Friday 20 July 1962
Phew.
What a day.
I spent the whole day in Leeds, eating salty Italian food and looking at strange ladies in art galleries (painted ones, not real ones). I’m back at home now with Arthur and Christine having fish and chips, our tea of choice every Thursday. I’m busy polishing off a cod the size of a battered cricket bat whilst Christine tells us about her shopping trip to York. We’re currently being shown the fruits of her labour.
‘What do you think of this one?’ she says, holding up a pink-and-blue striped blouse.
It looks awful.
‘Lovely,’ I tell her.
‘And then I got these,’ she continues, holding up a turquoise-and-green striped skirt and a pair of red-and-white striped gloves.
‘Really lovely,’ I say, thinking that if she’s not careful she’s going to end up looking like a collection of deckchairs.
Arthur looks up from his fish and chips. I can tell from his face that he’s as unimpressed with Christine’s purchases as I am. He shuffles on his chair, looking uncomfortable, and stares at the new skirt and gloves.
‘Aren’t they a bit, well, you know, loud?’ he says to Christine.
‘Loud?’
‘Well, yes, maybe just a bit, love. I just thought it might be nice to get something a bit more . . .’ He trails off, clearly searching for a word that is as non-incendiary as possible. ‘Subtle.’
‘Subtle?’ repeats Christine. ‘Subtle?’
(It’s like living with a colour-blind echo.)
‘What are you going on about?’ she says, waving the stripy gloves at Arthur. ‘They’re lovely. The woman in the shop said they could have been made for me. She said I reminded her of Diana Dors. When I’m in need of your fashion advice, Mr Dior, I’ll ask you for it. Ooh, I nearly forgot . . .’ She goes on, rummaging around in various bags. ‘. . . while I was there I got something for you too.’
She’s pulling out various clothes and putting them on the kitchen table.
A pig-pink girdle.
A blue-and-white spotted swimsuit.
A pair of yellow knitted shorts.
‘Here,’ she says, triumphantly lifting up something with a print so loud it hurts my eyes.
Arthur puts down his knife and fork and looks at what Christine’s holding.
‘What is it?’ he asks, clearly in shock.
‘It’s a cabana set,’ says Christine, the foreign-sounding word rolling off her tongue with all the ease of setting concrete.
Arthur blinks.
‘A what set?’
‘A cabana set. They’re all the rage. Like pyjamas for the beach. Elvis wears them. And Kenneth Williams.’
She holds up the cabana set so that we can have a good look at it. It’s a chaotic mess of palm trees, beach balls and exotic-looking cocktails. It looks truly awful, with all the sun-kissed sophistication of a pair of inflatable armbands.
‘You’ll look lovely in it. Very handsome, like President Kennedy.’
Arthur wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘I’m not sure it’s really me, though, love.’
‘Oh, stop being such an old fuddy-duddy,’ says Christine, prodding him in the belly. ‘You’ve got to move with the times, you know.’
Arthur is staring at the cabana set. He has the blank look of a horse doing a pee.
‘I thought it’d be perfect for the honeymoon,’ Christine goes on, doing her best come-hither smile and resting her hand on Arthur’s shoulder. ‘You need something beachy. We can’t be skipping around with the jet set on the Costa Brava with you in your corduroys and a V-neck sweater, can we?’
What?
‘The Costa Brava?’ I say, glancing over at Arthur. ‘I didn’t know you were going to the Costa Brava.’
Christine shoots me a look that could swat flies.
‘Yes, the Costa Brava. Sorry, Evie, I didn’t realise we had to ask your permission.’
Arthur looks over at Christine. On his face, I’m sure I can see the beginnings of a frown.
‘Christine, love, I thought we’d agreed to go to Torquay. You know we’re having to be a bit careful with money at the moment.’
‘Torquay?’ says Christine, back in echo mode. ‘You promised me a foreign holiday, Arthur Epworth. I’m not bloody going to Torquay. And what do you mean having to be a bit careful? We’ll be rolling in it when we sell this place. I’ve told you, the sooner we sign, the better.’
My mouth opens and I’m just about to say something when Arthur turns to me and, squeezing my hand, quietly says, ‘Not now, Evie.’
‘Well, it’s not quite as simple as that,’ he goes on, turning back to Christine. ‘There are . . . complications. I want to make sure everything’s done the right way.’
He sighs and takes a chip.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll all work out in the end,’ he adds, smiling unconvincingly.
‘Well, it better had,’ says Christine, getting up from the table. ‘I’m not living in this old dump when we’re married.’
She’s busy clattering bowls and opening and closing various appliance doors.
‘Oh, by the way, I had a look at one of those automatic washing machines at the electricity board today,’ she goes on, mid-clatter. ‘It’s 1962. It’s not right me doing everything by hand.’
(I think she must mean it’s not right Vera doing everything by hand.)
Arthur pushes his plate to one side.
‘Yes, of course, love,’ he says. ‘In a couple of months. I just want to make sure everything’s all tied up first. We can’t be spending money we haven’t got yet, can we?’
‘One’s coming a week on Tuesday,’ Christine says, banging two pudding bowls down on the table. (She has the waitressing skills of Genghis Khan.) ‘I got it on the never ever.’
Christine has never had it so good. She’s like our very own Viv Nicholson (pools-win queen), except as well as spend spend spend she also borrows borrows borrows. Along with the freezer and now apparently the washing machine, she’s bought a food processor, a porcelain shepherdess and a leather pouffe, all on the ‘never ever’. Mr Macmillan must be very happy.
‘Well,’ says Christine, sitting back down at the table and crossing her arms. ‘What am I meant to do? Just go around not buying things until you pull your finger out? Do you want to see me running around like a pauper? Ruining my lovely hands doing your bloody washing? Maybe I should just take to wearing a sack?’
Christine goes on and on and on. Poor Arthur. He must be desperate for a Yorkshire Post. We both look down at the bowls in front of us.
Strawberries and cream.
Arthur’s favourite.
Christine is obviously trying to bring him round to the joys of automatic-washing-machine ownership.
Ignoring Christine (still going on and on), Arthur picks up a spoon and lifts a strawberry and a good measure of cream up to his mouth. He sighs again and a smile slowly inches across his face. I know that look. As soon as the strawberry and cream are in his mouth, he’ll be purring like a cat.
In it goes . . .
‘Aarghh!’ he shouts, dropping the spoon and shooting both hands up to his mouth, clearly in pain. ‘My teeth!’
Christine, with possibly the least sympathetic face ever, starts jabbing her finger at him.
‘Don’t you go trying to show me up in front of Evie, Arthur Epworth. There’s nothing wrong with them strawberries. They’re fresh out the freezer.’
‘Fresh out the freezer?!’ shouts Arthur. ‘Are you mad? They almost broke my bloody jaw.’
He pushes back his chair and stands up. This is high drama indeed for a Yorkshireman.
‘I’ve had just about enough today. I’m up to here, I really am. Sod the washing machine. And sod the strawberries too. Sorry, Evie.’ And he walks out of the room, muttering about frozen bloody strawberries.
‘Well,’ says Christine, turning to me. ‘What a cheek. Here I am, grafting my fingers to the bone and what thanks do I get? None. And he says he’s just about had enough – what about me?’ She shoves back her chair, making a nasty scraping noise on the tiles. ‘I’m off to my room for some peace and quiet. You can get all this tidied up.’
She flicks her hand round the kitchen.
‘I’m not doing any more today,’ she goes on. ‘I deserve a good rest. I’m just give, give, give, me, that’s my problem. It’s all wasted on you lot, mind.’
She gets up and is about to walk out the room when I strike.
‘Just a minute.’
She stops and turns.
‘Where’s my Adam Faith clock?’
The clock, featuring a smiling Adam and guitar clock hands, was a present from Arthur (after much hinting) and it normally hangs in the kitchen just next to the back door. When I got back from Leeds today I noticed that it had been replaced by a chicken-in-a-bonnet clock, with an egg where each hour should be. It’s truly horrible and could only have been bought by a moron (noun – a person notably stupid or lacking in good judgement).
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ says Christine, pointing at the chicken. ‘Mum got it. We needed something nice and kitchen-y in here, didn’t we?’
‘So where’s my Adam Faith clock, then?’ I ask again.
‘Here,’ she says, opening a drawer next to the sink. ‘With all the other tat we’ve got hanging around.’
‘It’s not tat,’ I say. ‘It’s official Adam Faith Fan Club merchandise. There’s a sticker on the back.’
‘You can go and stick him upstairs on your wall, if you like,’ she says. ‘But I don’t want him in my kitchen.’
‘Your kitchen?
‘Yes, my kitchen,’ she repeats, banging the clock down on the kitchen table. She stomps towards the door. ‘And mind you’re up early tomorrow for Maureen. Your dad’s proper made up about you getting that job. You wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would you? Not after all that . . . Ow. Bloody hell,’ she shouts, stubbing her toe again on the big ceramic bear (he’s definitely growing on me). ‘For God’s sake, this bloody bear.’
And she slams the door and hobbles off upstairs.
When I hear her bedroom door bang shut, I take down the horrible chicken clock and replace it with lovely Adam and his time-telling guitars. Then I get a hammer and nail and spend the next few minutes putting up Christine’s chicken and its twelve eggs in the downstairs loo.
If only it were as easy to shunt Christine out of our lives. Mrs Scott-Pym’s magic doesn’t appear to have done anything at all.
Everything’s a big mess.
It’s at times like this that I wish I had a Mum. A real Mum. One who makes you smile and tells you about life and helps you make sense of everything and puts her arm around you and says that everything will be all right. One who can speak French and make Asparagus Ice and Vermicelli Soufflé. One with a monogrammed nutcracker and a polished black range oven. One who’s beautiful and patient and kind.
Looking over at the bright patch of wallpaper around Christine’s new cooker, I reach inside my top and clench the wedding ring looped onto my necklace, feeling its curve in the folds of my palm. What I’d love more than anything right now is to crawl into the paper, deep inside its happy colours, and let all its hidden memories wrap around me.
*
After a bit I realise it’s getting dark so I go upstairs, passing the gruesome strains of Mantovani’s ‘Greensleeves’ outside Christine’s room and then, just a little further along, the reassuring voice of John Arlott and Test Match Special coming from Arthur’s room.
As soon as I get in my room, I switch on my Dansette and play ‘Who Am I’, my favourite Adam Faith song. Sophisticated Adam and Brooding Adam look down from the wall, singing along with Dansette Adam. I join in with them, a quartet of angelic voices.
‘I never meant to aim so high,
Who am I, who am I?
Well, now I ask you what am I to do?’
After the song, I switch off my Dansette (g’night, Adam) and go and sit by the window. The sky is even darker now, a hazy smudge of grey, but the warm buzz of summer still lingers in the air. I’m suddenly reminded of Caroline’s Lady of Shallot, looking out from her castle window. Is that me? Trapped. Stalled. Hemmed in by a huge pile of tapestries, with horrible pink threads knotted around my legs?
Outside, the flat open landscape stretches out across the fields. What’s out there? Waiting beyond the trees and the cows and the stream? Maybe it’s just more of the same. Maybe it’s nothing. But I hope somewhere, over the fields, over the horizon (over the rainbow), there’s something different. Something magical. Something forming. Bit by bit. Unseen and unheard.
I reach over and take my mother’s recipe book from the bedside table and then, clutching its dappled cover, stare up into the colossal sky.