The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

  Caroline yells and pushes Sadie away but Sadie, obviously in the mood for fun, jumps up again. She pushes her face into Caroline’s and gives her another enormous lick. Caroline yells again (half scream, half laugh) and grabs Sadie, tickling her pink bits, before hoisting her up on her chest and rolling around on the grass together, yelping, howling, tickling and licking.

  ‘Oh, I’m exhausted,’ says Caroline, when they’ve both calmed down a bit. ‘And I think Sadie’s hungry. I’d better nip inside and get her some of that delicious quiche. I’ll be right back, darling. Hold on.’

  And she runs into the kitchen, closely trailed by Sadie and her slobber.

  I lie back down on the grass and look up at the stars, tiny little beads of light on a vast cloth of inky blue sky. In the next field I can hear the cows and their bedtime chorus and from somewhere inside the house come the sounds of people talking and glasses chinking.

  The perfect end to a perfect day.

  I stretch out my arms and legs and make angel wings on the grass for a moment or two. Then I roll over onto my side and look down Mrs Scott-Pym’s garden, taking in the lupins and the delphiniums and the lavender.

  And then I notice that, nearby, on the grass where Caroline and Sadie were playing, there’s a folded-up piece of brown newspaper.

  Obviously I should just leave it there. Caroline can get it when she gets back. It’s not doing any harm lying on the grass . . .

  I try not to look at it.

  The paper sits there, shouting.

  I reach over and pick it up. It feels old. Brittle and crisp. I try to see the date but the paper’s folded up and the only things I can make out are a photo of some soldiers and an advert for Pears soap. I’ll just have a quick look in. I’m sure Caroline wouldn’t mind. It can’t do any harm.

  I unfold the paper carefully, crease by crease, flattening it out as I go.

  Released, the headline roars its terrible news.

  And at that moment the stars stop shining and the sky becomes burnt black.

  INTERLUDE

  17 May 1946

  Diana looked at the door.

  It certainly wasn’t what she’d expected.

  She’d last met Bob Greenwood before the war. A rough diamond, Arthur called him; more like a wide boy, thought Diana. Either way, he was definitely not the type to have an office on ‘The Mount’. She knew the area well, of course. It was York’s 8th Arrondissement, its Kensington, a Georgian boulevard of old money and good taste. So how on earth had he ended up here? He’d clearly had a good war.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a small, middle-aged lady sitting behind a mahogany desk.

  ‘Yes, I’m Mrs Epworth,’ Diana replied, smiling. ‘I’m here to see Mr Greenwood.’

  The lady, rather mousey with a tight-set head of curls, looked down at a large diary on her desk then back up at Diana and asked her to take a seat.

  *

  ‘Diana!’ said Bob, coming into the waiting room and holding his hands out like Christ the Redeemer. ‘How lovely to see you again after all this time.’

  ‘Well, it’s lovely to see you, too, Bob,’ replied Diana.

  ‘You’re looking wonderful,’ said Bob, giving her an exaggerated wink. ‘But then you always did.’

  Diana smiled politely. He hadn’t changed at all, she thought. The oiliness was still there. The casual, easy glibness.

  ‘You look even younger than when we last met,’ he went on. ‘Now, then, when would that have been?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Diana. ‘Sometime before the war.’

  ‘June 1939,’ said Bob, pointing his finger at Diana. ‘The York City chairman’s wedding. Seven years ago!’

  ‘And what a seven years,’ replied Diana, dealing with the broad sweep of the war’s destruction and human misery in one understated phrase. ‘You seem to have done very well since then,’ she added, looking around the room.

  Bob grinned.

  ‘Well, I haven’t done bad for myself, have I? And what about you and Arthur? A life on the farm, eh? Who’d have thought it!’

  ‘We both love it. Arthur’s become a real country gent. And now we’ve got Evie too, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bob. ‘Arthur told me about your little girl when he telephoned. He’s very keen on having all this money of your father’s looked after for her.’

  Diana smiled again, not really feeling that Bob was striking the appropriate tone.

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. They don’t call me Mr Money for nothing, you know. Now, shall we go into my office and talk about this a little more privately?’ he said, gesturing with an open hand towards his office door.

  It was too late to back out now, thought Diana. But she didn’t have to sign anything today. She could go and see nice old Mr Anderson next week and instruct him to act on her behalf. Arthur would understand. Club connection or no club connection. She’d just get the next hour out of the way and then that would be that.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let’s do that.’

  Bob walked Diana over to his office door, his hand on her back, guiding her like an animal at an agricultural show.

  ‘You go in and make yourself nice and comfortable. I just want to have a quick word with Miss Gorse.’

  Diana walked into Bob’s office, pleased to free herself of his hand.

  Bob sidled up to his secretary’s desk.

  ‘Thanks, Mabel, love,’ he said, playing with his tie. ‘That’ll be all for today, then. As I said, you get yourself off and have half a day on me. Go and have a look round the shops. I won’t be needing you this afternoon. It’ll just be me and Mrs Epworth.’

  And he strode into his office, rubbing his hands.

  Miss Gorse sat for a moment then picked up her handbag and stood up. She was getting used to these little afternoons off. Another shopping trip. Perhaps she’d go to Browns. She could have look at the knitting patterns and maybe go for a scone in the cafeteria and then try and pick something up for tea.

  *

  Diana hovered by a chair in front of the large desk, waiting for Bob. His office was just how she expected it. Grandiose and flash. The office chairs were voluptuous and full-figured, their deep leather seats built for show not comfort. In the middle of the room hung an elaborate chandelier, more suitable for a room twice the size. And near the large sash windows was a chesterfield sofa, kept company by an ugly green onyx coffee table and a couple of leather armchairs.

  ‘Oh, I thought we’d sit by the window,’ said Bob, walking in behind Diana. ‘It’s cosier than being at the desk,’ he went on, taking Diana’s hand and guiding her towards the sofa. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I asked Miss Gorse to put out some gin and tonic. I thought we could have a friendly chat before we got down to business. No rush, is there?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Diana, already wondering when she could make a polite exit. ‘But tonic water will be fine. I need to keep a level head when it comes to talking about money!’

  ‘Oh, a drop won’t do any harm,’ said Bob, pouring some gin into each glass. ‘Just a sniff. It’ll help oil the cogs. It’s been seven years since we last met. I think we both deserve a drink, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, if you insist,’ said Diana, removing her gloves and taking a glass from Bob.

  ‘Cheers, then.’ He held his glass in the air. ‘Here’s to making lots of money for you all.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Diana, forcing herself to smile.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to relax, isn’t it?’ said Bob, leaning back and making himself comfortable. ‘It’s been non-stop ever since VE Day.’

  ‘Yes, it must be good to be busy. I suppose now that the war’s over, people are wanting to get their finances in order. We’re all thinking about the future again.’

  ‘Well, nice Mr Attlee’s given us all a new future, hasn’t he? A new Eden apparently. And that means lots of new opportunities, Diana.’ He leant over towards Diana, fondling his glass. ‘New ways to make money. We�
�ll make sure your little girl’s going to do all right out of Mr Attlee’s new Eden, don’t you worry.’

  Diana smiled politely again, sitting bolt upright and holding her glass in both hands.

  ‘But we said we’d have a little chat, didn’t we, before we got down to all the serious work?’ continued Bob, still leaning over towards Diana. He slid his hand back and forth over the slippery leather sofa as if cleaning it. ‘Good to hear all’s well out on the farm.’

  ‘We love it,’ said Diana. ‘It’s hard work, of course, but we’ve settled into a routine.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard life out on a farm can be hard. It’s proper graft for Arthur. I bet you don’t get to see that much of him.’

  ‘Well, we manage. I ran the farm during the war so we tend to work things out together most of the time.’

  ‘Right, I see,’ said Bob, inching forwards. ‘But I bet it can be isolating, can’t it? Living out in the middle of nowhere. Far away from the bright lights of York.’

  ‘No, not really,’ she replied, quickly. ‘We’re lucky. We’re in a little village with lovely neighbours. It’s not isolating at all.’

  ‘Oh, village life! I’ve heard all about that. Three dozen cows and a village idiot – must be hard for a sophisticated young lady like yourself?’

  Diana looked at the small beads of sweat on Bob’s forehead and remembered how much she had disliked him.

  ‘Well, one can find a village idiot almost anywhere these days,’ she said, trimming her smile.

  Bob stopped sliding his hand on the sofa.

  ‘But don’t you find you miss company?’ he said.

  ‘Company?’ asked Diana, taking a sip of her G&T.

  ‘Aye, company,’ replied Bob. ‘All those parties and balls before the war. All the champagne. All the attention,’ he went on, reaching out and putting his arm across the back of the sofa.

  Diana looked at Bob; he held her stare.

  ‘All that male attention. Fussing around you. I’m sure you must miss it.’

  He leant forward and tried to pour some more gin into Diana’s glass.

  ‘No, really, Bob. Thank you,’ said Diana, pulling her glass away. ‘There’s quite enough here already.’

  ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport,’ said Bob, moving the bottle to follow the glass in Diana’s hands. ‘Here, just have a little bit more.’

  He tried to tip some gin into Diana’s glass but missed and a splash of gin fell onto her dress.

  ‘Oh, blast, I’m sorry,’ said Bob, moving closer.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ replied Diana, dabbing at her dress with her hand.

  Bob took a handkerchief out of his pocket and placed it on the damp patch of gin, pressing his hand down firmly on her thigh.

  ‘It’s really not a problem,’ said Diana, putting her glass back down on the ugly onyx table. ‘It’s just an old dress.’

  She glanced at her watch.

  ‘Oh you needn’t worry about time,’ said Bob. ‘We’ve got all afternoon. Plenty of time to get down to business.’

  Bob’s hand was still pressing down on Diana’s thigh.

  ‘Actually,’ said Diana, wriggling away, ‘I think perhaps I’m having second thoughts. I’m really quite a cautious investor; it’s something I get from Daddy. I don’t think I’m ready to help build the new Eden.’

  Bob moved closer, taking both her hands in his.

  ‘Well, I don’t think you need to go just yet, do you? Come on, relax. Miss Gorse is away all afternoon. We’ve got the office to ourselves.’

  Diana tried to pull her hands away from his but he held his grip.

  ‘Bob, please. Stop it. I think I should go.’

  ‘Come on, Diana, a little fun won’t hurt anyone. You upper crust are all at it. I know what you’re like.’

  ‘Bob, really. No,’ she said, hoping that she sounded firm. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Just a little kiss,’ he said, moving in. ‘It’s harmless enough. No one has to know. Come on, I’ll scratch your back and you scratch mine,’ he said, winking. ‘That’s what they say, isn’t it?’

  And he let go of one of Diana’s hands so that he could run his fingers down her spine. Diana pulled her hand away with a jolt, sending it upwards and slapping Bob accidentally under the chin.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, instinctively.

  Bob winced but carried on.

  ‘I’ve always thought you were the most beautiful woman I knew, Diana. I’ve been waiting years for one little kiss.’

  And he moved his face close to hers. ‘It can be our secret. Just a kiss.’

  She strained to pull her head away.

  ‘Bob. No.’

  She tried to push him away but, as she pushed, her body slipped down across the smooth, well-plumped leather seat, knocking her off balance. Her head jolted sideward, sending it veering off the sofa, where it slammed into the corner of the green onyx coffee table with a loud, empty crack.

  *

  ‘I bloody hate doing this,’ said the driver, a young policeman who had just got engaged.

  ‘Aye, son, me too,’ said the passenger, a married officer in his forties. ‘Come on, let’s get it over with.’

  The two men got out of their car and walked up to the house.

  As they passed a window, they both saw a blond-haired man on the floor playing with a little baby. The man glanced up, surprised, but the two men carried on walking, not stopping until they were outside the front door. The older one looked at his colleague.

  ‘Ready?’

  The young man nodded, his face hollow and grey.

  And the older man lifted his hand up to the door and knocked three times.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Sunday 20 January 1963

  It’s been a very strange six months.

  In Mrs Swithenbank’s words, there’s been a lot of coming and going.

  The best going has been the removal from our lives of Christine, now shrivelled into an ancient amourette (noun – a trifling, insignificant brief affair). She has only been seen once since the welcome-home party and that was to collect her horrible turquoise cooker (replaced by a lovely coming, a new range oven). After falling victim to Mrs Scott-Pym’s Yorkshire magic, Christine decided to work some magic of her own with Mr Baxter, the gammony property developer. Apparently she walked into his office, a lean-to next to a chippy in Brigg, and announced her presence with a low-cut playsuit and a dual-control girdle. They started stepping out soon after that and now live together in a brand new Tudor-Georgian dormer bungalow just outside Pontefract. Vera is living with them too, keeping herself busy with trips to the local bingo parlour, the Pontefract Palace. Tibi seris, tibi metis, as my old Latin teacher, Miss Weston, would say.

  A sad going was the return of Caroline to London, but she’s been coming up and visiting every few weeks, so even though it’s officially a going it should also be counted as a coming. And another coming (four times now) is Digby, Caroline’s friend/ girlfriend/wife/husband. We all think she’s great, including Mrs Scott-Pym, who says she’s not so much lost a daughter as gained a jolly good bridge partner.

  Another nice coming were my nine O level passes. Nine! That’s only one less than Margaret. I passed everything except ‘home economics’. Amazing.

  Adam Faith, I’m afraid to say, has been a going. I just grew out of him, like Bunty comics and pop socks. Sorry, Adam. A very exciting coming, on the other hand, has been the coming of the four young men from Liverpool (called The Beatles), coming not to our village, of course, but to our lives, radios and to my chest (I have three Beatles badges and one sweater).

  But the most important coming has been my mother, Diana. She’s come into my life in a way quite different from before, quietly present in almost every little thing I do, like sunlight. Arthur’s told me everything about her. What made her smile. What made her cry. What she liked to do and read. Where she liked to go. How she spoke. How she danced. How she lived. How she died.

  It was an
extremely sad death, of course. Tragic. At least that’s the word all the newspapers used. Thankfully it was quick, a blow to the temple followed by an immediate and catastrophic haemorrhage (noun – a sudden and serious internal loss of blood). She wouldn’t have known anything about it. Arthur did his best to cope (he had to – he had me to look after) but it was hard. Every day was a new death. New time to fill. New guilt. Once the court case was over, he just retreated into himself and could never really find his way back. I was his everything, he said. The beating heart that kept the man alive.

  Finding all this out about my mother and Arthur has been hard. The good thing, though, the really good thing, is that, after talking about it, finally, after all these years, Arthur seems like a different person. It’s like he had his life hung away on a hanger in the wardrobe for years but has taken it out again, tried it on again for size, and decided to put it back on.

  This might have something to do with another coming. Élise. She’s come up to the village. To live. She’s staying with Mrs Scott-Pym, helping out around the house and making delicious French food (which she often shares with Arthur and me). In fact she comes round to the farmhouse quite a lot and seems to have rekindled her Gallic interest in cows and fields and row-crop tractors. And when she’s not here, she’s often out on a day trip, to York or the Brontë Parsonage or Whitby or Brimham Rocks, driven by Arthur, who seems as happy as Larry about it all.

  And as for me, am I coming or going? Well, you’ll have to see . . .

  *

  ‘Evie, darling, do you need any help up there?’

  That’s Élise, calling from downstairs. She’s in the kitchen, no doubt making something delicious, and I’m up in my bedroom, tidying and sorting.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ I shout back. ‘I’ll be down soon.’

  Through the window, I can see field after field of snow, with sprinklings of cows standing out like currants in a currant bun. The two Adam Faith posters on my walls (Sophisticated Adam and Brooding Adam) have been replaced by ones of John, Paul, Ringo and George plus a reproduction of The Lady of Shallot from Leeds Art Gallery. And on my bedside table a photo of me and Caroline outside Castle Howard sits alongside the one of me, Mum and Dad taken in winter 1946, when I was four months old, an ample mass of wool and lace with a tiny beaming face. I look at the two photos, taken a life apart. My life.