16 July 1952
Rosamund Scott-Pym looked out through the French windows onto the terrace outside. The two girls were relaxing on deckchairs, chatting and laughing and listening to some terrible American music on the wireless.
It was the start of the summer holidays and Rosamund’s daughter, Caroline, had a school friend staying for a couple of days. Flora. A nice girl whose father owned an engineering works in York. Rosamund hoped that Flora might be a steadying influence on Caroline (if, indeed, Caroline could be steadied). For the past two terms Rosamund had been getting letters from school about Caroline and her unruly behaviour. ‘Undisciplined’, one had said, ‘fractious and disruptive’. ‘Improper’. ‘Rebellious’. She’d tried talking to her but it was no good. Caroline was impossible. A feisty, intractable sixteen-year-old whom Rosamund was unable to control.
A yelp from the floor called Rosamund’s attention back to the kitchen.
‘Gladstone! Sorry, my best boy, have I been neglecting you?’
She bent down and stroked his neck, catching his soft curls in her fingers.
‘What will we do with her, eh?’ she asked, looking into Gladstone’s gentle eyes and tickling him under his chin. ‘What a mess. Fourteen teas and coffee, that’s what Edward would have said about her, isn’t it?’ She paused, lost in the past, the only trace of 1952 being the girls’ voices and their tinny music coming from outside.
‘I’ve just come to get some lemonade, Mummy,’ said Caroline, walking into the kitchen.
Rosamund looked up.
Caroline was wearing her swimsuit. In the kitchen. How absurd. It wouldn’t have been allowed in Rosamund’s day, of course, not at home. Whatever would people think?
‘Of course, dear,’ she said, deciding it was easier not to say anything about the swimsuit. ‘There’s some ice cream too if you like.’
‘That’d be lovely, Mummy. Thank you.’ She was standing next to the refrigerator pouring out two glasses of lemonade. ‘Mummy?’ she went on, in a tone that immediately made Rosamund aware she was after something. ‘You know we were talking about me staying in York and doing that secretarial course?’
‘Yes, dear,’ replied Rosamund. It was Caroline’s latest idea. She was desperate to leave school and get on with real life (whatever that is, thought Rosamund), and now, the summer after her O levels, she seemed to be trying out an endless array of possibilities.
‘Well, Flora says I can board at hers. Their house is enormous, eight bedrooms apparently, up on The Mount. She’ll be there for the next two years whilst she does her A levels. It’d be perfect.’
Rosamund looked at her daughter. How had she grown up so quickly?
‘And what do Flora’s parents say about this? Are you sure they’re quite ready for a tearaway like you?’
Caroline stuck out her tongue.
‘I’m sure you’ll warn them all about me,’ she said, taking the two glasses and making her way back outside. ‘Oh, and by the way, I thought Flora and I could clean Daddy’s car later on, if you like? It’ll make a nice change from sitting out in the sun.’
And with that she strode off out of the kitchen, heading back to the terrace and the joyous summer sun.