FIVE

Friday 13 July 1962

‘Can you put your foot down, Arthur, love? I’m almost dropping anchor back here.’

That’s Mrs Swithenbank. Her imminent bowel movement has been the main topic of conversation for the past five minutes. She started having problems as we drove through Scalby and we’ve had a running commentary ever since.

I am crammed in the back of Arthur’s Land Rover between Mrs Swithenbank and Vera. I don’t know what’s worse: the sharp protrusions of Vera’s skeletal body or the jelly-like folds of Mrs Swithenbank and her spreading flesh. Arthur and Christine sit regally up front, immune to our discomfort and a safe distance from the threat of Mrs Swithenbank’s tummy troubles.

‘Ooooh, come on. Get a move on,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.

Christine spins round. She doesn’t look happy. Mrs Swithenbank’s bowels are spoiling her plans. We are on our way to the Royal Hotel in Beverley for dinner, or luncheon as the hotel insists on calling it. Apparently we’re having a slap-up meal to celebrate some good news. Christine, wanting to share the good news with as many people as could be crammed in the Land Rover, invited Mrs Swithenbank along, but she’s clearly regretting it now.

‘Leave Arthur alone, Doris,’ she snaps. ‘He’s doing a great job. Could you just try and have a little more . . .’ Christine pauses, obviously searching for the right word . . . ‘decorum, please?’

‘Decorum!’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘You try having decorum when you’ve got the Bombay bloody trots.’

Vera leans forward and, stretching out straight across me like a bony accident waiting to happen, grabs Mrs Swithenbank’s hand. ‘Try to keep your mind off it, Doris,’ she says. ‘Think of something else. Look at the view,’ and she points out of the window.

The view is hardly distracting. We are bang smack in the middle of farming country and the view consists of field after very flat field of cauliflowers.

‘Keep my mind off it!’ exclaims Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Vera, King Kong couldn’t keep my mind off it at the moment,’ she goes on, holding her belly with one hand and the car door with the other. A menacing gurgle reverberates around the back of the car. ‘Oh, it’s no good. We’re going to have to pull over.’

‘Almost there, Doris,’ says Arthur, glancing nervously in the driver’s mirror. In the reflection, I can see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. It’s a very sunny day, the type of day that would normally be classed as glorious. It doesn’t feel particularly glorious at the moment, though. The Land Rover is boiling, more cooker than car. Christine has banned the opening of any windows because she doesn’t want to have her hair blown around and arrive at the Royal Hotel looking as if she’s been ‘dragged through a hedge backwards’. Arthur wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Just another couple of minutes to go. Hold on.’

‘Just think how nice the toilets will be at the hotel,’ says Christine, more to Vera than Mrs Swithenbank. ‘I bet they’re proper posh.’

‘Oh yes, I bet they’re lovely,’ replies Vera. ‘I wonder if they have their own towels, you know, with a nice motif on. Do you think I could get one in my bag?’

‘Never mind the bleeding towels,’ shouts Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Can we just stop beggaring around and get to the hotel. Ooooh.’

‘Let’s sing something to keep your mind off it, Doris,’ says Vera (rather optimistically to my mind).

‘Do I look like I’m in the Sally bloody Army, Vera?’ says Mrs Swithenbank, now clutching her belly with both hands.

‘Come on. It’ll distract you. What about, “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”?

Mrs Swithenbank gives Vera a Look that Christine would be proud of. ‘What about Arthur putting his foot down and getting us to the bloody hotel?’

‘Arthur’s doing his best, Doris,’ snaps Christine, fixing her eyes on the road and decidedly not looking back. ‘For goodness sake. It’s not all about you, you know.’

This is rich coming from Christine.

‘Just another minute and we’ll be there, Doris,’ shouts Arthur in a forced happy voice.

Vera, though, is not going to be beaten by Mrs Swithenbank’s dicky tum. If Vera has decided that a sing-along will help, then a sing-along we shall have.

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,’ starts Vera, waving her arms in front of her as if conducting the Hallé Orchestra.

Britons never never never shall be slaves,’ the rest of the car joins in. Perhaps it’s all a bad hallucination brought on by the multi-coloured pills the doctor gave me.

Unfortunately, it very soon becomes clear that:

1. It isn’t a hallucination.

2. Nobody knows any of the verses of ‘Rule Britannia’, only the chorus.

We are stuck, then, repeating the same words over and over again.

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never never never shall be slaves.

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never never never shall be slaves.

(This must be what hell feels like).

Everyone, except Mrs Swithenbank, is looking quite jolly and Vera even starts clapping. I decide on the path of least resistance and join in. I hope Adam Faith never finds out about this.

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never never never shall be slaves.

Mrs Swithenbank is half singing, half moaning. I can feel her flesh shaking as she fights to keep control. Sitting next to her is like being forced to sit next to a geyser and hoping it doesn’t erupt.

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never never never shall be slaves.

We turn a corner and see a sign for the Royal Hotel. It feels like a religious vision.

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never never never shall be slaves.

Arthur (still using his forced happy voice) tells Mrs Swithenbank that we’ll be at the hotel in two ticks. This might be one tick too many. A deep rumbling bass, like someone playing the very low notes on a contrabassoon, emerges from Mrs Swithenbank and so begins the most extended bout of wind that I have ever heard. We all start singing more loudly, looking out the windows and pretending we can’t hear. Mrs Swithenbank’s wind stretches continuously across two and half choruses of Rule Britannia. It is very impressive.

The car finally turns into the driveway of the Royal Hotel, sending the gravel scattering as Arthur speeds to get to the parking area. Mrs Swithenbank has gone very pale.

Arthur starts to pull up in front of the hotel’s main entrance but before the car has come to a complete stop, Mrs Swithenbank shoots out the door, her huge frame going this way and that like a load of barrels falling off a moving lorry. It is the fastest I have ever seen her move. ‘See you inside,’ she shouts, looking straight ahead as she charges up the stairs and into the hotel.

Finally, we have silence. I feel like I need an ear transplant.

‘Well,’ says Christine. ‘Some people.’ She shakes her head and tuts.

‘Poor Doris,’ says Vera. ‘She’s always had a very sensitive tum.’

Arthur looks through the driving mirror, smiles, and asks me if I’m all right. I nod. I have survived Mrs Swithenbank’s Delhi belly relatively unscathed. He winks at me and then turns to Christine and Vera.

‘Well, ladies. Welcome to the Royal Hotel. Are you ready to dine in style?’

Vera giggles coquettishly (the stuff of nightmares) but Christine already has the car door open. ‘Come on, let’s get in,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to miss anything.’ And she swings her legs out of the car and onto the gravel. ‘I’m starving.’

*

The Royal Hotel Beverley feels a considerable number of steps up from the Selby Berni Inn, Arthur’s usual venue of choice when he wants to push the boat out a bit. From the driveway, an imposing portico (complete with stone lions) guides you up to a large double door, each side of which is tastefully dressed with imposing brass embellishments (noun – something intended to add beauty or interest). The doors open up onto an enormous marble-floored entrance lobby. There is not a fake Tudor beam or maroon paisley carpet in site. It all feels more Castle Howard than Berni Inn. Flanking the entrance doors are two of the most extravagant arrangements of flowers I have ever seen, taller than me and wider than Mrs Swithenbank. Down one side of the room stands a swanky reception desk (more flowers) manned by an extremely well-tailored lady with grey hair, and down the other is a huge fireplace and a very impressive assemblage of chairs. In the centre of the lobby, a staircase rises up and then twists round to the left and the right (just in case you don’t know which way to go). The lobby even smells expensive. Does Arthur really know what he’s doing bringing us here?

We are doing our best to live up to the surroundings. We had very clear orders from Christine to get dressed up for the occasion. Arthur is in a navy blue suit and looks surprisingly handsome. I’m used to seeing him in a shirt and tie (usually with a pullover, like every other farmer in Yorkshire), but it is strange seeing him out of his brown chords and brogues. I didn’t realise he scrubbed up so well. Christine, Vera and Mrs Swithenbank, meanwhile, with their array of matching accessories, look like they’ve just stepped out of a clothes catalogue. Shoes, hats and gloves are all colour-coded to the exact shade, as if they’d been dipped in a big vat of the same dye. Such eye for detail is obviously another important part of being a Woman. (Will the list never end?)

And me? I am a vision in green tulle and red polka dots. I’m wearing a sticky-out dress that Arthur got me last year. This is only the second time I’ve worn the dress. The first time was at Margaret’s New Year’s Eve party and I felt like a Hollywood star. Now, though, seven long months later, I have a feeling that the dress makes me look like a Christmas tree.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ says the extremely well-tailored lady with grey hair on reception. She has the welcoming demeanour of Mrs Danvers.

‘Yes, we’ve got a table booked for lunch. It’s Mr Epworth,’ says Arthur. ‘We’re a little early, I’m sorry.’

‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ she replies, sounding like she’s speaking to the butcher’s boy. ‘The table is ready for you. Would you like to come through to the dining room, Mr Epworth, mesdames?’ Christine almost purrs with pleasure at being referred to in French but I can see that it has put Vera on her guard.

‘Well,’ says Arthur, glancing round, ‘we’re just waiting for someone actually. I’m sure she won’t be long.’

‘Oh, would that be that the lady who came in just before you, sir?’ Her tone suggests that Mrs Swithenbank made quite an entrance.

‘Yes,’ says Arthur, looking rather sheepish, ‘that’s right.’

There’s an awkward silence.

She looks down at her desk and then back up at Arthur.

We all smile nicely at each other.

Mid smiles, Mrs Swithenbank comes walking back into the room, moving considerably more slowly than the last time I saw her. ‘Ay, Vera,’ she shouts over the polished marble, ‘you should see the lavs. They’re lovely.’

The extremely well-tailored lady with grey hair holds out her hand in the direction of what must be the dining room. ‘Shall we proceed to the table now, sir?’ she asks Arthur, and we all traipse off in her wake, already slightly deflated.

*

If anything, the dining room is even more impressive than the hotel entrance. Tables are spread out at a discreet distance from each other, like highly starched little islands on a parquet sea, and each table has a king-sized flower arrangement holding court in the middle. A wall of French windows leads out onto a pebbled terrace and beyond that lies a lawn any cricket team would be proud of. We walk past a large photograph of the Queen (thankfully this doesn’t lead to more ‘Rule Britannia’) and then past a long table loaded with assorted silver banquet dishes and tureens. The smell is incredible, a mix of flowers, meat, lemons and money.

We are taken to a round table next to the French windows. So far we have maintained a dignified silence, but as soon as the staff have us seated and furnished with menus, Vera starts.

‘Well, I don’t know who Mrs Fancy Pants on reception thinks she is. Did you see that look she gave us?’

‘Snooty old cow,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.

‘Doris!’ says Christine. ‘It’s just how people are in places like this. It’s called being refined.’ She smooths the napkin on her knee. ‘It’s a very upper-class establishment, remember.’

Upper-class establishment? Why is Christine speaking like a holiday tour guide?

‘Well, I didn’t like her attitude,’ says Vera. ‘You’d think she’d never been to a privy the way she looked Doris up and down.’

‘Aye, I shot through that reception shouting for the lav – she had a face like thunder. Just stood there. No help at all,’ says Mrs Swithenbank, rolling her eyes. ‘Thank God for a little foreign chappie who pointed me in the right direction. I thought I was going to follow through.’

Christine tuts and gives Mrs Swithenbank a Look.

‘Well, we’re all here now,’ says Arthur at his jauntiest. ‘We can just relax and enjoy ourselves, can’t we?’ He smiles at Christine. ‘It’s lovely having you all together.’

He picks up his menu. ‘Now what would you like? Don’t hold back, this is a celebration after all.’ He glances around the table. ‘Have all three courses if you want.’

A celebration? All three courses? What’s happened to the financially cautious Yorkshireman that was my father? I notice Christine looking smugly at Vera and feel a sudden urge to whack her with the flower arrangement. I pick up my menu instead.

Rather than the shiny plastic-coated menus of the Berni Inn, the Royal Hotel’s menus are handwritten on real paper, very thick paper, too, not like the stuff we have at school. And most of the menu appears to be in French. This will not go down well with some on the table.

I scan the menu, doing my usual trick of going straight to the puddings, and enjoy a moment’s precious silence.

It’s a very short moment.

‘What’s all this?’ says Vera. ‘I think they’ve given me the wrong menu. It’s all foreign. I can’t understand a word.’

‘It’s French, Vera,’ says Arthur. ‘A lot of the food here is French.’

‘French?’ says Vera. ‘What are they doing with French food? We’re in Beverley.’

Christine looks up from her menu. I can spot traces of a frown gathering on her face (I know the signs well). ‘It’s a fancy restaurant, Mum. I told you,’ she says. ‘Arthur’s brought us somewhere really nice.’ She turns and does and her best Jayne Mansfield smile at Arthur then turns back to Vera. ‘The French just makes it even fancier. It’s that kind of establishment.’

I can’t believe she just said ‘establishment’ again. She will be clutching her imaginary pearls next.

Mrs Swithenbank, meanwhile, has bypassed the French and gone straight for the prices. ‘’Ow much?’ she exclaims, loudly. ‘Three and a tanner for a starter! Ay, Arthur, you’re going to need a mortgage to pay for all this. Have you banged your head?’

‘It’s a special occasion, Doris,’ says Christine, curtly. ‘We wanted to push the boat out.’

I can’t imagine Christine doing much boat-pushing. She’s definitely the type who’d get someone else to push the boat. In fact she’d probably sit in the boat as it was being pushed.

Arthur is beginning to look as though he is pushing a very heavy boat indeed. I don’t know whether it’s the stress of being surrounded by women or the stress of seeing the astronomical prices. Either way, he’s looking decidedly uncomfortable. I give him a reassuring smile and return to the menu.

The menu is like a summarised version of my mother’s recipe book. I imagine her in Paris testing out the various exotic-sounding delights in between sipping wine and chatting with her sophisticated friends. Mousse de saumon avec pain grillé, soufflé au fromage, canard à l’orange. I’m sure there’d be a hint of an accordion playing outside on the street. And probably a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower through the window.

‘’Ere, Arthur. What on earth’s Bo-we-yuf Bour-gwig-non?’ asks Mrs Swithenbank.

(The city of light dissolves and I’m back in Beverley.)

Boeuf Bourguignon, Doris. It’s delicious,’ replies Arthur. ‘Diana used to make it.’ (My mother’s name! For a second, the room is shot through with colour.) ‘It’s quite rich. I’m not sure it’s a good idea if you’ve got a funny tum. Probably best to stick to something light.’

‘Yes, you have to be careful with foreign food,’ says Vera. ‘It’s all oil and garlic. We don’t want any problems on the way home, Doris.’

‘No, we bloody don’t!’ says Mrs Swithenbank, grabbing her stomach with both hands. She turns to Arthur. ‘So what exactly is Bo-we-yuf Bour-gwig-non, then, Arthur?’

Arthur leans back in his chair. I think he’s enjoying his moment in the linguistic limelight. ‘Well, the best way to explain it is sort of like a beef stew.’

‘Beef stew?’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Well why don’t they just put that?’

‘It’s French, Doris,’ says Christine, putting her menu down on the table and crossing her arms. ‘It’s a French beef stew. We’re in a French restaurant. We’re not in a Lyons’ cafeteria now, you know.’

Mrs Swithenbank ignores Christine. ‘And what about coke-ow-vin?’ she asks Arthur.

Coq au vin,’ replies Arthur. ‘Chicken stew.’

I’m beginning to feel that the English language sucks the romance out of food. No wonder you pay so much extra for food with a French name.

‘Chicken stew?’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Ee, it all sounds right tasty to me. Happen that foreign food isn’t so bad after all, Vera.’

Vera doesn’t look convinced. If pie and chips were on the menu, I know what Vera would be having.

‘So cock is chicken, then, Arthur?’ asks Mrs Swithenbank.

‘That’s right, Doris,’ says Arthur, ‘well done. We’ll have you dining with de Gaulle before you know it,’ and he does a jokey wink. I love it when he’s like this.

‘Well, it’s not so hard after all, is it, this French business?’ says Mrs Swithenbank, looking very pleased with herself. ‘A lot of it’s just an English word with a funny accent. A bit like Brummy, really.’

*

Arthur spends the next five minutes going through every item on the menu and explaining it all to us. I had no idea about his extensive knowledge of fine dining and I can’t help feeling some filial pride. Vera and Mrs Swithenbank are also obviously impressed with Arthur’s ability to make sense of the menu and they listen to him as if he were deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls. Christine just sits there smiling proprietorially.

An elderly waiter with a moustache comes to take our order. He is wearing a bow tie and looks very smart, apart from what seems to be a large white tablecloth wrapped around his waist like a skirt (this must be another French thing, like kilts and the Scots).

‘Are you ready to order now, mesdames, monsieur?’ says the waiter, looking around the table. His French accent has the note of authenticity that a Yorkshire farmer will never attain. There’s a general nodding of heads and then the waiter turns to Mrs Swithenbank, pen poised above pad, and says, ‘Madame?’ Both Christine and Vera look miffed about not being asked first but Mrs Swithenbank beams a huge smile and dives in.

‘Oh, right. I’ll have the asparagus to start, please,’ she says, using what must be her best telephone voice, ‘and then I’ll have the Coq au Vin.’ She pronounces Coq au Vin very carefully and makes it sound like a dish that, if not quite from France, does at least have a passing acquaintance with the continent. I’m impressed.

Bien, madame. Merci,’ says the waiter with a little bow of his head. ‘And you, madame?’ He turns to Vera.

‘Well, I’d like to start with the asparagus too, please,’ says Vera, seeing Mrs Swithenbank’s telephone voice and raising it with the Yorkshire version of a BBC continuity announcer. ‘And then I’d like a Kiev cock.’

The waiter looks up from his pad. ‘Madame?’

‘A Kiev cock, please,’ confirms Vera.

The waiter looks flummoxed.

‘Chicken Kiev,’ intervenes Arthur, smiling at the waiter.

‘Ah, chicken Kiev,’ repeats the waiter, visibly relieved. ‘Bien, madame.’ Vera gets a little bow. ‘Thank you.’

‘I thought cock was meant to be chicken,’ snaps Vera to no one in particular.

‘It is, Vera,’ replies Arthur. ‘But only some of the time.’

‘Oh, I can’t keep up with this bloody language,’ says Vera, clearly vexed. ‘It’s no wonder the Germans walked all over France in the war.’

The waiter’s pen hovers over his pad for a second or so longer than is strictly necessary and then he looks up, smiles, and proceeds to make his way round the rest of us.

*

‘Well,’ says Arthur when the waiter leaves the table, ‘it’s really lovely to have you all here today.’

‘Yes,’ says Christine, looking at Vera and Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Arthur and me have been wanting to do this for a while but we had to wait for Evie to get out of hospital and feel a bit better.’

I get the feeling that my being in hospital has been a cause of great personal annoyance to Christine.

‘You’ve certainly brought us somewhere grand, Arthur,’ says Mrs Swithenbank.

Arthur beams.

‘Must be costing a pretty penny,’ she goes on.

‘Well, you can’t take it with you, Doris, can you?’ replies Arthur while Christine gives Mrs Swithenbank yet another Look.

‘The Royal Hotel Beverley is a very special establishment,’ Christine says, sounding like an advert in the local paper, ‘and we wanted to bring you all here to share some good news.’ She glances over at Arthur, who is somehow managing to combine smiling with looking quite uncomfortable. She reaches over and holds his hand. ‘Are you going to say a few words, Arthur?’

‘Yes,’ says Arthur. ‘Yes, of course.’ He coughs (I think mainly just to free his hands from Christine’s iron grip). ‘Well,’ he continues, looking like he’s in need of a big French hole to swallow him up. ‘Like I said, we’re very happy to be here with you today. It’s smashing. Really smashing.’

Christine and Vera look at each other and do a smile so smug it should be in the Guinness Book of Records.

‘You might be wondering why we’ve brought you all the way out here. Well, it’s because there’s some news we’d like to share with you.’ He looks over at me and I can see little beads of sweat starting to gather on his forehead. ‘Some really good news.’

Christine, now doing her best mafia-boss smile, reaches out and holds his hand again.

‘We’ve been thinking about this for a while now,’ continues Arthur, ‘and we both feel that it’s the right thing to do.’ He blinks. ‘Absolutely the right thing to do.’ I can see the skin on Christine’s knuckles whiten as she tightens her grip on Arthur’s hand. ‘Christine’s been with us for a while now and I hope Evie will agree that it’s been a very happy time.’

Everyone turns to look at me. I can see that I’m expected to make some acknowledgement of our very happy time so I marshal my mouth into a smile but it isn’t easy (I think I may have lost control of my facial muscles). As a diversionary tactic, I nod frantically and raise an empty glass to Christine. This seems to have done the trick as everyone swivels back round to look at Arthur.

‘Anyway, I’m not one for speeches,’ says Arthur,

‘. . . but I’m very happy to say,’ (my mouth feels dry)

‘. . . that Christine and I,’ (my hands feel clammy)

‘are getting engaged.’

What????????

*

Suddenly I am high in the air looking down. I see myself sitting at the table, shocked and shaking and trying not to cry. I look confused. Broken. Sitting opposite me, Christine is being hugged by Vera, giant cocky gloats crackling across their faces. Next to Vera, Mrs Swithenbank smiles nervously over at Arthur but Arthur doesn’t notice because he’s staring at me, straight at me, his eyes full of hope and fear.

Poor Arthur.

Christine is a bossy, gold-digging trollop who will rule over him with the clemency of a renaissance pope.

I’m going to have to save him.

It’s going to be a busy summer.