The Yellow Houses

by Stella Gibbons

  No answer.

  ‘Not to . . . find a wife.’

  No answer.

  ‘On his journey to Britain, Honourable Great-grandfather. I mean . . . this dutiful one means . . .’

  ‘I know that,’ said the old man at last. ‘But young men’s eyes are young. And their hearts.’

  ‘This one . . . this dutiful one knows well . . . in the small time that he has given to the matter between his studies . . . what kind of woman he will choose. When the time comes . . . This dutiful one is not yet twenty years old, Honourable Great-grandfather,’ Yasuhiro ended, almost pleadingly.

  ‘And his body is virgin.’ It was a statement, in the thin, authoritative voice.

  Yasuhiro bowed his head. ‘And his body is virgin.’

  He had had his own strong, secret reasons for keeping it so.

  ‘Therefore –’ Honourable Great-grandfather was saying, in a voice in which austerity battled with sleepiness, ‘keep heart and eyes to heel, as a good dog keeps.’

  ‘Sure, Honourable Great-grandfather.’

  ‘“Yes” will do,’ snapped Great-grandfather, suddenly wide awake at the Americanism. ‘And now go. The plane – the Sky Dragon –’ he laughed sarcastically, ‘awaits you. The United States’ (he always gave them the full name) ‘likes to think that these picturesque names linger in our simple Japanese hearts. They are mistaken. Go. And mind that you write to me – not postcards. Letters.’

  ‘Of course, Honourable Great-grandfather.’

  Yasuhiro lifted his head, and for a moment the clear dark young eyes looked into the old filmed ones. Then Yasuhiro bowed once, rose, and deftly went out of the room, still bowing, and backwards.

  Fifteen minutes later, in white shirt, jeans and jacket, he was edging his way through the fierce traffic on his Honda, rucksack on back, with the memory of his sisters’ laughing faces and his mother’s plump, rueful one, fading from his mind’s eye. Europe, the West, lay before him.

  But always he was thinking: I am Mishima.

  14

  The explanation

  The night before the house party broke up, everybody except Wilfred went to see a pantomime called Pull in Hot Pants, put on by the local repertory company. He had said that he felt like a quiet evening and an early night.

  The truth was that he wanted what he thought of as ‘a long think’ – an exercise (unless it was concerned with strictly practical affairs) with which he was not familiar.

  But he did not begin it at once, as he sat before the fire in the drawing room, enjoying the first moment of quiet that followed the shutting of the front door. He . . . didn’t want to begin.

  So he leant back in the deep chair, conscious of the silence. The lamp on the table beside him was turned low, the faded pink of the walls glowed softly, he had his pipe going, and a packet of Old and Sweet given to him by Mrs Wheeby for Christmas.

  It’s no use, I’ve got to think it out, he decided, settling his head into the cushion. Here goes.

  There’s Mr Taverner’s way of talking; he’s said some funny things, very funny, since I’ve known him. ‘I spent a lot of time and some trouble,’ about that statue of Kichijoten, and ‘I’m glad you like it. I made it,’ about that kitchen chair. (And I’ve seen no sign of carpentry about, though of course he might have made it some time ago. That’s possible.) . . . The breath of warm air – almost like a kiss – that had touched his cheek, wafted by Mrs Cornforth’s hand on that first evening as she had said goodnight to him. And the clearness of the Tor, unfrozen, running below his bedroom window – seen with his own eyes, through his own glasses. But the . . . the . . . real Tor, inspected by himself during a walk over the railway meadows taken yesterday for his health’s sake, had been fouled by ancient rags, old tyres, rusty tins and plastic containers.

  And above every other odd circumstance, there was the . . . the atmosphere surrounding these three people living in the Yellow House. Not ordinary people, not ordinary types at all, mused Wilfred, frowning at the sleepy fire. They don’t argue; they don’t snap; everything seems to glide along with little jokes, as if . . . as if . . . I suppose if Paradise was real and I got there, it would be like it is here . . . in a way . . . And then there was what had happened last night . . .

  Mrs Wheeby had gone to bed early. The others had been playing a cheerful game of poker in the drawing room (Mary showing a surprising capacity for bluffing) when Wilfred had had occasion to go out to the lavatory opening off the hall; and on his way back, he had paused for a moment to listen to the sounds made by Mrs Wheeby’s whales. Evidently she had decided to enjoy their voices before going to sleep, and the particular ululation now cascading down the staircase was that part of their singing which always seemed to call to Wilfred most strongly.

  He was standing, listening, looking absently at the expanse of yellow wall directly above the staircase. The watery inhuman sounds were swooping on their way. Suddenly, he saw a great shadow come gliding out onto the wall: dark, humped, unmistakable in shape – it could be nothing else in the world. And its blue-blackness dimmed the light of the hall into a mysterious soft gloom. It was more than a shadow. It moved onwards. It seemed that it would never end. The blunt snout went over the edge of the wall and disappeared (where?) and the great body glided on – on – until, while he watched in a trance of wonder and awe, there appeared what he had known, from the shadow’s first appearance, that he would see – the fins. They gave a quick upward jerk that implied enormous strength, then followed the bulk of the body – away, simply away, out into nowhere.

  Wilfred sat down on the stairs, trembling.

  The benevolent, detached gaze of Kichijoten met the stare of his own: no help there. Had he had too much alcohol during the last three days? (Certainly, he had drunk more than he usually did.) Was it indigestion? Was he developing an uncontrolled imagination in this Yellow House, under the influence of his unusual new friends?

  There might be everyday explanations for all the other small oddities that had struck his notice. There might. But this – this was utterly different. This was very, very strange indeed.

  Now he sat, puffing at his pipe. The peace in the dim room, with the scent of fern that haunted the whole house, was strong and comforting . . . oh, the place was peace itself, and yet –

  What was going on in this Yellow House where everyone was happy and kind?

  His long thinking had answered nothing.

  He sat up, knocking out his pipe. It’s no use, he decided. I’ll have to ask him. Get him alone somehow, and ask him.

  The next morning they were all going home. For the last few hours everyone did what they pleased. Derek had shown a wish to spend every minute, when not eating or sleeping, under Mr Taverner’s car out in the garden. But Sylvie had continually importuned him – to come and play records, to scuffle on the sofa in the drawing room, to watch television in the attic, even to admire her in the ankle-length, Kate-Greenaway-type dress given to her for Christmas by Mrs Cornforth.

  ‘Smashing,’ Sylvie had breathed, for once betrayed into admir-ation by the cream-coloured folds and the soft greens and blues of the pattern, and the low neck. ‘ ’Ow’d yer know me size?’ as she eagerly pulled it over her head. ‘S’just right.’

  ‘Oh . . . my great-grandmother was your size,’ Mrs Cornforth had laughed.

  ‘I bet,’ retorted Sylvie, twisting about in front of the long glass. ‘I bet it cost yer a packet, too.’

  Mrs Cornforth had smiled. Miss Dollette, who was assisting at the display as admirer, looked tired this morning, but Sylvie did not notice when people looked tired. ‘Thanks,’ she added, as an afterthought.

  Now, in the middle of the morning, she and Mary were in the latter’s bedroom looking through a wardrobe full of old dresses, richly embroidered ribbons and ancient hats. Sylvie was wearing the dress. They were trying on the clothes, though Mary frequently had to recall Sylvie from the window where she could see Derek’s legs emerging from under the car.

 
‘Do leave him alone, Syl, if he’s happy.’ Mary felt strong sympathy for Derek.

  ‘’Appy! Muckin’ about with that old crock in the snow!’

  ‘Well, if he likes it . . .’

  ‘And the other one – makin’ a snowman like some great kid. Off their trolleys, if you arst me, both of ’em.’

  ‘No more than trying on hats.’

  Mary solemnly balanced a mighty creation of 1902 on her head. Deprived of the padded, back-combed hair that had once balanced it, it fell over her eyebrows, and there were shrieks of laughter.

  Then, in her turn, Mary wandered across to the window.

  She was a little fascinated by Mr Taverner: his lankiness, his kindness, his odd way of talking. Mrs Cornforth came easily under the heading gorgeous – clothes, face, manner, ruby, hair-do and all – while Miss Dollette was merely nice (the precise word for her, though not as Mary used it). Mr Taverner was both nice and interesting. Old, of course, but undoubtedly interesting.

  Mary pushed up the window and leant out into the pale, sparkling light.

  ‘Who’s that, Mr Taverner?’ She was yielding to the first impulse of coquetry felt in her life – and she also felt vaguely that Mr Taverner was safe.

  ‘Snubbia. Goddess of Common Sense. Come down and see,’ he called, looking up and smiling.

  Neither Derek nor Mr Taverner looked up from their tasks as the girls picked their way across the frozen snow. Mr Taverner, wearing an old battledress and balaclava helmet, was vigorously shaping a snowman; while Derek, lying on a space cleared of snow by himself that morning, was only half visible under Mr Taverner’s car. He was surrounded by a number of large and small pieces of metal, the mere sight of which caused a sensation of boredom in both girls so strong as to be almost pain. Tools and metal fragments were arranged, with care, on an old piece of dirty, greasy rag.

  Well, I shouldn’t look up if I were sewing the corner on a square neck, like the one Sylvie’s dress has, thought Mary, excusing the males’ absorption by reference to her own experience.

  She admired Sylvie’s dress; but she thought Sylvie looked downright dotty in it. She did not want it for herself.

  Small, continuous and very bitter, like chips of aspirin chewed every hour for four years or so, had been Mary’s struggles to give up the wish to dress like other girls – so bitter that now the sight of crochet jackets, shapeless, pseudo-Victorian skirts, Afghan coats and cloaks still gave her a sharp little inward pain.

  But the robes of she Japanese ladies, in the pictures on the walls of her room at the Yellow House, gave her a pleased interest. Dark blue as the evening sea, flowing like its waves. What woman could look anything but romantic in those folds?

  She paused beside Mr Taverner, while Sylvie strolled on towards Derek.

  ‘Called Snubbia because she snubs the operatic types, don’t you know,’ confided Mr Taverner, looking up with a smile. ‘Do you like her?’

  The figure was naked to her sturdy waist. Mr Taverner had put a necklace of wooden beads, of a warm pinkish brown, about her round neck. Her hair was pulled back into a knot exactly on the lower part of her skull, that most difficult place to fasten a woman’s hair.

  ‘The Goddess of Common Sense!’ Mr Taverner was laughing. ‘I think she ought to be called Mary . . . How about a snow-fight? I want some exercise.’

  He turned towards Derek. ‘Derek – want a snow fight?’

  Sylvie was looking down at Derek’s legs, all her features seeming to pout forward in a mask of sulky resentment. She stood as motionless as Snubbia herself, staring downwards. Her hair glinted green in the sunlight.

  ‘Sylvie? How about it?’ Mr Taverner called.

  Derek wriggled backwards far enough to get his head out. ‘Nope,’ he said, with decision, and wriggled back again.

  Sylvie moved forward. She extended a thin leg, veiled in the muslin of her new dress, and slowly dragged the hem across the array of metal objects and gleaming tools, so that they swirled away after it into confusion, falling into the snow.

  ‘’Ere!’ Derek came out quickly from under the car again, his face white with rage. ‘What the hell are you doing? I just got all that straight.’

  ‘Too bad.’ Sylvie gave her malicious giggle, and sauntered away.

  In three steps Mary had caught up with her, whispering angrily: ‘Syl! You fool! Just when you were getting on with him. ’Sides, what a rotten dirty trick.’

  ‘Oh, ––’ It was the strongest expression Sylvie had ever launched at Mary, and she jerked herself violently away. You ’ave ’im – since you’re so mad about ’im.’

  Then she was off. She glided away, with her stealthy cat’s gait that always suggested suspicion and concealment, and disappeared into the house.

  Mary stood looking foolishly about her. Mr Taverner came across, leisurely brushing snow from his hands.

  ‘So that’s that,’ he observed. ‘Pity.’

  ‘You don’t mean – she hasn’t gone, has she?’ demanded Mary, startled.

  ‘Oh yes. In a minute or two you’ll hear the front door slam.’

  ‘But that – that’s crazy,’ Mary stammered.

  She looked about her as if for help; the sun had come out fully, and the snow sparkled and the trees glittered under the deeper blue of the sky. Snubbia’s round, calm face, with the hint of a smile on her full lips, seemed to be saying: ‘Really! How unkind and silly. But that’s how some people are.’

  ‘She can’t just go off––’

  ‘Oh yes she can. (You mean that you couldn’t, because of manners, and feeling sorry, and all kinds of reasons.) Yes, she’s gone, and you won’t see her again for a – you won’t see her again.’

  ‘Not – even in London? Where we live?’ Mary asked like a child, staring up at his long lean figure silhouetted against the sky.

  ‘She may drop in there to pick up her things. But she won’t be there when you get back.’

  ‘It’s sickening,’ Mary said, anger and disappointment, as always, making her sullen. ‘And I sort-of-feel-it’s-my-fault –’

  ‘Well, you will, of course,’ lightly.

  ‘They seemed to be getting on so nicely. I thought everything was going to be all right.’ She hesitated. ‘He was the one, you know . . . they . . .’

  ‘I know.’ Mr Taverner nodded.

  ‘I wanted them to get married!’ she burst out, but keeping her voice low as she glanced at the long legs protruding from under the car, and was not soothed when Mr Taverner laughed and said:

  ‘You want to get married, you mean. But not Derek and Sylvia – to each other. He’ll be all right, dear. You must think of him as . . . all right . . . Let’s go and comfort ourselves with another look at Snubbia, shall we?’

  Snubbia’s breasts were those of a young mother, heavy yet firm. Her necklace and her nipples were the same warm colour. Mary’s feelings calmed as she looked at her.

  ‘Wish I had a photo of her,’ she said suddenly. ‘It’d cheer me up when – this sort of thing happens.’

  ‘We’ll try,’ Mr Taverner said, and was halfway to the kitchen door before she could speak again.

  He came back with an Instamatic, and took two photographs. Mary thought that Derek was watching the happenings from beneath the car, but he did not come out.

  ‘There.’ Mr Taverner put the camera away. ‘Your father can send it on to you . . . By the way, do you think he’d like to come and live with us?’

  ‘Here, do you mean? At . . . the Yellow House, as he calls it?’

  Mary’s mouth stayed open, in her surprise.

  ‘Well, it is yellow. Yes. Do you think he would? He’s got to find somewhere, you know . . . would you like him to live here?

  He had begun to stroll back to the house and she had fallen into step beside him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t much mind our old house going. It . . . isn’t the same without Mum.’ She paused. ‘What I’d like best is for Dad to have a flat here, and then I could co
me and stay sometimes – in Torford – I mean. It’s grand here – in this house, I mean, Mr Taverner. I do like it. It’s been a super Christmas, really it has. But I’d like . . . our own home . . . if you understand.’

  She glanced at him.

  ‘I do understand. But if I ask him to come, and he wants to, but won’t because of keeping a home for you somewhere, will you say you don’t mind?’

  She was silent.

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed Mr Taverner, ‘if I tell you that in six months you’ll be married to someone you love, and who loves you, “with a serious and unchanging love”, as a friend of mine once beautifully said – then will you say you don’t mind?’

  ‘It’s like fortune-telling,’ said Mary, with a shake of her head. ‘How can you possibly tell, Mr Taverner?’

  ‘Well . . . you think I can’t, of course. You think I was only trying it on . . . But will you? He’ll be painfully lonely, all by himself.’

  ‘He’ll have Mrs Wheeby and Dicky and the whales.’

  Mary felt that the conversation had got rather beyond her, and she wanted to get into the house and to make certain that Sylvie really had gone.

  ‘I’ll tell him that you think he’ll be very happy here, then,’ Mr Taverner said calmly, and he shut the kitchen door behind them, to which Mary answered, feeling defeated and wanting to change the subject: ‘Have you studied sculpting, Mr Taverner?’

  ‘No, Mary, I haven’t . . . I say, I could do with some tea and hot buttered toast, couldn’t you?’ He was laughing as he turned away.

  Mary went upstairs to Sylvie’s room, regretting that she had not run after her at once.

  No goblin head was lifted from the pillow of the unmade bed, though the gas fire was roaring as usual. The drawers were pulled out and empty, the wardrobe doors gaped wide; there was no sight of the airliner bag with the broken zip. Not a shred of anything remained to prove that Sylvie Carano had ever been in the Yellow House, except the presence of a scent, cheap and pungent, named ‘B.B.’

  Derek, summoned to tea and toast from beneath the car, stood by the kitchen table gulping and chewing and staring absently at the wall.