear a faint, dismembered voice shout.

  And then – finally – there’s silence.

  Arthur reaches over and puts his arms round me.

  ‘I’m really sorry, love,’ he says, giving me an enormous, gigantic hug. ‘For everything.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I say, folding myself into his arms. ‘It’s okay.’

  As he hugs me, he rests his head against my cheek and I can smell his woody, leathery aftershave and feel his body gently shaking.

  We all sit and look at one another. What a day.

  ‘Alors,’ says Élise, doing a Gallic shrug. ‘And to think you English say the French are dramatic.’

  *

  It’s later on that evening and I’m sat in Mrs Scott-Pym’s garden with Caroline. It’s just the two of us; everyone else is in Mrs Scott-Pym’s sitting room drinking sherry and talking. Outside, the bright daytime blue is slowly blurring to a velvety evening navy. The lights are on in the house and, high above us, the stars are beginning to prick the sky.

  It’s been a very strange afternoon.

&
nbsp; Arthur has been a torrent of apologies. Apologies to Mrs Scott-Pym for the scene, the shouting, and the bad language. Apologies to Caroline for spoiling the lovely welcome home that she’d prepared. Apologies to Mrs Swithenbank for Christine’s and Vera’s nastiness. Apologies to Élise for spoiling her pique-nique and for his ‘appalling’ French. And apologies to me for everything. For letting Christine barge into our lives. For letting her take over our home. For letting her boss me about. For being ‘no fool like an old fool’. For not listening to me more. For not talking to me more. For not being with me more. For being ‘a terrible dad’.

  I told him not to talk rubbish, of course.

  He’s the perfect dad for me. We’re a team, I reminded him. Maybe more Bridlington Town than Manchester United, but a team nevertheless. That made his eyes go red. Mrs Scott-Pym helped cheer him up, telling him again and again that he’d done the right thing now and that was all that mattered. But what really cheered Arthur up was Élise fussing round him all afternoon. By the time everyone went inside, he seemed like a new man, handsome and proud. A blond Yorkshire Viking.

  *

  Out in the garden, the moon is hanging low and big, so low and big that you can see all its shaded contours, like an Ordinance Survey map.

  Caroline and I are lying on the daisy-spotted grass staring up at the evening sky. Our heads are almost touching, crown-to-crown, and our long legs stretch out like the hands of a clock (twenty to three).

  ‘Darling?’ asks Caroline.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How much do you know about your mother?’

  A smile breaks out across my face.

  ‘Well, I know she was tall and beautiful and elegant and spoke French and was kind and funny and liked navy blue but didn’t like celery. And now I know that she left me the farm.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Caroline. ‘Nothing more?'

  ‘Well, no, not really. Why?’

  Caroline shifts her legs.

  ‘Oh, nothing really. It’s just that I found something at the bottom of one of Mummy’s drawers when I was getting the house ready for her to come back.’

  ‘What? Something of Mum’s?'

  ‘Sort of.’

  I want to ask more but with (im)perfect timing, Sadie comes bounding out of the house and makes straight for Caroline, mounting her legs and giving her face an enormous lick.