Friday 20 July 1962
Walking up Mrs Scott-Pym’s drive always makes me happy. Today, though, I’m extra excited (despite the wedding and Maureen’s salon and Christine). The blue summer sky seems extra blue and the crunchy gravel drive seems extra crunchy. It’s like that bit in The Wizard of Oz when everything goes from black and white to colour.
As I get near to the house, I notice three things:
1. The music – opera (again). Today it’s even louder than ever. A woman is shouting and somehow managing to sound both hysterical and very sad at the same time. Caroline must be an opera lover, just like Mrs Scott-Pym. Is that how it works? Can my love for Adam Faith be traced back to my Vermicelli Soufflé-cooking mother?
2. The smell – something strange and alien. Not cooking or baking. More like a musky, malty, smoky, earthy kind of smell. Is this what London smells like?
3. The car – a Mini! In our village! It’s bright red with a white roof and a smiley face and it looks even smaller than they do on the telly.
When I go round the back of the house, I spot Caroline Scott-Pym through the open French windows. She’s sitting in the kitchen, rocking precariously on the back two legs of a chair, her feet pushed up against a table leg. She has her eyes closed and is swaying her head in time to the music. One hand’s on the table, tapping away next to a tiny cup and saucer, and the other, with a cigarette between two fingers, is flying around in mid-air, sending ash and smoke rhythmically around the room. Apart from the tiny cup, there are no other signs of breakfast.
I take a deep breath and knock.
‘Evie, darling,’ she says, opening her eyes and waving the cigarette at me. ‘Come in! I’m almost ready, just finishing my fag.’
She’s wearing black capri pants, a black turtleneck top, and ballet shoes.
Amazing.
She picks up the tiny cup and knocks it back. It’s the smallest cup I’ve ever seen. Not even big enough for a tea strainer.
‘God, that’s good,’ says Caroline, smacking her lips. ‘I’m hopeless in the morning before my coffee. Can’t do a thing.’
‘I’m the same with tea,’ I say, trying not to stare at Caroline’s doll-size crockery. ‘It takes a full pot to get me going.’
‘You’re just like Mummy. She drinks gallons of the stuff. I’m more of a coffee girl myself.’
She stands up and takes the tiny cup and saucer over to the sink. I notice a silver pot on the hob with splodges of dark brown liquid splattered all around it. I’m pretty certain the pot and the mess are responsible for the lovely smell. I’ve never tried coffee and suddenly feel more than a little overwhelmed by Caroline’s sophisticated London ways.
‘Speaking of Mummy,’ says Caroline, ‘I called her this morning. She sends her love.’
‘Aw, thanks. I really miss not having her around. It’s funny without her.’
‘She’ll be back soon enough, don’t worry. Everyone says she’s doing marvellously. She’s as happy as Larry. Surrounded by books and magazines. And her room’s like a florist’s of course. I’ve even managed to sneak her in some sherry.’
She winks a particularly naughty wink while taking another drag on her cigarette.
‘She nearly choked when I told her I was taking you to Leeds. I think she thinks I’m going to corrupt you.’
She walks round to the other side of the kitchen and stubs out her cigarette on a saucer lying next to the sink.
‘I told her we’re only going to get a little bit of pasta. Honestly. It’s not as if we were going out for a bop or anything.’
A bop! With Caroline! God, I’d love that.
‘Now, where’s Sadie? She went out in the garden for a pee just before you got here. You wouldn’t mind getting her, would you, darling, while I grab a few things before we head off?’
And she slinks out through the door, heading for the sitting room and beyond.
(Being with Caroline is like being in the presence of a very glamorous cat.)
I go over to the open French windows and shout for Sadie.
Nothing.
I try again.
Nothing.
Where is she? I hope she hasn’t run off. Mrs Scott-Pym’s garden is massive and beyond it lies field after field of farmland. If Sadie has run off and we need to spend precious Leeds time looking for her, I won’t be happy.
Just as I’m about to try again, Caroline re-appears. She’s carrying a straw beach bag and wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses. She’s like a creature from another world. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and blows a whistle so loud Mrs Scott-Pym can probably hear it in hospital.
A big rhododendron bush half-way down the garden rustles and shakes and then Sadie suddenly dashes out, covered in leaves and petals, looking more like a scarecrow than a Setter. As she bounds over to Caroline, her tongue flops around and long spools of drool come shooting out of her mouth like gelatinous bolts of lightning.
‘Look at you, you messy old thing!’ says Caroline, bending down and giving her a kiss.
Sadie stares up at Caroline, her eyes locked in hero worship. She’s sitting down at Caroline’s feet, bum wiggling, tail swishing, front paws dancing with excitement (I know the feeling).
‘Come on now, you need to tidy yourself up,’ Caroline goes on. ‘Don’t think I’m taking you to Leeds looking like that, young lady. Chop chop.’ And Caroline claps her hands twice.
Sadie gives herself a massive shake, sending leaves and twigs flying, then spins round and sits down again, mouth open, staring back up at Caroline.
‘Is Sadie coming to Leeds with us?’ I ask, not quite managing to hide the surprise in my voice. ‘Aren’t we leaving her here?’
‘Darling, of course Sadie’s coming with us,’ says Caroline, tickling Sadie’s back. ‘She’ll love Leeds. Poor old thing. We can’t leave her here whilst the two of us skip around town.’
I’m not sure what Mrs Scott-Pym would say about Sadie going off to Leeds and skipping around town. Sadie’s naughty enough in the confines of our village let alone the cosmopolitan hubbub of Leeds.
‘Right, time to make a start I think,’ says Caroline. ‘Come on, ladies, your carriage awaits.’ And she marches off round to the Mini, swinging her big straw bag ebulliently (adverb – full of life and high-spirits).
When she gets to the car, she yanks opens the driver’s door.
‘In you go!’ she says, looking at Sadie and gesturing with her head.
Sadie clambers up onto the back seat, a clumsy mess of limbs, fur and spittle.
I open the door to the passenger seat. This is my first time in a Mini. I feel like I’m crossing the threshold into another world.
Caroline gets in and immediately winds down her window.
‘Oh, this is fun, isn’t it!’ she says, throwing her bag onto the back seat, narrowly missing Sadie.
I have come prepared and offer round fruit gums. Caroline takes two and Sadie manages to wolf down four before I wrestle back the pack.
‘Thank you, darling,’ says Caroline, starting the engine and looking over at me. ‘Ready, then? Three, two, one. Off we go!’
And we speed off down the driveway, scattering gravel everywhere.
Sadie sticks her head out of Caroline’s open window. It’s hard to see whose hair is blowing most: Sadie’s or Caroline’s.
‘Next stop, Leeds!’ she shouts, her voice booming through the air (and hair).
An enormous feeling of adventure comes over me.
This is 1962. I’m in a Mini going to Leeds with someone who lives in London and does something in fashion, someone wearing black capri pants, a black turtleneck top and ballet shoes. And a dog.
This is surely how it’s meant to be.
This is life.
*
Forty minutes later, we’re in Leeds. Caroline’s driving is like Christine’s cooking: terrifying, in need of a health warning and almost certainly criminal. She clearly has no concept of road signage or the Highway Code and somehow manages to get the Mini going faster than Arthur’s MG.
To park, Caroline ignores anything resembling a parking space and instead leaves the car semi-mounted on the pavement in front of the Corn Exchange.
‘Here we are,’ she says, grabbing her bag from the back seat before flinging open the driver’s door. As she gets out, Sadie shoots straight after her, dancing round Caroline’s ballet shoes, barking and staring up in adulation.
‘Good old Leeds,’ says Caroline as I get out of the car.
She looks around, taking in the city.
‘Queen of the North. That’s what they call her, isn’t it?’
Is it? I have no idea. But, then, even after just one car trip with Caroline I’ve got the feeling there are lots of things I have no idea about.
‘Hold on a mo.’ She rummages in her bag and pulls out a brush. The next thing I know, she’s flipped her head down between her knees and is busy brushing her hair upside down. A few seconds later and she’s back upright again, shaking her hair like the women do in shampoo adverts.
‘That’s better,’ she says, putting on her big round sunglasses. ‘Let’s get the food shopping done first, shall we? And then we can relax. Work before fun, at least that’s what Mummy always used to say.’
‘Aren’t we going to put Sadie on her lead?’ I ask, suddenly feeling a bit like Margaret.
Caroline looks down at Sadie.
‘What do you think?’ she says. ‘Do you want your lead?’
Sadie barks, sending a shower of spittle all over the pavement.
Caroline reaches into her straw bag, pulls out the lead and fastens it to Sadie’s collar.
‘And the perfect finishing touch,’ she says, getting a fancy silk scarf out of the bag and tying it round Sadie’s neck. ‘There, you look beautiful, darling. Now, come on. We’ve got work to do.’
And she throws her bag over her shoulder and sets off. I dash after them, feeling like an unfortunate country yokel on account of being out-dressed not only by Caroline (of course) but now by Sadie too.
*
My previous outings to Leeds have stuck pretty firmly to the holy trinity of Schofields, Lewis’s, and the clothes and record stores up on The Headrow. Caroline takes me off in a completely different direction, though, and I soon feel lost in a confusing jumble of back streets and funny little shops.
‘Almost there, darling,’ says Caroline, looping her arm into mine. ‘Well, at least, I think we’re almost there. Everywhere looks the same around here, doesn’t it?’
She’s been telling me about what she does in London. I think she works for a magazine or possibly someone who makes clothes. It’s hard to tell as she doesn’t really seem to do much other than go for coffee with people and attend parties. Whatever it is she does, it sometimes requires going to meetings in swanky offices in Mayfair (the really expensive square on a Monopoly board), which I think sounds very exciting and grown-up but Caroline considers ‘a big snooze’.
As we get close to a small, chaotic-looking shop, she stops.
‘A-ha,’ she says, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. ‘Here we are.’
The shop is half-market stall, half-greengrocer’s. At first glance, it all looks a bit of a mess, but then you realise that everything – the baskets outside full of bright yellow lemons and the exotic-looking things piled in the window – is artfully arranged.
I look at the shop front. Across the top is a large sign saying ‘di Pasquale’ in red letters painted on a green background. Dozens of red, green and white streamers and tiny flags are scattered around the displays, giving the window a feel of Christmas – a bit disconcerting on a boiling hot day in August.
‘Come on,’ says Caroline, opening the door. ‘You’re going to love this.’
As we step in, the most amazing lemony, cheesy, salty smell hits me and I hear a machine gun of vowels coming from a group of small, moustachioed men deep in conversation, gesticulating like puppets.
This is what being abroad must feel like.
‘Buongiorno, signorine!’ shouts a stocky, bald man, flashing a warm smile. ‘How I help you?’
Caroline steps forward, tells Sadie to sit still, and then launches into the most lovely jangly foreign language I’ve ever heard. The moustachioed men are beaming manically, obviously amazed that anyone in Leeds can manage anything other than a badly garbled version of English. The arm waving goes up several gears. Everyone is shouting at once, including Caroline, and vowels swing around the room like thousands of tiny pendulums. Every now and then I hear a word I think I recognise: bella, grazie, Roma, Napoli. But these words are few and far between and on the whole I just stand there, hypnotised by the drama of it all.
While Caroline and the moustachioed men are busy shouting and waving, I have a good look round the shop. The place is stuffed full of strange, alien objects. Sausages as big as an arm hang down from the ceiling. Plastic buckets full of shiny little green and black balls sit on a table. Funny architectural-looking vegetables are piled up in wicker baskets. I’m staring at a washing line that stretches across part of the shop and carries four dry slabs of meat, each as big as a guitar, when I realise everyone has stopped talking and is looking straight at me.
‘Evie,’ says Caroline, switching back to English. ‘They’re asking if you’d like to try an olive.’
An olive?
The stocky bald man is over at the buckets of green and black balls. He’s put a small green ball on a huge spoon and is offering it up to me.
Ah, an olive.
Everyone looks at me looking at the olive.
‘Is buonissima olive from Puglia, signorina,’ says the stocky bald man, smiling and moving the spoon closer to me.
All the other moustachioed men smile and lean forward.
‘Darling,’ says Caroline. ‘Have you had an olive before?’
I don’t know what to say. My natural instinct is to lie and say yes so that I don’t appear even more unsophisticated. If I were with anybody else, this is exactly what I’d do, but something tells me that it’s best not to try blagging with Caroline so I decide to tell the truth.
‘Oh, your first olive!’ she says, sounding as if I’d said it’s my first Spam fritter or Bourbon Cream. She swings a few vowels over to the Italians, triggering lots of hand gestures and shocked faces, and then turns back to me and says, ‘You’re in for a treat, darling. They’re delicious.’
Delicious. That’s a good sign. Delicious means something like a fruit Spangle or Terry’s Chocolate Orange.
I take the olive from the spoon and pop it into my mouth.
Two things happen at the same time:
1. The Italians all start clapping and shouting, as if I’d just scored a goal or passed my driving test.
2. A really horrible salty taste hits my tongue and then very quickly makes its way round my mouth.
It’s disgusting, like a mouthful of seawater. In self-defence, I screw my face up, hoping I don’t look too much like vinegar-faced Vera. I can feel my eyes watering and have a strong desire to spit the olive out but instead I soldier on, not wanting to disappoint Caroline. After what seems a lifetime, I swallow the olive and open my eyes.
The first thing I see is Caroline pointing a camera at me.
‘Don’t worry about me, darling,’ she says. ‘Just taking a few snaps. Nothing to worry about.’
She turns round and takes a photo of the Italian men, the stocky bald one now holding the spoon up in the air like a trophy. Then she swishes her hair and says something in Italian that makes them all laugh.
‘It’s for a photo diary. So much more fun than writing. And I like to show Digby what I’ve been up to.’
Digby?
Who’s Digby? Caroline’s boyfriend? Her boss? Her lover? Mrs Scott-Pym has never mentioned a Digby. Although, until very recently, she’d never mentioned a Caroline either.
I don’t have time to ask (or think) about Digby, though, as the stocky bald man has reached up with a long stick for one of the guitar-sized slabs of meat, cut some off and is passing me a slice. It’s the thinnest piece of meat I’ve ever seen, so thin I can see my fingers through it. Vera would not be impressed.
‘Is delizioso prosciutto from Emilia-Romagna,’ the man says, smiling encouragingly and waving his hands.
I look to Caroline for guidance but she’s in full swing talking to the men behind the counter and sending them after various packets, tins and bottles so I take a deep breath and stuff the slice in my mouth.
It’s disgusting. Italian food is basically just salt.
‘Che bello, eh?’ says the stocky bald man, throwing his arms around me and kissing me on the cheek. ‘Is the best prosciutto in the all of York Shiiirrre.’
‘Darling,’ Caroline says, walking over to the stocky bald man. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s the only prosciutto in the all of York Shiiirrre!’ And she takes a slice of meat and pops it in her mouth.
‘Mmm, delicious,’ she says, taking two more slices: one for her, one for Sadie.
The Italian men are shouting again. They all appear to be desperate for Caroline’s attention. Arms are thrown up in the air, hands waggle around, fingers open and close. It’s like watching human fireworks. One of them, a particularly short one with an Elvis quiff and big walrus moustache, has Caroline’s bag full of shopping but the others all seem desperate to take it so that they can pass it to her. Vowels are being flung around all over the place, which sets Sadie off barking. The man with the bag pushes towards Caroline and thrusts it at her. He seems tiny next to her, like a bucket passing a bag up to a broom.
‘Grazie, darlings,’ says Caroline, surrounded by the men. ‘Grazie mille.’
She glides through the scrum, taking Sadie and the bag full of shopping with her.
‘Grazie. Grazie. Siete molto carini,’ she sings, her vowels swinging so hard that they could probably knock down a wall. The men scurry around opening doors and stroking Sadie. There’s lots of shouting, waving, hand holding and even some hand kissing too. You don’t get all this with Mr Mullins, our village greengrocer. Shopping on the continent must be exhausting.
As we step outside the shop, there’s a chorus of ciao belle, accompanied by lots of hanky waving.
‘Come on,’ says Caroline, linking her arm through mine and striding off down the street. ‘Let’s find a caff. I’m gagging for a coffee.’
*
Five minutes later and I’m sat in another alien space. No swinging vowels or funny-shaped veg this time, but there are lots of beards and polo necks. Caroline has brought me to a milk bar. The men are nearly all wearing glasses and seasonally inappropriate knitwear. The women are all kohl eyes and neckerchiefs. There’s not a sticky-out dress in site. Thank god I’m in my pedal pushers.
It’s even noisier here than in the Italian grocer’s. Everyone is speaking at the same time and, unlike when Arthur takes us anywhere to eat, nobody seems bothered about keeping their voices down. There’s a jukebox in the corner (unfortunately full of jazz) and louder than everything else are the hissing pipes and squirty taps of the huge stainless steel coffee machine on the counter.
I ignore the coffee machine and stick to tea (the olive and ham experience have been enough food adventure for the day). Sadie gets a bowl of water (and some fruit gums) and Caroline (the coffee queen) is having something strong and dark in another tiny cup and saucer.
‘Well,’ she says, sitting down and sighing. ‘Good to get all that shopping out of the way. Thanks for coming with me, darling. It’s years since I was last in Leeds so it’s nice to have someone to run around with.’
She bends down and strokes Sadie.
‘How’s your tea by the way?’ she asks, gesturing at my cup.
‘Nice,’ I say, looking down at the familiar milky-brown. ‘I needed a tea after all that funny Italian food.’
‘Darling, don’t be so hard on the poor old olive!’ says Caroline. ‘We should have started you off with something sweet, like some panforte or maybe a nice crostata.’
When she says panforte and crostata, her swinging vowels come back. It’s lovely, like a quick burst of church bells.
‘I love it when you speak Italian,’ I say. ‘It’s like listening to music. How come your Italian’s so good?’
‘Well, there’s school, of course. And then Mummy always had opera blaring out at home so I must have picked up something there. But I suppose it’s only when I ran away that I really learnt it.’
Ran away? I can’t keep up with Caroline. She makes Mata Hari look dull.
‘You ran away?’ I say. ‘What, to London you mean?’
‘No, darling,’ she replies, laughing. ‘To Italy. I was almost seventeen. It was great fun. I lived there for quite a while.’
‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘Why did you run away?’
Caroline stops for a moment and runs her tongue across her teeth, all the way from one side to the other and back again.
‘Well,’ she says, slowly unfolding the word like a napkin. ‘Mummy and I had a disagreement, I suppose you could say.’ She stops again, tapping her finger on the side of her tiny coffee cup. ‘There was a bit of a flare-up one day. It all got quite nasty. You see, she tried to change me – well, change part of me, and I’m far too much of a stubborn old donkey to be changed. It was very hard at the time. Very hard for her too of course. Still is, I think. Poor old thing.’
She takes another swig of coffee then sighs and smiles a little sad smile.
‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘Enough of naughty old me. Tell me more about you. Mummy says you sometimes practise your French with her.’
This is true. Mrs Scott-Pym helped me get ready for my O level oral exam. She was trying to improve my accent but I have a feeling my French is still very much of the Yorkshire-farmer variety.
‘Yes, we sometimes switch into French for a bit; we seem to talk mainly about cakes to be honest,’ I say, thinking about Mrs Scott-Pym’s almost infinite vocabulary of French patisserie. ‘But my French isn’t a patch on hers. It’s not even as good as Dad’s.’
‘Your dad speaks French?’ says Caroline, looking genuinely surprised.
‘Yes, and my mother too apparently. Mrs Scott-Pym told me.’
‘It’s in your genes, then, darling,’ says Caroline, reaching over and grabbing my hand. ‘Anyway, revenons à nos mouton, as the French say. Come on, tell me something else about you. Anything. Everything!’ she adds, rolling her eyes mischievously.
My mind goes blank.
‘Erm, well. I’m sixteen and half.’
‘Yes. And?’
Caroline’s looking at me expectantly. Oh God. What else is there to say?
‘I’ve just finished my O levels. I’m quite good at lacrosse. I like reading. Swimming. Driving.’
She laughs. In a good way, I think.
‘And I like dancing too. I’m the tallest girl at our school. I have two enormous Adam Faith posters on my bedroom wall, Sophisticated Adam and Brooding Adam, and a signed autograph of him on my bedside table.’
‘Oh, I think that’s quite enough Adam in the bedroom!’ says Caroline, laughing even more.
‘I can play the piano, badly. My best friend’s called Margaret. My favourite colour is blue. Navy blue. I’m Sagittarian. I love Juke Box Jury. I once ate four of your mum’s scones for breakfast.’
‘Four! Good God – I’m surprised you’re not the size of a bull.’
‘My favourite place in York is Clifford’s Tower, closely followed by Bettys. I’d like to fly a plane. And walk on a hot Mediterranean beach. And learn how to water ski. And normal ski. And skate. I’m really ticklish. I’ve got freckles on my shoulders. I’m going to do A level History, English and French.’
‘Clever clogs,’ says Caroline, pulling a funny face.
‘I like Marmite. And raspberries. And custard tarts. And fish finger sandwiches. My favourite word is skulduggery. Or splendiferous. Or leatherette. I’ve got one wisdom tooth already. I wear my mum’s wedding ring on my necklace as a lucky charm.’ (I give her a quick flash of the ring.) ‘I love dogs. And cakes. I know how to change a tyre and milk a cow. I’ve been to Manchester twice. I don’t like bananas, except when they’re a bit green. I can tie three types of Butcher’s Knot. I’m allergic to penicillin. And tomorrow I’m starting work at Maureen’s stinky salon.’
Caroline raises her eyebrows.
‘What? Maureen’s? Why are you working there, darling?’
I tell her about Christine. Everything. From the new turquoise oven and all the missing things to the engagement announcement at the Royal Hotel, Beverly and the horrible prospect of Christine’s and Arthur’s wedding.
‘Hmm,’ says Caroline, lighting up a cigarette. ‘This Christine sounds a nasty piece of work.’
She sucks on the cigarette and blows out a ring of smoke. Amazing.
‘Now, from what I understand, you don’t want to work at Maureen’s stinky salon, do you?’
I screw up my face.
‘Then why are you doing it, darling? Why do something you don’t want to do?’
‘Because Christine says it’ll make Arthur happy,’ I tell her.
Caroline looks straight at me with her enormous brown eyes, tapping her fingers on an ashtray.
‘Hmmm. I see.’
She takes a puff of her cigarette and blows another smoke ring.
‘Look, when I was little, probably just a bit younger than you, I used to come to Leeds a lot,’ she says. ‘For the shops, of course, and for the life and the people. I felt that I belonged here much more than I did back home in the village or at school in dusty old York. But I also used to come here for the art gallery too. I used to love going round looking at all the paintings. It was like another world. Something magical. And there was one particular painting that I liked more than any of the others. The Lady of Shallot. Do you know it?’
I shake my head.
‘She’s beautiful, darling. A gorgeous, ravishing dark-haired vision with alabaster skin and rich red lips. You need to see her. Anyway, she’s there, trapped in a castle, poor thing, destined to do nothing but weave a bloody tapestry for the rest of her life.’
She jabs her cigarette in my direction.
‘No wonder she looks so hacked off. Anyway, one day she sees Sir Lancelot, a handsome knight with coal-black curls, and she falls in love. She escapes the castle, gets in a boat and sets off down the river to Camelot.’
‘Fantastic!’ I say.
‘Well, not entirely, darling. You see, she’s cursed.’
She stubs out the cigarette and leans forward, so close I can smell the flowery, lemony, soapy scent of her perfume. And then she lowers her voice and says:
‘She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shallot.’
Caroline recites the poem with lots of rhythm and dramatic pauses and when she says ‘she died’ she closes her eyes and flings her head down, so that her hair falls forward and covers most of the table. She should be on television.
After a few seconds, she throws her head back up and shakes her hair. Sadie is watching her and copies the shaking, sending wisps of fur into my tea.
‘So she died, then,’ I say. ‘The Lady. She escaped from the castle and then died. What a shame. It’s not much of a happy ending, is it?’
‘But we don’t all die before getting to Camelot, darling. Some of us escape from whichever castle we happen to be locked in and find happiness and love and all sorts of things.’
Love?
‘Look, the important thing is the escaping. Not being stuck weaving tapestry after tapestry all your life for other people. You should do whatever you think’s right for you. No matter what. Come on,’ she says, getting up and putting on her sunglasses. ‘I want to show you the painting. You’ll love her, darling. Just don’t tell Mummy.’
And Caroline throws her bag over her shoulder and strolls out the door, closely followed by Sadie.
Bugger. I thought she was going to tell me about Digby.