Saturday 21 July 1962
Here I am again, walking down Mrs Scott-Pym’s drive. There’s the familiar crunch of gravel under my feet and the sweet, comforting smell of the border flowers. But something’s different.
No one is shouting. No one is dying. No one is screaming at the top of their voice while an orchestra swirls dramatically around them. Instead, a strange alien sound is tugging at every bit of my body.
Bum. Bum. Bum. Bu-bu-bum.
Bum. Bum. Bum. Bu-bu-bum.
Some men are singing but it’s not opera. It’s nothing like opera. It’s more like an atomic Adam Faith with booster rockets and a harmonica.
It’s the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard.
I go round the back of the house and the music gets even louder, blasting out through the open French windows and hitting me like a great waft of something new. The harmonica comes in again, sounding sad but at the same time irresistible. And then the voices, running together like melting ice cream.
Love.
Love.
Me.
Do.
It’s amazing.
There’s no sign of Caroline in the kitchen so I follow the music through into the sitting room, which is where I find her, tapping a cigaretted hand to the beat, curled up on the sofa with Sadie.
‘Darling!’ she says as I walk into the room. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? I’ve been playing it all afternoon.’
She’s wearing a black painter’s smock and a pair of shorts that make her legs go on forever, all topped off with some kind of twisty turban thing. I’ve never seen anything like it. She is half Brigitte Bardot, half Dame Edith Sitwell.
‘It arrived in the post today. A friend who works at a record company sent it. It’s all very hush hush and hot off the press. I can’t stop playing it.’
The music thrusts round the room, occupying every single bit of space.
‘It’s great,’ I say. ‘I love it. Who is it?’
‘It’s the latest thing, darling. A group. Four boys from Liverpool.’
She takes a puff of her cigarette, all the while moving her head from side to side and tapping Sadie’s belly rhythmically.
‘They’re amazing,’ I say, sitting down on the sofa and pushing my feet under Sadie’s bum.
‘Yes, that’s what everyone says apparently.’
She stubs out her cigarette and jumps up, sending Sadie along the sofa.
‘Hold on a sec,’ she goes on, walking over to the sideboard. On top of the sideboard is a strange machine with loads of buttons and dials and two big reels moving round and round in tandem. She pushes a button, stopping the reels and the music. ‘There, that’s better,’ she says, coming and sitting back down on the sofa. ‘I can hear you now.’
‘Oh, I was enjoying that,’ I say. ‘They’re very good, these four boys from Liverpool.’
‘Don’t worry, darling, we’ll have them back again soon. I just want to hear how you got on today. Are you okay? Did you manage to get all that horrible food dye off?’
‘Yes, back to a normal now, thanks to ten minutes in the bathroom and half a tube of Colgate,’ I say, holding out my arms for inspection.
‘Sorry about that, darling. But it did get you out of the salon, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, thank you. Maureen’s lovely but, oh, I really don’t want to work there.’
‘Well, hairdressing’s definitely not for you. I’m not even sure whether it’s for Maureen to be honest. I walked out of there looking like Harpo Marx. That’s why I’m wearing this.’ And she points to the twisty turban thing.
We both laugh. It’s great sitting on the sofa with Caroline and Sadie. I feel like I’ve suddenly found a shoe that fits.
‘Hey, you were a very convincing doctor by the way,’ I say, pointing at Caroline. ‘I felt like I was in Emergency – Ward 10. I’m sure Maureen won’t forget about prosciutto cruditis for a while.’
‘It was the first thing that came into my head!’ says Caroline, throwing her head back and laughing. ‘It must have been those lovely little Italians we met in Leeds. I’ve been thinking about that ham ever since. In fact, my brain’s squashed full of food most of the time. No room for anything else, as Mummy always used to say.’
Sadie plops her head back in Caroline’s lap.
‘She sends her love by the way. I spoke to her on the telephone half an hour ago and she was asking after you. She always does. She’s got a very soft spot for you, you know.’
‘Oh, she’s wonderful. You’re so lucky to have her.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Caroline, looking out the window and staring at nothing in particular.
‘How is she today?’
‘Still making good progress. I’ve told her to get her skates on and come home. She’s greatly missed by this one here,’ says Caroline, giving Sadie a big rub.
‘We all miss her,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait for her to get back.’
‘Darling, I think you just miss all those cakes! I know what Mummy’s baking’s like. I could easily hoover up an entire batch.’
‘Me too. And lick all the bowls. And the spatulas. Not like when Christine cooks.’
‘But I thought Christine was a good cook?’ says Caroline, looking puzzled. ‘Didn’t she win the fruitcake competition at the fete?’
Oh. The cake.
‘She bought it,’ I tell her. ‘I found the receipt this morning, scrunched up and shoved in her pinny. The day before the fete she got a deluxe vintage port and ale fruitcake from Bettys. No wonder she won.’
Caroline’s eyes go from shocked tennis balls to small angry slits.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘The devious little madam. Cheating at the village fete.’
‘I know. She’s horrible.’
‘Well, yes, I really think she is,’ says Caroline, sitting bolt upright. ‘We have to do something.’
‘Mrs Scott-Pym was trying to use some Yorkshire magic on her. A spell from an old book. Songs to Unshroud a Scarlet Woman.’
‘Yes, I heard about that. I thought Mummy was going do-lally when she told me. But then I saw the clever old thing polish off the Times crossword in less than twenty minutes and decided she still had a few marbles left.’
She beams a huge, mischievous smile.
‘Anyway, come on, aren’t you going to tell me more about Mummy’s Yorkshire magic?’
‘It didn’t work,’ I say, leaning over and stroking Sadie. ‘I don’t suppose it ever really stood any chance of working. I wanted to believe in it, though, mainly just because Mrs Scott-Pym did. But nothing happened, of course.’ I sigh a big, un-magical sigh. ‘I don’t believe in magic any more.’
‘Nonsense, darling. We all need some magic in our life,’ says Caroline, taking my hand.
‘No, I think magic is just silly, something for children, like fairy tales.’
‘Look, fairy tales annoy me too. All those helpless princesses waiting to be rescued by a handsome prince and then whisked off for a life of drudgery in some boring old castle. No, thank you.’
She’s rubbing my hand and I can’t help but smile.
‘And it’s always irritated me that in most fairy tales there are three children and it’s the youngest one that’s the special one. That’s rubbish. It’s the only child who’s the special one, darling. That’s you.’ She jabs her finger on my arm. ‘And me. It’s the only child who has to be clever and brave and crafty and sneaky. That’s our magic, darling. And who knows?’ she says getting up. ‘Mummy’s spell may well be working; it’s just a slow burner, magicking away in the background. That’s how modern magic works perhaps. Now, I think it’s time for a drink, don’t you?’ And she walks off into the kitchen, closely followed by Sadie.
I lie back on the sofa, stretching out my legs and hugging a nice flowery cushion. Am I too old for magic? Caroline clearly thinks not. It’s so confusing. I close my eyes and try to think marvellous, mysterious, magical thoughts.
*
‘Darling, don’t move!’
It’s Caroline, standing over me with a tray.
‘Aargh, what is it?’ I shout. ‘Is there a wasp?!?!’
‘No, darling, don’t be silly. It’s the late afternoon sun on your face. You look wonderful. Angelic. Like a Vermeer milkmaid.’
What?
‘I want to take a photo. Stay there. Don’t move.’
I hold my pose while Caroline puts down the tray and fetches her camera from the sideboard.
‘There,’ says Caroline, after clicking the camera a couple of times. ‘All done. You look marvellous, darling.’
‘Can I move now?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she says, putting the camera down and bringing over the tray. ‘Have a good wriggle around. Now, I want to ask you a favour.’
‘A favour? Me? Yes, of course. Anything.’
‘Thank you. Okay, you know the reason I’m always taking photos is for the scrapbooks I make, the ones I like to show Digby.’
Digby! I’m dying to know who he is but Caroline’s in mid-flow so I just nod my head.
‘Well, I’ve also started recording a kind of audio diary. It’s all very modern. A friend at the BBC does it and so I thought I’d give it a go too. That’s why I got the reel-to-reel.’ She points over to the machine on top of the sideboard. ‘Now, I thought it’d be fun for you to record a little something for Digby too. Just a quick hullo and then whatever takes your fancy.’
‘Make a recording? What, like a news announcer or politician, you mean?’
‘Well, hopefully not that much like a news announcer or politician. I thought something a bit livelier and more fun. Just be yourself.’
Right. Now’s my chance to find out about Digby. Carpe diem, as Miss Weston, my old Latin teacher, would say.
‘But who is Digby?’ I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. ‘I don’t know him.’
Caroline smiles and sits down next to me on the sofa. Sadie comes and joins us too.
‘Darling, look, there’s something I need to tell you. You’re going to be shocked I think but the world’s full of shocks so it’ll be good for you.’
Oh. I brace myself.
‘I’m a lesbian.’
Caroline stares at me, waiting for a response.
I have no idea what she’s talking about, just like when she said I was a Vermeer milkmaid, so I just look back at her and smile.
She cocks her head slightly to one side and looks a bit puzzled. ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ she asks. ‘A lesbian, darling. Sapphist. Dyke. A homosexual. Digby’s not a man; she’s a woman.’
A woman? And Caroline’s a woman. That’s two women. Not a man and a woman. A woman and a woman. Together. As in together together. As in a couple. As in man and wife. Or wife and wife.
Amazing.
‘I’ve never met a lebesian before,’ I say.
‘Well now you have. And it’s lesbian darling, not lebesian. Lebesian sounds like a breed of cow.’
I’m gawping, I know. Not very polite, but I’m in shock.
‘Look, here’s a photo of Digby,’ says Caroline, pulling a wallet out of her painter’s smock. ‘Isn’t she adorable?’
I look at the photo. Caroline’s on a beach in a spotty bikini and next to her is a lady in culottes and a stripy fisherman’s top. The lady is older than Caroline, a good ten years older I’d say. She’s smaller, too, and wider. Caroline and Digby are holding hands and they look happier than virtually anyone I’ve ever seen in any photograph.
‘So, she’s like your husband?’ I say, hesitating over every word.
‘Well, I suppose you could say that. But we’re more like a partnership. A perfect little team. She’s divine. The nicest, funniest, kindest, filthiest person I know. We met in Italy, after I ran away there. I was in Naples, doing some teaching and just enjoying life, and we bumped into each other in a gorgeous little bar in the centro storico. She stayed with me for a year or so and then went back to London. I followed her and we’ve been together ever since.’
‘Oh,’ I say, mainly because I don’t know what else to say. It’s such a turn up for the books. A perfect little team of lesbians. It really is 1962. It’s like we’re living in the future. We’ll have robots and flying cars next.
‘But what about Mrs Scott-Pym?’ I ask. ‘Has she met Digby?’
Now it’s Caroline’s turn to hesitate.
‘Ah. Well. No.’
She reaches up and adjusts her twisty turban thing with both hands.
‘It’s all very difficult. Mummy doesn’t approve. Well, actually it’s more like she doesn’t understand. To be honest, she took the whole thing very badly. It was an awful shock for her. We had a terrible row and that’s when I ran away.’
‘So you ran away because Mrs Scott-Pym found out about Digby?’
‘No, darling. Digby was later. The row came about because of somebody else. A very beautiful Yorkshire girl.’
Caroline sighs and rubs her hands through Sadie’s soft curls.
‘It was all very dramatic. Mummy was yelling like a fish wife. Me too.’
She smiles, a sad, nostalgic, thoughtful smile.
‘We both said some really terrible things. And that’s why I ran away.’
‘Oh, so you ran away because you were offended by what Mrs Scott-Pym said?’ I ask, pretty confused at this point to be honest.
‘Offended by Mummy? No, darling. She said some pretty nasty things but then again, we both did. I wasn’t offended at all. More embarrassed really.’ She turns and looks me straight in the eye. ‘No, Mummy didn’t offend me. She threw me out.’
‘She threw you out?’ I repeat, shocked. This isn’t like Mrs Scott-Pym at all; in fact, instead of throwing out, she seems to spend most of her time taking in. Dogs. Hedgehogs. Birds. Me.
‘Well, it was six of one and half a dozen of the other really,’ Caroline goes on. ‘She told me to leave so I left. But I was so angry with her that I just never came back. And that’s how I ended up in Italy. Running away.’
I have a slurp of my tea. It’s barely even lukewarm at this point but cold tea is better than no tea. Especially after such a shock.
‘I was angry about it for years. I was so young. It’s been really hard to forgive her to be honest. I had to think long and hard about coming back when I heard she was in hospital. We’ve had very little contact over the past ten years. Just cards and a small note for birthdays and Christmas and the odd strained phone call.’
She rubs her long legs with her hands.
‘But I have to remember that in a strange way it’s because of Mummy and what happened that day that I met Digby. I should really, I suppose, be grateful to her in some way,’ she goes on, laughing gently. ‘It would all be so much easier if she weren’t so terribly embarrassed by the whole thing. Well, more than embarrassed. Ashamed really. She had no idea how to deal with it. Still doesn’t, in fact. And she wouldn’t talk to anyone about it either. She was just mortified by it all.’ Caroline stares out of the large sash windows and shakes her head. ‘Even when we’d re-established a very loose contact, she still wanted to keep a distance. She wouldn’t let me come and see her just in case I bumped into one of her friends and they somehow noticed I was different. She can be such an old prude sometimes. And, of course, she’s so worried about social standing and all that. But then I suppose she’s from a very different world. A different time.’
By now I’ve finished my (cold) tea and just sit holding my empty cup and saucer, transfixed. This is even better than Armchair Theatre.
‘And it must have come across as such a huge shock to her too,’ says Caroline. ‘It was different for me as I’d known about it for years, of course. Practically all through school. It had just become part of me. But for Mummy, to find out like that – bang! – well, it must have been awful, I suppose.’
It’s all beginning to make more sense now. So that’s why Mrs Scott-Pym didn’t speak about Caroline or have any photos of her downstairs in the house. How strange. I’m shocked all over again.
‘But you’re speaking again now, aren’t you?’ I ask. ‘On the phone, I mean, before I got here and then when you go and visit her in hospital.’
‘Well, of a sort, darling. It’s all very practical and business-like. Pay the butcher’s boy on Wednesday, have the laundry ready to collect on Thursday, that kind of thing. And we talk about Sadie of course. Mummy’s always checking I’ve remembered to feed her. And we talk about you too – she loves talking about you. She’s got a real soft spot for you, you know.’
‘Oh, I’ve got a real spot for her too,’ I say, beaming. ‘She’s amazing. I don’t know what I’d do without her. You’re really lucky to have each other.’
‘Hey, you’ve got us too,’ says Caroline, leaning over Sadie and prodding me in the arm. ‘You’re not going to be able to get rid of us, you know. We’re neighbours, remember. And the way Mummy thinks about you, you’re practically my little sister.’
I suddenly feel cocooned, swaddled in neighbourly, sisterly love.
‘You’d be an amazing big sister,’ I say.
‘And you, darling, absolutely are an amazing little sister. Digby’s going to love you.’
My eyes suddenly feel warm and full and I realise I’m fighting very hard not to do a sad-happy cry. If I had a Yorkshire Post, I’d be barricading myself safely behind it. Instead, I push myself back into the sofa as far as possible, beaming, and cross my legs.
Quick as a flash, Sadie barks and jumps onto the floor. Before I know it, she’s mounted my crossed leg and is enthusiastically humping away at my shin, wagging her tail excitedly and sending long spools of drool over my pedal pushers.
‘Sadie!’ shouts Caroline, reaching over and pushing her off. Sadie gives a yelp of surprise. ‘What have I told you about that, young lady?’ Poor old Sadie hangs her head before slinking back onto the sofa, rebuked. ‘Sorry, darling,’ Caroline goes on, turning back to me. ‘She’s such an old strumpet. I really don’t know where she gets it from. Marvellous way to polish boots, though.’
And she belly laughs, setting me off too.
‘Anyway, look, are we going to get this recording done or not? It’ll be such a wonderful surprise for Digby. I’ve told her all about you. Come on!’
And she grabs my hand, pulls me off the sofa and leads me over to the sideboard.