Friday 27 July 1962
It’s a very special day.
The day Mrs Scott-Pym comes home.
Caroline has gone to pick Mrs Scott-Pym up from hospital and I’m here with Élise helping to get things ready for their return.
We’re going to have a garden party, like the Queen. We’ve moved the kitchen table out onto the terrace and covered it with a beautiful red gingham cloth (perfect for a dress) and I’ve put out some stripy deckchairs.
The table is weighed down with food from another world. Lots of brightly coloured vegetables, roasted and slathered with a rich, greeny oil. Golden things called quiche, which are hot and fill the air with a wonderful cheesy smell. A big bowl of salad made with lentils (lentils! cold! in a salad!). Tomatoes as big as a cricket ball. Great slabs of herby, buttery chicken breasts. Warm, flaky, crispy, crunchy towers of cheese pastry. And lots, lots more. Élise has done most of the work, kitchen-wise, but I’ve helped out here and there, cheese grating, bowl filling and vegetable washing.
It’s been great.
The only downside has been the reel-to-reel, perched on a small table on the terrace. Élise has been using it to play opera, which is very annoying as I’ve been desperate to put the four young men from Liverpool on all morning.
(I’ve actually been trying to force myself to like opera ever since I found out Caroline listens to it, but it isn’t easy. I just can’t get on with it at all. It must be something that comes with age, like gardening or drinking sherry.)
Élise is wonderful (despite the opera). She’s charming, funny, and very kind. She’s extremely glamorous too, but it’s a different kind of glamour to Caroline’s. Older. More sophisticated. She’s basically Katherine Hepburn to Caroline’s Audrey. I found out this morning that she’s forty, which was a big surprise. Every forty-year-old woman I know wears a flowery apron and hairnet (not to mention rollers) when cooking; Élise has been wearing a stylish bottle-green skirt and top, diamond earrings and a colourful silk scarf tied elegantly round her head. Amazing.
As I’m putting out a large bowl of grapes, I hear the familiar clod-hop of Christine and her kitten heels.
‘What’s all that nonsense round the front?’ she says, crunching her way across the gravelled terrace, Vera in tow. ‘Buy-en-ve-noo. Ay, I knew your spelling was bad but not that bad.’
‘It’s French,’ I say, referring to the banner that we’d hung across the front of the house this morning. ‘Bienvenue à la maison. It means welcome home.’
‘French?’ asks Vera. ‘French! What on earth have you written it in French for? What’s wrong with English?’
‘I know,’ says Christine, shaking her head and tutting. ‘It was good enough for Shakespeare and Robin Hood. And anyway, what a waste of time doing anything in bloody French. The French’d all be writing in German if it weren’t for us.’
‘Bonjour,’ says Élise, coming out onto the terrace and carrying a large dish of food. She’s doing her room-filling smile but I’m sure she must just want to crack Christine with the dish.
I introduce Christine and Vera to Élise (enchanté) and then Élise to Christine and Vera (ow do). The atmosphere has all the Anglo-Gallic cordiality of Agincourt.
Each side is holding its weapon of choice. For the French, Élise has a dish filled with beautifully arranged cold meats and cheeses, garnished with some elaborately cut tomatoes and a few sprigs of parsley. For the English, Vera is holding two potatoes wrapped in foil, each with a salvo of cocktail sticks holding an assortment of cheese squares and burnt mini sausages.
Christine takes the foil-wrapped potatoes from Vera, weighs them in her hands like grenades, and offers them to Élise, who, after looking at them quizzically for a second, takes them.
‘Ah, thank you,’ she says, putting the potatoes down on the table with a slight thud. ‘That is very kind of you. You really didn’t have to bring anything.’
‘Well, we wanted to help out,’ says Christine. ‘Can’t be easy for a foreigner to make proper garden-party food.’
‘You are too kind,’ replies Élise (still smiling). ‘But, as I said, you really shouldn’t have.’
Christine and Vera survey the table.
‘Well, it all looks very . . . interesting,’ says Christine. ‘Shame you’ve got no sausage rolls.’
‘Hmmmm,’ says Vera, looking like she’s got a mouthful of sour milk. ‘I could have got some out of the freezer. Never mind.’
‘And I can’t see any pickled onions either,’ Christine goes on, scowling at the bacchanalian feast laid out on the table.
‘That’s because they’re not there,’ I say.
‘Hmm. Like your naked rugby players,’ counters Christine, giving me yet another Nasty Look (she has the memory of an elephant). ‘Is it French?’ she asks, turning back to Élise and making being French sound like an embarrassing ailment.
‘Oui, all French. You English are not the only ones who have le pique-nique, you know.’
Christine bristles.
‘Hmmmm. Well, we know all about French food, don’t we, Mum? We went to the Royal Hotel Beverley a few weeks ago. The food was all French. Very oily, mind.’
‘Aye, and everything swimming in sauce,’ adds Vera. ‘Garlic everywhere too. Stank like a sewer.’
This is not going well (Christine and Vera have the diplomacy skills of Attila the Hun).
‘Where’s Dad?’ I say, hoping to distract Christine and Vera from their general intolerance of all things French.
Christine rolls her eyes.
‘With the bloody cows. Like he always is.’
‘He won’t be long,’ adds Vera, scowling. ‘We just thought we’d come round early. Show a friendly face, like.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Although actually,’ says Élise, putting her hand on my shoulder, ‘I’ve had a wonderful friendly face here with me all morning.’
‘Oh yeah? Who was that, then?’ asks Christine.
‘Me,’ I say. Honestly, some people.
‘You? A friendly face?’ Christine turns to Élise. ‘What, did you give her a family-size pack of Custard Creams or something?’
‘Evie’s been helping me get everything ready,’ says Élise.
‘Oh, lucky you,’ says Christine. ‘I can’t get her to do a thing at home. She’s always got her head in a bloody book.’
‘Well. She is a girl of great intelligence.’
‘More like great laziness,’ replies Christine. ‘Now, would you mind changing this music, please? It sounds like someone’s died.’
‘You don’t like Norma?’ says Élise.
‘Who? What about a nice bit of Mantovani? Something bright and jaunty instead of all this doom and gloom. It’s like being at church.’
‘Monteverdi?’ asks Élise, cocking her head.
‘Yes, have you got any?’
‘Er, no, I don’t think so. Something Baroque perhaps?’
‘What? Look, how about a musical? Anything with a tune.’
‘Ah, a musical,’ says Élise. ‘Yes, Caroline has the West Side Story. Hold on a moment.’ And she heads back into the house to get it.
‘Oooh good,’ says Christine, turning to me and Vera. ‘I like West Side Story. Do you know, loads of people say I remind them of Natalie Wood.’
‘Oh, yes, love,’ says Vera. ‘I can see what they mean.’
‘Does she have big feet too, then?’ I ask.
Christine gives me a Look and then grabs the hem of her skirt and, waving it around like a can-can dancer, starts jumping around and singing.
‘La la la la la America,
La la la la la America,
La la la la la America,
La la la la la America.’
(Possibly the worst advert for musical theatre ever.)
‘What’s all this?’ says Mrs Swithenbank, all in black and waddling round the corner of the house like a giant monochrome penguin. ‘Was that meant to be the Lambeth Walk?’
‘Doris?’ says Vera. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Young Evie invited me,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, berthing herself onto a deckchair. ‘I’ve been as rough as a badger’s backside. Not that either of you’d know, mind.’
‘We’ve been busy, Doris,’ says Christine. ‘We’ve been sorting out my wedding, remember. There’s a lot of work involved with matrimonials, you know.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, clearly unimpressed by Christine’s matrimonials. ‘Well, thank God for young Evie popping round, that’s all I can say. You’ve been brilliant, love,’ she continues, turning to me. ‘Very good company. You and the BBC. I haven’t heard a dickybird’s chuff out of some people,’ she adds, crossing her arms and staring pointedly at Christine and Vera.
There’s an awkward silence. I wonder if the Queen has this problem at her garden parties?
‘Voila,’ says Élise, thankfully stepping back outside and waving a reel in the air. ‘We have the West Side Story.’
‘Élise,’ I say. ‘This is Mrs Swithenbank.’
‘Call me Doris, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, getting up from her deckchair. ‘Everyone else does – except Evie, that is.’
‘Ah, Doris. I am so glad you could come,’ says Élise, holding Mrs Swithenbank’s hands in hers. ‘Evie has told me all about you. You have the Paris style, no?’ she goes on. ‘The sophisticated lady in black.’
‘Oh, do you think so, love?’ She beams a large smile. ‘Well, I like to look my best.’
Christine looks livid. Élise, understandably, has not commented on either her gaudy pink bouffant dress or Vera’s nondescript cloud of brown.
‘Sophisticated? She’s been wearing the same black dress since 1916,’ says Christine. ‘It was war-issue, wasn’t it, Doris?’
‘Better than whore-issue,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, under her breath but still loud enough for us all to hear.
‘Ladies, can I get you all a drink?’ asks Élise, proving to be a far better diplomat than either Christine or Vera.
The Byzantine complexity of getting a group of Yorkshire women a brew defuses the tension; the never-ending permutations of which tea, how much milk, how many sugars, and how long to leave the tea brewing seem to go on forever. In the middle of it all, Arthur finally arrives.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, skimming along the gravel.
He’s wearing an open-neck shirt under his best tweed sports jacket and his blonde hair glistens with Brylcreem. I feel a thump of pride.
He nods at Christine and Vera, says hello to Mrs Swithenbank, and then turns to Élise.
‘This is Élise, Dad, Caroline’s friend from London. And this is my dad, Arthur,’ I say to Élise. They smile at each other and shake hands.
‘What’s that?’ says Christine, pointing at a bottle in Arthur’s other hand.
‘Some champagne. I thought it’d be nice for Rosamund, you know, to welcome her home properly.’
He passes the bottle to Élise.
‘Champagne! Oh, look at Mr Rockefeller.’ Christine rolls her eyes. ‘Last of the big spenders.’
Élise has been looking at the label.
‘Mais non!’ she exclaims. ‘This is from my home town!’
‘Really?’ says Arthur. ‘You’re from Beaumont-sur-Vesle? I was there in the war for a few months. That’s why I picked it!’
‘Oui, Beaumont-sur-Vesle!’ says Élise, throwing her arms up in the air.
‘C’est un très beau village,’ says Arthur.
‘Merci, vous êtes trop gentil.’
‘Mon plaisir,’ replies Arthur, now blushing slightly.
‘C’est merveilleux. Very kind. Si jolie.’
Christine doesn’t look happy. She swings past Vera and barges in between Arthur and Élise.
‘All right, all right. Stop showing off,’ she says, glaring at Arthur and grabbing his arm.
Arthur winces.
‘I think you’d better learn how to speak English proper, Arthur, before you start beggaring around in French. Honestly,’ she goes on, turning to Élise and shaking her head, ‘you can’t get a word out of him most of the time but look at him now. Rabbiting away.’
‘I was just saying what a lovely place Beaumont-sur-Vesle is,’ says Arthur, not really looking at Christine. ‘Very beautiful. And very nice food too if I remember rightly.’
Élise smiles at Arthur and does something French with her eyes.
Christine (our very own Jodrell Bank) spots this and weaponises her chest.
Arthur, meanwhile, looks like he’s subtly trying to pull his arm away from Christine but she’s got a grip like a bench clamp. I think it’s time I helped out.
‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Would you mind helping me move the garden bench? Caroline said we should bring it over near the table.’
‘Of course, love.’ He tugs his arm away from Christine. ‘Happy to help. Excusez-moi,’ he adds as he passes Élise.
As we walk off down the garden to get the bench, he puts his arm round my shoulders and whispers, ‘Thanks for that, love. Do you know what, sometimes you’re almost as useful as a Yorkshire Post.’
*
Five minutes later and we hear the sound of a very fast car coming tearing down the drive followed by a manic burst of car horn.
They’re back!
We dash round to the front of the house and find the Mini parked haphazardly near the front door.
‘Hullo,’ shouts Caroline, getting out of the car. She’s wearing a really (really) short black dress and has her hair piled up on top of her head. All this finished off with some ballet pumps and a huge pair of sunglasses.
‘Here she is,’ she goes on, running round and opening the passenger door. ‘The star of the day!’
And Mrs Scott-Pym, helped by Caroline, steps out of the car.
‘Oh, what a fuss!’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, steadying her feet on the gravel. ‘You really shouldn’t have.’
‘Welcome home,’ we all shout.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym. ‘It’s lovely to be home again. And thank you all for keeping an eye on my disorderly daughter.’
‘Mummy, charming!’ says Caroline, giving Mrs Scott-Pym another kiss.
Mrs Scott-Pym turns to me and holds out her arms.
‘Evie, my dear. Come here!’
I go and put my arms around her and she hugs me tight and I hug her tight. She’s lovely and warm and I can feel her heart beating through her jacket.
‘I have to say an enormous thank you for your wonderful recording,’ she whispers, her arms wrapped around me. ‘You are a marvellous, clever child. As wise as time.’ She kisses me on the forehead.
I squeeze her. And then squeeze her even more.
‘It’s so good to have you back, Mrs Scott-Pym,’ I say.
She puts her hand on my head and gently strokes my hair.
‘Well, I’m home now, dear. And we’ve got a lot of cake-eating and book-reading to catch up on. Oh!’ she says, looking up at the banner and laughing. ‘However did you manage to get that up there? Bienvenue à la maison indeed!’
*
Back round on the terrace, Mrs Scott-Pym has two things waiting for her.
The first is all the food laid out on the table (‘Oh, look at this! It’s marvellous! You really shouldn’t have!’).
And the second is Sadie. Up until now Sadie has remained firmly within dribbling distance of the food, staring at it as if it had magical hypnotic powers. But as soon as she hears Mrs Scott-Pym’s voice, Sadie goes berserk. She yelps and then darts over to Mrs Scott-Pym, running round and round and jumping up in a big messy ungainly display of acrobatics, showering spittle and gravel everywhere. The yelping turns into howling and she suddenly bolts off down the garden and races back again before shooting into the borders and peeing on Mrs Scott-Pym’s hollyhocks.
‘Sadie!’ shouts Mrs Scott-Pym, giving Sadie a big kiss and a very vigorous rub.
‘Darling, calm down,’ says Caroline (I think to Sadie but with Caroline you can never be sure).
‘She’s missed you,’ I say to Mrs Scott-Pym.
‘Oh, she’s had you and Caroline, dear, running around after her. She doesn’t need me.’ Mrs Scott-Pym bends down and takes Sadie’s head in her hands. ‘She’s only interested in me because she wants to know when the baking’s going to start again, aren’t you, dear?’
‘Mummy!’ says Caroline, clicking her fingers. ‘You’ve just reminded me about something. Hold on a sec. Back in two tics.’ And she disappears off round the front of the house.
Mrs Scott-Pym watches her go.
‘Oh, it’s good to be back,’ she says, looking around at everyone and smiling. By now, we’re all sat round the table. Mrs Scott-Pym’s at the head, with me next to her. The others are split into two groups: Mrs Swithenbank and Élise on one side of the table and Christine and Vera on the other. Arthur, I think, has spotted the obvious danger of the seating arrangement and is busy inspecting the flowerbeds.
Mrs Scott-Pym leans over to me.
‘You’ve made a big impression on Caroline, dear,’ she says. ‘She’s wonderful.’ I reply. ‘I love having her here. It’s like having a little piece of London in the village. Everything seems more exciting. Do you think she’ll be coming up more often now?’
Mrs Scott-Pym pauses and looks down the garden.
‘Do you know what, dear, I think she probably will.’
And we both sit back for a moment, smiling and taking in the warm summer scene.
*
‘Here we are,’ says Caroline, coming back from wherever she disappeared to.
She’s carrying a big box with Bettys written on the side (the very best kind of big box).
‘I left it in the car,’ she says, putting the box down on the table. ‘How could I forget!’
‘Oooh, Bettys, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Very nice.’
Élise leans over and looks at the box.
‘Ah,’ she says. ‘It is the famous Yorkshire baker, non?’
‘Yes, darling,’ replies Caroline. ‘Home of the deluxe vintage port and ale fruit cake.’ She looks at Christine. ‘Prize-winning, I gather.’
Christine stares back at Caroline. Neither blinks.
‘Caroline, dear. You’re spoiling me,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym, reaching out and holding Caroline’s hand.
‘Well, you haven’t seen what’s inside yet. It might only be a scone.’
‘It’d be a bloody big scone, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.
‘Aye,’ says Arthur. ‘Looks like we’ll be needing more jam and clotted cream, Rosamund.’
Everyone laughs (except Christine).
‘Evie, I think you should open it,’ says Caroline, pushing the box across the table towards me.
‘Oh yes, dear,’ says Mrs Scott-Pym. ‘Go on.’
I unfold the tabs and then gently slide the lid upwards.
‘Ta-dah!’ I say, pushing back the lid and revealing a huge cake with the words Welcome Home iced across the top.
‘Oooof,’ says Christine, our very own deflating balloon. ‘What a funny colour for a cake. What would you call it? Ruby?’
Caroline looks at Christine and smiles.
‘No, scarlet.’
*
The next hour is a delicious blur of food and bonhomie. Highlights include Vera going at a plate of French ham with the speed and destructive efficiency of lightning. Sadie jumping up and running off with all the cheese straws. Arthur expertly popping the champagne cork. Caroline toasting Mrs Scott-Pym and Mrs Scott-Pym almost crying. Mrs Swithenbank laying waste to three slices of the scarlet cake plus some extra icing.
And, throughout it all, Christine sits glowering like a monkfish.
‘Right, everyone,’ I say, standing up. ‘I think it’s time for some different music, don’t you?’
A wave of nods surges round the table. (There’s only so much West Side Story you can take on a sunny afternoon in the East Ridings.)
‘I hope you’re putting on something cheerful,’ shouts Christine, frowning.
‘Yes,’ I say, walking over to the reel-to-reel machine. ‘Very cheerful.’
I get a tape-reel out of my pocket, loop it onto the machine and press play.
There’s a few seconds of silence, then a bit of crackle and fuzz, then the harmonica comes in and then the drum and then the four young men from Liverpool start singing. It’s glorious. Caroline is swaying her head and Élise taps her hand on the table in time to the beat. Everyone (even Christine) looks happy.
‘Oh, what’s this, love?’ shouts Mrs Swithenbank. ‘It’s smashing.’
‘They’re new,’ says Caroline. ‘From Liverpool.’
‘Liverpool?’ replies Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Well, they’re not bad for a bunch of scousers.’
We all sit listening to the song. Even after hearing it hundreds of times, it still sounds bright and exciting, like the start of something new.
Then, all of a sudden, the harmonies of the four young men from Liverpool are replaced by the appalling wails of Christine singing ‘Kiss me, Honey, Honey, Kiss me’. It’s the aural equivalent of going from a slice of Élise’s golden quiche to one of Vera’s burnt cocktail sausages.
‘Ey, that’s me,’ shouts Christine. ‘Don’t I sound good? Like Shirley Bassey.’
(Perhaps the noise Shirley Bassey might make if someone were gauging her eyes out.)
Thankfully we only get the first verse before a new voice steps in.
It’s Vera.
‘Ere, love. Do you know you’re nearly out of loo rolls?’
‘It’s you, Mum! Listen to you,’ says Christine, pointing at Vera. ‘Hey, you sound really funny.’
‘What’s going on?’ shouts Vera. ‘How the bleeding hell did that get on there?’
I know exactly how that got on there. I spent much of the weekend editing the four hours of Christine and Vera talking in the kitchen into a five-minute bouncing bomb. This is going to be fun.
The tape goes on.
‘’Course Iknow who’s prime minister, Mum,’ says Christine. ‘Do you think I’m stupid? What do you think I’ve got between my ears?’
‘Loo rolls,’ answers Vera. ‘Loo rolls, loo rolls, loo rolls.’
‘Wait, I didn’t say that,’ says Vera.
‘What’s going on?’ asks Christine, turning to me. ‘What’s happening?’
I give her my best Cinderella smile.
‘It’s called splicing.’
‘You what?’
‘To splice,’ I explain. ‘Verb. To unite two lengths of magnetic tape by overlapping and securing together.’
She scrunches up her face and looks, not for the first time, completely clueless.
On the tape, Vera and Christine are talking.
‘I’m a . . . loo roll,’ says Christine.
‘You’re a big . . . loo roll,’ says Vera.
Then the tape crackles a bit and we hear Christine interspersed with Vera:
‘She’s got a life of Riley . . .
Our Christine
Sitting around on her backside all day . . .
Our Christine
It’s all right for some . . .
Our Christine
Are you putting the kettle on, Mum?’
Around the table, everyone’s beginning to chuckle. Well, everyone except Christine and Vera.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ snaps Christine, growing more scarlet by the second. ‘That was a private conversation I’ll have you all know.’
‘Hey love, I wonder what Doris is up to? We haven’t seen her for a while.’
‘Oi, stop the bloody tape,’ shouts Vera.
‘Leave it be, Vera,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘I want to hear this.’
‘Doris!’ exclaims Christine on the tape. ‘Don’t talk to me about Doris. She can be a right nightmare.’
‘Oh, I know, love. She’s always been a bit of a handful.’
‘I don’t want her coming to the wedding, Mum. Her and her bloody bowel. She’s embarrassing. Size of an ostrich and the brains of one too. And she’s dead common.’
‘Turn. It. Off,’ says Christine, getting up. She looks like she’s wants to throttle me.
‘You sit right back down, young lady,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, standing in front of Christine and pushing her back onto her chair. ‘Dead common, am I? Happen we might all learn something here.’
The tape goes on. We’re all listening to every word. It’s like the Queen’s Christmas speech.
‘Where do you want your Custard Creams, love?’ says Vera.
‘Same place as usual, Mum, where do you think? I’ve told you, if you stick ’em in the biscuit cupboard, Evie’ll have the lot.’
‘Right, they’re in the bottom drawer, love.’
‘Good. I don’t want that annoying little madam getting her hands on them.’
Around the table, there’s a sharp communal intake of breath.
‘Well it’s true,’ Christine says, pulling a face that reminds me of the gargoyles at York Minster. ‘She’s like a bloody gannet.’
Arthur turns and looks at Christine but says nothing.
Back on the tape, Christine’s voice is looping around.
‘Annoying little madam. Annoying little madam. Annoying little madam . . . Do you know what, Evie’s really getting on my nerves.’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Vera. ‘You need to show her who’s boss, love.’
‘Just wait till after the wedding. Things’ll be very different. I’m not having her moping around my lovely new house. I want her and all her bloody stupid books gone, out from under my feet. She can sling her bloody hook.’
Christine looks like she’d like to slip off but Mrs Swithenbank is standing guard behind her, a one-woman mountain range.
The tape continues. There’s a couple of seconds of static buzz and then we’re back to Christine.
‘No, of course I don’t love him. Don’t be daft.’
‘Not even a bit, love?’ asks Vera.
‘Well he’s harmless enough I suppose. I’ll tell you what I do love, though. The chocolates, and the new dresses, and all the trips out to the races. And I love my new cooker. And new freezer. And I’ll tell you what I’ll REALLY love. My lovely new house and its lovely big garden.’
‘And don’t forget about the lovely big bank account, love!’ adds Vera, cackling.
‘Oh yes, don’t worry. I’ll find out where he’s stashed all his cash if it kills me.’
‘You’ve a right to know, love. It’s your money too.’
‘I know. Exactly. It’s my money. I bloody deserve it with all him and his idiot daughter put me through. Once I’ve got that ring on my finger, things’ll change. Now, are you going to make me another brew?’
There’s another crackle and then we hear Christine singing one last time.
‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-dee-a
Arthur’s money’s coming my way.
Ta-ra-ra-boom-dee-a
Arthur’s money’s coming my way.
Ta-ra-ra-boom-dee-a
Arthur’s money’s coming my way.’
The tape comes to an end and the empty spool flicks round and round, again and again. Flick, flick, flick, flick, flick.
Everyone is looking at Christine.
There’s a stunned silence, like when snow sucks away all the sound.
Arthur’s face is a collage of emotions (all of them bad).
‘I think you should see these too,’ I say, passing two pieces of tatty paper to him.
‘What are they?’ says Christine, her face so red that her forehead looks like an angry slice of corned beef.
‘Well, one of them looks like a list of my bank accounts,’ says Arthur. ‘And my Post Office savings. Pension. Premium Bonds. Green Shield stamps. Everything.’ He shakes his head. ‘Everything. All in the same handwriting.’
He holds the paper in his hand and looks over at Christine (who’s busy looking down at the floor).
‘And then the other one,’ he goes on, scrutinising the second piece of paper, ‘is a receipt for a deluxe vintage port and ale fruitcake from Bettys.’ He flicks the paper with his fingers. ‘The day before the village fete.’
There’s another sharp intake of communal breath.
Arthur stares at Christine.
Christine looks up from the floor and stares back at Arthur.
The only sound is Sadie’s tail wagging against Mrs Scott-Pym’s leg.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
‘I think you’d better leave,’ says Arthur, crossing his arms.
‘Leave?’ says Christine, bristling herself up to her full height (5ft 7). ‘Of course I’m leaving. Who’d want to stay all afternoon with you old fuddy-duddies? The food’s bloody awful anyway.’
‘No, I don’t just mean leave here,’ replies Arthur. ‘I want you to leave the farmhouse.’
‘What?’ says Christine.
‘I want you to leave the farmhouse. As soon as possible. I don’t want you under the same roof as Evie.’
Christine glares at Arthur.
‘Ey, you can’t do that, Arthur,’ says Vera. ‘It’s Christine’s home.’
‘Actually, Vera,’ says Arthur, ‘it’s Evie’s home. She owns the farm. It was Diana’s and now it’s Evie’s. It was all left to her.’
What?
‘Evie’s?’ says Christine. ‘It was all left to Evie? It’s Evie’s farm? Not yours?’
She looks even more confused than normal.
(Although to be fair, I’m pretty confused too.)
‘But what about the wedding?’ she goes on, turning back to Arthur.
‘It’s off,’ he says, shaking his head again. ‘There won’t be any wedding. I’ve been a bloody fool.’
‘Off!’ shouts Christine. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘He just has, darling,’ says Caroline, flatly.
Christine stands up, grating her chair across the gravel.
‘Come on, Mum, we’re off. We’re not hanging around here with this lot. And you needn’t worry about calling off the wedding, Arthur,’ she says, jabbing a scarlet finger at him. ‘No farm. No wedding.’
Vera stands up. She’s obviously trying to muster as much dignity as possible but it’s difficult when you’re the mother of someone who’s just been exposed as a horrible, gold-digging old cow.
‘Are you coming, Doris?’ she asks.
‘I’m bloody not,’ replies Mrs Swithenbank, picking up a tea towel and mopping her forehead. ‘I’m staying right here. And you can stuff your bingo nights. Rosamund’s going to teach me bridge.’
Mrs Scott-Pym looks at Christine and Vera and smiles a devilishly sweet old-lady smile.
‘Well, you stay here with Mrs Fancy-Pants and her bloody foreign friends, then,’ shouts Christine. And she storms off across the terrace, with Vera close behind her.
After three steps, she turns round and yells,
‘You can send my cooker round to Mum’s.’
Then another step.
‘And the freezer.’
Then another step.
‘And the leather pouffe and cut-crystal Perry wine glasses.’
Then they disappear round the corner of the house.
Gone.
‘And all the bloody Tupperware too,’ we hear a faint, dismembered voice shout.
And then – finally – there’s silence.
Arthur reaches over and puts his arms round me.
‘I’m really sorry, love,’ he says, giving me an enormous, gigantic hug. ‘For everything.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I say, folding myself into his arms. ‘It’s okay.’
As he hugs me, he rests his head against my cheek and I can smell his woody, leathery aftershave and feel his body gently shaking.
We all sit and look at one another. What a day.
‘Alors,’ says Élise, doing a Gallic shrug. ‘And to think you English say the French are dramatic.’
*
It’s later on that evening and I’m sat in Mrs Scott-Pym’s garden with Caroline. It’s just the two of us; everyone else is in Mrs Scott-Pym’s sitting room drinking sherry and talking. Outside, the bright daytime blue is slowly blurring to a velvety evening navy. The lights are on in the house and, high above us, the stars are beginning to prick the sky.
It’s been a very strange afternoon.
Arthur has been a torrent of apologies. Apologies to Mrs Scott-Pym for the scene, the shouting, and the bad language. Apologies to Caroline for spoiling the lovely welcome home that she’d prepared. Apologies to Mrs Swithenbank for Christine’s and Vera’s nastiness. Apologies to Élise for spoiling her pique-nique and for his ‘appalling’ French. And apologies to me for everything. For letting Christine barge into our lives. For letting her take over our home. For letting her boss me about. For being ‘no fool like an old fool’. For not listening to me more. For not talking to me more. For not being with me more. For being ‘a terrible dad’.
I told him not to talk rubbish, of course.
He’s the perfect dad for me. We’re a team, I reminded him. Maybe more Bridlington Town than Manchester United, but a team nevertheless. That made his eyes go red. Mrs Scott-Pym helped cheer him up, telling him again and again that he’d done the right thing now and that was all that mattered. But what really cheered Arthur up was Élise fussing round him all afternoon. By the time everyone went inside, he seemed like a new man, handsome and proud. A blond Yorkshire Viking.
*
Out in the garden, the moon is hanging low and big, so low and big that you can see all its shaded contours, like an Ordinance Survey map.
Caroline and I are lying on the daisy-spotted grass staring up at the evening sky. Our heads are almost touching, crown-to-crown, and our long legs stretch out like the hands of a clock (twenty to three).
‘Darling?’ asks Caroline.
‘Yes?’
‘How much do you know about your mother?’
A smile breaks out across my face.
‘Well, I know she was tall and beautiful and elegant and spoke French and was kind and funny and liked navy blue but didn’t like celery. And now I know that she left me the farm.’
‘Mmm,’ says Caroline. ‘Nothing more?'
‘Well, no, not really. Why?’
Caroline shifts her legs.
‘Oh, nothing really. It’s just that I found something at the bottom of one of Mummy’s drawers when I was getting the house ready for her to come back.’
‘What? Something of Mum’s?'
‘Sort of.’
I want to ask more but with (im)perfect timing, Sadie comes bounding out of the house and makes straight for Caroline, mounting her legs and giving her face an enormous lick.
Caroline yells and pushes Sadie away but Sadie, obviously in the mood for fun, jumps up again. She pushes her face into Caroline’s and gives her another enormous lick. Caroline yells again (half scream, half laugh) and grabs Sadie, tickling her pink bits, before hoisting her up on her chest and rolling around on the grass together, yelping, howling, tickling and licking.
‘Oh, I’m exhausted,’ says Caroline, when they’ve both calmed down a bit. ‘And I think Sadie’s hungry. I’d better nip inside and get her some of that delicious quiche. I’ll be right back, darling. Hold on.’
And she runs into the kitchen, closely trailed by Sadie and her slobber.
I lie back down on the grass and look up at the stars, tiny little beads of light on a vast cloth of inky blue sky. In the next field I can hear the cows and their bedtime chorus and from somewhere inside the house come the sounds of people talking and glasses chinking.
The perfect end to a perfect day.
I stretch out my arms and legs and make angel wings on the grass for a moment or two. Then I roll over onto my side and look down Mrs Scott-Pym’s garden, taking in the lupins and the delphiniums and the lavender.
And then I notice that, nearby, on the grass where Caroline and Sadie were playing, there’s a folded-up piece of brown newspaper.
Obviously I should just leave it there. Caroline can get it when she gets back. It’s not doing any harm lying on the grass . . .
I try not to look at it.
The paper sits there, shouting.
I reach over and pick it up. It feels old. Brittle and crisp. I try to see the date but the paper’s folded up and the only things I can make out are a photo of some soldiers and an advert for Pears soap. I’ll just have a quick look in. I’m sure Caroline wouldn’t mind. It can’t do any harm.
I unfold the paper carefully, crease by crease, flattening it out as I go.
Released, the headline roars its terrible news.
And at that moment the stars stop shining and the sky becomes burnt black.