Saturday 21 July 1962
‘It looks very complicated,’ I say, standing in front of the reel-to-reel.
‘No, it’s simple, darling,’ says Caroline. ‘Very easy. I ignore most of the buttons except for this one here, which is to play, and this one here, which records. I just have to remember to change the reel when I record so I don’t talk over the four nice boys from Liverpool,’ she adds, removing the reel from the machine. ‘I lost a lovely version of “Dido’s Lament” like that, recorded over by me banging on about a picnic in Greenwich. Very annoying.’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, even though I suspect this might be opera and so actually replacing it with Caroline’s lovely gravelly voice seems like a Very Good Thing.
‘Ready for Digby, then?’ she asks, winding a new reel onto the machine.
‘Oh, yes, okay. Digby. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Just say anything, darling. She’ll love it. Okay?’ She sticks her thumb up and pulls an encouraging face. ‘Three, two, one. Recording.’
Caroline flicks a big switch and the two reels start moving slowly round in unison, like someone rolling their eyes.
‘Erm. Hello. This is Evie. Evie Epworth. Hello. Oh, I’ve said that already, haven’t I? Sorry. Erm. I’m Caroline’s neighbour. Well, Mrs Scott-Pym’s neighbour. I’m here with Caroline and Sadie. Do you know Sadie? Yes, of course you do. Anyway I’m here with both of them, in Mrs Scott-Pym’s sitting room, and Caroline’s asked me to record a message for you, a bit like the Queen at Christmas.’
Caroline smiles and nods encouragingly.
‘I’m having such a good time with Caroline. We’ve done loads of things. We’ve been to Leeds, where I had an olive. And some Italian ham, which tasted like salty blotting paper. She’s lovely, by the way, Caroline I mean, but I suppose you know that already. Anyway, it’s very exciting to speak to you because you’re in London and it’s exciting to speak to someone in London. Oh and it’s exciting too because it’s the first time I’ve spoken to a lesbian. Well, the second time actually. Caroline, just now, was the first time. Well, I think the first time. Miss McMinn, our games tutor, quite often wore a tie.’
Caroline turns away and coughs.
‘I hope all’s well in London and that you’re not missing Caroline too much. I’m sure there must be plenty to do down there, what with all the parties and celebrities and spies and political things. It’s lovely having Caroline up here – it’s like having a bit of London in the village. And she’s even brought four nice boys from Liverpool with her – we were listening to them just now. You’ll love them. Well, at least I think you will. I don’t really know what kind of music you like, do I? Although I suspect it might be opera.’
Caroline, with one hand over her mouth, sticks the other hand’s thumb up.
‘Right. Well. I think it’s time to say goodbye. So, er, very nice to meet you. Well, to speak to you. Or rather speak at you. It’d be really lovely to meet you sometime. You look lovely on the photo Caroline showed me. And that’s it. Bye-bye. Cheerio. Over and out.’
Caroline clicks the switch on the machine and the reels stop turning.
‘You were wonderful, darling,’ says Caroline, smiling like a Cheshire cat. ‘She’ll love it.’
‘Really? I thought I was terrible.’
‘No, you were brilliant. The essence of Evie-ness.’
‘Oh. Is that a good thing?’
‘Of course, darling. It’s an extraordinarily good thing. It’ll get you far.’
She’s busy taking the reel off the machine, carefully spooling the tape to the end.
And then a thought pops into my mind.
‘Caroline?’ I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible.
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Do you think I could I make another recording?’
‘Another one? Yes, of course. But there’s no need to; that one was great. Digby will absolutely love it.’
‘No, the new recording wouldn’t be for Digby,’ I say. ‘It’d be for Mrs Scott-Pym.’
‘For Mummy? Whatever do you want to make one for Mummy for?’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ I say, smiling and moving the idea around in my head.
Caroline smiles back. ‘Curiouser and curiouser. They should have called you Alice.’
(Actually I often wander off into a literary daydream inserting myself into various book titles and imagining what the consequences would be. Evie Flanders. Evie of Green Gables. Evie Poppins. Evie Eyre. Evielina. Evie of the D’Urbervilles (hopefully with a much happier ending). My definite favourite, though, is Evie in Wonderland. I can easily see myself falling down a rabbit hole and having tea with a mad hatter and getting on the wrong side of a bad-tempered old queen. Where exactly is my Wonderland, though? Is it in my sworl-of-cashmere, fully parented past? Or is it out there somewhere, unseen, lost in the messy blur of my future?)
Caroline rests her hand on my shoulder.
‘You can make as many recordings as you like, darling. I’m sure Mummy will be delighted.’
And she starts getting a new tape ready while I try to think what to say.
*
‘Okay,’ says Caroline, finishing off whatever she was doing with the machine. ‘Right, just do exactly the same thing again. You’re a natural. Mummy’s going to love this. Three, two, one. Go!’ And she flicks the big switch.
‘Hello, Mrs Scott-Pym!’ I say, feeling a bit more relaxed now that I’m speaking to someone I know. ‘It’s Evie! I’m here with Caroline and Sadie in your sitting room. We’re recording on Caroline’s tape machine thing. It’s all a bit strange but good fun too. Caroline’s amazing, Mrs Scott-Pym. She saved me from working at Maureen’s stinky salon. And she took me to Leeds and we bought lots of Italian food and went to the art gallery. You’d have loved it. It was really good. I think we should all go together when you get out of hospital. Sadie too!’
Caroline smiles and looks down at her feet.
‘And she’s told me all about London. And about working in fashion. She’s so clever. You must be really proud of her. I wish I had a sister like Caroline. Funny and sophisticated with lots of friends and doing lots of brilliant things.’
Caroline keeps her head down but I can see that she’s still smiling.
‘And she’s told me about Naples. And all about being a lesbian. It’s all very exciting. It’s the modern world, Mrs Scott-Pym, just like you always say. Like spaceships and non-stick pans and women reading the news on the BBC. I know it must all seem strange to you but it’s not strange really, is it? You told me once that before the war people did a lot of incredible things. Well, we still do a lot of incredible things. Incredible lovely things. And Caroline is incredible and lovely. I just wanted you to know that, Mrs Scott-Pym. You’re both incredible and lovely. And Digby is incredible and lovely too – Caroline showed me a photograph of her and said she’s funny and warm and kind. She’s like a wonderful new daughter for you, Mrs Scott-Pym. Or maybe a wonderful new son? I’m not really sure. Anyway, it’s like that poem you showed me last year – the one about the war. We must love one another or die. That’s what it said. And it’s true. That’s what we need to do.’
Caroline’s hand moves up to her face.
‘But not Christine, though. Obviously. We don’t have to love her. Oh, speaking of which, I almost forgot! Some top-secret news. Christine cheated at the village fete – her cake was from Bettys. Can you believe it? You were right, Mrs Scott-Pym. She’s a scarlet woman. Horrible. Anyway, I think it’s time to go now. Please hurry up and get well so that you can come home. We’ll all have a big party when you get back, with lots of cake and tea. Oh, and sherry. Bye, then, Mrs Scott-Pym. Lots of love. Bye.’ And I wave goodbye to Mrs Scott-Pym (even though she can’t see me).
The tape loops round for a few seconds. Caroline reaches over, her hand hovering above the stop button. She stands as still as a statue, hesitating, her eyes locked on the turning tapes, and then starts speaking into the microphone.
‘Hullo, Mummy. I’ve missed you, you know. Really missed you. It’s good to be home.’
And she clicks stop.
She wipes her eyes with her black smock.
‘You were brilliant, darling. Really brilliant,’ she says.
‘Do you think she’ll like it?’ I ask.
‘Like it? I think she’ll love it,’ replies Caroline, giving me a big hug. And we stand there, hugger and huggee, both lost in beautiful thoughts of Mrs Scott-Pym. ‘Here we are,’ says Caroline.
It’s almost half past eight at night. We’ve just spent the past forty minutes rocketing along various country lanes to get to Mrs Scott-Pym’s hospital. Mrs Scott-Pym’s hospital looks very different to the hospital I was in. My hospital was the size of a factory and was all concrete and glass and wall-to-wall bossy signs. Mrs Scott-Pym’s hospital is basically a big old posh house on the outskirts of York. There’s gravel on the drive and nice old trees everywhere. It’s lovely.
Caroline squeezes the Mini in between a Jaguar and a huge old Bentley (I’m very careful getting out) and we set off inside. Caroline’s carrying a huge bunch of flowers, some chocolates, some periodicals (magazines) and a clandestine bottle of sherry, and I’ve got the bulky reel-to-reel machine.
Visiting hours must be long gone but Caroline has said, repeatedly, that this won’t be a problem. We’ll see. If it’s anything like the hospital I was at, getting past the nursing staff outside of visiting hours will be harder than getting past a gang of marauding Vikings.
*
‘Hullo there,’ says Caroline to the nurse on reception. The nurse looks up from her paperwork (Woman’s Weekly), clearly not happy about visitors arriving at this late hour. ‘I was wondering if you could help us. It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow and we’ve brought a few things over to arrange a little surprise.’
‘Oh, really,’ says the nurse, not sounding very impressed. ‘What’s your mum’s name?’
‘Rosamund Scott-Pym.’
The nurse flicks through a ring binder with lots of little stickers on it.
‘Says here that your mum’s date of birth is in March.’ She props her elbows on the desk then puts her hands together and leans forward. ‘That gives you nigh on eight months to get the surprise ready, doesn’t it.’
She stares at Caroline.
Caroline stares back. This isn’t going well.
(Caroline is clearly not used to such a wall of indifference. If I’m honest I don’t think her outfit is helping much. She’s still wearing the black painter’s smock, shorts and twisty turban thing. She looks like she might just have escaped from the local madhouse.)
Caroline smiles at the nurse. The nurse doesn’t smile back.
‘Look, darling, you’re absolutely right. It’s not my mother’s birthday. I’m very sorry. But we are going to surprise her. See this tape machine.’ She points at the reel-to-reel I’m holding. ‘Well, Evie here has recorded a wonderful surprise message for Mummy and it’s really important that she hears it. It will make an old lady very happy.’
She smiles at the nurse.
Nothing.
‘Really happy,’ she adds, placing the box of chocolates on the desk and slowly pushing it forward.
‘Really happy?’ asks the nurse. ‘Or just a bit happy?’ she adds, looking at the box of chocolates as if it were a small pile of cow dung.
‘Really, really happy,’ says Caroline, putting the huge bunch of flowers on top of the chocolates.
The nurse doesn’t move. I would hate to play her at poker.
Caroline starts to put the magazines on the desk next to the chocolates but the nurse tuts and shakes her head.
‘Got any fags?’ she asks.
Caroline gives her the kind of Look that could have come from Christine.
‘Look, darling, no fags, but I do have this,’ she says, pulling Mrs Scott-Pym’s contraband bottle of sherry out of her bag. ‘And that’s it I’m afraid. You’ve sucked us dry now.’
The nurse takes the chocolates, flowers and sherry and puts them on the floor under her desk.
‘Right,’ she says, finally loosening up (there’s even the faint glimmer of a smile). ‘Do you want to follow me, then?’
As she comes out from behind the desk, Caroline stops her and whispers something in her ear. The nurse listens, impassive, and then, when Caroline’s finished, asks her if she’s sure. Caroline nods and then the nurse points towards a door down the corridor, tells us to wait in there for twenty minutes, and then walks off.
‘Come on, then,’ says Caroline, striding down the corridor. ‘You heard Nurse Ratched. Let’s wait in here for a bit then we can go and see Mummy. Honestly, private healthcare just isn’t what it was,’ she adds, entering a room with a big Patients’ Lounge sign on the door.
*
Twenty minutes later, we’re up in Mrs Scott-Pym’s room. Mrs Scott-Pym is fast asleep and I’m tip-toeing around trying to be very quiet. Caroline, noisily setting up the reel-to-reel on Mrs Scott-Pym’s bedside table, has no such qualms.
‘Shouldn’t we try to be quiet?’ I whisper, pointing at Mrs Scott-Pym asleep in bed.
‘No, don’t worry, darling,’ she says. ‘I asked Florence Nightingale to give Mummy a sedative. She’ll be out for hours. If a jet engine went off under her bed, it wouldn’t wake her up. Now, could you pass me the card you made, please?’
I get the card out of the bag and pass it to Caroline. On it is a big arrow with the words PRESS HERE written above it in thick red writing. Caroline puts the card on the reel-to-reel, making sure the arrow’s pointing right at the play button, then stands back and admires her handiwork.
‘Excellent,’ she says. ‘Right, come on, let’s get off before that nurse comes back and starts demanding the clothes off our backs. Not that she’d suit hot pants and a turban.’
I grab the bag and walk out the room. When I look behind me, I see Caroline through the open door rubbing Mrs Scott-Pym’s hand and kissing her gently on the forehead.
*
On the way home in the Mini, I have another brilliant idea.