Monday 23 July 1962
‘Darling, thank you.’
That’s Caroline, lounging across the sofa, cigarette in one hand, tiny cup of coffee in the other.
‘You’re such a clever old thing. I don’t know how you thought of it.’
It’s 9.30 in the morning and I’ve come next door to see Caroline and pick up her reel-to-reel. She collected it from Mrs Scott-Pym’s hospital yesterday and has it primed ready for today’s action (Brilliant Plan Number 2). But first I’m being told all about the recording we made for Mrs Scott-Pym (Brilliant Plan Number 1).
‘It was wonderful, darling. Mummy listened to the tape as soon as she woke up, over and over again apparently, and there were lots of tears, lots of happy tears.’
‘Aww,’ I say, feeling that there may well be some happy tears here soon too.
‘Anyway, she called me straight away. We spoke for hours. Oh,’ she says, wiping her eyes with the little finger of her cigarette hand, ‘we went over everything, absolutely everything. We must have said sorry a hundred times. A thousand maybe! It really was marvellous. And it’s all because of you, darling.’
She reaches over and gives me a big kiss on the forehead, putting her tiny cup down on the coffee table while she’s at it.
‘Well, of course,’ she goes on, ‘after all that we just had to see each other so I jumped straight in the car and drove over to the hospital. Mummy was waiting for me in her room and I just threw myself into her arms. And there we were, holding each other, hugging and blubbing.’
She wipes her eyes again (with her non-cigarette hand this time). I take the opportunity to have a good eye-wipe too, using the sleeve of my top.
‘There was lots of talking, kissing, crying – it was like being back in Italy, darling! Everything came out. All these years of silliness. All the hurt. All the anger. It’s all behind us now.’
She gestures vaguely in the air, sending little puffy clumps of ash over Mrs Scott-Pym’s sofa.
‘We’re back on an even keel – at last – after all these years. And it’s all thanks to you. You really are the cleverest girl in Yorkshire, you know.’
And she comes over and gives me a big, grateful, joyful, finally-at-peace hug.
It’s lovely.
‘Anyway, darling,’ Caroline says, getting back on the sofa, ‘enough of all this. We’ve both got work to do. You’ve got to take that thing next door,’ – she points at the reel-to-reel sitting on Mrs Scott-Pym’s sideboard – ‘and I’ve got to get ready for a guest arriving.’
‘Oh,’ I say, quite excited by the possible arrival of another Caroline (if such a thing exists). ‘Is Digby coming up?’
‘Digby? No, not Digby, darling. Someone else. You’ll meet her soon enough, don’t worry. Now, come on, chop chop.’ She stands up and goes over to the reel-to-reel. ‘You’ve got your wicked plan to set up. We need everything ready before the two evil old hags get back!’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, taking the reel-to-reel from her.
‘Now, bonne chance, darling,’ she says, kissing me on the cheek. ‘I’m sure you’ll be brilliant. As always.’
And off I go. Heading for the farmhouse with the reel-to-reel in my hands and my spirits high in the sky.
Magically high.
*
I know that Christine and Vera won’t be around for a while because today is Monday and Monday morning is shopping morning. They’ll both be busy in the village trudging round shop after shop, buying tins of spam and haggling over the price of onions. I want to put the reel-to-reel somewhere in the kitchen because Christine and Vera always come back from shopping and have a brew here, moaning, nattering and gossiping. I’m going to record all their moaning, nattering and gossiping in the hope of finding some incriminating evidence (Brilliant Plan Number 2). So I’m trying to find somewhere to put the reel-to-reel where it can’t be seen but can still easily pick up what they’re saying.
It isn’t easy. At first I thought I’d be able to hide the reel-to-reel in the pantry, but if I just put it there, they’ll see it when they put the shopping away. And if I hide it in a box, it won’t be able to pick up what they’re saying through the box and the pantry door. Other places are unsuitable too:
Under the sink (too exposed).
In the bin (too small).
Under the table (too obvious).
It’s very frustrating. They never have problems like this on Z Cars.
So now I’m tip-toeing on a rickety old chair trying to put the reel-to-reel on top of the kitchen cupboards. Even with my great height, it isn’t easy. The machine weighs a ton (it feels as heavy and cumbersome as a new-born calf) and lifting it up to the small gap of space between the cupboards and the ceiling requires the strength of a forklift truck. I struggle for a bit but then give up.
And then I see it. Down below. Christine’s horrible new cooker. The turquoise terror. The reel-to-reel looks like it might fit in the oven. Excellent. Christine could be hoist with her own pastel petard.
I open the oven door, take out all the shelves, and, gently, carefully, slide the reel-to-reel in.
It fits.
Bingo.
There’s absolutely no chance of Christine and Vera using the oven when they get back because every Monday they pick up a couple of beef dripping baps from Mr Jackson, the butcher, plus a bag of crisps each and a custard tart for afters and have it all (with gallons of tea) as soon as they sit down.
It’s a fail-safe plan.
But then I realise that when the oven door is closed, the reel-to-reel won’t be able to pick up Christine and Vera’s voices clearly. They’ll just be echoey muffles (possibly an improvement). I need to find a way to keep the door open enough to let the sound pass through but not open too much so that Christine and Vera notice it.
Hmmm . . .
I push my hands in my pockets (always conducive to a good think).
And there, deep down, like a miraculous holy relic, is where I find it. My Bazooka bubble-gum. The stickiest, claggiest thing known to man.
I’ve soon got the entire pack in my mouth (the equivalent of chewing a tennis ball) and within a very short space of time three big blobs of well-chewed bubble-gum sit on the inside of the oven door, allowing enough of a gap to record Christine and Vera’s voices without risking the door falling wide open.
I am a genius.
Now all I need to do is wait for Christine and Vera to get back.
*
It’s not long at all before I hear the familiar clatter of Christine’s kitten heels on the cobbles outside. I’ve been sat by the oven, ready to strike, ever since I put the reel-to-reel in. I press ‘record’ and gently close the oven door onto the bubble gum then dash round to the other side of the kitchen table, sitting on the chair furthest away from the oven so that Christine and Vera will have to sit as close to the reel-to-reel as possible.
‘Oh,’ says Christine, bag-less, walking in through the open door. ‘You’re here. What are you doing?’
‘Hello,’ I say, mustering up the best smile I can. I’m just about to say more when Vera walks in, carrying two huge bags stuffed full of assorted village fare. She’s panting quite heavily and looking very much in need of a chair.
‘Oh, Evie,’ says Vera, managing to sound both surprised and disappointed at the same time. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say. ‘I’m just resting.’
‘Just resting, are you?’ says Christine, sitting down and slipping off her shoes. ‘It’s all right for some.’
Vera heaves the two shopping bags up on the worktop and then comes and sits down with us. They’re both within easy range of the reel-to-reel. Brilliant.
‘I said it’s all right for some, Mum,’ Christine goes on, turning round to Vera and gesticulating a thumb in my direction. ‘Evie, here, lounging around while we traipse round the shops all morning carrying big heavy bags. She’s got a life of Riley, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes, love,’ says Vera, but I don’t think she’s really listening as she’s busy wiping her forehead with a hanky.
‘Oh, it’s nice to sit down after being on my feet all morning,’ Christine goes on, leaning back in her chair and adjusting her bra-strap. ‘Are you putting the kettle on, Mum? I’m parched.’
‘Right, love,’ says Vera. She pushes back her chair and stands up with all the enthusiasm of Eeyore. ‘I suppose you want one too, Evie?’
‘No, thanks, Vera, I’m going out,’ I say, getting up and heading for the door. ‘I’ve got a few things to do.’
‘Oh, listen to her,’ says Christine. ‘She’s got a few things to do. What, do you mean things like sitting around on your backside all day reading?’
‘Yes,’ I say, turning round in the doorway. ‘Very important things like that.’ And I stride off across the courtyard, wishing I was carrying a book.
*
I don’t go far.
Earlier on, I’d stashed a bottle of dandelion and burdock, some Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut, and this week’s Melody Maker in our barn. Caroline’s put a four-hour tape onto the reel-to-reel, which means I’ve got about three hours forty-five minutes before I need to go back to the kitchen, get rid of Christine and Vera, and retrieve the tape from the oven. This means I can put my feet up, snuggle down on the haystacks and enjoy some much-deserved quiescence (noun – a state of tranquil rest).
Three and half hours later (mainly spent doing Melody Maker’s ‘Pop-o-rama’ word puzzle) and I’m readying myself for the next part of the plan: getting Christine and Vera out of the kitchen. I have put much thought into this and have come up with a brilliant ploy (otherwise known as a lie). It’s going to require some acting skills so I’m trying to remember what I learnt when I played Edith the maid in our school’s production of Blithe Spirits. I can’t remember much to be honest other than it seemed to require a lot of tray carrying.
*
‘You’ll never believe it,’ I say, bursting into the kitchen and finding Christine and Vera still sitting at the table (moaning, nattering and gossiping).
They look at me with the welcoming warmth of the Kray twins.
‘What?’ says Christine, curling her lip (but not in an Elvis kind of way).
‘It’s the rugby team. They’re all running around starkers,’ I say (lie).
‘What?’ says Vera. ‘Starkers? What do they want to be doing that for? Silly buggers.’
‘Are you sure?’ asks Christine.
‘Yes,’ I say (lie). ‘They’re over on the rugby pitch now. It’s something to do with a bet apparently.’
‘Come on, Mum,’ says Christine, standing up and marshalling her chest. ‘We’ve got to see this.’ She’s already by the door, tapping her foot. ‘Are you coming, then?’ she goes on, looking impatiently at Vera. ‘Get a move on. We don’t want to miss them, do we?’
Vera grabs her hairnet and scrambles out the door.
‘You stay away, Evie,’ Christine shouts as she canters across the courtyard. ‘It’s not a sight for young eyes. Stick to hockey.’
And I hear her and Vera burst out laughing.
I bolt over to the oven and take out the reel-to-reel. It’s still turning, one big spool of tape being fed by a tiny little one. Brilliant. I press the stop button and both spools jolt still.
*
For the next part of the plan, I need to get the reel-to-reel out of the farmhouse and back round to Caroline, so I lug the heavy thing all the way round to Mrs Scott-Pym’s as quickly and surreptitiously as possible (not easy).
When I get there, the kitchen is empty and there’s no sign of life other than an ashtray full of cigarette ends, so, still carrying the reel-to-reel, I push open the door to the sitting room with my bum and go in backwards.
When I turn round I’m confronted with the sight of two impossibly glamorous women sitting across the coffee table from each other. One is Caroline (a vision in a sky-blue pinafore dress) and the other must be the friend she mentioned earlier. I stare at them both for a second. Dumbstruck. How can two so incredibly chic people exist in the same space and time?
‘Evie, darling,’ says Caroline, standing up and walking over to me. ‘There you are! I’ve just been telling Élise all about you.’
Élise. Oh, what a lovely name. It sounds foreign. Or maybe lesbian.
‘Here, let me take that for you,’ Caroline goes on, taking the reel-to-reel from me and putting it on the sideboard. ‘Now, Élise, I’d like you to meet Evie, Mummy’s wonderful neighbour and my marvellous new friend. And Evie, I’d like you to meet Élise, the sweetest, kindest, most magnificent Frenchwoman I know. And I know quite a few, darling.’
Élise comes over, says enchanté and then kisses me on each cheek. I feel like I’m in a Brigitte Bardot film. This air of sophistication doesn’t last long, though, as Sadie, clearly not happy about missing out on the introductions, lollops over and starts rubbing her pink bits on Élise’s leg.
‘Sadie, darling!’ says Caroline, pulling Sadie away. ‘Good grief, whatever will Élise think.’
Élise smiles and gestures Gallic-ly with her hands.
Caroline’s already back on the sofa, with Sadie close behind her. Soon we’re all sat down, Élise on an armchair and me sharing the sofa with Caroline and Sadie.
I can’t stop staring at Élise. She’s stunning. Her skirt and blouse are the colour of caramel and she’s wearing a thin golden belt on her tiny waist with a red-and-blue silk scarf neatly tied round her neck. Her short, wavy hair is like polished mahogany and her skin is tanned and looks like summer. She is glorious, as out of place in our village as an Eskimo.
‘Evie’s been doing some recording,’ Caroline says to Élise, pointing at the reel-to-reel.
‘Really!’ says Élise, with an accent that could melt stone. ‘And what have you been recording?’
‘Cows,’ I answer.
‘Cows?’ repeats Élise, looking a bit bamboozled. ‘Ah, well, you have such nice cows here. I’m sure they moo very nicely.’
‘Well, not all of them,’ I say.
Caroline has been busy lighting a cigarette. She passes the lighter to Élise, who takes it with a merci and then picks up Caroline’s Gauloises from the coffee table.
‘Élise is up from London, darling,’ Caroline says to me. ‘The cows are all madly exotic for her. She’s very kindly come up for a few days to help me get the house ready for Mummy.’
‘Mrs Scott-Pym! Is she coming home?’ I ask. This is Very Good News.
‘Yes, darling. On Friday. So it’s all hands on deck to get the place ship shape. I dragged poor old Élise up here from her job at the Lycée to help out.’
‘Oh, what’s the Lycée?’ I ask, turning to Élise.
‘It’s the French school,’ she says. ‘We teach children how to be good little French boys and girls. We have lessons in grammar, smoking and beret wearing.’
‘Sounds marvellous,’ says Caroline.
‘And there was definitely no dragging,’ Élise goes on. ‘I am a country girl. I do not need much of an excuse to escape from London with all its noise and rush and smoking chim-i-knees.’
I look at Élise and Caroline with their Gauloises. Two very stylish smoking chim-i-knees indeed.
‘Well, I’m very glad you came, darling,’ says Caroline. ‘The only noise you need to worry about up here is Evie playing Adam Faith at full blast with her window open.’ And she turns and winks at me.
‘Oh no, sorry, I had no idea you could hear that,’ I say, deeply embarrassed. (I’m actually going off Adam Faith to be honest. It’s very strange. All I can think about now are the four nice young men from Liverpool.)
‘Just pulling your leg. You play your music as loudly as you want, Evie. I can always drown it out with some Strauss.’ She grins and arches her eyes. ‘Now, look, we’ve been gassing all this time and I’ve forgotten to offer you a drink. How extremely rude of me. Mummy would be furious. Another coffee for you, Élise? And what about you, darling?’ she says, turning to me. ‘Tea?’
Obviously I’d normally have a tea. The drink of the gods. Nectar of the Dales. Liquid gold. But I’m wavering. Something strange is happening. I feel like I’ve suddenly reached a crossroad, something that will shape me for years to come. Something important and elemental.
I feel like I’m about to choose what kind of a woman I want to be.
I take a deep breath.
‘Coffee, please.’
‘Darling, are you sure?’ says Caroline. ‘I can easily make a pot of tea.’
‘No, coffee would be lovely, thank you.’
‘Coffee it is, then!’ And she marches off into the kitchen, closely followed by Sadie.
Élise smiles, a beautiful warm smile that fills the room.
I’m momentarily rendered incapable of speech. Apart from Caroline (and Mrs Scott-Pym I suppose, but she’s different), I don’t know any sophisticated ladies. Or sophisticated men either for that matter. I glance down at the magazines on the coffee table. Mrs Scott-Pym’s The Listener and Radio Times have been replaced by a French Vogue and something called Elle. This just makes me even more nervous. What on earth are you meant to say to a sophisticated Frenchwoman on a Friday afternoon?
‘Are you a lesbian too?’ I try.
Élise coughs.
‘No, Evie,’ she says, the cough turning into a laugh. ‘I was married to a wonderful man but he died ten years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I hope I haven’t offended you, I just didn’t know what to say. I always put my foot in it when I’m nervous.’
‘No, you haven’t offended me at all,’ she says, smiling and shaking her head. ‘You just surprised me. I always thought that the English were very discreet. You, my dear, could be French.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, very happy with the compliment (Caroline’s continental ways must be rubbing off on me). ‘I’d love to be French. All those nice clothes and crusty baguettes. I think I’m probably too tall though.’
Élise laughs even more. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s a French thing.
‘Alors,’ she says, dabbing at her eyes with a very small hanky. ‘Caroline always says the Yorkshire people are a different breed from the other English. Now I see that. They are very direct, no?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Are we? Dad always says we should call a spade a spade, which, to be honest, I think is a really funny thing to say because what else would you call a spade?’
‘Un bêche?’ says Élise, shrugging her shoulders and doing something foreign with her hands.
‘Un bêche,’ I repeat, rolling the vowels in my mouth. ‘It sounds so much nicer in French, doesn’t it? Just like food. You probably have much fancier spades in France than the ones over here.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure your spades are lovely. Like your cows.’
We both have a little laugh. I’m feeling much less intimidated now by Élise’s sophisticated French ways.
‘Have you been to Yorkshire before?’ I ask.
‘No, this is my first time. I am very much looking forward to seeing it all. The Minster. The Dales. The fish and chips. The Moors. The Heathcliffs.’
‘Hmmm,’ I say, trying to think how I can let her down gently. ‘The Minster, Dales, fish and chips, and Moors are all okay but I’m afraid you might be in for a bit of a disappointment with the Heathcliffs. We don’t really have many Heathcliffs up here these days.’
‘What’s all this about Heathcliff?’ says Caroline, coming back into the room carrying a tray. ‘Are the two of you having an intellectual conversion?’
‘We’re talking about Yorkshiremen,’ says Élise. ‘Evie says the Brontës were lying. Yorkshire is not full of Heathcliffs.’
‘Evie, darling, don’t say that,’ says Caroline, putting the tray down on the coffee table. ‘You’re meant to be flying the flag. You can’t say what wonderful cows we have up here but then go on to demean all our lovely menfolk.’
‘I will go back to London immediately,’ laughs Élise.
‘No, darling, you’re staying. Evie doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s only got eyes for Adam.’ Caroline winks at me again and then passes Élise a tiny cup of black coffee. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asks, turning back to me.
‘Er, I’m not sure. How do you take yours?’ I say, turning to Élise.
‘The French way. Black, two sugars.’
‘I’ll have mine like that then,’ I say. ‘Black, two sugars.’
‘Bien sûr,’ replies Caroline, taking the spoon from the sugar bowl and adding two heaped teaspoons of sugar to the dark brown liquid. Then she takes another teaspoon and stirs it all up before passing me the tiny cup and saucer.
It smells delicious.
Caroline and Élise are busy talking about Yorkshire but I focus on the coffee. There’s hardly anything there, just a thimble-full. I give it another stir and then lift the cup up to my lips and have a little sip. The coffee is somehow smoky, bitter and sweet at the same time. Very nice. I have a bigger slurp. Then another. And another. Then it’s gone.
‘Darling,’ says Caroline, watching me put the empty cup and saucer back on the tray. ‘That was practically down in one. And here’s me thinking you were a tea-totaller.’
Élise laughs. ‘You see, Caroline, I think Evie is actually French. She could be une Parisienne. She is very direct. And is très chic with her beautiful dark hair and French pantalon.’
I glance down at my pedal pushers.
‘And now we know she likes the French café also. Evie is clearly a femme française. A fleur-de-lis planted in the heart of Yorkshire.’
I like Élise a lot.
*
The conversation swirls round. We talk about loads of things. Bettys cakes. English summers. The Brontë Parsonage. Lipstick. Someone called Bob Dylan. Scottish castles. Spanish painters. The A1. Marilyn Monroe. Billy Liar. Hyde Park (London). Central Park (New York). Dry hair.
I keep managing to chip in even though most of the time I’ve no idea what to say. It’s very exciting. When it comes to adult conversations, I’m usually happy to take the Wimbledon approach: quietly watching from the side lines and turning my head from side to side to keep up with all the action. But today I’m down on court, chasing after the ball and even managing a few good rallies. Amazing. I feel like a left-bank intellectual (or is it right-bank?).
After a while, Sadie lets out a big yawn. She’s lying down, legs akimbo, on the sofa, her head slouched across Caroline’s thighs.
‘Darling,’ says Caroline, looking down at Sadie. ‘Are you bored?’
Sadie yelps.
‘Well, that told us, didn’t it!’
Sadie yelps again.
‘Actually, I think she’s telling us it’s time for you to start your homework, darling,’ says Caroline to me, doing her best schoolmarm-ish look (which isn’t very good).
‘Homework?’ I ask. ‘What homework?’
‘Well, you’ve got four hours of tape to work some magic with.
Sounds like homework to me.’
Oh, the tape! Why am I so easily distracted?
‘Come on,’ Caroline goes on, standing up and sending Sadie’s head flopping back onto the sofa. ‘Let’s get you started. This is going to take a long time.’
She’s over by the sideboard, getting the reel-to-reel. As I go and join her, I turn to Élise and say how much I’ve enjoyed meeting her.
‘Moi aussi,’ she replies. ‘Un plaisir. Now, enjoy your cows!’
*
Caroline takes me to Mrs Scott-Pym’s study, a wonderful room stuffed full of books. It’s one of my favourite rooms in Mrs Scott-Pym’s house but I don’t really come very often as we mainly stick to the kitchen or sitting room. The room has a particular smell, old books mixed with good breeding and house plants.
Caroline puts the reel-to-reel down on the desk in front of the large sash window.
‘You sit yourself down and get comfortable. I’ll be right back.’ And she leaves the room.
I sit down at the desk and look at the reel-to-reel. What secrets are waiting inside? Am I wasting my time? Would I be better off just listening to the four young men from Liverpool for four hours?
‘Here, put these on,’ says Caroline, coming back in. She’s carrying a big pair of headphones. ‘You’ll be able to hear everything so much better, darling. The recording probably won’t be great – it’s not easy to record from inside an oven. We need to use every resource we have. And these are a very good resource. The best EMI has.’
She puts them on over my ears. Everything suddenly sounds like I’m underwater.
‘There. How do they feel?’ shouts Caroline, pointing at her ears.
My ears are squashed and I’m sure I look ridiculous.
‘Great,’ I lie.
‘Wonderful, darling. You look fabulous,’ she lies back.
I sit and roll my neck, weighing up the headphones; all the weight has shifted to the outside of my head, making it feel like my head is hollow (this must be how Christine feels).
‘Now, can you remember everything I showed you?’ she says.
I nod.
‘Good. You know where I am if you need me.’ And she bends down and kisses me on the cheek and then leaves the room, shouting bonne chance and waving two sets of crossed fingers.
I listen to the fuzzy echoey silence for a few seconds and then pick up a pen, take a deep breath and press play.