The Miseducation of Evie Epworth

by Matson Taylor

  Speaking of life, now I know what kind of Woman I’m going to be. No more kaleidoscopes of twisting futures going in and out of focus, blurring and disappearing. Now the future me is clear, with a sharp outline and bright colours.

  I’m going to be an apprentice radio producer at the BBC.

  Amazing.

  Caroline, apparently, was very impressed with my tape splicing skills. Between the two of them, Caroline and Digby seem to know half the BBC and it really wasn’t very long at all before I received a letter from The Hon. Lucy Grenville-Smith (Head of Radio Production) inviting me for a ‘chat’ and a look around, which magically turned into lunch and the offer of an apprenticeship. And so I’m packing, leaving for London, and going to live with Caroline and Digby in a place called Holland Park. I’ve never been so excited.

  I put the two photos from my bedside table carefully in my duffle bag, next to my mother’s recipe book and a framed photo of Arthur with a prize cow. In the bag, I’ve also got a Beatles photo album, full of photos of Arthur, my mother, Mrs Scott-Pym, Sadie, Caroline, Margaret, Mrs Swithenbank and Élise, plus a copy of the latest Country Life (from Mrs Scott-Pym), a York Minster tea towel (from Mrs Swithenbank), a tin of travel sweets (also Mrs Swithenbank), and a London A–Z (from Margaret, practical as ever).

  I’m just sat wondering how much more I can fit in the duffle bag when there’s a knock on my bedroom door, swiftly followed by the appearance of Arthur’s head.

  ‘Mind if I come in, love?’ he says, smiling like Gene Kelly.

  ‘No, ’course not,’ I answer, although I hope we’re not going to have another Talk. Over the past few weeks, we’ve had lots of Talks.

  We’ve had Talks about boys.

  We’ve had Talks about men.

  We’ve had Talks about women.

  We’ve had Talks about money.

  We’ve had Talks about eating.

  We’ve had Talks about smoking.

  We’ve had Talks about drinking.

  We’ve had Talks about the Tube.

  We’ve had Talks about the buses.

  We’ve had Talks about foreigners.

  We’ve had Talks about Southerners.

  We’ve had Talks about Londoners.

  And we’ve had Talks and Talks and Talks about London.

  In some ways life was so much easier when Arthur and I didn’t have Talks and just communicated everything telepathically.

  Arthur comes in and sits on the bed next to me. He’s carrying something wrapped in tissue paper with a navy-blue ribbon round it.

  ‘Here,’ he says, putting the tissue-paper parcel on my lap. ‘Now that you’re a sophisticated young lady like your mum, I think it’s about time you had this.’

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, looking at him and then at the parcel and then back at him.

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?’ he answers.

  I look down at the parcel, feeling its delicate crispness. It’s light, hardly with any weight at all, and whatever’s inside is soft and limp. I carefully untie the navy ribbon and then fold back the tissue paper, each unfolding bringing a little burst of colour into the room.

  ‘It was your mum’s,’ says Arthur, putting his hand on my knee. ‘Her favourite silk scarf. She got it in Paris before the war.’

  I lift the scarf from the tissue paper. It’s beautiful. Swirls of cavalry officers on different shades of blue and red all bordered by a looping golden chain.

  ‘I reckon it’ll stand you in good stead in London,’ Arthur goes on. ‘It won’t have been cheap, knowing your mum.’

  ‘It’s wonderful, Dad,’ I say, squeezing his hand. ‘I love it.’

  I put it on, tying it around my neck like I’ve seen Caroline and Élise do.

  ‘There, what do you think?’ I ask.

  For a moment Arthur doesn’t say anything. He just stares.

  ‘You look beautiful, love,’ he says, his eyes glistening. ‘Very grand. Just like your mum.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  And we both sit for a moment, lost in thought, giving ourselves up to the magic of the scarf.

  Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

  Someone sounds a car horn out in the courtyard.

  It must be Caroline.

  ‘That’ll be your coach and horses,’ says Arthur. ‘We’d better get downstairs.’

  *

  ‘Surprise!!!’

  The kitchen is crammed full of women. Old ones. Young ones. Big ones. Small ones. Dog ones. It’s not at all what I expected when I opened the door.

  Caroline is at the back of the pack, towering over everyone, wearing a bright mustard turtle-neck and, for some inexplicable reason, a tiara. Élise, plus beret, is standing next to her, a little French flag in each hand and some onions roped round her neck. In front of them is Mrs Swithenbank and Mrs Scott-Pym, both sitting down. Mrs Scott-Pym is perching gracefully on her chair in full twinset and pearls (plus another tiara), looking like she’s about to have tea at the Ritz, whereas Mrs Swithenbank is, as usual, head-to-toe in black but with the addition of a burgundy feather boa and a World War I German helmet with a big spike on top. Margaret, sporting a Union Jack jumper, is standing next to Mrs Swithenbank and Mrs Scott-Pym; she’s somehow managed to get hold of Mrs Thorneycroft’s WC hat from the village fete and looks truly mad. Sadie, meanwhile, is running round all over the place, slavering and yelping, with a gold sparkly pom-pom tied to the top of her head.

  It’s like walking into a scene from Cold Comfort Farm.

  (In contrast, I am at my most stylish. I’m wearing something that Caroline and Digby got me for Christmas: a sleeveless, tweed, pillar-box-red mini dress with a long, tailored pleat stretching architecturally all the way down the front. I love it. I love the feel of it. I love the smell of it. And, most of all, I love the look of it. It’s Perfect. A dress I will love forever. Under it, I’ve got on a navy turtleneck pullover, now with my mother’s silk scarf tied round the neck, and navy tights and I feel like royalty. Like very stylish, very chic royalty.)

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, wondering if all the packing has had a hallucinogenic effect.

  ‘We’ve come to say goodbye, dear,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym. ‘We wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘Aye, we thought we’d give you a right good send off, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Put on something special. Something you wouldn’t forget.’

  ‘Well, you’ve definitely done that,’ I say, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Darling, your scarf,’ says Caroline. ‘It’s lovely. You look wonderful.’

  ‘Dad gave it to me,’ I say, putting my hand up to the scarf and stretching out my neck like a swan (I hope). ‘It was Mum’s.’

  ‘Oh, you look lovely, dear,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym. ‘So grown up.’

  She gets up and, cupping her hands softly on my cheeks, adds, ‘Your mother would be so proud.’

  ‘She would, that,’ says Arthur, walking over to Élise and putting his arm around her. ‘Proud as a peacock.’

  Sadie barks, clearly in agreement.

  By now everyone has moved out of their surprise! greeting position, leaving me with a clear view of the kitchen table. It’s covered in cakes.

  ‘What are all these?’ I ask.

  ‘Darling, they’re your leaving presents,’ says Caroline, deftly side-stepping Sadie. ‘Everyone had the same idea. We obviously all know you very well.’

  There’s a Battenberg cake (my favourite) from Mrs Scott-Pym, a huge Victoria Sponge from Mrs Swithenbank, a Bakewell Tart with a mini Big Ben on the top from Margaret, a chocolate cake with Good Luck Evie written in icing from Arthur (bought from Bettys), and Élise has made something called a Paris–Brest, a big wheel of a cake oozing cream.

  ‘And I’ve made you these too,’ she says. ‘For the journey.’

  She points to two long baguette sandwiches and a quiche (cheese tart) on the kitchen worktop.

  ‘Well, you’re certainly not going to sta
rve, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.

  ‘No, we’ll be like Meals on Wheels,’ says Caroline. ‘I hope we can fit it all in!’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ says Arthur, looking at me, ‘I think it’s time to start loading the car, don’t you?’

  *

  When we all step outside, I get another surprise.

  Parked across the courtyard is a bright red MG sports car.

  I glance over at Arthur, suddenly feeling very guilty. He winks.

  ‘What do you think, darling?’ says Caroline.

  ‘I love it,’ I say, going up to the car and sweeping my hand along its sculptured bonnet.

  ‘I borrowed it from a friend,’ says Caroline. ‘Thought it’d be a fun way to arrive in London.’

  ‘Ee, you’ll be arriving in style all right,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.

  ‘Yes,’ says Arthur, grinning. ‘But just watch out for the cows.’

  *

  With everyone helping, the car’s packed in no time at all. The cakes are in the boot (neatly stacked in boxes and tins), as are my duffle bag and lacrosse stick (just in case). One suitcase is strapped on top of the boot and the other one slips in neatly behind the seats. It is a masterclass in packing.

  ‘Right, then,’ says Caroline. ‘Time for off, I suppose.’

  I look around at everyone. It doesn’t feel real.

  I can’t believe I’m leaving.

  Margaret rushes up to me and gives me a big hug.

  ‘You will write, won’t you? Tell me everything about London. What it’s like. Where you go. What you do. Who you see. And you promise to let me know if you bump into Cliff Richard at a party, won’t you?’

  ‘’Course I will,’ I say. ‘And if I do see Cliff, I’ll give him your number.’

  ‘I’ll miss you, Evie.’

  ‘And I’ll miss you too,’ I say. And I really will miss her, even if she does ask more questions than the Spanish Inquisition.

  ‘Come here, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, grabbing me and pulling me into the huge folds of her chest. ‘Let me give you a kiss.’ And she does. A big one. ‘You’re a proper little lady now. You show those Londoners how it’s done, love,’ she goes on, squeezing me tight. ‘Give ’em a bit of Yorkshire sophistication.’

  ‘I will,’ I say, squeezing her back. ‘Thanks for everything, Mrs Swithenbank.’

  ‘Oh, I do wish you’d call me Doris, love!’

  I uncouple from her squeeze, take hold of both her hands, and, beaming a huge smile directly at her, say, ‘Thanks for everything, Doris.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ she laughs. ‘You look after yourself, love,’ she adds, wiping her eye with a woolly-gloved hand.

  All this time, Sadie has been running around in the snow, chasing imaginary rabbits, but now she comes bounding up to me and nearly knocks me flying. She barks and jumps up, sending a sparkly rope of dribble across my duffle coat.

  ‘Sadie!’ I shout. ‘I’ll miss you!’ She barks again and dashes round my legs. I bend over, hold her noble face, look into her earl-grey eyes and give her a kiss, whispering to her to look after Mrs Scott-Pym. Our moment of affection doesn’t last long though, as she is distracted by Élise holding a bag of food.

  ‘Voila! Your lunch,’ says Élise, passing me the bag. ‘Enjoy London, Evie. It is a wonderful city. You will love it.’ She straightens my new scarf. ‘And it will love you too.’

  ‘Thanks, Élise,’ I say, smiling my best French smile. ‘And thanks for looking after Dad.’

  ‘Oh, it is my pleasure. He is un Viking merveilleux. I think I may have found my Heathcliff,’ she adds, whispering in my ear.

  And she gives me two kisses, one on each cheek.

  I look over at Arthur. This time it’s my turn to wink.

  ‘Evie, dear,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, inching over to me. ‘You will try to look after that daughter of mine whilst you’re down there, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try, Mrs Scott-Pym, but I can’t promise anything.’

  Mrs Scott-Pym and I have already said our goodbyes. There’s been a lot of crying and laughing and tea and sherry-drinking over the past few days. It’s going to be awful without her, although we’ll be speaking on the telephone all the time plus she’s promised to come and visit.

  ‘Well, just do your best with her, dear. I’m sure you’ll do a better job than me.’ She smiles and cups my face in her hands again. ‘Now, I’ve got another little present for you. Something I’d like you to have.’

  ‘But you’ve already given me loads of presents,’ I say. It’s true. Over the past week she’s given me: a subscription to Country Life; a complete set of Jane Austen; an art deco book-end; a small ceramic English Setter; a book of poems by Dorothy Parker; and (just now) a Battenberg cake.

  ‘They were just trinkets, dear. Now I want to give you something for your new London life. Something special.’

  And she reaches up to her tiara, takes it off and puts it on my head.

  ‘There you are,’ she says, adjusting the tiara. ‘You look wonderful, dear. I knew it would suit you.’

  I feel like Princess Margaret.

  ‘But you can’t give me this, Mrs Scott-Pym,’ I say. ‘It’s too much.’

  ‘Nonsense, dear. I want you to have it. It’s just a little thank you. You can’t imagine what it’s meant to me having you next door all these years.’

  She smiles and takes my hands in hers.

  ‘Take the tiara – you’ll be needing it in London. All those grand balls and society affairs. You look stunning. Just like your mother.’

  She squeezes my hands, gently.

  I can feel my eyes welling up, which is really rubbish as I’d promised myself not to cry.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Scott-Pym,’ I say.

  I don’t know what else to say. My head feels like it’s going to explode but I just can’t put anything into words.

  ‘Now, off you go, dear,’ she goes on. ‘No more blubbing. This is exciting, remember. You should be smiling.’ And she backs away, leaving me standing there with the tiara, trying to smile.

  ‘Oh, very posh,’ says Arthur, coming over and nodding at the tiara. ‘You’ll be having us all bowing and curtseying next. And you’ve not even got to London yet.’

  I look at Arthur, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘Will it all be okay, Dad?’

  ‘Okay? Of course it’ll be okay. It’ll be more than okay. It’ll be brilliant.’

  He puts his arms around me and kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘And if it’s not brilliant, just come back – me and the cows will always be here for you.’

  I hug him tightly, burying my head into his thick sheepskin coat.

  ‘You’re my little fairy queen, remember. And always will be.’

  We hug, a great merging of sheepskin and duffle coat.

  ‘Now, you’d better jump to it. Looks like Caroline’s ready for off.’

  I look round and see Caroline sitting in the car. She’s folded back the MG’s roof and is in the driver’s seat wearing her big sunglasses (plus tiara) with a blanket across her knees.

  I give Arthur another big squeeze and a kiss and then walk over to the car.

  ‘I’m going to blow the cobwebs off you,’ shouts Caroline, pointing to the folded roof. ‘I want you to arrive in London fizzing with life,’ she goes on, pulling on her driving gloves.

  As I’m getting in the car, Margaret and Mrs Swithenbank unfurl a huge homemade banner with the words ‘Good luck Evie!’ painted on. I feel like a football club setting off to the FA Cup final at Wembley.

  Caroline throws a blanket over my legs and gestures at the glovebox.

  ‘Have a look in there, darling,’ she says. ‘There’s a little surprise for you.’

  I tuck the blanket under my bum and open the glovebox. Inside is a pair of sunglasses, huge and black, just like the ones Caroline always has on.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘They’re lovely.’

  ‘I thought you’d like them,’
says Caroline. ‘I ordered the weather too, you know,’ she adds, pointing up at the sky.

  It’s a glorious winter day; there’s snow on the ground but the sky above is the brightest blue.

  ‘Put them on, then, darling. Let’s have a look.’

  I slide the sunglasses on, making sure not to disturb Mrs Scott-Pym’s tiara.

  Caroline starts the MG and revs up, sending a gust of toasty heat down to my toes.

  ‘Call us when you get to London,’ shouts Arthur, standing with Élise, their arms curled around each other.

  ‘I will,’ I answer.

  Caroline revs the car some more.

  By now everyone’s waving and shouting, even Sadie, who’s howling for Yorkshire. I’m waving and shouting too and so is Caroline, which is rather worrying as she’s driving, manoeuvring the MG out of the courtyard.

  ‘Bye!!!’ shouts everyone, waving madly.

  Caroline turns the MG’s horn into a great wall of sound.

  ‘Bye!!!’ I shout, watching all the people I love glide past me, then behind me, then come running after me as we swing onto the drive.

  Caroline gives a final blast of the car horn, waves both arms in the air, shouts something in Italian, and puts her foot down and then that’s that. We’ve left. Gone. Next stop, London.

  I turn and give a last wave to the small gesticulating group outside the farmhouse and then turn back and look ahead, fixing my eyes on the open road.

  I am the wind, skeeting across tarmac and whooshing over dale.

  I fly. I loop. I race.

  Here, now, in the car, sunglasses on and wearing my mother’s silk scarf and Mrs Scott-Pym’s tiara, I feel different. Excited. Vigorous. Alive.

  I feel like a film star driving off into the sunset at the end of a film.

  Driving off into a new life.

  My new life.

  The one that I’ve been looking for all this time.

  Amazing.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank Chris White, my extremely patient editor at Scribner, for being so great to work with and knowing exactly when to say yes and when to say no. And thank you to all the team at Simon & Schuster, especially Jess, Richard and Kaiya (font-detective extraordinaire): Evie is very lucky to have found such a wonderful home. I’d also like to thank my lovely agent Alice Lutyens at Curtis Brown – the most stylish agent in London and also provider of the best breakfasts. Speaking of food, many thanks to Dr Emily Mayhew, recipe auditor, scotch-egg obtainer and Cointreau pourer. Special thanks to my chuffin’ brillyunt friend Chris for his cheeky Yorkshire banter and his in-depth knowledge of 1960s hairdressing techniques (which he practises every day). And thanks, too, to Claire Sheills, writing buddy and amazing company over the long slog. I met Claire at the Faber Academy and I would like to thank our tutor there, Shelley Weiner, for being so encouraging and wise, and also all my fellow classmates, especially Nina and Kara, who gave very useful feedback on early drafts. Many thanks to Carly and Anna, for keeping me well fed, housed and cultured. Thank you to colleagues at various workplaces over London for putting up with me over the four years it took to write the book, in particular the terrific team at CfAE Imperial College, who taught me about dangling participles. And to all my friends and family: thank you! Finally, lots of virtual belly rubs to two fantastic dogs, Lola and Sadie, who made me very happy indeed.